2:40 a.m. - 2004-07-06
Just a Victim of a Bad Reputation...
The wait for word on the apartment was awful.

I'd learned 3 days before applying that I could not use a reference from 3 years back--and how disastrous it would have been if I innocently had.

It began when I located my former landlord in the online white pages. I decided to pay him a call to confirm his phone number, and to confirm him as a good reference. I was virtually sure of both, and came right out and asked as soon as I got him on the phone.

"Yes to the first," Richard said. "You have the right Richie B. on the phone. But as to the second, I'm afraid not."

"What?...What do you mean?"

And as it turned out...

My ex-boyfriend--who vacated our old digs almost 6 months after me--had left the old place a squalid mess that shocked even the professional cleaners.

And worse...he skipped out owing Richard a lot of money.

I was afraid to ask how much, and Richard didn't say.

But he did tell me that the neighbors thad hought my ex was acting "strangely, perhaps due to drugs."

"Oh no, not drugs," I said bitterly. "He was profoundly addicted to g4mbling. Still might be. It's why I left. Hell, there were other reasons, but that's what forced my hand. Our utilities were being shut off, our phone was shut off. I had to buy a cell and leave. I left in June of 2001. Richard, I called you and told you--don't you remember?"

"No, I don't," Richard said petulantly.

"I was quite naive and didn't put it in writing," I said miserably. "But I do have a record of when my new lease started, and it was long before he left."

"I will concede that you probably didn't have anything to do with it. But he skipped out owing me a lot of money and left no forwarding address. He's covered his tracks pretty well." Richard's tone became loftier, more relishing. "If you list me as a reference and anyone checks that far back, I will be compelled to mention his actions. I'm still feeling pretty resentful."

You'd think Richard had been dating my ex himself.

I understood his ill will, but his dry, punitive unfairness stung me. Either he thinks I was involved in bilking him out of cash, or he doesn't.

...An army of passive-aggressive men have been sent by God to teach me how I do not want to live.

I pulled myself together.

"Richard, I don't wish to get between you and he in this situation, but um... I'm shocked and I'm sorry to hear what he's done, and I would be dishonest if I didn't say that I can probably connect you with him."

"Oh, no...no." Richard said dismissively--much to my shock. "If you see him, just tell him I'd like my money."

"...Oh. Well. Of course. Goodbye, Richard."

I hung up.

So...

I guess Richard can't be bothered with small claims court, or collections agencies, or giving-a-good-goddamn as to whether I could have my ex on the phone in 30 seconds and facilitate the minimum possible reasonable action. I received instead the smug, vengeful equivalent of "I'm too ineffectual to pursue that which is rightfully mine, so screw you 3 years after the fact, you naive fucking-unlucky gangster's moll, you wretched bit of rubbish...and if you see him at the ballet, pass him a note that says 'Do you want to pay Richard? Check this box []."

I hope it was good for him, because I despaired for 3 days before being shown the apartment, and for 3 days after.

And then I got it.

I got the place.

I sign the lease this weekend, and I am ecstatic. It goes a long way with me--reality. It soars over the ugly what-could-have-been.

I wont dwell for long.

But I trashed my 4th of July plans at Charlie's, because I knew my ex would be there. I stayed home and watched fireworks on my balcony with Alex, and we made dinner and drank wine, and it was pleasant, and if I cried a little in the bathroom it was probably because I was tired and very stressed, and because I had a chance to see some old friends and I just couldn't bring myself to go.

I hadn't had a chance to be Richard's sodding messenger prior to that merry holiday gathering, and I knew my options were these:

1) storm in and claw my ex's eyes out (never as practical as it sounds)
2) go to Charlie's and pretend nothing had happened.

And the second and most socially acceptable option was the worst.

I pretended everything was fine long enough to last my lifetime, and all of his friends--our friends--have rivalled me. They stood by and watched their charismatic friend gamble 4 nights a week, then 5 nights a week, then 6. And then every day. They watched him ruin his career and his home and his relationship, watched his hands tremble and never questioned what he was doing; never sat down with him and said "Hey man--maybe you're not doing right by your yourself. Maybe you're not doing right by your girlfriend." They went on flattering him that he was a good guy and a nice guy and a fiercely intelligent guy, because he had once very much been so, and his outgrown identity swallowed his deeds or so everyone thought, and so everyone pretended.

And I just couldn't be there.

But I got the apartment. And I am really happy about that.

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