up at the ass crack of dawn

That's one of Naiad's favorite phrases; somehow it has snuck into my repertoire. I rarely say it out loud--it feels odd in my mouth, like I'm too small and (relatively) delicate to really give it the delivery it deserves--but it comes to mind every time I think about being up too early.

Too early for me being, of course, any time before 10 am. But since I'm staying with AX until I have my own place, and he works a real job, I find that I'm up a lot earlier--and going to bed a lot sooner--than I'm used to. Not that this is a problem, as it means I get to interact with the day world and get things done. Which is harder when you're not functional until noon. So many places have the irritating habit of closing at 5.

Anyway. Just trying to give context for my current discombobulation. I looked at the clock and it was an ungodly 6:50. I'd been having a strange dream that involved the long, snaky carcass of a very large sea monster; climbing back to my home by inching along the sheer face of a rocky-looking cliff that actually felt spongy and fabric-like under my desperate fingers; and watching my mother cut her own hair without using a mirror. Weird stuff, Melvin. Do you hate it when people talk about their incredibly obvious and symbolic dreams, and then say, gee, I wonder what it means? Well, guess what. I'm not awake enough to start unpacking this one, and I'm not even sure it means anything in particular. This might be one of those sort of housecleaning dreams where the brain just throws out a bunch of stuff it has laying around, laughing and dusting off his brainly hands. There, let her assign meaning to THAT, ho-ho!

Some of it is doubtless related to my main task yesterday: looking at apartments. It was a very odd process, considering that I haven't done it in so long. These days it's a buyer's market, and you can just walk up and down the streets of the Tenderloin and Nob Hill, squinting up at all the buildings with For Rent signs (sometimes as many as three or four on a block), trying to guess if the available unit faces onto street, backyard, or airshaft. The savvier owners and managers have taped up neatly typed fliers next to the intercom consoles: studio and one BR for rent, $850, $1250, hdwd, AEK, first month and sec dpst, no smokers cats. The less savvy, or less prepared, put up a phone number that leads you to an answering machine or (god help you) the company that owns the building--completely useless if you're looking around after 5. Some places list open house hours, but then there's nobody there to let you in at the assigned time.

I remember, before the dotcom bubble burst, when there would be a line of prospective renters standing outside every dingy hovel, waiting patiently for the doors to open, copies of their credit report, 1040, letters of recommendation, and a discreet bribe all carefully packaged up and ready to go. I wasn't looking at that time, thankfully. I was living in a group house in Oakland, and then I was living in the dojo. But that's also sort of the problem: I look kind of dodgy right now. I haven't had a relationship with a real landlord in seven or eight years--on top of which, I haven't been working very much over the past five months, because I've been out of town for two of them.

Which created a real conceptual problem for the owner of the first place I dropped an application yesterday. I'd looked at the apartment the day before--she'd buzzed me in remotely, and I'd gone up and looked at the place by myself--but we hadn't gotten a chance to meet and talk. I liked the place. The main room wasn't huge, but the light was excellent, the floor was wood, and there were two big closets. So I went into yesterday's meeting (copy of my credit report but no bribe in sweaty hand, wearing my I'm-a-responsible-adult wool pants) optimistic and cheerful.

And she raked me over the coals. The night before, Pavlova had reassured me that landlords wouldn't care so much about my spotty credit. I once had a bit of a problem--let me hasten to add, a small bit--with paying my cards on time, so I eventually just paid them all off and cut them up. They just want to know that you pay the rent on time, and that you're clean and quiet, said Pavlova. Well. Dragon Lady building owner wasn't satisfied with me at all. She had me on the brink of tears. I had to explain several times that I was moving out of my old place because it had been broken into and I didn't feel safe there, that I was in fact gainfully employed although I hadn't drawn a paycheck in a month, that I had not technically been evicted from the place in the Mission but that the master tenant had wanted to move in her pothead boyfriend, that I was being on the level with her. You must be honest with me, it's for the best, even if it's negative she kept saying. I AM being honest with you, I kept replying. That's why I'm telling you about this woman in the Mission, that's why I printed out my credit report. Oh, it was nightmarish. She told me that while she wanted to believe me, if she chose to rent to me, I should write out my first check for two months' rent plus the security deposit (1 1/2 times a month's rent). And I had better get my supervisors to write letters on my behalf, to be faxed to this woman's office today (she has no email and apparently can't call them at the phone numbers I have so carefully inked onto the application). Beat, beat, beat. I couldn't explain why I hadn't been working without talking about my dad; while that seemed to help a little (she lost her husband to cancer four years ago) she still couldn't get her head around the freelance reality of my life; I left the meeting shaken and offended.

