I know that this is not virgin territory, but honestly, the housing situation here is preposterous. It's bad enough we have to decide how we'll live next year before midterms. I signed a lease for next year's housing one month ago. I had known the three gentlemen I'll be living with for a month when I signed away a year of my life in their company. This is not entirely reassuring. If you knew these gentlemen (as some of you do), you would understand my worries.
I have been busy since I got here, so I trusted two of the gentlemen in question to take care of all the preliminary business (that is, to actually choose an apartment and such). And take care of that business they did. Boy, did they ever. It was one fateful Monday in October when they informed me that the time had come to actually sign the lease. Moments before we left, one of our erstwhile roomies revealed that he didn't know if he could live with us, leaving us one man short. (He has since decided to live with us, saving us each a thousand dollars. Thank you, sir.) However, the other two (call them, for the sake of avoiding slander suits, Rustin and Bam) decided that we should go sign the lease anyway and trust to God for the rest. I thought this plan was a poor one. "This will end it tears," I said. But did Rustin and Bam listen to me? Of course not.
Until this afternoon of disaster, I had had a very high opinion of Rustin and Bam's intelligence; this became less true as the day progressed. In any case, as we stood at the bus stop, waiting for one of the lumbering wrecks the UTS refers to with a straight face as a "bus," our conversation gradually grew more and more strained. When one of the disasters appeared and we boarded, we sat in the back and began to discuss the various ways in which this process could ruin us. (On an odd side note, one girl did ask to live with the three of us and seemed startled by our opinion that the bathroom alone would cause a logistical nightmare.) Time went by, and I grew steadily more concerned.
Eventually, Bam pointed out that it seemed we had been traveling for too long already and had not yet reached our stop. Rustin then revealed not only that we had boarded the wrong bus line, but that he had known it for almost half an hour and had been concealing this information in the hopes that the bus driver would develop some psychosis and lurch wildly off course to bring us to our stop. So we actually rode the bus around its entire course to where we had started. I felt that God was telling us to abandon our insanity. Rustin and Bam disagreed, and we boarded the bus again.
By this time, we had missed our appointment. Rustin immediately pulled out his cell phone, called the agency and left a message calmly explaining that our bus had broken down and that we would be there as soon as possible. (In an ironic twist of fate, Rustin's bus actually would break down not two hours later. Ah, karma, you sly dog.) I became mildly hysterical. It seemed to me that fate itself was slapping us across the face in a vain attempt to halt our insanity. We sailed blithely on though, Rustin and Bam casually disregarding events and giggling at the wrath of God.
We disembarked at the end of the line. Contrary to my impression, the office we were seeking was not within walking distance of the stop. It could not even charitably be considered within running distance. We walked for almost half an hour. By this time my hysteria had so thoroughly infected Rustin and Bam that we were walking perhaps faster than anyone has ever walked. We're talking Olympic speed-walking pace here. I grew thoroughly uncomfortable as we went on. Have you ever seen that fine work "Don't Be a Menace in South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood?" The scene where the muggers steal a woman's walker? I believe that was filmed on a street we spent eight minutes on.
Now, Rustin and Bam had already visited this office, and so could not possibly claim that they were surprised by what we found. First, the name of the company was far from reassuring. I desire neither to be sued nor to have my (albeit tenuous) plans for housing next year revoked, so I will not print it here, but suffice it to say that it was so pathetic an attempt at persuading us to trust that it made me fearful. Imagine approaching your brokerage and discovering that it was named "Not Trying to Steal Your Money and Fly to a Country without an Extradition Treaty, Leaving You Behind to Grovel in Utter Poverty and Despair, Inc." This is the general idea.
We entered the building. I simply consigned to the dustbin of history my hopes that this would turn out well. The office was radically unfinished and had a sketch factor approaching infinity. The ceiling was uncovered, raw pipes and fittings hanging down from above, clutching the air like the fingers of the damned, warning us away. The doors and the molding were unfinished raw wood. Even the fichus looked uncomfortable. The receptionist's desk was hidden from the front door by a full wall of glass block. Odd, yes.
Eventually, a man came and took us to his desk, searching for a floor plan of the model we were interested in. It would seem that having at hand some example of what he was trying to sell would be a wise policy. Clearly, though, I have no head for real estate (as demonstrated by the fact that, unlike Donald Trump, my hair is not made of plaster). It took him almost 20 minutes to find. He burrowed through his desk, searched wildly through his computer and even called over a small, greasy man to search the "other server." My companions and I exchanged glances, sure we had stumbled into the middle of some shady front for money laundering.
After he finally found the diagram, the gentleman hurried us through the process of selecting a specific apartment. While signing the lease, the man responsible for this madhouse stopped by and displayed a surprising amount of intellect and business acumen. In fact, he was so thoroughly prepared that, after he claimed that he was planning to close off 13th Street to provide more parking, he completely redesigned his business plan after a chance comment made by my idiot suitemate Rustin. This, of course, comforted me greatly. And all my worries were laid aside when, as we were leaving the office, we heard someone say, "Didn't we already sell that one? I'm pretty sure we did."
So, what is my message today? I have no idea, other than the fact that our housing system is purely inspired lunacy. Also, of course, the characters, events and incidents in this novel are wholly the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or real organizations, whether a similarity of name or description, is entirely coincidental.
Oh, did I mention that the apartment in question is not so much an actual building as a plan on a draftsman's board? Yes, that's right, we went through this to rent an apartment that does not exist -- but will by August 2005. God, please make it so. Just promise me this, my friends: Never, ever go into real estate. It is the business of Satan. Which, of course, explains Donald Trump.
In other news: "The Apprentice" totally rocks. Everyone should join the Facebook group Jug Wine Enthusiasts. Mr. U.Va. Flag Waver Man has waved his last flag. We should have a day of mourning. Also, the UJC is an incredible organization. I love it. So should you all. If you agree, come find the cardboard box I'll be living in at 14th and Grady next year. Stop by and toss me some change. I'd appreciate it.
Connor Sullivan can be reached at sullivan@cavalierdaily.com.
Read More
Students brave the cold for a whirlwind sorority rush
By Mia Tan | YesterdayStudents recount a mix of emotions from rush, with some disappointed after dropping from the recruitment process and others ecstatic to join Greek life.
Top 10 ways to avoid burnout this semester
By Sam Saks | 2 days agoAs you settle into this semester, try implementing these 10 tactics to take care of yourself and wave goodbye to burnout.
Top 10 things I learned the day TikTok went dark
By Elizabeth Parsons | 4 days agoI am poised to bestow newfound pieces of wisdom from my short-lived TikTok detox.
