Solid Ground

So…
 
Moved again.
 
Averaging a move a month, lately.
 
Real good for the metabolism.
 
Anybody need anything hauled?
 
I’m your guy.
 
Most of the packing and actual moving occurred within 24 hours. Jeff really came through for me, helping me every step of the way without complaint. The hard stuff is never the big items, it’s finding some semblance of order to the unending piles of small shit that is stuffed into all the crannies and cracks and recesses and secret spaces. A part of you needs to justify putting two objects that have absolutely nothing to do with one another into the same box. In the end, it’s all about volume. Like food, it’s all going to the same place…
 
We moved on what was reported as being the windiest day in California for the last 20 years. My new landlady, Deborah, had a canopy on four poles in the backyard absolutely decimated by the tumult. Jeff watched from the loft window, and felt honored to witness the exact moment when the destructive gusts delivered a coup de grâce that sent the simple construct crashing to the ground. 
 
It came semi-furnished so I knew that there’d be some of my own items that I had to sacrifice (a skill I’ve honed to a razor’s edge these last few months). In spite of the inhospitable clutter, Jeff and I were able to set up the HDTV almost immediately. Within minutes we were bathed in second season Sons of Anarchy, and the strange space transformed into a home right before our eyes.
 
After the ordeal, "tired" was a bit of an understatement. What’s a comfortable compromise between "exhausted" and "having difficulty walking"?
 
But it’s a great place. Definitely a step up. It’s a similar situation as before, a converted-garage guesthouse behind a single woman’s home.
 
There’s a loft over the kitchen where I never even considered putting my bed. More room for storage up there than I’d ever need. the low beams are a definite nuisance. I’ve struck my head on the one over the kitchenette about–conservative estimate–27 million times.
 
The stove works. Small as a shoebox, but a working stove, ladies and gentlemen. Do you know what that will do to expand my culinary exploits?
 
The place is by no means perfect. What was once a garage still gets damn cold like a garage. The vent on the bedroom ceiling opens directly to the sky, you can see daylight in the AM. The spinning turbine cover squeaks like a broken hamster wheel when the wind blows. The poorly insulated back wall of the bedroom is directly on the other side of the garage doors. I know when Deborah comes home because her front bumper "kisses" the wall, the resounding thud so alarming, I half expect the Kool-Aid man to come crashing through. Outlet wires are covered, but run along the outside of the wall–there’s probably a list of fire code violations the size of your leg.
 
But it’s quaint, cozy, well-decorated; the outside is clean but charmingly unkempt. Grass grows a little long in the corners and an exotic variety of succulents twist and cling about the yard, a little wild, a little out of control. It feels like a vacation lodge. Deborah herself had lived here for a number of years before her parents died, then she took the main house. It was clear early on that she wanted a tenant that would love the place as much as she did.
 
I didn’t like her at first. Out of everybody I was contacting, she was the hardest to reach. Called her home, called her cell… the place sounded good, so I kept trying. Shot an email. Got through.
 
Her phone manner was somewhat abrasive. She bombarded me with countless questions about my job and income and how many days I’d be around during the week and why I was leaving my last residence… I hadn’t even seen the place, and I was already getting the where-were-you-renting-on-the-night-of-the-twenty-fourth treatment.
 
But I had to admit. Something clicked. I gazed upon the rental, and something about it wove itself into my imagination. It was very easy to see myself living here and being happy. And I instantly built a rapport with Deborah. She could sense my excitement and could tell I was a good, responsible person. She didn’t even require a credit check.
 
I decided to push it, though. I wanted to be able to take Roxy in for the first two months of my stay so Jeff could be free to check out places in San Diego.
 
Deborah was 95% against the idea, but told me she would at least consider it since I seemed like a good fit. Deborah had a bad experience with a tenant’s dog. Her handyman got a bite on his hand so deep that he ended up going to the hospital. And besides that she has a phobia about large dogs.
 
But Roxy. Roxy is an angel–a furry, four-legged lady. She hopped out of the backseat of my car and regarded Deborah a lifelong friend, and my landlady-to-be’s heart melted.
 
She called a few days later with a strange request…
 
She wanted me to somehow assure her that Roxy wasn’t going to stay more than two months.
 
She needed a guarantee that I was going to stand by my word. That the dog was going to leave exactly when I said so. Not a written contract, or a heartfelt dissertation, but spontaneous knowledge that what I say is true.
 
Now, I’m a fairly logical person, so I’m not always equipped to deal with a stranger’s emotional issues. How do you prove something that can only become apparent with time?
 
This has been an ongoing issue with Richard. Here’s a gentleman that had carved out a solid niche for himself in life. Large house, loving wife, brilliant career… failing brain. There are times when the world about him is tangible, and there’s times when he is lost swimming in an ever-expanding consciousness of terrifyingly malleable context. There are times he doesn’t know who I am, who he is, where he is, when he is–and why the hell should he believe me?!
 
"Because it’s TRUE, you paranoid, degenerative blowhard!" I would never say. "I’m not stealing your stuff or coming at you with a hatchet, I’m bringing you oatmeal cookies!"
 
Time is telling. And in a world that’s all talk, it’s sometimes good to just be silent, and calm, and focused, and feel empathy, and allow a little bit of that irrational fear into your heart.
 
Deborah had me bring Roxy on a separate day. Before work I showed up, and we sat in the backyard, and played fetch with Roxy, and before I said anything Deborah had already agreed to my terms. And less than a month later, Roxy is free to stay indefinitely.