“Yeah, I don’t think I broke anything. I am just going to be really, really sore tomorrow morning,” she pants, but manages a smile.
I offer her a hand up. Once she’s on her feet, I can’t help but notice that she’s extremely attractive. She’s about my height, slim but obviously in really good shape and she has the most incredible dark green eyes. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and even under her running jacket, I can tell her arms are totally buff. I stare at her a little too long but eventually find my voice. “Um, hi, I’m Mattie. What a total asshole, huh?”
“Yeah, major asshole…I’m Alex, thanks for the hand.” She makes an effort to brush the dirt and grass off her running pants.
“Not a problem. Do you think you can make it home on foot or do you want me to find you a cab or something?”
“I think I am all right, but thanks. I’m not too far from home, and I think I can walk it. Thanks again, enjoy the rest of this beautiful day.”
“You too.” I turn to continue running back toward P Street.
I exit the park at the same place where I entered and keep running until I reach DuPont Circle. I take a few minutes to catch my breath and walk a few blocks until I reach a small corner market where I order a bagel breakfast sandwich and coffee to go, as well as pick up a bottle of orange Gatorade and a copy of the Washington Post.
As soon as I walk in the door to my Airbnb apartment in Logan Circle, I toss the bagel and paper on the kitchen island, guzzle some Gatorade and head into the bathroom to take a quick shower. Once I’m clean, I slip on the robe, wrap a towel around my head and walk back out to the kitchen. I wolf down my breakfast sandwich in about three bites and then nestle into the couch to nurse my coffee and scan the newspaper.
Before long, I find myself staring into space trying to figure out my next move. I’ve got this Airbnb apartment for the week, and then what? After my conversation with Todd last night, I desperately want to try to get to Vermont, but I know that visit’s going to have to wait. I ponder my options, and staying in DC sticks out as the most logical choice. I like DC, I know DC, and I’m in DC so it makes sense for me to stay, at least for a while. When I can’t think of a better plan, I commit to staying put in DC until I can figure out something better.
Now I just need to figure out where I’m going to live. Airbnb is great for the short term, but I need to find a place where I can hole up for at least a few months. I start to scan Craigslist and a couple of other apartment sites for a short-term apartment in DC. There are just a handful of listings in Logan Circle, where I would prefer to be, but the asking rents are crazy high. It’s amazing how much the neighborhood has changed since I first lived here nearly a decade ago. Even under the supposed Whole Foods effect, I can’t believe how quickly it has gone from a “fringe” neighborhood to the “It” neighborhood.
I expand my search radius a little to include a few additional neighborhoods and hone in on a somewhat reasonably priced partially furnished one-bedroom apartment. It’s located on the border between DuPont Circle and Georgetown, which is a great location and only about a ten-minute walk from my current Airbnb apartment. I send a quick text message to the number listed for the apartment.
I close my laptop and sigh as I start to think about my personal life in Vermont. Or maybe lack of personal life is more apt. My last girlfriend and I broke up almost six months ago, and sadly, I have exactly zero prospects. Although, given my current predicament, that may not be a bad thing! It’s odd, though, because I tend to be the kind of person that doesn’t go for long periods of being single. As I think back, I’ve almost always had girlfriend, and I sure have had a lot of them over the years. Some of my relationships were really quite good and even lasted a few years, but I still haven’t found that special someone. I’m a hopeless romantic, and I refuse to give up hope.
On a more pragmatic front, I consider that it’s probably a damn good thing that I haven’t yet broken ground on the house that I am—or was—hoping to build on my farm. However, I do have to figure out how to deal with my forensic accounting practice in Burlington. I’m a partner in a small firm, and I thank my lucky stars that the firm doesn’t do any tax accounting because, if it did, the next four months would be serious crunch time. There’s no “season” for forensic accounting; the work flows in steadily all year long.
