Page 41 of Blue Collar Hotties

NO PARTIES.

NO SMALL TALK.

NO SMOKING INSIDE.

Hmm.

BRING YOUR OWN MICROWAVE.

Yup. This is good, good stuff. I sway on my living room rug, cross legged by the coffee table, and frown at my work so far. My empty dessert bowl sits near my elbow, with nothing left except an inch of melted ice cream, the scent of bourbon fumes tickling my nose.

How many times have I refilled that bowl already? Two times? Three? The sickly sensation in my stomach says three.

Stars glitter through the open curtains, the sounds of traffic drifting up from the street below. My apartment. My beautiful safe place. Why, oh why do I need to share it with some random person? This sucks.

I hiccup, tapping my fingernail on the coffee table, because self pity will get me exactly nowhere. So what else would a roommate want to know in advance? What else do I need to write?

NO LIARS.

NO THIEVES.

Okay, now I sound rude.

I CAN FIX ANY RIPS IN YOUR CLOTHES. YOU CAN BORROW MY IRON IF YOU LIKE.

Perfect! I scan my ad to double check for typos, so pleased with myself as I reread each line. Maybe it’s brusque, but it’s all stuffI’dwant to know before renting somewhere, and what else is there to say, really?

Have room, will let. No thieving jerks this time, please. I put the monthly rent and bills, then place the ad with a single click.

Done. Finished. My roommate listing is out there swimming in the digital ether, and I’m at the mercy of the universe once again.

I flop back onto the rug, stare at the spinning ceiling… and try not to cry.

Lincoln

The bar is packed, the air humid with warm bodies, and the music of the live band bleeds into the low roar of the crowd. Crammed shoulder-to-shoulder and wedged onto a rickety bar stool, I swig from my beer bottle and scroll through the city’s room listings on my phone. An empty basket of fries sits in front of me, decimated except for the crumpled grease paper and a dusting of salt.

What have we got here? My thumb tracks lazily down the screen. Ah yeah, I remember this bullshit well from the last time I stayed in one place for a few months. Room-hunting is such a trip.

There’s a spare bed up a ladder in someone’s dusty attic. Cost: your life savings.

A room that comes with compulsory babysitting duties.

An honest-to-god bunk bed.

It’s slim fucking pickings, that’s for sure. On and on I scroll, one eyebrow raised at the unending nonsense of humanity, until soon I’m slamming my empty bottle down on the bar and waving for another. This is a joke.

It’s my own fault, obviously, for coming back from the Sahara shoot without a plan in place, but up until this morning, I wasn’t even sure I’d be staying.

It’s not my thing.Lingering.Hanging out in one place for too long. And even though I’m technically based here, this city sets an itch under my skin—it gives me the worst kind of restlessness,a non-stop urge to throw my clothes and camera in a backpack and take off again.

Because whenever I’m here, I feeloff. The hairs rise on the back of my neck and my nerves prickle, and it’s like there’s something here, something important, but I’m not seeing it. No matter what I try, no matter how hard I scan the streets, no matter how I focus and refocus my camera, the important thing is stuck in my peripheral vision. I’m oblivious.

And I don’t like feeling like an idiot, so I usually blow straight through, onto the next shoot in a far flung location. Off to somewhere that doesn’t make me feel so fucking weird. Like there’s an itch on a phantom limb.

This time, though, I’m here on business. Some rich eccentric wants to pay me an obscene amount of money to create a photo series of this city, and I know better than to turn down good cash over some weird tickly feelings. A month or two here could pay for half a year on location next year.

“Thanks.” The second beer lands in front of me, white foam climbing the glass bottleneck, and I take another swig as my thumb pauses over a room ad.

---