by Erin Huss
I reached over and grabbed my makeup bag, smothered the monstrosity in concealer, added a touch of gloss to my lips, and mascaraed my lashes into tiny tarantula legs. I had to look my best today. One more week of unemployment and I'd be left with no other option than to become a phone sex operator by night who flips burgers by day. I had applications for both jobs in case this interview led to yet another dead end.
Hooonk!
"Take it easy." I flipped the visor back and continued maneuvering my dented Civic through the crowded streets of Los Angeles. I grabbed the past-due phone bill out of my bag and double-checked the directions scribbled on the back.
Right on City Court.
I looked up as the street sign for City Court drifted by my window.
"Crap." I made a hasty U-turn, which inspired another cacophony of horns. A man wearing a dirty Spiderman costume weighed in on my poor driving habits by flipping me a double-fisted bird. Even if I didn't come that close to him or his overflowing grocery cart.
My hand automatically went up as a feeble apology before I made the sharp turn.
And there I saw it. An imposing ten-story building. A cobblestoned walkway led up to a pair of whimsical wrought-iron doors. Brilliant red and yellow flowers were strategically dispersed throughout the lavish landscaping. A sign, welcoming those who were clearly richer than me, hung above a glistening koi pond near the entrance. It was beautiful.
I parked under the sign pointing to the leasing office, shoved the phone bill into my bag, and polished off the pint of French Vanilla wedged between my thighs. Ice cream was my go-to coping mechanism—and I'd been doing a whole lot of coping lately. I crawled over the center console and passenger seat to exit the car. The driver's side door had been stuck shut since an expensive meeting with a runaway dumpster a few months ago. It was annoying and awkward, especially on the days when I managed to squeeze my butt into a pair of skinny jeans. My little Civic still managed to get me from point A to point B (usually), and that was all I could afford to care about.
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I flattened the front of my dress with my hands and brushed off the lint clinging to my thighs. I had on an Anthropologie dress worth more than my car—the one designated for interviews and first dates only because it minimized my butt, elongated my waist, was dry clean only, and the navy color matched my eyes. Sadly, it hadn't been getting much action in the last—oh let me see—four years.
Rolling my shoulders back, I took a deep, calming breath. The irony that I was about to interview for a job as an apartment manager when I was nearing eviction from my own apartment was not lost on me. It had been six months since I was laid off. Finding a job when the qualifications portion of your résumé ran three deep wasn't easy. Neither was being a single mother. The phone call for this interview couldn't have come at a better time. Decent salary, apartment, utilities, medical benefits, and bonuses—it was the perfect opportunity to get Lilly and me back on our feet. I only hoped my lack of apartment management experience would be overshadowed by my obvious desperation.
Setting my focus on the whimsical doors, I charged toward—oomph! There was a step. A big step. A step I didn't see until my hands and knees were plastered atop the scorching
cement and I was staring at it. "Are you OK?" A pencil thin, tube top–donning brunette stood over me, sucking
on a Tootsie Pop. "I think so." I peeled myself off the ground and brushed away the chalky debris
coating my knees. "That step came out of nowhere." The brunette flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder. "Yeah, it happens a lot.
Like, that's why they put up the sign." She pointed her sucker to the caution sign with a person about to plunge to the ground like I had just done. "But it doesn't seem to help. I totally see people trip here, like, all the time."
"Do you live here?" "Nope, my Boo lives next door." "Next door? There's another apartment complex on this street?" Panicked, I
checked my watch. The interview was scheduled to start in five minutes. Story of my life—I was never late. I was always almost late, enough to be a frazzled, sweaty mess when I did arrive.
She pointed her sucker toward a row of tall shrubs. "Yeah, it's over there."
"Dang it... Thank you!" I yelled over my shoulder as I ran to the foliage fence blocking the neighboring apartment building. This one was smaller. Two-story with gated parking to the left. Pots filled with succulents lined the chipped brick walkway that led to a pair of sad-looking brown doors. No welcome sign. No koi pond, but a mud puddle near the entrance had a cloud of tiny insects hovering above it.
