At 1:45 PM, September 15, 2018, I walked out of my studio apartment for one last time, call it mine for one last time.
In front of my landlord’s premium Range Rover, he handed me the pen and the paper. I signed. He tore the check and gave it to me.
The amount was exactly what we had agreed upon, including the six-piece furniture which I sold to him at a great price, including the move-out incentive, including the full security deposit.
Wait, can it be true? It felt surreal.
Is the check real? Will it bounce back?
I was breathless. I was a woman on a mission. I held on to the check, scooted to the bank, deposited it, double-checked that it landed into my account.
Then I texted my friend who helped me negotiated the amount.
“I got the check. It’s done. It’s finally done.”
Like a quarterback, I sandwiched my bedsheet that I forgot to remove earlier with me towards my friends’ apartment.
The husband had already loaded and unloaded the rest of my junk into their lovely apartment, the place I would stay for the next month… He slipped off the staircase earlier when we were loading. And yet, all he needed from me was “Are you okay?”
Who said Americans sue people to death?
The lovely couple charged me nothing for the month accommodation for this prime location.
The husband is making us dinner now.
The wife is helping me with some eBay shit I’m selling.
Angels, after Angels in this City of Angels.
I’m warming towards this city I’ve begrudged for the last three years. Why now, when I’m leaving.
When I get beaten the shit out by life, I scream, “Why (the fuck) always me?”
When I get lucky, I never ask the same question… until now.
Yeah, why always me?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll join the Michelin Star Chef into their open kitchen and observe “how sausages are made.”