Man Alone: Apartment Hunting

The lease for the studio apartment was up and I was tasked to find us an affordable one-bedroom apartment. Robin put a lot of faith in me with this one and I squandered it by going with the first apartment I saw.

It was in Southwest DC. Let me lay out DC for you. You want to live in Northeast DC or certain parts of Southeast DC. The other parts of Southeast DC are the worst parts of the district in terms of crime, Northeast DC is a vast area of nothingness and not-as-bad crime, and Southwest DC is a deceptive son-of-a-bitch with little pockets of nice areas surrounded by low-income housing.

The apartment I went with was on the edge of one of these pockets. 201 I St SW. The management office was in this nice little area, surrounded by brownstones and well-populated by trees. It was close to the Orange and Green lines, primo positioning for commutes and going out at night.

I went to see the apartment – it wasn’t that bad, really. Lots of space, hardwood floors, and a balcony. Kitchen was a bit shabby – aluminum cabinets and a crusty gas stove – but I wasn’t a big cooker at that point, anyway. The residents were typical of an in-the-process-of –being-gentrified neighborhood. Old folks living off social security, couple of low-income types protected by rent control, and a fair share of yuppies looking for a good deal on the place.

It was $900 a month for an almost 1000-square foot apartment with a balcony. I took it without hesitation. Told Robin about it.

“Southwest?”

“Yeah, southwest – it’s fine.”

“Isn’t southwest like southeast?”

“No – it’s fine, it’s right by the Mall. We can go to museums all the time.” (We didn’t.)

“I don’t know.”

“It even has a pool.” (That we never used.)

“Well – it’s a short lease, right?”

“Six months.”

“Ok – I trust you.”

Sucker.

The day before moving day I went to pick up the keys. My boy Max offered to drive me to the management office. I tell him the address but with the Mall fucking up your ability to drive we ended up at 201 I St SE – my first time in the “bad part” of Southeast. Max asks me, “You sure you live here” before I realized we were in the wrong neighborhood. It looked like Compton – straight-up. I’ll never forget this one house that had this disgusting mattress draped over a clothesline in the front yard, some kid sitting next to it smoking.

I realize we’re in Southeast and yell to Max, “No – this is Southeast, turn around.”

Turns out I was only about seven blocks away from there.

Get the keys and go to show Max the apartment. It’s a little darker now. In the dark, the roaches come out. The scamper all over that kitchen like they own the fucking place. But they don’t own the kitchen. The mice do.

Let me tell what Robin’s afraid of. Mice. Bugs. I knew I was in a lot of trouble. But I figured I could get rid of them all before she gets back. We’re not dirty people, they won’t come back. Right.

Max goes on my balcony and lets me know it overlooks the ghetto. I verify his claim – it’s the first time we see the “ice cream truck” that prowls I St at late hours with no song playing. There’re never kids standing near it.

I figure it’s fine – Robin’s a tough chick and worst case scenario is we stay there for six months. Now I just needed to move.

Man Alone: Idiot Alone

If you’ve been reading my Live Journal you know that I’m a mess without Robin around. She’s spending three weeks in Malaysia and Singapore and so far I’ve managed to shave my head because I fucked up cutting my own hair, eat nothing by beef, get her car impounded, and watch two seasons of Arrested Development over a five day period.

On this site, however, I’m telling stories about the last time I was left alone for a long period time – over two months while Robin was in Spain. I was even worse then. Probably the biggest fuck up over those two months was my attempt to plan a trip down there to see her.

It all started when I delayed getting my passport – this was my first time out of the country and I thought it’d take a week, tops. Once I found cheap airfare (it was going to be something like $400 to go to Manchester and $100 to go from Manchester to Madrid) I went in to get my passport only to discover that I needed to do the expedited service or else I wouldn’t have it in time.

I also didn’t have my license at that point, nor did I have a permit. I had my work ID, which was useless, and a Massachusetts state ID card that didn’t prove my current address. So it took two trips to the post office to get my passport papers filed – I needed to bring birth certificates, yearbooks, current bills, picture IDs – a wide range of shit, especially considering I already had my top secret clearance at the time.

But I had my airfare and my passport and I was ready to go. Except, you know, that whole “idiot” thing I had going on.

