Evicted!

Senator Kerry, he ain't got nothin' on my landlord, in the flip-flopping department. First, it was "Oh, we're selling the place--you'll have to buy it within the next six months, or leave." Then, it was "Well, we couldn't find a buyer, so you can stay...for now." This morning, it's:

"Hello, Socar?"

"Yes?"

"Hi. This is Fred.* I'm just calling to give you thirty days' notice that the unit is being listed."

"Wait, who? What?"

"Your apartment. It's finally being listed. Viewing starts next month."

"Viewing?"

"Buyers will be coming to look at it. Unless, of course, you'd like to buy it?"

"For how much?"

"Oh, two twenty-five, two-thirty."

"You've got to be joking." (This place is five hundred and forty square feet, surrounded by noisy folks, and at least ten years old. My parents, they got a brand new house for less. Granted, that was twenty years ago, but still--you've got to be kidding.)

"It's a good market right now."

"So people will be coming to...to look at it? While I'm still here?"

"Well, you wouldn't be."

"What?"

"I'm terribly sorry."

"I'm being evicted?"

"Not evicted. I'm just giving you thirty days' notice."

"What's the difference? Either way, I'm out on my ear. Do you have another flat I can rent?"

"Not right now. Start of the school year, you know. They go like hotcakes, this time of year."

"Oh...my...God."

So, there's an apartment available downstairs, on the fifth floor. I'm to view it tomorrow, but it's almost as pricey as this place. Nine-fifty, I think, compared to ten-fifty here. There's a year's lease, too. I'm not sure I can afford it. I'm not sure I have any choice. I've been searching like mad since August, without any luck. It's always "No giant rats!" or "No young folks!" or just plain ol' "No you!"

Thirty days. I have thirty days to find an apartment, scrape up a month and a half's rent, and move into it. In that same thirty days, I have to get my art site running again, finish a huge pack of commissions, and get all the copper stains out of the shower so I'll get my security deposit back. I should put all my things in boxes, or something, so it feels like I'm getting stuff done. I should buy a newspaper and look through all the listings I can't possibly afford. I should go back to Sweden, where the rent is cheap and the winters are long. I should eat some bagel chips and read a book, since I've been up all night working, and there's little I can do right this instant.

I hate this, all this shuffling about the place. I was here, and then I was in Sofiehem, then Carlshem, then the other end of Carlshem, and now I'm back here. Next month, I'll be somewhere else. This was meant to be the journey's end. Dulce domum, and so forth--

Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found the river! And now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in. Since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him.

The call was clear, the summons was plain. He must obey it instantly, and go. 'Ratty!' he called, full of joyful excitement, 'hold on! Come back! I want you, quick!'

(from "The Wind in the Willows", Kenneth Grahame)

I never liked to read that chapter when I was wee, now that I think about it. My mother and I would read it together in bed, "The Wind in the Willows". We must've read through it a hundred times. It was my favourite story, besides "Godfather Death". In that chapter, though, Mole started crying, and I hated that part. I had been taught not to show signs of weakness. I found it embarrassing to say things like "paroxysm of grief" out loud, especially in front of my mother. I was afraid my voice might crack or falter at the wrong time, and it would look like I was unduly affected by the book.

I also hated that chapter because I kept getting in trouble for deliberately mispronouncing its title. I thought it was really funny to say "Dulls Dome-oom". (I was four years old--give me a break. Those things are funny at that age. So is the toilet.)

Anyhow, I've got to move. I'm being turfed out of my cozy mole-hole. No dulce domum (or dulls dome-oom) for me, alas. Not here, at any rate. Unfamiliar surroundings again--what a headache. It takes me forever to remember where I've put everything, and what goes where, and which doors open inwards, and how to lock the front door.

Words fail me. Kenneth Grahame was much more eloquent than I. It seems silly to say anything more, when it's all just been said for me, and I can add nothing more than a lot of pickety-pickety complaints.

* Not his real name.