Conrad Wilson is the managing partner of the firm. He’s a brilliant accountant, but he’s also one of the most arrogant people that I’ve ever met. We work extremely well together, but I wouldn’t say we are friends. Still, I feel like I at least owe him the courtesy of telling him I will not be at work for the foreseeable future. He’s always been decent to me and treated me with respect. It is pretty likely that he’s heard about my current predicament, but I decide to give him a call anyway.
He picks up after the first ring. “Hello?” he says, his deep voice echoing in my ear.
“Conrad, it’s Mattie,” I reply tentatively.
“You goddam idiot,” he barks.
I’m a little shaken by his tone, but I continue. “So, I take it you’ve heard about my, um, situation?”
“You could say that. Got a little visit from the police yesterday. Do you have any fucking idea how poorly this reflects on the firm?”
“I’m sorry, Conrad,” I say weakly.
“Do you know the mess you’ve created? Go to hell, Mattie!” he yells, and promptly ends the call.
Well, that went well, I think to myself and lay my head against the back of the couch. I feel a migraine coming on. I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes and try to clear my mind. I take a series of deep breaths to try and calm myself. The sun is still beaming in through the windows, and eventually I doze off like a cat. The chirp of an incoming text wakes me about thirty minutes later. I wipe the drool from my chin and groggily reach for my new iPhone.
Hi. Apt will be available Jan 15th. Would be happy to show you the place. Does tomorrow 9am work? It is at the corner of Q and 27th. I’ll be out front. My name is Michelle.
Michelle must be the woman listing the apartment on Craigslist. I sit up and read her text again. January 15th is not ideal since I only have my current Airbnb until January 2nd, but it’s unreasonable to think apartments will be ready for immediate occupancy given the tight rental market. The place looked cute online so I figure I might as well take a look at it. I text her back: Hi Michelle. Super! I will be there tomorrow at 9am! BTW, my name is Mattie.
I drink wine, nibble on some cheese and crackers, and scan the Internet while I wait for an order of Chinese takeout to arrive. Less than thirty minutes later, my phone buzzes. It’s the doorman letting me know my food has arrived, and I tell him it’s okay to let the delivery person up. I love GrubHub because no cash has to change hands—I prepay online, including the tip, and the delivery person just hands off the food. Once I have my food, I break open the containers and plop down on the couch to do some serious channel surfing. Eventually I come across an old movie called Best in Show on TNT and settle on that. It’s a mocumentary about a dog show. I’d forgotten how incredibly funny the movie is, and I actually laugh for the first time since the Schuyler House.
Chapter Thirteen
I sleep like a rock, and I’m surprised when I wake up the next morning and it’s almost eight o’clock. Crap! I mutter to myself. I am supposed to meet Michelle at the Q Street apartment at nine, and it will take me at least twenty minutes to walk there if I do a serious power walk. I roll out of bed, brush my teeth, jump in the shower and somehow manage to get out the door a little after eight thirty. I hightail it over to Georgetown and am only slightly sweaty and out of breath by the time I reach the corner of Q and 27th. I verify the address of the three-story U-shaped red-brick building in front of me before starting up the walk.
There’s a brawny woman with shoulder-length black hair standing out front, and she extends her hand as I approach. “Hey, I’m Michelle. Let me guess, your Mattie?”
“Yep, n
ice to meet you Michelle.” I reach out to shake her hand.
She uses a key fob to open the front door and gestures for me to enter. “After you.”
I step into the small but tastefully decorated lobby. The left side is lined with what I guess is about twenty mailboxes and a row of shelves for packages and newspapers. Off to the right there’s a small seating area and a storage area for bikes. Michelle follows me into the building and points me toward the staircase directly in front of us. “No elevator, it’s a third-floor walk-up…Hope that’s okay? You look pretty able bodied.”
I nod in response, not sure if she is making a general comment or giving me a compliment.
