Suck It, Venice.

"I can't believe you moved into this shit hole", Thomas Said. " I mean, the carpets are dirty, the window's are painted shut and I think I hear your neighbor taking a shit. Not to mention, the place is only nine by nine. You know prison cells are seven by seven right? I bet those chumps aren't paying $800 a month though! Anyways, I gotta go, I'm feeling a little boxed in."

What an asshole, he didn't even close the door behind him. I took a seat on the floor and looked around. I had just rented this place 2 days ago. It was still pretty empty, but I enjoyed the open floor space. I wanted to move to a new city, away from the valley and closer to the beach. I had had enough of the dry winds, and cracked hands and the way your nose feels so empty that it burns. I needed the moisture of the ocean to refresh me.  I'm not sure why I chose Venice over Santa Monica, but it seemed right at the time and even though nobody liked it, I thought I could make it work. I enjoyed the oddities of the building. It looked out of place amongst the beach house's and modern stucco exteriors of its neighbors. There were three stories of bricks made of light brown mud and it was grouted in the same fashion. Leading up to the thick wooden front door painted black, were 4 stairs and a small porch. The local homeless would take cover here when it rained. The key would never turn the first time, but it was one of those skeleton keys whose nostalgia overpowered practicality, for a little while at least. I'd often spend expanded minutes with my key in the hole, violently shaking it, persuading the door to open. On nights when I'd come home drunk, the minutes expanded further. There were a few times when I'd just give up and wait a half hour, sometimes 4 hours, for anyone to come home.  On a night in December nobody came home. Work was terrible, my ex told me she'd come over, but then remembered she hated me, and I was at that stage of drunk where you can feel the buzz fading and you get cranky like a hungry baby. To top it off I was cold, and I hate being cold. When people ask me, would you rather burn to death or freeze to death, instead of saying neither, I always opt to burn. I noticed that the crazy homeless lady, who collected socks abandoned in the sand, had set up camp for the night on my porch. I had never lived with a roommate, but I knew I didn't want to, which is why I chose a studio over something more affordable.  I just wasn't into sharing my living space, so I told her she had to leave or I was calling the cops. She packed up and pushed her cart into the frostbitten night, and I sat where she had been, absorbing the remnants of body heat from the ground.  I ended up falling asleep and not waking up until morning. I had been on the porch now for about six hours.  I was soaked from the fog pushed in by the neighboring ocean, I was hungry and felt annoyingly vulnerable. I began growling like a dog. Hopelessly, I raised my eyes to the doorknob. My keys still hung there and I knew nothing had changed, but I needed to try once more. I was sure, in much the same way I was sure the studio would work, that this last turn would be successful. Whatever was holding me back, would fall to the way side of my hard work, positive attitude and persistence. My keys dripped dingy Venice precipitation off of their ends and felt ill in my palm. Half a turn into it I realized it was the wrong key. I ended up breaking off the tip inside the lock and phoning the manager to let him know the building had been vandalized.

Inside the door was a staircase that rose diagonally above two oddly shaped apartments on the first floor. The staircase was covered in thin carpet that I’d cringe at every time we'd meet. The hallways were bland and long and for the most part lifeless. The compact white walls were broken only by a strip of molding painted dark brown that ran along the floor. Each door was the same color of brown and every number on every door was gold. If I had to pick one thing that bothered me the most about the apartment, it'd be the gold number on my door. The golden number 3 stared me in the face each and every time I came home. "You are number 3", it'd remind me. "You are number 3 on the second story of a third story building in the middle of apartments 1, 5, and 7. Number 2 is across from you and number 2 has a better view." The buildings address was 12. It was another number that made me feel strange. Addresses were meant to be long and complicated, never easy to memorize. 12, that’s it. 12 Rose, Venice, California.

It was always hard for me to sleep there. I had a drummer below me and a runner above me, and I think Thomas was right about hearing my neighbor taking a shit. That dirty bitch shit a lot. The space was too small for a bed and too narrow for a futon, so I bought this three in one pain in the ass from Ikea. A toilet from the third floor overflowed and created a bubble in my ceiling. The bubble would drip like a lactating tit every night for a week. I finally had enough and popped it. The water wet my three in one pain in the ass and I never slept on it again. In the middle of the night I dragged it down the hallway and watched it slide down the fire escape in back. It wasn't there in the morning and I hope it's making someone happy. I slept on the floor for the remainder of my stay. Most morning’s I'd wake up feeling dusty and smelling like nylon. The girls were nice about it though. They'd never sleep there, but at least they'd stop by. Beyond the nighttime noises there was the nighttime life. The building was built in the 20's before the invention of the garbage disposal, and inevitably food wound up stuck in the drain. I believe the first invasion was due to stale macaroni and cheese, the generic kind. I began hearing little squeaks in the oven so I turned it on and left it on for an entire night and I stopped hearing the squeaks. I figured the problem was solved, but I severely underestimated the enemy. It was a rare night. The runner had stopped running and the drummer had stopped drumming and the neighbor held it in. I believe it was the first night I had taken a full breath, a breath that circulated through my entire body and put me at ease, since moving into unit 3. I began to doze off. I had managed to block out the noise of the streets and the drunks and had siphoned the shit to make way for the sound the sand makes as it absorbs the foamy white water. My prison cell for once felt like home. I thoroughly enjoyed the 4 square feet that distinguished me from an inmate. My back was flat to the floor, the blankets had molded around me to create a cast of down feathers and cotton and my left thigh felt warm. My left thigh felt warm and this worried me. My left thigh felt warm and before I moved, I knew why it felt warm. I angled my hand as a pimp would angle his, raised my hand and slapped that hairy bitch off my crotch. A dirty, filthy diseased rat had decided that my left thigh looked like an opportune place to spend the evening and so it did. I chased that beast into the kitchen. I saw it dart under that stove so I turned it on again. There I stood, completely still, stalking my prey. After an hour it finally made its move. The studio had heated up to a toasty broil and neither him nor I could take it anymore. I crept to the window, rolled it open slowly, backed away and began clapping and screaming frantically. "Aaaaahhhh.. Ahhhhhhhh..... clapclapclapclapclap.....Aaaahhhhhhhhh." The rat jetted from the stove and in one jump flew through the glass slats into the Oleander dividing line between my building and the next. I felt triumphant. I felt like Rambo and I was fucking pumped. The drummer hit his ceiling with a broom, the runner stomped a few times, the shitty neighbor threw a dish at the wall and in the morning the manager came by to issue a formal warning about the noise I made.

