Single, Unemployed, Homeless and Suddenly Myself
So did the three recent college graduates next door. At their weekend parties, a loud bass penetrated our shared wall starting at 10:30 p.m. The girls in sweats, no makeup and with their hair piled in a bun. I would go out in sweats, as well and ring their bell around 11 p.m. (early, even by my geriatric standards) to ask them to quiet down, please.
One of them would appear, flush with alcohol and annoyance, and promise to turn it down. Usually they did. When they didn’t, I would call the doorman, the management company and, once, in a while - the local police. But the noise continued, unabated.
My Mesa Circle Drive building was near at least one if not two or three colleges, or so it seemed. When I signed the lease, I didn’t realize the place had so many student renters, people who understandably liked to party and low rents. Yet it was the least social time in my life. Most of my friends were married. I had no income, and rent was almost $1,100 a month, from $800 since the complex was sold to Diplomat from Long Beach, CA. I wasn’t dating because I hadn’t figured out how to positively spin my unemployment or about to be homeless, story.
One afternoon in the elevator, I saw one of the guys from next door and his girlfriend. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, his dark hair slightly receding. And his girlfriend had her long flowing bleached-blond hair and California look - bikini top and jeans.
“Are you always around in the middle of the day?” he asked.
“For the last few months I have been,” I said. “I’m job searching.”
“I am too,” he said. “It’s my last year of law school.”
“Never leave a job without another,” I told him. People had warned me about this, but it was only after I’d done it that I realized how true it was. As we neared our doors, I said, “I’m moving out, so you guys can blast your music all night long. The mean old lady is leaving.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I can’t afford this any longer. I’m moving in with my mom in Riverside.”
“That sucks,” he said, then added: “It’s not me blasting music. It’s my roommates.”
Which made sense. He was always the kindest and most apologetic when I got angry. “How old are you guys?” I said. “Like, 23?”
“Yeah, well, I’m 23,” he said.
“I don't know I'm about 64 (I stopped counting at 39 yo). So I hope you get a younger neighbor the next go-round.”
“I never would have guessed 39,” he said. “I thought you were, like, 26.”
Was he just being nice as usual or sweet-talking me? I looked the same age as my friends, but maybe the frat house dormlike context had fooled him. That afternoon we ran into each other again; he was in a suit headed to an interview. I wished him luck and best regards.
One afternoon in the elevator, I saw one of the gals from next door and her boyfriend. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, his dark hair slightly receding. And her long flowing 'bleached-blond,' seemingly 'air-headed,' "valley girl" hair and quintessential California look - bikini top and short micro skirt.
“Are you always, like - around in the middle of the day?” she asked.
“For the last few months I have been,” I said. “I’m job searching.”
“I am too,” she said. “It’s like my last year of school.”
“Never leave a job without another,” I told her. Again, as aforementioned, people had warned me about this, but it was only after I’d done it that I realized how true it was. As we neared our doors, I said, “I’m moving out, so you guys can blast your music all night long. The mean old lady is leaving.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I can’t afford this any longer. I’m moving in with my mom in Riverside.”
“That like sucks,” she said, then added: “It’s not me blasting music. It’s like my friends' roommates.”
Which made sense. She was one who always had the kindest and most apologetic - look - along with her, boyfriend, when I got angry. “How old are you guys?” I said. “Like, 18 to 23?”
“Yeah, well, I’m almost 18,” she said.
“I don't know I'm about 64 (I stopped counting at 39 yo). So I hope you get a younger neighbor the next go-round.”
“I never would have guessed 39,” she said. “I thought you were, like, 26.”
Was she sweet-talking me, I wondered? I looked the same age as my friends, but maybe the sorority dormlike context had fooled her. That afternoon we ran into each other again; she was in a suit headed to an interview. I wished her luck and best wishes.
I feel like a Sr. Teenager.... I have everything I wanted as a teenager, except several decades later:
* I have an allowance
* I have a vehicle
* I don't have to go to work or school
* I answer to no one nor report to anyone
* I have an apartment home and/or house or some where to stay wherever I go ( I have friends around the world )
* All, my friends are not afraid to get pregnant
Two weeks later, my friend Diana, her boyfriend and I were sitting at a nearby bar, drinking St. Germaine, vodka, cranberry juice or St Germaine, a London-dry gin, grapefruit juice and/or rum and sodas, I don't remember which and looking at her Tinder app, when my 18-year-old neighbor's girlfriend popped up. She was just about to make 18 yo, it looked like.
“Swipe right!” I said. “Tell her you’re out with me," Diana said.
She swiped, they matched, and she told him I was with her. I followed up with a text, proud to be out on a Saturday night. Here was proof that I, too, was fun. We messaged back and forth; she was on her way home. When I asked if she wanted to join us back at my apartment, she said yes.
Twenty minutes later Diana, her boyfriend and I arrived, and he showed up with a bottle of rum and cans of Diet Coke.
Soon she was laughing, saying, “My boyfriend's roommates can’t stand you. And I was always so confused why a 26-year-old was upset about our parties. I thought you were just an 'old soul'.”
Diana and I danced to “Jump” by the Pointer Sisters, a song she didn’t recognize. Before Diana left at 4 a.m., she whispered to me, “She likes you. Hook up.”
I offered a hushed protest, insisting she was too young - "Jail Bait." But apparently the neighborly tension had been building, because he and I started kissing right after she and her boyfriend, left.
When we woke up, hung over, a few hours later, I begged her not to tell him or his roommates. My transformation from puritanical noise warden to Mr. Lester Burnham embarrassed me; my dulled brain screamed, “What just happened?” "You're crazy!"