You see – I never bothered to check if I was actually billed for the airfare. Apparently, at some point in the confirmation process, I must have thought I was finished and shut down my browser. The fact that I didn’t receive any emails wasn’t at all strange to me. By the time I figured this out, that $400 flight to Manchester was a $1000 flight and I simply couldn’t afford the flight, hotels, etc at that time of my life.

I called Robin to tell her that I had to bail. She was…upset. Especially since she was already staying in Spain a week and a half beyond her classes.

The irony here, of course, is that I spent the past two months worrying that she’d let me down.

I begged and pleaded with the airline and tried to convince them that they fucked up but they had no record of any activity from me – it was a lost cause. I bitched about it all around the workplace and panicked over the thought that Robin wasn’t going to stick around after this fuck-up.

Until one of my bosses that took a liking to me pulled me into his office, closed the door, and said he wants me to go to Spain. That I deserve to go. And, despite the fact that it was highly illegal, he lent me a thousand-bucks so that I can book my airfare and get out there. Needless to say I was stupid excited.

I booked my airfare and told Robin the good news. Needless to say she was stupid relieved.

Of course, the fact that I’m an idiot looms over everything I do. It took me about a year to pay my boss back – I was pulled into his office every once and a while and reminded that he leant me a thousand bucks. I guess that’s why bosses aren’t supposed to lend coworkers money – it could lead to comlications. I guess we both learned our lessons on that one.

But, fuck it. I was ready to go to Spain. And I’ll get to that nightmare eventually – Man Alone continues for now.

Man Alone: La Isla Ibiza

Robin being away for two+ months that summer went smoothly for the most part. We’d call each other two or three times a week – send letters and care packages. Aside from hearing wonderful stories about all the places she was visiting in Spain the occasional phone sex was also nice.

Then came Ibiza.

Ibiza is a party island off the coast of Spain. Its primary import is 18 year-old college girls and its primary export is venereal diseases. When Robin first told me she was going there with some friends – I started getting a little worried. I know I should have had more faith but, you know, this was before I found the therapist that actually helped me – I was a bit tipped then.

I found some site that had webcams placed all over Ibiza – needless to say those cams were routinely checked while she was there. As if my life was a movie and a) Robin would actually cheat on me and b) she’d happen to do right in front of a webcam and c) I’d actually be able to tell it was her. Despite how illogical the idea was – that page was bookmarked.

Saturday afternoon I get a call from Robin. And she’s obviously upset.

Here I am expecting long distance confessions and declarations that she’s leaving me for someone else (as if that’s how it would have went down) and I instead get the story about how she got slapped.

Hard.

By a guy.

Story goes, she’s online for a club with her friends when a guy cuts in front of them. Robin, being my little princess, mouths off to them. The guy mouths back and gets a little too close so she pushes him off. He slaps her. She punches him right in the fucking face. The guy gets kicked off the line.

In retrospect, it’s a prime example of why Robin kicks so much ass. I wasn’t as cool about it then. I was ready to kill that mother fucker despite the thousands of miles between us. But I couldn’t, of course, and the whole thing left me feeling useless. I told her to call me if she ran into that guy again and he ended up being a dick, as if there was anything I could do.

Maybe my anger towards Robin in Spain didn’t result primarily from the belief that she would cheat on me – maybe it stemmed from a larger issue of feeling like I wasn’t in control of the situation. Oh…foreshadowing…

Anyway, that night I went and met up with some folks at Café Asia in DC. I chugged several beers before telling the story – I was pissed. Went over to Adams Morgan and drank a lot more. I was super sloppy by the end of the night. I walked home from Adam’s Morgan, piss drunk – about at three mile walk, uphill the entire way. The next day Robin called me before flying back to Madrid. Everything went well that night; they partied until the sun came up and passed out.

I was just happy that I was on my way out to Spain in about a month.

With a couple of wrinkles first, of course.

Man Alone: My Roommate

Robin was in Spain for two months and I was pissed off about it. I’d always take little jabs during our phone conversations and bitch about my day.

Because I was a baby.

But, if you needed proof that I was firmly under her control despite the miles between us and my angsty disposition, I had a roommate for about three weeks out of that two month period. Robin’s best friend, Gerry.

He was in DC on an internship and Robin asked me if he could stay with me until he found an apartment – a process that took several weeks. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world but sharing a studio apartment with a dude wasn’t the best thing, either.