As we walk up the stairs, Michelle explains that she and her partner Stacey are moving to Philadelphia so Michelle can start medical school and Stacey can start a new job at the Legal Aid Society. My gaydar had pretty much gone on full alert when I first saw Michelle standing outside the building, so I’m not at all surprised when she refers to her partner. She goes on to tell me that they want to rent rather than sell their condo in DC because they think it will continue to appreciate.
Once we reach the top floor, Michelle leads me to the end of the hall and unlocks the door to their condo. The unit is small, but it has a nice open kitchen and the morning sun is shining in through the living room windows. Michelle and Stacey have moved out most of their belongings except a double bed, a couch, a coffee table, a few lamps, and two kitchen barstools that will stay with the apartment. Painting supplies are piled in the corner of the living room, and there are drop cloths all over the old hardwood floors.
Michelle waves to encompass the expanse of the apartment. “Sorry for the mess. We’re trying to paint the place. The walls need some patching, and it’s been pretty slow going. That’s why I listed the place as available January fifteenth even though we’ve pretty much moved out. Oh, and we’re awaiting the delivery of a new washer and dryer. The old dryer conked out three days ago, and we figured we might as well replace the washer too since it was pretty much on its last leg anyway,” she says with a chuckle.
I walk through the rest of the apartment and make a deliberate remark about my (nonexistent) girlfriend so that Michelle knows for sure that I’m “family”—I figure it can only help my case as a rental candidate. The bedroom is a decent size with two large closets with mirrored folding doors. There’s a slightly dated but clean full bath with a tub off the living room.
When I’m done looking around, I go back out to the living room and Michelle asks me a few personal questions like what I do for a living and if I’m from the DC area. All very reasonable questions that I try to answer as truthfully as I can without revealing too much. Generally, she seems a little giddy about renting the place to another lesbian, so I’m glad I’ve got that going for me.
“So, what do you think of the place?” she asks finally.
“I really like it. Any chance you would consider a nine-month lease?”
“Well, we’d really like a twelve-month lease…but I’m pretty sure that Stacey would be all right with nine months. Of course, we just need to do a credit check. I am sure you are totally solid, but Stacey only agreed to rent the place if I promised to do a credit check.”
Shit, I think to myself as I smile at Michelle and try to think quickly. Naturally, any sane landlord would want to do a credit check on a prospective tenant. How did that not occur to me? “Any chance you’d be willing to skip the credit check if I pay cash for the full nine months up front?” I ask hopefully before going on to try and explain why. “It’s just that my bank was hacked a few months ago and they strongly encouraged customers to freeze their credit so I did. I mean, I can “thaw” it, or whatever, but it would be sort of a hassle and I have the cash to pay in full so that just seems easier.”
Michelle seems a bit taken back by my request. “Wow, I don’t know,” she says. “I guess it never occurred to me that someone would offer to pay up front like that. Let me, um, give Stacey a quick call and see if she’s comfortable with that. Regardless, we still need you to fill out a basic rental form. It just asks for some basic personal information.”
“Sure, of course,” I say. “I’d be willing to finish up the painting too if it means I could move in a few days earlier,” I add as she steps out into the hall to call Stacey.
I check out the kitchen a bit more closely while she’s on the phone. There is ample counter space and a microwave plus a toaster and a coffeemaker on the counter. I open a couple of cupboards, and they’re totally bare so I make a mental note that I need to buy silverware, plates, cups, and other kitchen stuff.
Michelle steps back into the apartment a few moments later. “Stacey’s on board if you pay upfront for nine months, and we can probably be totally cleared out of here in a couple of days if you really are willing to finish up whatever painting we don’t get to.” I smile and she continues, “I can email you the lease later today, and you can e-sign it and send it back. If everything in the lease looks acceptable to you, it’s easiest if you send us the rent money online via ZipPay. Have you used it before?”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with it,” I respond.
“Okay, cool. Our ZipPay account is linked to my cell number. You have that, right?”
“Yep.”
As we walk back outside, I can’t help but notice that Michelle seems pretty excited about getting nine months’ rent in a lump sum. We say our farewells on the sidewalk, and I walk back toward Logan Circle. I admit that I am a little giddy too, but for a different reason than Michelle. I’m psyched to have actually secured an apartment without too much incident.