But I won’t lie: It was also an ego boost. I may not have had a job, a wife or a girlfriend, but at least I could attract an adorable 18-year-old.
Over the next few weeks, we texted constantly, sent emails, snap-chatted online and kept getting together to talk about our dating, home and employment searches and to fool around. When I asked her if I seemed older, she said, “Not really. Mostly because you aren’t working and you’re around all of the time.” "Besides, my kind (Filipino) males look like monkeys."
I said: “When I graduated high school, you were maybe 4, or not even conceived yet. Perhaps, just a 'glint' in you parents eyes.”
One Sunday at 5 a.m., she got to experience the pleasure of being woken up in my bed by his roommates’ drunken rendition of “Oops! ... I Did It Again.”
“This is really annoying,” she yelled, covering her head with my pillow.
“It’s payback,” I said. “Now you understand.”
With her, my usual romantic anxiety disappeared. Instead of projecting my insecurities onto her and wondering if I was enough, I just had fun because I knew our age gap made an impossible future - possible. And I was moving out soon. Besides, we had 90 days to get married, or she had to be returned to sender.
Not that my mind was entirely free of concerns. I worried people would think we were ridiculous. But when I told my coupled-up friends, they said, "I was living a fantasy."
“At least you’re having fun,” a soon-to-be-divorced friend said. “None of us are. I didn’t even want to touch my husband/wife at the end.”
Even so, the chasm between my new friend and me was no more glaring than when she said, “Dating is fun. I get to meet lots of people.”
Dating, for me, was about as fun as my job search or search for a new home, just in case my idea didn't pan out. And that was because I approached both in almost exactly the same way: with a strategy, spreadsheets and a lot of anxiety about presenting my best self and hiding my weaknesses. With her, though, I worried about none of that.
When she admitted she had no idea what she was doing with men and made things up as she went along, I assured her this wouldn’t change — no one knew.
Our honest exchange was so refreshing. Dates my age disguised their fears with arrogance. Within an hour of meeting me, one had boasted about the amount of sex she’d had, and another, on our second date, gave me a heads-up that her deep large size had caused many of her relationships to end. She said it was like putting a straw in a train tunnel, she had nine kids at least she said. She contemplated surgery to put everything back in it's place. How considerate of her to warn me!
With appropriate romantic prospects, I had been overly polished and protective. Just like the women, I spun stories broadcasting fake confidence. But I confided in my neighbor about how hard the year had been and how worried I was about finding a job and a woman to love. With nothing at stake, I was charmingly vulnerable.
One evening as we cuddled in my apartment, with me droning on about my woman troubles, homeless and career fears, he said, “We get so fixated on the job we want, the home we wanted or the person we’re dating because we don’t think there will be another. But there’s always another.” "When one door closes another opens, right?"
I thought that was so true. Even wise. But it’s easier to have that attitude, about jobs, a home or love, at 18 than at 39 ( 64, as it were ).
Then one night I came home a little too drunk and encountered her in the hallway. She was the one who almost always decided when we would hang out, and I complained it wasn’t fair that everything seemed to be on her terms. I was pressuring her, reverting to my worst dating default behavior, and she fled into his apartment.
The next day she texted: “maybe we should chill with this, for a spell. - let's be friends ... you’ve been a good friend, we complicated it a little though haha.”
I knew “haha” was just her millennial way of keeping it light, but here’s the thing: In our “light” relationship, I had let myself be fully known, revealing all of my imperfections, in a way I normally didn’t. With her I was my true self, and it was a revelation.
And a conundrum ( a puzzle wrapped in an enigma ). Because I can’t seem to be my true self when I’m seriously looking for love, when all I’m thinking about is the future. To win the person ( or the job, the apartment or house for that matter ), we think we have to be the most perfect version of ourselves, puttin' your best foot forward. When our hearts are on the line, vulnerability can feel impossible.
A year or two later, I finally managed to be just NOT perfect enough to land a job, they tell me "I'm over qualified," and an apartment, since I could get a job. I was told it'll be a protracted job search by AARP, somewhere around 27 months. I was originally told that for every $10K you make, you'll spend a month looking for work. If that was true, I'd be in the 13 or 14 months category, but obviously not in this triple dip recession of an economy.
My mother called the police and had me escorted out of the house within the first 30 days of my stay at her house - with my name on it. My brother, father and I got her the house back in the early 70s. We moved in from Downtown, Brooklyn NY to Riverside RI. I live in Brooklyn, NY at that time frame and was going to school at CUNY/CCNY - John Jay College of Criminal Justice, for a dual-degree in B.A. Forensic Psychology/ M.Sc. Computer Science. My father died while I was in Saudi Arabia working. My brother takes care of my mother. I hadn't seen her in 12 years. She had gone through a mastectomy and survived breast cancer in that time frame. Her brother my uncle, however was in the terminal stages of Prostrate Cancer and it looked like he wasn't going to make it, said his son, the doctor-on-call, from US Army.
I'm guessing I didn't call and ask permission to return home and she was pissed I didn't visit for that time period, not understanding that I couldn't. I had a similar issue with my wife, who was now in Orlando FL or so I thought. When I got there I found he moved to Chicago IL and didn't tell, me, being her usual passive-aggressive self. I’m still working on allowing myself to be imperfect enough to find a job, a home and love, for example.
A year or three later, I finally managed I would hope to be just imperfectly perfect enough to land a job, find a home. I’m still working on allowing myself to be imperfect enough to find love.
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