Here’s what I couldn’t do for three straight weeks:

1) Masturbate

That’s really all that matters. He’d get groceries, though, and occasionally cook, but for the most part he’d just kind of sit around and play video games because what else are you going to do in a studio apartment?

He had his own friends and I had mine, we’d both go our own separate ways at night. He’d something hang out with my people but I never met any of his people. Robin would call and talk to both of us, tell us how her trip was going. She was spending the majority of her time in Madrid but would occasionally take day or weekend trips to other parts of Spain. She had a weekend coming up in Ibiza, something that bothered me to no end at the time, and I was pretty vocal (behind her back) about her need to go to a party island with a bunch of “single bitches”.

Whereas my losing attitude might turn you off, my fears over the Ibiza situation weren’t completely unfounded but that’s a story for another day.

Gerry finally finds a place – he rents a room somewhere off K-street – and I don’t see him again until it’s time to move. Helping me move was part of the deal for being allowed to stay at my place.

It wasn’t the worst couple of weeks. It was weird having a male roommate, the last one I had was sophomore year in college - it was never my thing, it seems. I like living with the ladies. I think the day he left I managed to jerk-off about five times. I get backed up, it’s like genetic and stuff. The really funny Gerry stories come into play when he moves into my new apartment but, again, that’s a story for another day.

Man Alone: Hope for the Worst

Robin’s away for almost three weeks – she’s taking an international marketing class in Singapore and Malaysia. This is the longest we’ve been apart for quite some time. After that first summer we spent together in DC, Robin had to go back to Boston to finish school. We spent a year apart but even then we’d see each other every three weeks or so. At the end of the year, however, Robin went to study abroad in Spain. I was pretty pissy about it, I was all jazzed up to get our life really started together only to find out there was going to be a two month delay.

Looking back I now realize I was being an idiot. Here we are, seven years together, and those two months in Spain were nothing. I encouraged her to take the class this time around. But man, the couple of months leading up to Spain – that was me at my lowest.

I guess part of the problem was that R, the two year relationship I was in before Robin, went to Europe for a month and promptly broke up with me upon return. I always had suspicions that she cheated, not so much anymore (mainly because I stopped giving a shit many years ago), and I didn’t want the same thing to happen with Robin.

So I’d always talk about things like ETA bombings in Madrid – I even read a book on the Basque and painted them to be these bloodthirsty savages always carrying out attacks, trying to nonchalantly scare her into staying home. I decided that I was going to move into a new apartment while she was in Spain, this way if she wanted any say in where we lived she’d have to stay in the states. I would find vacation deals for the time she was going to be away and do the whole, “Oh – we should go to Italy! They’re having a great deal the week of…oh…you’ll be in Spain.”

At one point I was very forward and just said I really wasn’t too excited about her decision to go. I think this was where my true feelings on the matter started to come out though, and there was certainly a touch of jealousy. You see – I started working the week after I graduated college. No vacation, no time off. Busting my ass five days a week, flying down to Boston when I can and flying her to DC when I was too busy to come to Boston. And I guess the mentality that I’ve adopted was, “Why does she get to go away for two months?”

I’m really good at that, actually. At least I used to be. Really good at feeling entitled.

Anyway – I told Robin that I didn’t think it was fair. I can’t believe she’s still with me. But she knows me, you know, I think a good relationship is one where a woman knows how childish her man can be. She tells me to meet her in Spain for a couple of weeks at the end of her abroad program. It momentarily calmed me down, but I was still a bit paranoid she was going to cheat on me.

The day she lost her passport was the happiest day of my life. It was a couple of weeks before her trip. I thought she was screwed – there was no way she’d replace it in time.

Well, she did.

She was leaving two days after her graduation. The day after her graduation I was supposed to be in Cape Canaveral for a business trip. I actually told her I don’t think I would be able to make it to her graduation, I was so upset that she was going to Spain, but the disappointment in her voice made me change my mind real quick.

I go to her graduation but can’t even make it to the celebration dinner. I’m on an airplane to Atlanta to meet up with a plane that’ll take me to Melbourne Airport. I take a forty minute cab ride to my hotel on the beach. By the time I get in it’s late, I call Robin to wish her a good trip – she thanks me for making it to her graduation.

The she’s off to Spain and I won’t see her for two months.

