Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [83]
Just like Derrick, BG had an average physical appearance. He wasn’t tall or muscle-bound or extremely athletic. He did have a perpetual look of contemplation on his face, though, like he was always looking for something intelligent to say. Sometimes he even mumbled to himself, regardless of who was around. Often, very often in fact, I would wonder what was going through his head during idle moments in conversation.
BG was on the hunt for a roommate. He didn’t care who, and neither did Derrick. Derrick just wanted him out. He had given BG until December to get on his feet and find another place to live, so that his two-year-old daughter could have her room back.
Enter me.
From the moment that I met BG two days after Thanksgiving, we had a love–hate relationship—from which most of the love would be expended in the first forty-eight hours. We were so much alike—stubborn and contentious—so we were at odds from the beginning. But even though we didn’t exactly hit it off, being roommates was such a convenient opportunity for each of us. He needed a roommate, I needed a roommate, and the duplex next door to Derrick needed occupants.
We went down to the realtor’s office to check on the availability, and the agent seemed stunned by our inquiry.
“Wait, you mean four oh nine B Pine Hollow, like over in Cedar Manor?” she asked.
“Yep, that’s the one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Oh, wow. Have you been inside yet?”
You know it’s bad when even the realtor is skeptical about one of her own properties. Boy was I having bad luck with living quarters. The shelter and even Mickey’s attic were necessary, but I had dealt with those conditions with the optimistic notion that I could find something halfway decent by December. But it wasn’t looking good.
Four oh nine B Pine Hollow was a step down, once again, from where I had been living. It had been on the market for four months since the previous tenants—a family of grizzly bears, I believe—had moved out. There were roaches and piles of trash everywhere. The linoleum in the kitchen was ripped and the stove was rusted. There were holes and stains on the carpet throughout, and the walls were in dire need of a paint job. It looked like Mama Bear had let Baby Bear loose in the house with a jug of cherry Kool-Aid and a box of crayons. It was horrendous. I couldn’t imagine that anybody would seriously consider renting that place.
They were desperate to rent the property, which was great, because we were desperate to find one. It gave everybody a little breathing room. We told the realtor that if she went easy on the credit check and supplied us with paint, we would have that place looking habitable again. It was a deal fit for everybody, although I spent most of the negotiation process hoping and praying that BG had a tangible plan for how we were going to actually implement the masterminded makeover that we were so gallantly proposing to the realtor.
After reaching an agreement, but before we could move in, there was a lot of work to be done. The only problem, though, was that BG was handy—super handy, like the fellas that have their own TV shows on Sunday mornings—and I wasn’t. It wasn’t a huge problem, except that BG wouldn’t let me forget how handy he was and how handy I wasn’t.
“Dog, I gotta ask you. What the hell are you doing?”
I was patching the drywall.
“Oh, Jesus. Shep, please, I’m beggin’ you. Grab a paint brush and go over there in the corner. I got everything else.” He waved his hand around the whole apartment, signaling that he was going to take care of everything except that one corner to which I had been assigned.
I think he wished I had given him $100 and just left him to perform all of the renovations himself. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing patching the drywall, but I wasn’t good at painting either. Since the realtor hadn