When I was a teenager, I had a list. It was a loose, ever-changing inventory of features my future home had to have, and since I was young, it was rightfully insane. My prospective living space (a Dubai high-rise, or maybe a Tokyo loft) had to feature hardwood floors supplied from endangered Peruvian forests, modern enameled lava countertops, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking panoramic views of whatever gleaming cityscape I’d decided to call home, plus a service elevator that opened into my cavernous living room. I figured by the time I was twenty-five I’d somehow be a millionaire and able to afford every expensive thing I saw on television or read about in a magazine.
When I graduated college, I had naught to my name but a thousand dollars in the bank and a 1994 Nissan Altima. I’d had enough of the East Coast for a while, and besides, I’d never be able to afford rent in New York or Boston’s nicer areas. As for Tokyo, I’d seen enough bizarre Japanese commercials on the Internet to nullify any desire to become an expatriate, though that was most likely an excuse to avoid learning a foreign language. Still, a small part of me clung desperately to the hope that someday, somehow, I’d magically come to live in the kind of apartment that only existed in ’90s sitcoms. I moved to Portland in part because it was so much cheaper than other cities, and I felt it wasn’t such a wild notion to expect at least some of my fantasy features to come to fruition, despite barely having the funds for an IKEA desk, let alone a gold-plated Jacuzzi or one of those giant room-dividing aquariums that I could fill with piranhas. I kept my chin up, dreams of extravagance burning brightly in my heart.
I had little time to orient myself in Portland at first. I slept on a friend’s floor for a couple of days while I called around and checked out apartments. Because time was short, I had to choose the first livable place I could find. I didn’t really care, though. Portland was shiny and new. The air smelled cleaner, the streets miraculously clear of Dunkin’ Donuts wrappers, and everyone seemed almost too friendly not to be on some sort of upper. Maybe they were all intoxicated on the fresh summer breeze. It was easy to see why. Portland was beautiful.
My first apartment was far from impressive, but I viewed it as a sort of starter home. It was entirely basic: a square living room connected to a similarly shaped bedroom. It was bland, but over the next few weeks I filled it with furniture and covered the walls with posters and photographs until it felt more like a home. I forgave most of its faults because it felt so thrilling to be on my own. It was located just off Hawthorne in Southeast Portland, a hip neighborhood full of vintage houses and coffee shops. It was close to a multitude of bars and restaurants, so I overlooked the fact that half of its outlets didn’t work and there was a large mysterious stain on the living room carpet. I forgave the fact that the water was sometimes brown, and I tolerated the management, who seemed indifferent to the safety of the tenants.
On my first afternoon in the apartment, I was startled by the unit’s former tenants unlocking my front door from the outside and stepping partway into my living room before realizing the place was occupied. I had barely unpacked all my stuff, and I was already experiencing my first break-in of sorts.
Apparently the building’s owners hadn’t bothered to demand the keys back from the past occupants. Since I was hidden behind the door and out of the couple’s view, they didn’t see me and quickly closed the door. The whole encounter, if you could even call it that, lasted no more than a few seconds, but I stood there for what seemed like an hour feeling baffled and unsafe. I have no idea what they’d come for, and I never saw them again. As I listened to them hurry away, I wondered how many other people in the city might have keys to my apartment. I made a mental note to buy a Taser and get the locks changed, and continued suckling my Popsicle. The incident left me feeling a bit violated, but I rationalized it to be an honest mistake on the part of the former tenants.
Over the next several months I heard talk of a few robberies in the building and became increasingly suspicious that my downstairs neighbor might be a drug dealer. And yet none of this bothered me as much as it probably should have. This was my first home that wasn’t subsidized by my college or ruled by my mother, who had a tendency to paint everything in the house taupe. I was thrilled to feel independent. It was comforting to know that if I was robbed or murdered in my apartment, the newspaper article would read, “Local Man Dies at the Hands of Coked-Up Thieves,” and not “Student Dies.”
It wasn’t until the complex became infested with cockroaches that I decided my time in the building had to end. I may be perfectly willing to live in constant fear of robberies and meth lab explosions, but I won’t put up with bugs. Bugs are icky. I noticed a single cockroach one night while doing dishes, and had it been a viable option, I would’ve packed up everything on the spot.