SF Diaries, week 1
chasing dreams like quicksand
I got here seven weeks ago. I can remember when it was one week, and people would gasp. Then it became two. Like sinking your feet into soft silky sand. Nothing happens, and yet you’re in. I’m here.
August 30th was the first time we drove down the Golden Gate Bridge. It was so easy to know that pushing the gas pedal would get me where I needed to go.
The bridge opened up and swallowed us whole. We were enveloped in a bright tunnel. I squinted my eyes. A few moments later, we popped out on the other side. The water was black. The sun was gone. We were three minutes from our home.
Arthur and I pulled up into our new driveway. Every precious belonging of mine was within arms reach. I opened the car and ascended the stairs to our new home. The door was unlocked, and the house was dark. It smelled musty, with a touch of sweet alcohol. Arthur trailed behind me; his phone flashlight illuminated our path. I knew only from the video our landlord sent that our room was downstairs.
They were steep steps, covered in stickered carpet. The smell became more pungent as we descended into a small living room. There was a sofa bed to our right, disheveled and unmade. Bookshelves that lined the back wall were filled with stuff. Endless and untidy.
The bathroom was the same. Two spiders dangled from the ceiling by the mirror in front of the sink. The toiletry hanger was strewn on the floor. Hair clogged the drain, along with a piece of unidentifiable white plastic.
Through the downstairs living room was our room. I pushed it open. Two giant carpets covered most of the floor. Their corners flung upwards. A TV comprised 1/3 of the wall space, its mantle was sticky, and the spill glistened in the light of the phone. A large, faux suede chair beside the bed scared me. I sat on the bare mattress.
It was almost midnight. We had been driving all day and had yet to unpack our car. The only thing I knew about SF on my first night was never to leave anything in your car. I put my hands in my hair, resting there in a dreadful silence. I opened my mouth to speak my mind when I heard a deep vibration pumping through the house. I heard male voices laughing and talking.
Arthur, I began. We locked eyes and nodded in understanding. We made our way back through our empty room, through the living crap room, up the steep steps of hell to meet our new roommates. I could just see the living room from the top step.
At least seven men occupied the two leather couches. They pumped fists to a DJ set on the giant TV; a man in the desert wore white and bounced to the rhythm. We approached.
Hello! He said. And who are you? His French accent was thick. That was Gabriel. I would come to know him well.
We just moved in.
Well welcome! I live here as well.
His friends held out their hands, nodding at us in acknowledgement, asking us what we do. I flipped the question back to one.
I’m the head of AI at Tesla, and I’m a DJ. He had slicked-back blonde hair and a crisp white shirt with a chain dangling down. What kind of job are you looking for? He handed me his phone. Let’s connect.
We closed the door to our room, the faint reverberations of their pregame a reminder that we had signed this lease after one FaceTime call because of one Facebook post.
The garage could have fit four cars, but there was only room for one. I tiptoed through piles of junk: chairs, bed frames, refrigerators, clothing—toward the garage door. Our car had been standing outside oh so vulnerable for oh too long.
We unpacked quickly, clustering our belongings into a rectangle in the garage, and closed its door. I rummaged for the sheets and pillows, and through G-d’s goodwill, I fell right asleep.
Soft, bright light illuminated our space, every spill, stain, dust particle more pronounced. Don’t come up here, Arthur warned. But my hunger led me to the kitchen, where I found dirty plates and mildew, flies swarming, and as each flip-flopped step led me closer to the fridge, the stick and unstick became more pronounced. I reached for my food like I would into a magician’s hat. I left with a banana and walked toward the water.
Mom, I messed up.
Is there a nail salon nearby?
Soon, my nails were a fiery orange color. I stared at them for ten seconds and then used my feisty fingers to call him.
Jackson? My voice was frail and nervous. We need a house cleaner.
XOXO,
Lila, A CA Lady