[Continued from "Deus Ex Machina (Part 1)."]

I had been let into UC Hastings off the wait list.  Not the best way to get in, but a way in nonetheless.  Hastings was ranked better than Southwestern.  It was also a part of the University of California system, meaning is was not private, making it a lot less expensive than Southwestern to attend.

Going to Hastings also meant I had to move to San Francisco.  It meant my whole life would be turned on its head.  We decided that my boyfriend – soon to be husband – decided to stay in LA with our dog, Otter (RIP).  I was to find either a room or a studio apartment and live by myself in San Francisco.  Our theory was that I needed as few distractions as possible so I could concentrate on my studies; the first year of law school was supposed to be very tough.

While I looked for a place I stayed with my college friend, Cynthia.  Cynthia had a huge bedroom in an apartment that by some standards had only one bedroom and a tiny office.  Her roommate had the office “bedroom,” which had room for only a mattress on the floor if the door was to allow access to the room.  The apartment’s common area was a very small kitchen/dining-/living room combination.

I started looking for apartments right away, but, as I mentioned, it was 1999.  People who worked for dot-coms were flush with cash.  Apartments were very pricey.  Landlords were using any excuse not to rent to people who seemed the least bit risky.

As I was an unemployed student whose student loans had not yet come in, I was considered risky.  I was asked more than once if my parents could co-sign a lease.  No, my parents could not co-sign a lease; I was 27 years old and had not lived with my parents – or been supported by them in any way whatsoever – since I was 16.  Furthermore, I had several years of both good credit and excellent rental history with nary a late payment.  No, my parents could not co-sign a lease.

Some of the rental management companies claimed they needed fees to run credit checks.  I fell for this bullshit a couple of times, thinking that once they saw how great my credit was surely they’d rent to me.  They pocketed the money and I never heard from them.

I was getting a little desperate, and was even sad when I didn’t get a place that clearly had some structural issues – the floor in the front of the apartment was most definitely lower than the floor in the back of the apartment.

Part of the reason I was getting desperate was because I was overstaying my welcome at Cynthia’s.  My stuff was in her bedroom, I slept on the couch in the common area when her roommate was home (when her roommate was not I slept in her tiny bedroom), and I talked on the phone all the time.  She was ready for me to go.

It became apparent to me that I was going to have to throw money at the situation; that if I had cash up front the landlords would be more likely to rent to me.  There was a delay with my student loans because they had to be rerouted from Southwestern to Hastings.  I was desperate.

I must have been desperate because I did what I swore I would not do when I moved out on my own over ten years prior:  I asked to borrow money from my father.  I hated that I had to do it, but I really didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to both keep my friend and have a roof over my head.  I didn’t know anyone else in San Francisco except for the few fellow Hastings students whom I had just met, and I wasn’t going to ask to stay with any of them, some of whom were in a similar boat as I.

My dad came through with the money and soon thereafter I was able to rent a studio apartment in the Tenderloin.  I tried to overlook not only the gritty neighborhood, which was at least close to school, but also the very weird landlord who always had dried white spittle at the corners of his mouth, and the morbidly obese building manager who wheezed when walking down stairs.  It was an apartment and it was mine.

I went to the apartment to sign the paperwork and get my keys.  I was officially a San Francisco resident.  I went into my new place to look around again.  Just through the front door was a small entry area.  To the left was the bathroom, to the right was a door to the large walk-in closet, and straight ahead was the main room of the apartment.  Beyond the main room was the kitchen and dining room.  The doors between the entry way and main room, and between the main room and kitchen, had been removed and the door jambs painted over and over and over long before.

All of the apartment’s windows overlooked a small courtyard.  It had nothing but a concrete base.  Not a plant, not a bench; nothing.  Not much of a view, though I could see to the neighboring building’s yard, which was well appointed with plants, benches, and a walking trail.   In the future I would look out longingly when I was putting off studying.  I would wish I could sit on one of the benches amongst plants, which were sparse in the Tenderloin.

I was glad my new apartment’s windows overlooked a quiet courtyard rather than O’Farrell Street, which had a lot of traffic including the eastbound 38 Geary bus, which ran frequently (though some say not often enough).  On that day, though, I didn’t know anything about the 38 Geary.  Or about the issues that would arise from my windows overlooking the quiet courtyard.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued ….]

  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •