“Um, something closer to five hundred,” I tell her, thinking maybe there’s a basement that might work.
“There are some… adequate apartments farther downtown within your budget.”
I perk up. “Really?”
“I’ll write the address down for you,” she says, leading me out of the apartment of my dreams.
From the outside, the downtown apartment building looks rundown. But maybe it’s better on the inside.
After waiting for nearly an hour for the realtor that the building’s super calls to show me around, she tells me the studio apartment is only $500 a month with no security deposit. It’s within budget, and it leaves me $200 to stock up on the essentials I’ll need to start my new life. I’m hopeful that this is the one for me.
“It’s a fourth-floor walkup, and there’s no laundry in the building, so you’ll have to use a laundromat,” she explains, hurrying past an overflowing trash can on the first floor.
The building doesn’t look any nicer inside than outside, but my budget is tight, so I can’t expect much. I’m panting, severely out of shape, from my two-week coma by the time we reach the fourth floor, and she tries five keys before she finds the right one for the apartment.
I cling to my hopeful smile until I step into a studio apartment that smells old and musty, like no one has opened a window in several months.
Everything is old and worn, from the frayed dark blue couch to the battered-looking coffee table, and the mattress on the dark wood bedframe in the far right corner of the apartment beside a massive window that looks down on the street at the front of the building.
In the tiny kitchenette, the refrigerator and stove belong in the sixties. The two-seater dining set that separates the kitchen from the living area looks flimsy. One shove and it would crash to the floor. I would not feel safe sitting on either of the wooden chairs.
“It comes with the TV,” the realtor says, pointing to a massive TV on a wobbly-looking console.
I would be very surprised if the TV even worked.
But when I see something crawling under the blue couch, I back up, not daring to look away in case whatever that was comes for me. I don’t ask to see the bathroom. There’s hoping for the best, then there’s being realistic. Nothing good can come from entering that bathroom.
“Do you have another apartment in the building?” I ask, hovering in the doorway.
“Of course.” The stressed-looking realtor juggles a large set of keys as she pulls up her suit sleeve to glance at her watch.
I smell the third-floor apartment as the realtor is struggling to open the door. Only one thought comes to mind.
Nope.
“Um, you know what? I think I’ll take that other apartment.” I have room in my budget for cleaning supplies, and whatever is under the couch can’t be that bad, can it?
It was that bad. It was absolutely that bad.
The echoes of my ear-piercing scream ring in my head as I cling to the bathroom sink, nearly hyperventilating.
“It’s just a roach,” I tell my reflection. “You’re at least fifty times bigger than it. Just… scoop it up and take it outside.”
But I don’t dare move. I’m too busy checking the bathroom floor to make sure the spawn from the devil hasn’t followed me inside.
Everything was going so well.
I looked around the apartment after I had paid the first month's rent and collected my keys. The bathroom wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Just old and in need of a good scrub with bleach, so I headed down to the nearest Walmart with $200 to stock up on essentials.
I picked up a few different outfits: sneakers, PJs, a couple of tops, sweatpants, underwear, and jeans, along with toiletries. Then I stocked up on a few groceries and kitchen supplies, as well as a cheap bedding set and comforter. It wasn’t everything I needed, but it’s enough to get me started.
I was putting away the pink Tupperware set for my salads when it ran out of a kitchen cupboard and nearly onto my face.
A roach the size of Texas.
I start hyperventilating again. “Oh god, oh god, oh god. Why do they even exist? What is the point of them other than to scare the shit out of you? What is the point of their existence?” I demand answers from the bathroom mirror. But it’s just me. No all-seeing deity is going to come along to smite a roach for having no purpose in life, so I have to get rid of it.
“You can do this, June,” I tell myself. “They don’t even bite.”