Thankfully, she was the first person I talked to, and the worst by far. I then looked at a place that was nothing special, but had a calm, soothing manager with the most lovely voice; I barely remember the apartment itself right now, except that it had carpet (ick) and was too expensive. Just this man's voice, and how nice it would be to have a guy I could talk to about opera as my building manager. Then I tramped around for a while, using my cell to leave messages on half a dozen rental company voicemail systems and calculating walking distance to the library and the dance studio. I came back to AX's and played Haiku Smackdown, and that me feel a little better. AX got home from work and I felt better yet.

And then we went to see The Spaceship.

Oh my.

The Spaceship is a new building around the corner and down a bit from AX's; it's aggressively modern, which makes it stand out all the more from the 1920's buildings on the rest of the block. It's metallic and boxy and has protrusions where its neighbors have bay windows; you could perform open-heart surgery in the entry hall. Concrete floor, cinderblock wall, merciless lighting. The units have their numbers stenciled on their doors in red. I realized that I should have worn my Starfleet dress uniform. The units have track lighting, industrial charcoal grey carpet, and perfectly squared-off corners. Some have a second level where you could, conceivably, put your cryosleep pod. Electrical outlets and wire-reinforced windows abound.

I made the guy show me every single unit. If you had a warp core breach you would die, AX stage-whispered. The top unit's bedroom loft is only accessible by a skinny ship's ladder, but once you're up there you have roof access through a fire door. I was trying to imagine how many catering jobs a month I'd have to take to afford one of the larger units, and then the guy mentioned that there was a ground-floor studio that was a little... different.

Different because it has a smooth, shiny concrete floor.

Different because it has a door that opens into the back yard, which currently just looks straggly, but is going be landscaped with trees and plants and flowers.

Different because I can afford it.

I did the application there and then; I handed over one of my Xeroxed packets with the credit report, the 1099s, the copy of my driver's license and social security card. I talked to the guy for twenty minutes or more about Minneapolis (we were there at about the same time), his pierogi-making parties, snowshoeing to work, any damn thing I could charmingly discuss. I used the words "painter" and "freelance" and "regular gig" and not the ones "master tenant" or "pothead boyfriend." I talked about how much I liked the idea of a floor I could hose clean. He mentioned that this was a unit that people either loved or hated, and he hadn't been sure he could move it; concrete's a hard sell (pun not intended, but I'll take it anyway) when it comes to floors. I leaned possessively against the brand-new operating-room-white laminate cabinets and tried to decide which wall would best display the 4'x6' painting of a dog mermaid I bought off a coffeeshop wall years ago and then couldn't hang in too many of my places. I thought about buying myself some roller skates.

He's going to call me today and let me know. One of the reasons I'm grouchy about being up so early is that it means more hours of waiting. I may have to go back to sleep for a couple of hours just to calm myself down. This place--I can't explain why I'm so charmed by it--it is SO blank and square and antiseptic. There are no nooks. There are no crannies. There's no molding. No glowing hardwood. No lofty view of the bridge or the bay (although in this neighborhood, at this price, nothing's going to have that). No built-ins. The bathroom's most striking feature is the big red light-up EXIT sign. I'm amazed that the pipes aren't exposed and that the studio doesn't open into the boiler room.

But I really like it. It seemed quite friendly to me.