The tatty sun-baked slab is cracked and cratered, covered with a fine layer of mossy bayou goo in some areas, freckled with oil slicks and tire tread in others. Trees older than I am line the drive. Majestic, tall, and strange in this otherwise drab and shabby place—a run-down apartment complex where the rent is cheap, the roaches abundant—they bend their heavy limbs in a startling brown and green drape. From beneath the pavement, undulating root systems erupt through concrete crust, easy like steam escaping the lattice of a fresh-baked apple pie. Some 30 years earlier a developer paved this swamp paradise, put up a parking lot. Left to decay—maintenance being of little concern to property manager pimps eager to fill (and bill) for four walls and a roof—it seems paradise is taking the lot back.
That’s kind of beautiful, I think, of the trees. But then I notice a sign stapled to one of the stately oaks, and I am bitch slapped back into reality. ATTENTION RESIDENTS, it reads, THERE HAS BEEN A SERIES OF BURGLARIES AT THE COMPLEX. PLEASE KEEP YOUR DOORS AND WINDOWS LOCKED. KEEP VALUABLES IN A SAFE PLACE AND BE AWARE OF ANY INDIVIDUALS WHO ARE UNFAMILIAR TO YOU—THX, MANAGEMENT.
“Ahhh, home sweet home,” I utter aloud to no one at all. And then I heft some boxes into the trunk of my corolla. After two years living amongst criminals, and craggy, pockmarked pavement, I am finally moving out … and thank God for that.
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The last moments spent in my dingy apartment—number 3201, with its sagging ceiling and weathered wooden façade—I am hunched forward, furiously running a whirring vacuum over threadbare carpet. In the front closet, dead leaves and detritus cling to the baseboards. I bend to my hands and knees for a closer look and see it—a black pepper army, their legions scattering and popping like water tossed into boiling oil. Fleas. Hundreds of them hop inches from my face. I recoil in horror, straighten up, step outside, shut the door. I put key in lock and walk away, fast. I never once look back.
And as I drive away that one last time, my tires grinding over rutted concrete, I accelerate a little more than usual. I need to get the HELL out of here, I think. And though it’s been calm all morning, suddenly a breeze kicks up, catches in the leaves of the apartment’s ancient trees. Their shaggy crowns tremble and shake, and I imagine they are nodding their heads in agreement.
(Photo credit: Zevotron@Flickr)
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OK, so it’s been three weeks since the move. What–pray tell–have I been up to? Andrew and I, we’ve been nesting. The new apartment is gorgeous with 12-foot ceilings, beige walls, white moulding, walk-in closets, and a wide-mouthed garden tub. Apricot tiles line the entrance hall, and plush, light-colored carpet (devoid of creepy crawlies) blankets the living and bedroom areas.
Some of you have asked for pictures, and though photography isn’t really my medium, I’m eager to please. Sneak peak coming soon, yo. Get stoked.
BTW, it’s nice to be back. Xoxo.
I had to get up at 5 am to find time to write this (thanks again Erin Cooks!) It’s only fair i pass on the 