It’s an interesting two months – filled with loans, fights, houseguests, apartment searching, moving, let-downs, and strippers. It’ll take a couple of months to get through, I’m thinking – especially at the rate I’m updating. I came out of it somewhat changed but still 60% asshole.

POSTCARDS on CBR

Comic Book Resources publishes the first of a series of features on POSTCARDS, a 168-page anthology I'm putting together for 2007 release. Go check it out. If you want a further bribe to check it out, here's some preview art:



I got my first pages yesterday from Matt Kindt. Everything's looking great.

Villard, a division of Random House.

Having fun in Cleveland - just checking in.

Long Island: Night in White Satin

Long Island: Night in White Satin

Back-to-Back stories! Aren’t you guys hooked the fuck up?
_________________

After MH’s contract went over budget by 10-million dollars the whole thing sort of fell apart. TAO’s money got ramped down and eventually disappeared – we got the stop-work order from MH and never looked back. They just couldn’t afford to pay us anymore.

So that contract was dead and I moved on to bigger and better things, mainly firing canons and mortars in the desert.

A couple of months after the contract ends Roger from MH contacts me and tells me there’s a marketing opportunity at some company in Rhode Island (who we’ll call RI) and he wants me to go with him to sell our portion of the now dead contract.

I had no desire to go but my boss thought it was a good idea so I make plans to go.

Now, the area we’re going towards isn’t really accessible by anything but cars and I still didn’t have my license. I couldn’t rent a car, in other words. The plan that we came up with had disaster written all over it but it was really the only option available to my non-driving ass.

Roger lived in Connecticut. At the end of his day on Wednesday, he was going to swing by JFK and pick me up. I was going to go with him to his house in Connecticut, spend the night there, and drive to Rhode Island with him early the next morning.

If you think that sounds bad, it gets worse.

Roger and I have nothing in common. He’s easily late-50, big guy – so much ear hair that he could braid it. He’s essentially the stereotypical dad. Our drive to Connecticut is excruciating (and puzzling, he made that commute everyday). We get to his house and it looks like the Cleavers live there it’s so fucking homely. His wife is this older, chipper woman that’s dressed like “Housewife Barbie”.

I get introduced and the three of us sit around the table and drink lemonade – she has these horrendous crocheted coasters for me to put my glass on top of. There are religious pictures and stuffed ducks all over the house. It’s just seriously freaky. Roger’s telling me all about his son who cuts down trees for a living and you almost get this vibe that he’s viewing me as what he wanted his son to be.

Seriously. Fucking. Freaky.

I finish my lemonade and Roger tells me about the festivities we have planned for the night.

Church School!

You see, he teaches a bible class. So I had to sit in on his class. Afterwards, we hung around because members of the church brought various foods to eat. So I got to munch on some sausage and peppers with a bunch of Jesus freaks who insisted on knowing whether or not I’ve accepted Christ as my savior.

I just told them “yes”. I love me the Savior Christ.

So, after the riveting two hours spent in a church basement I went back to Roger’s house. They were watching TV in the living room, the news – it was the only TV in the house. I watch with them for a little bit, they ask me if I’d rather watch something else and I decline repeatedly. With my luck one of the characters on a TV show I put on would say something about sex and Roger and his wife would perform a fucking exorcism on me.

I want to back-track a second and remind you all about something – this guy has been trying to recruit me for over a year. This whole night was likely part of his plan.

I decide to go to bed – it’s like 8:30. They show me to the guest room and…

…that’s right, white satin sheets. I wanted to ask if they had, you know, cotton sheets, but it wasn’t worth it. But seriously – who really uses satin sheets? And who puts them in the guest room? I thought the stuffed ducks were as tacky as you can get, but white satin sheets in the guest room takes the cake.

So I stick to the sheets all night, drive with him to RI the next day – a horribly long drive complete with traffic. We get there, meet some people and sit down for this supposed marketing opportunity.

Well, they spent about three hours marketing their products to us and ten minutes listening to us. It was a fucking joke – a complete waste of time. Anyone with half a brain would have seen that there was no opening to market anything to these guys.

I left that building pissed off. I told Roger to drop me off at the nearest Greyhound terminal – the guys at RI tell us where the closest one is, it’s only ten minutes away. I get out of his car and call my boss, tell him I won’t be in on Friday and they’ll still reimburse me for my airfare. I take two buses but finally get to Boston and spend the weekend with Robin. I have some fun and then fly back home on Sunday. On Monday I tell my boss off, saying he should have looked into this marketing opportunity more. I tell him I’m done with this project and with Roger.

