I sat in my black swivel desk chair, sunk to its lowest level so that it would fit under a white pressed cardboard desk. I had assembled it myself with tools that had been included in the box*. To the left of me lie a weary, half-inflated air bed pushed up against the wall.** Three feet away lies a six inch thick mattress that lay on an uneven foundation. *** Beyond the beds, was a small kitchen and, through a small hallway, a bedroom and a bathroom on the left and right, respectively. The sun shone through the creases of the blinds that were strategically turned in an effort to obscure my presence.
This was a one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment that I shared with two friends in the middle of Hollywood. I shared the living room with one friend and the other paid extra to have the actual bedroom for himself. I paid them a meager $450 a month in rent, but my name was not on the lease. It was a tense situation, the apartment manager seemed to like me and I had lived there carefree for months. I was saving up money to get my own apartment, but finding consistent work was difficult. I was getting by with freelance event bar tending, video production work, odd jobs, and a little help from friends and family.
One day, the landlord became paranoid that he would get in trouble if it was discovered that I had been staying there. **** From that point on, I made it a point to keep a low profile around the apartment complex. I would look both ways before leaving the apartment, put on sunglasses, and obscure my face as much as I could underneath a hooded sweatshirt.
In the chair, I leaned forward, carefully reading a non-compete contract to write funny and/or interesting questions for a live game show app ***** Even though I was credited as a “consultant,” I was happy to be paid a little bit to have my first ongoing writing gig.
As I read through the contract, I received a text message from an old friend, Wesley, that I knew from grade school. He was visiting from Oakland for the day and he wanted to hang out. As I hung up, one of my roommates, Jerry, entered the room. His eyes glazed, shirtless, and freeballing. His outfit was punctuated with sweatpants, dangerously loose from an untended to drawstring.
“Hey man, I’m having a friend over in a little bit. I just wanted to give you a heads up.” I said.
Jerry replied, “You have my permission.”
We both laughed as I went back to reading through the contract.
After electronically signing the contract, I messaged Wesley to head over. I explained to him that parking in the middle of Hollywood is a nightmare ***** so I would have to come out to the street, get in his car, and help him find a spot.
When I received a text that Wesley was close by, I headed for the door. As I closed it, I could hear my roommate coughing heavily. Since I was going to be back in a couple minutes and my roommate was still home, I left the door unlocked and headed towards the gate leading to the street.
The apartment complex featured two identical two-story buildings facing each other with a driveway and two hallways with handrails between them, leading to a parking lot behind them. Blocking the sidewalk were high fences, with barbed wire, and a remote control Gothic gate blocked the entrance.
As I approached the street, I saw one of our neighbors, a middle aged woman with a thick Mexican accent, pleading with the apartment manager, Dave. Trying to avoid him, I kept my head down. As I passed them, I overheard the woman plead, in broken English,
“He’s still in there, he’s a black guy, he has my laptop! He’s still in there!”
Concerned, I stood by the curb waiting for my friend to pull up. A police SUV swooped up, and the officer got out of his car to speak to the woman. Shortly after, Wesley arrived and I hopped in his car. After finding a parking spot three blocks away, we made our way back. As we got two blocks away, I received a call from my Jerry. Confused, I answered.
“Hey Frank, um, is your friend a black guy?”
I stopped walking, and thought to myself, “What the fuck kind of question is that?” I looked at Wesley, he looked back confused. I then felt silly for checking if he was black because he very clearly was still an African-American.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Ok man, is he in the apartment right now?”
Gratuitously, I looked back at my friend.
“No, I’m looking at him right now.”
“I gotta go,” Jerry replied, frantically.
I looked back at Wesley, “I think we should get in there.”
We hurried back to the apartment. The police SUV had departed, inexplicably, but several occupants stood outside their units, weary of an intruder. As we had made it halfway down the long hallway to the apartment, a Renaissance painting emerged from apartment number seven.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Jerry Yelled.
Bursting forth from the apartment door, an especially dirty man rag-dolled against the railing opposite the door. His clothes were dirty, his hair was disheveled, and his backpack was worn with age. Jerry had delivered a powerful push and had emerged from the door by way of momentum.
His eyes were crimson from anger and marijuana.
He was still shirtless, and his ass had fallen out of his sweatpants. Underwear would have been a good choice that day, but it was his day off.
After the push, Dave, who was no stranger to accidental comedy, asked, “Do you know this guy?”
“No, I don’t know this guy! Get him the fuck outta here!” Jerry replied.
Dave grabbed the nameless man, “Okay, let’s go.”
The lady I had passed before yelled, “He has my laptop!”
Wesley, Jerry, and I entered the apartment, sat down, and relaxed. We checked the apartment and nothing was missing. Jerry then went on to explain what had happened to him.
He was in his room smoking a joint and heard me leave. Almost immediately afterwards, the door opened and a man walked in. Leaving his room, Jerry saw the man and introduced himself, “Hi, you must be Frank’s friend.”
Sheepishly, the man nodded and put his large backpack on the ground, saying nothing and standing still. He was off-put by the man’s appearance, but he was expecting a guest. In fact, he thought it was funny and was under the assumption that he was one of my weird “artistic” friends. He was looking forward to making fun of this guy later.
Without a word, the man sat down on a bed. Confused, Jerry went to brush his teeth in the bathroom. As he prepared his toothbrush, he felt the man’s hands on his shoulders. He started to rub them seductively. My roommate jumped, startled, and walked away from him. He went outside the apartment to call me. After learning that he wasn’t my friend, he went back in and told the man to leave, but he refused, silently shaking his head. His anger boiled over, until he forcibly evicted the unwelcome guest from our home.
* Okay, maybe the desk wasn’t made out of pressed cardboard, but I’m somewhat certain it wasn’t made out of any sort of wood.
**It had been firm until an unnamed friend did a drunken belly flop on it.
*** To be fair it did a much better job of retaining mass than the air mattress.
**** This seems like a valid concern until you consider that an estimated family of 14 lived in the unit next to us.
***** Which I later found out is an unenforceable contract in the state of California.
****** Which it fucking is.
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