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patched nailholes in West LA
Tuesday, July 3 2001
My housemate John left me the sweetest note on the refrigerator before he drove away last night, "I don't want to read about your life, I want to be part of it." I almost shed a tear on that one. I'm not joking either; I become emotionally frail when my environment is in a state of upheaval.
Jesika, my blonde realtor, showed the house to a whole bunch of people today, including one person at six pm. I didn't want to hang around for that so I choked down an oversized shot of cheap vodka and took a pleasant walk up to San Vicente in Brentwood.
I've noticed something about rich people in cars that John has noticed when working for them; they seem to think the world operates in deference to their schedules. Many times when he tutored rich kids John found himself having to wait around at their mansions for a half hour after the appointed time because the parents were running late. Similarly I, as a pedestrian, am expected to back up and withdraw from a crosswalk whenever a Ford Expedition-driving motorist impulsively decides to cross it.
What a big empty place my condo has become! Nothing hangs on the walls and all the nailholes are patched. In addition to the touching note, John has actually left me a rather large amount of his things to deal with: a titanium mountain bike (supposedly to be shipped by Chun), coffee maker, a barely-functional toaster, a wide assortment of dishes, a chest of drawers, several tables, a $300 bed, three quarts of expensive Mobile 1 motor oil, two gallons of used motor oil, and numerous little toothpaste spatters on the mirror in his bathroom. Strangely, though, he didn't leave me his keys or his garage door opener.
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