I dug out the instructions from my bag: 10, 405, Exit SM, Sepulveda, right on City Court. Apartment building on the right. Ask for Joyce. That was it. That was all I wrote. No apartment name. No address. That would make too much sense.
I ran back to the first apartment complex. Standing between the two buildings, I shaded my eyes with my hand, trying to decide which one might house Joyce. The first building was much nicer. So I turned and ran toward the second one, because running toward mediocrity felt more natural.
When I reached the doors, I rested my hand on the rusty knob. You've got this, I told myself. You are a strong, confident woman with better-than-average abilities and a kid to feed. I took another deep breath, pushed open the door, and entered...1988?
I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the pink and blue striped wallpaper. A glass coffee table was surrounded by an overstuffed peach leather couch and two floral-printed armchairs. Below my Payless pumps was teal carpet, followed by yellow linoleum with a repeating brown octagon pattern across it. The track lighting gave the room a yellowish, hazy tint, and a ceiling fan clinked with each turn of its golden blades, pushing the stale, nicotine-laced air around the ugly room.
To my right was an enclosed office with a waist-high counter (also teal) overlooking the lobby. A frail old woman with scarlet hair sat behind a desk, her hands clasped and brown eyes on me.
"Hi. Are you Joyce?" I asked, hoping she'd say no and direct me to the spa-like resort next door.
"I am," she answered in a barely audible rasp. Despite the hundred-degree outside temperature, she wore a sweater, which hung loosely around her bony frame. Just looking at the cashmere caused my sweat glands to produce in double time.
"I'm Cambria Clyne. I have an interview with Patrick for the apartment management position. His secretary told me to meet him here at noon."
"You sure you really want this job?" "Yes, I do," I answered slowly, unsure of what that was supposed to mean. She regarded me for several awkward seconds before speaking. "OK then. Up to
you." She stood on shaky legs and shuffled up to the counter. The two-foot journey looked painful. "Nice to meet you, Cambria. I'm the current manager." I took her proffered hand. Her palm was cold, but her eyes had a hint of warmth to them. "Patrick should be here in a bit. Would you like me to show you around while you wait?"
"That would be great, thank you." I smiled.
Joyce motioned for me to walk around the counter to the door that separated the lobby from the enclosed office. I followed her through the cramped space, squeezing past a row of tarnished filing cabinets and an L-shaped oak desk. She opened the door behind the desk, and—bam!
The nicotine air punched me in the lungs, knocking me back against the doorjamb. It was as if I'd walked directly into a cigarette. I placed my hand over my chest, mentally apologizing to all my vital organs.
Joyce stood in the middle of a square kitchen. The blue tiled counters were piled high with boxes and rolls of bubble wrap.
"Once we're gone, this would be your apartment," she said, fanning her arm out like Vanna White. "If you get the job."
I nodded in appreciation and took a gulp of air through clenched teeth, hoping they'd work as a filter. The lack of oxygen caused my head to beat in time with my heart, but I wasn't about to let a little cancerous air stop me. I desperately needed the income.
The kitchen looked out to a spacious living ro
om with Smurf blue carpet and two long windows overlooking a courtyard. Asleep in the middle of the room was an old man with a beer in one hand, remote in the other, and The People's Court playing on the television opposite him and his purple recliner. Not just any old purple either—a two-
toned mauve and lavender corduroy chair with a coordinating couch and love seat. Clearly, someone was colorblind.
I followed Joyce down a short hallway and into a bedroom.
"This is perfect for an office or guest room," she said, sliding the mirrored closet door open to reveal a space larger than my current bathroom.
"I actually have a daughter, and she'd love this room." Truth is, I would too. I'd been sharing a room with Lilly since the day she was born. The Frozen décor wasn't doing me any favors in the love department.
"Are you married?" Joyce rasped. I shook my head. "Interesting..." She rubbed her chin. "How old is your daughter?" "She's three going on sixteen," I answered with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. Joyce let out a laugh that quickly turned into a procession of dry, hacking coughs.