It had literally been one of the worst months of my life. I pride myself in being a positive person but there are two things I don't fuck around with, where I lay my head and blind people. I'm not talking about the handicapped, I don't have an issue with the seeing impaired, I'm talking about those who are oblivious to everything around them. Those that write about themselves in coffee shops and relate any conversation or idea back to their own lives. Those who are incapable of gauging when too much is enough and those who file noise complaints against the best neighbor ever. Venice began to change me. For the following month I painted my walls once a week. First green, then brown, then blue, then gray. Everything looked the same though. The sun only shined into my place between five and six in the morning. I never even noticed the color. I would sleep late into the afternoon. On day's I didn't have work or get hungry I'd sleep until it was dark and then I'd sleep some more. This was the only way outside of work, that I was able to cope with the walls that seemed to grow closer everyday. I despised the boardwalk. Again, I despised the boardwalk. A favorite hobby of mine was to get piss drunk and talk shit to the street vendors. I didn't know who I was anymore. I started styling my hair at midnight for no reason. I bought a pea coat from the good will on Pico and carried a pack of camel lights in the breast pocket. I'd take smoke breaks with the Chinese kids who had bunks stacked 4 high in a studio the same size as mine. How'd they do it?

The manager was a prick. I finally had enough the third time I stepped in human feces on the front porch. I scraped it off on the curb and walked straight to his unit. As I was walking down the hallway I noticed his door was open. As I got closer he closed it. I knocked and he addressed me through the door. I asked him to open it, but he wouldn't. I bluntly said that I'd be moving out today. "You can’t move out, you still have 9 months left on your lease. I took a chance on you, I know your type. You think you're too good for everything, smarter than everyone. I hear you pinging that keyboard when I walk by your unit. You don't think I'm on to you? I know what you write about. I know you fantasize about my girlfriend, I know you want her. Well she's mine. She's been mine since grad school and she'd never be interested in someone like you. What? Do you want to loose your deposit? Are you that well off that you can throw away a thousand dollars? How am I gunna find a renter? Who wants an apartment on the beach in February? You messed up man, you really messed up. Fuck." I kicked the door and walked away. He opened his mail slot and threw a business card out of it. "Tell her you had a family emergency or something." I walked back into unit 3 for the last time to type up my letter to the landlord.

Landlady:

I punched five holes in your walls while residing in unit 3 and only patched half of one. I've painted them five times. Most recently I threw a bucket of paint on the western wall and allowed it to drip into the carpet. It was my hope that it would reach the drummer downstairs, but I haven't heard word of it yet. I noticed you are kind. You allow the homeless and the intoxicated to defecate in your hallways. I took it upon myself to further your kindness and invite the vagrant into my unit. They've been using my shower, and my toilet, but I had the water turned off a week ago so it's starting to smell a bit. I hope you don't mind, but I left a dead rat behind the fridge. My back was a bit sore from sleeping on the ground and I didn't want to strain it with heavy lifting. The deadbolt still doesn't work. I think I asked you to fix that a few months ago, but you're probably busy. Don't worry though, I fixed it for you. Someone broke another key off inside of it so I decided to just break the window so the tenants could reach inside and unlock it. Don’t worry though, I put up a sign that said “Tenants only”.  The way it cracked really compliments the place. When the sun comes up over the building across the street an image that resembles the Virgin Mary rests upon the staircase and the word of the apparition has spread throughout the recycling community here in Venice. A large crowd of Mexican women gathers around the apartment now in hopes of catching a glimpse. I didn't bother moving out my furniture, I figured someone could use it. Maybe you can charge more for the prison cell now that it’s furnished? Any who, I have to get going. The rain is coming back and I see some more tits growing on the ceiling. I'll make sure to pop those on my way out.

Thank you for being a caring, responsive landlord.

Very truly yours,

Suck it.

P.S. There has been an awful and untimely death in my family, requiring me to move away. I expect my deposit back in full.