Later that Christmas I get a card from Roger. That’s the last I ever hear from him.

Long Island: My Own Caper

Seven Harvey Nominations for ELK'S RUN. Told you the book was good. I think this a good time to remind everyone that I'm available for editing gigs.

I owe you guys a story – wouldn’t want to slack off too much. Believe me, I have great reasons. 8 issues of Elk’s Run needed to be tweaked and proofed and delivered and exciting POSTCARDS related news has added substantially to my workload but it’ll pay off. Combine that with my broken AC and the fact that this DC fucking humidity is making my office into a sauna and I have a ton of great excuses.

But excuses only go so far so it’s story time…

_____________________

The Long Island situation came to a head when Roger, from MH, approved additional funds for us but wanted me in Long Island full-time. I was at the meeting where he laid this new plan down and I actually said, “No fucking way.” My boss put his hand on my shoulder to get me to chill out.

It was sort of the breaking point for me. I was tired of going to Long Island, it was lonely. Robin was in Boston and I didn’t get to visit her nearly as much as I’d of liked to because of the constant trips. I already got my raise and my bonus. I told TAO that I want off the project unless they hire somebody else that can alternate these trips with me – that’s how I got my friend since the second grade, James, to join up at TAO.

The first trip we went together – one week on Long Island – so I can introduce him to everybody. Since we were both traveling at the same time (and renting a car), and since we couldn’t get the weekly rate at the Extended Stay America (and the nightly was a hundred and change), we just got rooms at some cheap motel for the four nights we were down there.

We check in that first night – they only take cash and the room’s 40 bucks a night. I give them money and ask for a receipt and the woman behind the counter gives me a blank receipt to fill out on my own.

Let me explain per diem to you. You see, the government only allows you to spend x-dollars per day on hotels and x-dollars per day on meals and incidentals. Every job I worked for so far doesn’t require M&I receipts provided no meals go over 20 bucks. Since the M&I rate rarely goes above 50 bucks, you just say you spent 50 bucks a day on three meals and nothing was over 20 bucks. If you’re diligent you can pocket some extra cash but usually the excess (and then some) gets blown on alcohol and strippers.

Hotels, on the other hand – you need to hand in receipts. The per diem for the area of Long Island we were in, at the time, if I remember correctly, was around 90 bucks per night. You better believe I put $80 dollars on that receipt. You better believe I asked for extra receipts (and the lady behind the counter obliged) and you better believe I turned those receipts in every night I stayed in Long Island, even over weekends when I stayed at my parents house.

If MH was going to trap me in Long Island, I was going to juice them for every fucking penny in our contract.

A two-week trip would total 11 nights in a hotel room, of which I’d actually spend 8 nights there. At 40 bucks a night it would end up costing me $320. I’d turn in $880 dollars worth of receipts, however, and every trip down there would net me an extra $560 just by cheating the hotel system.

I figured how to cheat the taxi system, too – I’d collect blank taxi receipts and fill them out for transfers between the airport and the hotel for 50 bucks. Then I’d take the train out for a couple of bucks and take a taxi from the train station to the hotel for five.

It became a little side business – I’d challenge myself. I’d eat a muffin in the morning, steal people’s lunches, drink nothing but water and have a small pizza for dinner and charge the full 50 for M&I. Every trip to Long Island would fund two trips to Boston to see Robin.

And the best part?

There were five subs working on that contract plus MH, the prime – it was supposed to be a 20-million dollar effort. I went up for the briefing to the admiral in charge of the project and watched MH struggle as they told him that they were currently 50% (10-million dollars!) over budget. But my little piece was under-budget and ahead of schedule.

And the real kick-in-the ass?

I was introduced to the admiral before that meeting by a coworker. At the meeting, as everyone’s going around and introducing themselves and the admiral’s giving them a shit look, he gives me a smile and mini-conversation when they get to me, holding up the meeting and the introduction process.

I looked like King Shit of the group and had the numbers and performance to match.

The project died shortly after that, but not after one last trip and one last attempt to hire me. This one took place at Roger’s home, however, and will forever go down as the worst recruiting attempt of all time.

But that’s for another day.