Page 4 of Sort of Seeing Someone

The way she talks about my tenancy brings me back to how I found this rental in the first place. Before I decided to move to San Diego, I made a “housing wanted” ad and put it onCraigslist. In it, I explained who I was, why I wanted to move to the West Coast (but notL.A.), what I was looking for in a place, and what my budget was—a humble two thousand a month, which sounds relatively cushy but, in Southern California affords you approximately one third of a crack den with no AC. Worried about someone stealing my identity, I signed the ad “NannyGirl312”—an ode to the job I was doing in the area code I lived before I left—and figured if anyone wrote back with the perfect place, that I could afford, it was a sign that I could throw in the towel on my Midwestern life as a nanny and that I was meant to move out west.

For weeks, the only replies I got were bogus emails about wiring money to an account in Nigeria, guys looking for non-committal, nanny-themed sexual encounters whenever I finally did make it to San Diego, andrealtorstrying to sell me places twice my budget. I had all but given up hope I’d amount to anything other than anaupair for Nora’s kids whenGerdaemailed me from her trustyyahoo.comemail account.

The subject line: “I think I have what U R looking 4”

How this didn’t go to my spam folder, I’ll never know. And how this wasn’t the subject line for one of the non-committal sex requests, I’llalsonever know.

Nonetheless, I opened the email to find a darling description of a place that sounded too good to be true.

I saw your housing-wanted ad on Craigslist. I’ve lived in a little beach cottage with my husband, Larry, for fifty years and I am finally putting it up for rent for the right tenant. Things we love about the house: a big front yard with real grass—none of that fake turf crap. A hot tub—which is surprisingly easy to maintain—I can do it for you. A mature fig tree. Do you like figs? Air conditioning…window units, but still, it gets quite cool. A full-sized washer and dryer, stackable. A dishwasher, compact but does the job. Nice neighbors—my best friend Betty lives behind us. The gray kitty is hers. There’s a parrot next door, Walter. One block from the best Rocky Road ice cream (cash only) you’ll ever have. Two blocks from the Pacific Ocean (I see seals on my walks every day). Anyhow, Larry died earlier this spring and while I thought I could stay here without him; I just can’t. I’m asking $2,000 a month, but you have to let me leave my furniture in there because I have nowhere else to take it right now. What do U think?

Sincerely,

Gerda Germain

The furniture wasn’t my style and I’m terribly allergic to cats. But the price, location, and promise of a new life were just what I was looking for. I pounced on it.

“So how long do I have?” I ask Gerda the way you’d ask a doctor how much time you have left after a terminal diagnosis. The butterflies swarmed my stomach as I dreaded her answer. In the meantime, I twirled my nose ring with my thumb and my pointer finger, a bad, nervous habit. Especially since it’s one degree away from looking like a full-blown nose pick.

“Til the end of the month.”

I do the quick math. It’s September 12thwhich leaves me with less than three weeks to find a new place to live. Can she even do that? Is that legal? Happy birthday to me…

“But,” she continued. “You should know I completed the sale over the weekend. Funds are already in my account. So much so that…here’s your September rent back.”

Happy birthday to me, indeed!

Gerda slides me an envelope of cash from the pile of magic mail. I take a peek inside and my sudden urge to sue her goes away.

“Wow, thank you,” I say.

“Thankyou. You were a great tenant and even better neighbor and friend. It’s the least I can do before I leave.”

“And when is that?” I ask.

“Betty and I are headed to Oceanhearse tomorrow night.”

“You’re moving to an old folk’s home with the wordhearsein it?” I ask, as if that’s the worst part of finding out I’m about to be homeless.

“Hurst,” she emphasizes the ‘st’. “Oceanhurst. And it’s not an old folk’s home. It’s a Senior Care Club. It’s in La Jolla, twenty minutes away, very fancy. You’re welcome any time. We can have lots of visitors. I heard the tuna melts in their restaurant are delicious and the lemonade is always fresh-squeezed.”

Up until now, I have never had a reason to dart up to La Jolla for a game of old-people tennis followed by a tuna melt with a lady three times my age, but it sure sounds lovely—even down to the sugary lemonade. In order for that to become a reality, however, I need to still be living within driving distance to La Jolla. Meaning, I have to find a place in my budget or I don’t know how I’ll be able to make it in SoCal after this month is over.

I check the time on my phone once again and take the last sip of my coffee.

“I don’t know how you do those things,” she says.

“What things? Cell phones?” I ask.

“Yeah. You know, the radiation those things give off could wipe out a whole generation.”

“I’m not following,” I say.

“They’ll never outright admit it, but 5G is part of the government’s plan for population control.”

Just when I think I’ve heard all the major conspiracy theories (Gerda’s other hobby besides crossword puzzles) she hits me with a new one: planned genocide by way of the thing that houses my meditation apps.

“Oh, I see,” I say, appeasing her. Little does she know, I survived my fair share of Charged Lemonade atPanera, so I’m not really worried about what my cell phone is doing to me.

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