She placed her veiny hand on the wall for support as her coughs morphed into more of a gurgling sound. My joke wasn't that funny. Nor was it original, and certainly not worth dying over.
I placed my hand on her back, feeling the ridges of her spine under the cashmere. "Can I get you something?"
She took a slow, gravelly breath then brushed off my concern with a wave of her hand. "I'm fine. Don't fuss. Let's move on." She let out one more cough before pushing past me.
I trailed behind, worried Joyce may not make it through the tour.
We next entered a room slightly bigger than the first with an attached walk-in closet and bathroom. Despite the smoke and the blue carpet and the yellow popcorn ceilings, I was in love. To have that amount of space, in a neighborhood I could never afford otherwise was unfathomable. On Rent or Run (a trusty app tenants use to rate their apartment building and let prospective renters know if they should rent there or run away) the place had 5 stars for safety, 5 stars for management, and a 4% run rate. Since moving to LA, I'd never lived in anything lower than 80%.
I was moving on up! A little paint and oxygen would turn it into the perfect home. "Joyce, I love it." Then, because my mother had taught me the way to any
person's heart was through compliments, I eyed a massive oak armoire and added, "This is beautiful, by the way."
"You like it?" she asked, not masking her surprise. "I'll be sure to give it to you when I move."
I feigned excitement. "Really? Wow. You're so kind." I smiled, eyeing the monstrosity I now apparently owned.
I followed Joyce down the hall, past another full bathroom and into the living room. The old man was still lifeless in the chair. "How long have you been working here?" I asked, looking around and mentally arranging my own furniture.
She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket along with a lighter. "Almost...let's see...it's been about twenty-five years. This retirement is well overdue." With a shaky hand she positioned a cigarette between her pale lips and lit it.
I may vomit.
"OK...there are forty units," she continued, emitting a fresh batch of smoke. "You can take a look around. Just don't go in the third courtyard—ever. Never, ever go there. Trust me." She handed me three pieces of paper with her cigarette hand. "Then come back and fill these out." Ash broke off the end of her cancer stick and rolled down the front of the application.
I opened my mouth, about to ask why the third courtyard was off-limits, but she opened the front door before I could get the words out. My need for air overcame my manners, and I dashed outside, seeking refuge for my burning lungs.
I will never take oxygen for granted again.
After several deep, appreciative breaths, I shot an apologetic grin in Joyce's direction. My exit could be deemed rude, yet an arch of her penciled-in brow and stifled smile told me she took no offense.
"There's a picnic table by the pool you can use to fill out the application." She used her cigarette-free hand to point the way. "Bring it all back once you're finished, and remember, no third courtyard." The stern shake of her bent forefinger drove the point home.
Note to self: After job offer, get more third courtyard specifics.
I walked along the cement pathway, exploring the open first courtyard. There wasn't much in the way of color. Brown doors. Brown fascia. Tan walls. Brown staircase leading up to the brown second story. Greenish-brown grass. Greenish-brown shrubbery. Yet, it was clean. Not a single piece of trash or graffiti. No barred windows. No couches in the walkway. It wasn't the koi-pond apartments next door, but it was better than the armpit I was about to be kicked out of.
I strolled through a short ivy-laced breezeway and found the picnic table next to the pool. Taking a seat, I began filling out the application. It wasn't too difficult, and I nailed the first page—name, birthday, social security number, current employer, and previous employer. Unfortunately, a questionnaire was attached.
Please explain how you would handle the following situations: 1) The tenant in Apartment 5 and the tenant in Apartment 6 don't get along. The two call you daily to complain about the other, and both refuse to move. 2) You notice the tenants in Apartment 6 have a constant flow of visitors. The visitors tend to arrive and leave within minutes. 3) The tenant in Apartment 19 plays his drums during the day. The neighbors complain constantly and have threatened to move.
