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This story is part of Image’s March Devotion issue, exploring various forms of reverence, love and worship.
Something strange happened last year when I went looking for apartments.
My landlord was selling her place in Larchmont, and I had to find a new spot within the month. I’d been in Los Angeles only a year and had no ties to any particular neighborhood; I was open to different locations.
It was a Sunday afternoon in late May, just before my 33rd birthday, and I had some time, though not much, to take a look. To commit myself to the hours of driving and parking and asking questions and making sure that various shower heads expelled the scalding hot water I required.
The first spot was in East Hollywood, walking distance from good Thai. No parking, but the price was right. I had to circle the block twice to find a spot. It wasn’t a good omen, but I tried to keep an open mind. My limited budget meant I’d have to make sacrifices, no matter where I chose.
I rang the doorbell and a man appeared behind the screen. He looked familiar, because he was: We’d gone out a few times when I first moved to L.A.
“Greg,” I said. “Hello.” It was so rare to run into someone you knew here that I was happy to see him — until I remembered how heartbroken I’d been when he’d gone back to an ex-girlfriend instead of continuing to see me.
“Alice,” he said. “Good to see you.”
“When did you become a landlord?” I asked. When he and I had dated, he was working as a therapist. He always whined about his clients. This one’s ego, that one’s lateness. One woman who kept sleeping with men who were cheap in the exact same way as her father. Lots of men who were addicted to porn. Greg believed people could change, but none of his clients seemed to make any progress.
“This month,” Greg said. “Trying to make some passive income.”
“Of all the gin joints ...” I said.
“Casablanca,” he said. “You know they have that piano at the Academy Museum?” He was from L.A. and always trying to sell me on its tourist appeals.
“Yeah,” I said. “I just went recently. On a date.”
“Oh, yeah?” Greg said. But I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t register any indifference or jealousy, because his back was turned as he walked down the hall. Greg unlocked the door of Unit No. 2. The first thing I saw, to the right of the entryway, was built-in bookshelves. I remembered that evening the year before, when Greg had taken me to a mediocre Italian restaurant, then into his bed. Before I left that evening, he walked me to his own bookshelf and pulled out a volume of Freud. “Smell it,” he’d said, cracking the spine. “‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle.’ It’s a family heirloom.”
‘She could count on the strip mall for highly effective magic. She parked in the lot’s only vacant spot, and before walking into the mall’s most brightly lit business, Silly’s Smoke Shop, she got a funny feeling and stopped’
Greg and I stood in the empty apartment, and I reminded myself that places always appeared smaller before you put furniture in them. The back window looked out over an alley and a dumpster. There was natural light but no view.
“How does being a landlord square with your volunteering at the tenants’ union?” I asked.
Greg scowled at me. “You publish any novels yet?”
“How are things going with Kathy?” I asked.
I remembered this name for two reasons: It suggested that she was not Jewish, and it was the name of my childhood babysitter, who’d once sold my father her red Mustang convertible — so unusual for my practical Midwestern parents.
Greg shook his head. “It’s over. I remembered why we broke up in the first place. Let me show you the kitchen.”
Our footsteps squeaked as we walked across the dark wood floorboards. I remembered how his dog had barked the entire time I was intimate with Greg.
These were not ideal conditions for apartment shopping. It was hard to think about the things I really valued while I veered into sexual reverie about the landlord.
The next spot was by La Brea. I bid adieu to Greg and drove west. Greg or no Greg, the East Hollywood spot’s parking situation seemed like a deal breaker.
This second place had an assigned outdoor spot, just beyond the gate that led into the apartment complex. I called the number I’d found on the app. There was an open house until 5 p.m.
A man came to the gate. He was about 5-foot-11 and bald. It was Greg.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?” Greg said.
“You just showed me the East Hollywood spot,” I said. “You didn’t tell me you were managing more properties.”
“I’m not,” Greg said. “But it’s good to see you, Alice. How are things?”
“You have no memory of showing me the apartment an hour ago?” I said.
“Are you OK?” Greg asked. “Do you want some water?”
I’d assumed that apartment shopping would be hell, but this was really something else. Again, however, the price for this place was right. It was the largest apartment of the three on my list, although it was the farthest from work.
In her poem “Play, 1966,” from her forthcoming collection “With My Back to the World,” Chang observes the effects of depression like a painting on a wall.
Greg showed me the available space, which looked out over a tree-lined street.
“No fridge,” I said.
“You can get a fridge,” Greg said.
“Who’s going to carry it up for me?” I asked.
“A man?” Greg said. “Are you seeing anyone?”
I shook my head. “I keep dating men who seem different, and then they turn out the same.”
Greg nodded. “Kathy and I broke up,” he said.
“You told me that.”
Greg looked puzzled, but I didn’t have it in me to explain. After I said goodbye, I wondered if had I stayed and continued the conversation, Greg might have asked me for coffee. Now that we were both single again and all.
When I reached the last spot, over in Eagle Rock, I was tired and in my head about the Greg situation and why I’d chosen this nonsensical east-west-east route to begin with.
I needn’t have worried. It was Greg, again, who opened the door to me.
“It’s you,” I said. His familiar face was almost a comfort at this point.
“What do you mean?” Greg said. “Alice, this is a surprise.”
Greg walked me through this third place. I disliked the vertical blinds, but I was charmed by the sunny breakfast nook. There were probably better places than the three I’d selected to see today, but I was drained by this search and all the miles I was putting on my car.
The water in the bathroom was hot and strong. There was a parking space and a fridge. A nice communal courtyard sat at the center of the complex.
“What do you think?” Greg asked after he’d once again ended the tour.
“I’m exhausted,” I said. I was in no frame of mind to make a decision, although I still wondered whether I could do better. And wherever I chose, it seemed Greg would always be nearby.
“I might take one more look next weekend,” I said. “I saw a few other places that appealed.”
“So you’re done looking for the day?” Greg said. “Do you want to grab a drink?”
There was no reason for me to believe that things would go any better with Greg this time around. But he was attractive, and in front of me, and I needed something to do while I figured out where I wanted to end up.
“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds great.”
A. Cerisse Cohen is a writer living in Los Angeles. She holds an MFA from the University of Montana and has received support from High Desert Test Sites, Joshua Tree. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, Artsy, Los Angeles Review of Books, BOMB and other publications.