I get an email from Michelle not long after I get home asking for my legal name so that she can fill in the lease. She never asked to see my ID and, since they aren’t doing a credit check, they shouldn’t need my social security number or anything so I figure I can take a little leeway with my legal name. She already knows that my nickname is Mattie, which, in my case is short for Matilda, but it’s also is a common nickname for Martha. My last name is Pearson but people often get it wrong when they hear me say it and think my last name is Parson. So, I reply back and give her the name Martha Parson, which clearly is not my legal name but is pretty close.
Michelle shoots me the completed lease less than five minutes later, and I quickly read it over. The lease specifies January 15 as the start date, but Michelle indicates in her email that I can move in as early as the fifth if I want to. Her email also includes instructions for setting up ZipPay for the rent payment. I e-sign the lease and email it back to her and then go to the ZipPay website to send her the lump sum for nine months of rent. The money will have to come from the Hatshepsut checking account since I don’t really have another option. I will just have to reimburse the checking account later—I consider the money in that account to be joint, and I don’t feel right spending it, at least not until I can talk to Ellen.
Once that’s done, I turn my attention to figuring out where I am going to live until I can move into Michelle and Stacey’s place on the fifth. I’ve got my current Airbnb until January 2, but I’m hopeful that maybe I can extend my stay at the current place until the fifth or maybe even the sixth to give myself a little buffer. I log in to Airbnb’s website to check the availability for my current place and it shows available all the way until the tenth of January so I submit a request to Bettie asking to extend my stay for a few more days.
I order Mexican from a place around the corner from my apartment and spend the evening binge watching episodes of Property Brothers on HGTV before eventually falling asleep on the couch. As a result, I wake up Monday morning with a bit of a stiff back. Even so, I still drag myself out for a run. Afterward, I stop by Starbucks for a vanilla latte and a spinach feta wrap. While I wait in line, I pick up a copy of the New York Times and skim the headlines. There’s a big photo on the front page of workers preparing for the massive New Year’s Eve crowds expected in Times Square this evening.
Wow, it hadn’t
even occurred to me that it was New Year’s Eve. That means that nearly a week has passed since the Schuyler House… It seems like only yesterday that Kat, Sarah, Ellen, and I were making the final preparations for the Schuyler House…that Kat and Sarah were alive. My emotions are still so incredibly raw; I’m certainly not in a celebratory mood. There will be no champagne toast for me this year.
Later that afternoon, I run back over to Whole Foods to grab some wine, cheese and few frozen burritos to sustain me for the evening. I have a few glasses of wine and I’m feeling extremely melancholy by the time the big ball drops in Times Square. After that, I sit by the window and watch the street fill with people as they wander—or, in many cases, stumble—home from bars and parties. My life right now feels so unreal; it feels like I’m watching a movie.
Chapter Fourteen
A few days later, I swing by Kramer’s Books—a total institution in DuPont Circle—to search for a new book to read. I am perusing the shelf with all of the New York Times best sellers on it when I bump into the woman that I helped in the park a few days earlier.
“Hey, it’s Mattie, right? I’m Alex. You helped me in the park the other day.”
“Oh, hi, yes, I remember.” Like I would forget those eyes, I think to myself. “Good to see you again. How are you holding up?”
“Good as new! I think I got lucky, I didn’t really do any damage to my body. In fact, was out running the next day.”
“Wow, you are a real trouper!” I reply. “If it had been me, I probably would have used it as an excuse to take a few days off!”
Alex chuckles and points toward the back of the bookstore where there is a small bar. “Can I buy you a beer to thank you for coming to my rescue?”
I assure her that I was happy to help but agree, probably too eagerly, to join her for a beer.
We chat as we sip on our beers, and I learn that Alex lives in Logan Circle and is a widow.
The Schuyler House Page 8