Yesterday I looked at a
house for rent. The ad said "4/2, secluded with gorgeous hilltop views."
The owner warned me about a steep driveway. He did not tell me the drive was unpaved,
full of white rocks and deep ruts, or that it went up and down, then up again,
to a hilltop of dry scrub, caliche and a dismal pre-fab house. True, the view was unobstructed, and looked
out over miles and miles of same-size rolling hills.
I greeted the owner in the
driveway, as a workmen carried a door out through the narrow laundry room
entrance. A woman appeared in an orange tank top, her orangey hair pulled back
in a messy pony tail.
"I'm so
embarrassed," she said folding her arms tightly across her chest.
"I'm not wearing a bra. I have shingles." She indicated a patch of
angry skin below her collarbone.
"I'm so sorry," I
said nearly gagging on the smell of stale cigarettes.
"The previous tenants
left their dog in the pool," the man said. "My ten-year-old daughter
cleaned it out." I saw what he was
talking about: an above ground cement pool with a deck on one end, set back
from the house with no yard in between, just rocks. "They trashed the latticework,
too." Shreds of thin wood strips
dangled in the air.
"That's
a shame," I replied. I took a tour:
little dark rooms that appeared unfinished.
Purple paint on one of the small bedroom's walls looked like tempera, with
no sheen at all.
"You can paint over
this if you want," the woman said gesturing toward a pink and yellow peace
sign and several 1960 style flowers stenciled into the wall. I nodded.
I followed her husband up
steep brown-painted wooden stairs with no balustrade. "I took it
out," he said, "I didn't like the way it looked. I held on to a sticky, wooden, wall-mounted
rail.
The upstairs rooms were
cramped with muddy looking carpets and unfinished wood-plank balconies, too
narrow to hold even one chair. Screens on the doors were loose in their flimsy
frames. The "Master" bath had
fixtures from the seventies, a sad little sink and dirty shower.
I reluctantly held on to
the grubby railing as I walked back down into the dark kitchen. I said having
no garage would be a problem because my husband needs a place for his
workshop. I bid the couple goodbye and
bumped down the driveway. When I got to a place where I could pullover, I
called John and told him simply, "P.O.S."
Today I ventured out again
to look at another house, $175 a month more than yesterday's. I met the owner
in the back yard where he and two workmen are installing a privacy fence. He's a cute guy, mid forties, in shape, with
clear blue eyes; but my own eyes went directly to a magnificent tree.
"Is this a
sycamore?" I asked, for the multi-pointed leaves reminded me of my
favorite tree. The owner didn't know. He
yelled to one of the workmen who said it's a cotton-less cottonwood. I then noted that the rough bark was
uniformly grey, not smooth and mottled like a sycamore. I stroked it anyway.
"I miss trees,"
I explained. "Where we're living now, in Riverhill, we have no
trees."
"There's a big oak on
the property line," the owner said and I saw it, nicely trimmed at the
fence line. Another big tree
complimented my "new friend" as I already felt this tree to be.
I pulled myself together
and followed him to the front yard, so we could enter the house from the front
door which opens into a living room that looks out onto a deck, then the yard.
To the right is a dining room and kitchen.
A small passageway with space for washer on the right, dryer on the
left, leads to a huge tiled room which I imagined could be John's workshop. Two windows face the street. A door leads out
to the carport. This room used to be the
garage.
A sunny tiled room faces
the back yard, perfect for John's office. Back at the front door a narrow
hallway leads to the left: master bedroom and bath, two more bedrooms and another
bath. I called John to tell him I like
it. He said, "Take it," but I told him we had to fill out paperwork
and he should see if the tiled room would really work to build and listen to
his speakers. It has a huge echo. "I can put down a rug," he said.
When I told the owner I
was from California he told me he was from Woodland Hills. He was born the year I graduated high school
and is married to a woman only three years younger than I am. He retired at thirty-five and spends his time
maintaining his rental properties and playing golf.
When mentioned that he has
a friend in L.A. who is a photographer, I told him maybe his friend can help me
figure out how to sell my dad's darkroom equipment. He said his friend has a
darkroom where his students actually print pictures. I told him my dad's name
and he texted it to his friend, to see if he recognizes it.
The previous tenant bolted
in the middle of the night, breaking her lease, but he doesn't feel it's worth
pursuing her. I told him both my husband
and I have been landlords and will never do it again. He said sometimes a
person who seems perfect turns out to be a terrible tenant, and vice versa. I
told him landlords should look at prospective renter's current residencies to
see how they live. He said he didn't think that was legal. I said, yeah, but
it's like when you date someone divorced, you should talk to the ex.
Now John is over there
having a look. When I left the house this morning I thought I don't want to move, I know this
neighborhood and I don't want to stress the animals. But now I'm visualizing
Walter sitting on the deck and Audrey climbing one of the beautiful old trees
in the yard. I can see John's containers of vegetables and flowers spread
around the yard, adding color to an already private, peaceful setting.
I see myself out there
too, reclining on a chaise, which I'll have to buy. Maybe for the first time in
my life I'll be able to nap outside.
P.S. John's back. "Start packing," he
said. "We're out of here September first."
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