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The first place is downtown, in a row house. Two women are sitting out on the front porch with a big yellow lab when we arrive. One of them forces a smile and gets up reluctantly. She walks us through the place and tells us that the neighborhood is being fixed up. Scott shoots me a look. We both know that “being fixed up” is code for “bad.”
The next place is fine. Nothing special, but the kind of place that could be fine if it had to be. Until we get to the kitchen. “This,” the manager tells us, “will all be fixed." He’s referring to the torn-up kitchen floor, with pipes exposed under the sink. “You could move in, no problem. This’ll be fixed within a couple days.”
“No way!” Scott whispers to me as we follow the manager down the hall. There’s no way we’re going to trust him. We thank him for his time and rush back to the car.
The next place is only a few blocks from our motel in West Duluth. Not the most picturesque area of town, but better than the downtown core. We pull up to a plain gray house, and the owner meets us at the door. He’s friendly enough, in a business sort of way. He shakes our hands and leads us inside, telling us that he just finished fixing the place up. It used to be a single family house, he says, but he converted it to a duplex.
I literally hold back a gasp when he opens the door to the upstairs apartment, and I walk through in amazement. It has hardwood floors throughout, even in the kitchen, and the bathroom has old-school marble floors and a claw-foot tub. There are built-in bookshelves and little nooks and crannies throughout. It reminds me of the house I lived in back on Salt Spring. It has charm and character.
“We’ll take it,” Scott tells the owner after a walk through.
“Why don’t you spend a few more minutes looking around? I’ll wait downstairs.”
We oblige for the sake of politeness, but we don’t need to be convinced. We want it. We’ll make the small bedroom into our computer room. Our baker’s rack will look great in the dining room. I can picture us here, walking around, cooking dinner.
We sit on the stairs and fill out a rental application and return to the motel to wait for references to be checked. It isn’t until the next day, just before check-out time, that the owner finally calls.
“Sorry it took so long to get back to you,” he tells me, “but it was a bit of a challenge to reach some of your references.”
“That’s okay.” I hold my breath for his decision.
“Your references were all good, so I’m approving your application.”
“That’s great! When can we move in?”
“It’s ready now, so as soon as you’d like.”
“We’ll be right over!”
We check out of the motel and drive the three blocks to our new home. The street is quiet and lined with trees that are just starting to bud. Old houses that have seen better days sit behind the tree limbs. Ours is the biggest house on the block, and its siding has been painted recently. We walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. The owner appears and leads us through the apartment, noting the condition of each room. The wood floors have some gouges, one window has a small crack, and the doorknob leading to the attic stairs is loose. Otherwise, the place is in perfect condition.
One last thing: “There’s no bugs or infestations in here, is there?” I ask.
“Of course not!”
“Sorry. Just had to make sure.”
After signing the lease, the owner hands us the keys and lets himself out. Scott and I grin at each other and head back out to start unloading our stuff. An hour later, everything is piled in the entryway. We spend the evening unpacking, listening to music, arranging our things, drinking beer, and simply appreciating the fresh start we’ve just created for ourselves.
The next day we start looking for work, and I land an interview for a serving position at a local burger and steak restaurant chain. The manager’s just a couple years older than me, and we sit in an empty booth to go over my application. I watch his eyes skim over my carefully hand-written words, crammed into the boxes on the photocopied page. His hair is gelled or hair-sprayed off to one side, and wisps of bangs fall over his eyes.
“Looks like you have great experience,” he says. “Are you looking for a family restaurant, or would you rather hold out for a fancier place?”
“I’d really like to work in a restaurant like this,” I tell him with a smile. “I think it’ll be perfect for me.”
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