I had no idea how to correctly answer any of these questions. Sure, I could use common sense, and I had enough common sense to know there were legal forms and procedures to follow before one can start passing out eviction notices like candy. I just didn't know what those were.
Self-doubt slithered through my mind like the soul-crushing serpent it was. I should have stayed in college. Everyone warned me when I had taken the year off to find myself that I wouldn't return. They were right. All I'd learned during my quest for self- discovery was that VH1 played an entire season of America's Next Top Model in a single day. My one-year hiatus had quickly turned into seven. I'd already moved out to LA from my hometown of Fresno and gotten myself knocked up by the time I realized the value of
a degree. I found a job as a barista and worked my way up to manager. I was doing OK until the owner decided to sell the property to support his new girlfriend.
I gnawed on the end of the pen, staring down at the ashy questionnaire, when out of nowhere a pair of work gloves plopped down in front of me. I jumped, dropping my pen, and gazed up at the stranger sliding onto the bench across from me. I froze, unsure of why this random, albeit very attractive, man had shown up. The Universe was not typically this generous.
My eyes ventured down his tan shirt, past the wisps of blond hair peeking out from behind the button-up collar, to the word Maintenance embroidered in blue above his shirt pocket. This, coupled with the paint specks scattered across his dark blond hair, plus the gloves on the table, gave me reason to believe he worked there.
Obviously, espionage should have been my chosen career path.
"Do you need help?" the stranger asked, flashing a perfectly straight white- toothed grin.
"Um..." Breathe, Cambria. "Sure," I answered in a voice three octaves higher than my own. I found his scruffy jawline and unkempt hair wildly attractive. A tiny scar under his left nostril made him look edgy in an I-fell-down-when-I-was-a-kid kind of way. I cleared my throat, realizing I was staring. "Hi, I'm Cambria," I said, more even- toned. I then shot my hand out like an idiot.
He slipped his hand into mine. His strong, callused grip caused my insides to dance and flip and flutter and beg for more. It was the most physical contact I'd had with a man in years.
"I'm Chase," he said, prying his hand out of mine. He removed a notepad from his shirt pocket. "What unit are you in?"
"Huh?" "What unit are you in?" he repeated, this time slower. "I don't live here. I'm interviewing for the apartment management job." I held up
the application in cas
e he didn't believe me. He scrunched his cute face and looked around. "Joyce said there was someone
sitting at the picnic table who needed my help."
Note to self: Send Joyce a thank you card.
He looked around the empty courtyard until his stunning green eyes met mine then ventured downward. I pretended not to notice him checking me out but felt myself blushing anyway. "Not sure if you knew this," he said. "But you have a little something..." He pointed to my chest.
I looked down to see the French Vanilla dribbled down the front of my dress. "Ah, bleep," I said under my breath. Chase planted his forearms on the table, leaning forward. "Did you just say
bleep?" "Oops, yeah, I probably did." I blushed again. "I try not to cuss in front of my
daughter, and now it's sort of become a stupid habit." I pulled a package of tissues from my bag and began dabbing the spot.
Now I had an ice cream stain dotted with tissue residue. Great. Chase laughed. "Wait, you replace profanity with bleep?"
"Um...yes." I pulled the elastic band out of my hair, releasing my Einstein- inspired dark mane. I tamed Einstein down to a side ponytail and slouched my shoulders. Trying to cover the spot. "Better?"
His face said no, but his mouth said, "Sure." And I liked him even more for it. He slipped the notepad back into his pocket. "What did you need help with?" I could think of a hundred and two ways he could help me. None of which would
be appropriate to ask for, having only known him for about a minute. I glanced at the questionnaire. "Well, I'm curious, how might you handle a tenant who was getting a lot of foot traffic? I'm assuming it's drug-related."
Chase made a V with his brows. "Why?"
"There are questions like this on the application. I haven't been an apartment manager before, and I want to get them right."
"I'm not sure. I've never been a manager." He ran a hand through his hair. I resisted the urge to reach over and do the same. "Maybe record all the information in the apartment file?"
