“You’re an angel,” I said.
“I know. Drink fast. I leave in ten, and you need to be gone before my landlord does his Wednesday walk-through. If he sees that cat, I’m getting a lease violation and you’re getting a bill for whatever he charges me.”
“Princess Consuela is notjusta cat, Mia; she’s an emotional support companion with a complex inner life and a verified Instagram profile.”
“She’s a lease violation with ears. Ten minutes, Benji.”
I drank the coffee. It was good. Mia always made good coffee, even in crisis situations, because Mia was the kind of person who maintained standards when the world was falling apart.
I aspired to be that person. I was not that person.
I was the person whose apartment was currently a swamp and whose entire housing situation depended on a phone call from a woman named Terri.
The phone call came at 9:47 a.m.
I was in my car in the parking lot of Barbacks, which didn’t open for hours but which had become my default location when I didn’t know where else to go. Princess Consuela was in her carrier in the passenger seat, producing a low, continuous grumble that was her version of white noise.
“Mr. Kwon? This is Terri from Palms at Bayshore.”
“Terri!” I said it with the enthusiasm of a man greeting his oldest friend, which was wildly disproportionate to my actual relationship with Terri but felt appropriate given that she currently held my fate in her clipboard-wielding hands. “Good morning.Any news?”
“I have good news. We’ve identified a placement for you within the building.”
My heart did something embarrassing. “You found someone willing to take us?”
“A tenant on your floor has agreed to participate in the temporary housing program. You’ll have use of their spare bedroom for the duration of repairs. The building will cover the host tenant’s rent as compensation, so there’s no additional cost to you beyond your existing insurance coverage for temporary housing.”
“That’s amazing. Terri, you are a gift. Who is it? Which unit?”
“4B.”
The number and letter landed in my brain and sat there for a second, like a package I hadn’t ordered.
4B.
Directly across the hall.
4B, where the bulldog snored.
Where the newspaper got delivered.
Where a man in an oatmeal-colored bathrobe had catalogued my boxer briefs and my screaming cat and my 3 a.m. door-slamming with the quiet precision of someone building a case for a restraining order.
“4B?” I repeated.
“That’s correct. Mr. Loupier has a two-bedroom unit and has agreed to make the spare room available. I should let you know that Mr. Loupier has several foster animals in the apartment, so you’ll want to be prepared for that. He also requested that I communicate some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?”
“He has quiet hours starting at 10 p.m., he has a structured feeding schedule for the animals that should not be disrupted, and he asked me to convey that this is a temporary arrangement, not a social one.”
I sat in my car in the Barbacks parking lot, with my hairless cat grumbling beside me and my sequins in the back seat, and tried to process the fact that the universe had looked at my housing crisis and decided the solution was in the hands of the one person in my building who had already assessed me and found me wanting.
“Mr. Kwon? Does this work for you?”
Did it work for me?
The man had looked at my CHAOTIC GOOD tank top like it was evidence of a personality disorder, but the alternative was sleeping in my car with a cat who was one bad night away from eating my face.
