Thursday, September 14, 2006

Great Expectations–the movie reimagining, may Chuck forgive me–greatly skewed expectations for how apartments should look. Certainly I never expected to land a sprawling one-floor accommodation like the one depicted in the film, but I always thought something with a balcony would be nice. Well, I have a balcony now, along with a pressing need to vacate as soon as possible.

One of my colleagues has painted, in broad and believable strokes drawn from eyewitness experience, the true dark nature of my rental community. Oh, there were telltale threads evident within the first week or two: a lease rider epic in length, too many neighbors wearing wifebeaters, the ever-present specter of hip hop pounding my windows. Understand I’m not an undershirt snob, nor am I academically opposed to ballads about funky fresh ho’s who be dropping the knowledge and shit. Hell, I have them preset to 1 in my car.

Like I said, separate threads. But to have them tied together, then dyed in the rumor that this place is a conduit for drug trafficking, is something else entirely. My lease also apparently autorenews if I don’t give 90-days notice before the end of the contract. The fine print, let me tell you–it’s like living in a sweepstakes I don’t want to win. I will admit, however, I tend to pick out lemons. A string of them, in fact, long enough to justify a second device situated right next to my moral compass. Call it a GPS, short for Ghetto Positioning System. I’ve recalibrated it, given it a thorough shake. It’s telling me to go downtown.