Living in DC was some of the most fun I had ever had. Unlike most people that live there whom I actually hang out with… aside from my shorter, less-white, name’s sake; I enjoyed going to the museums and visiting the art galleries. I did so often. With that being said, I loved the night-life– I love dancing, music, socializing, etc. But I don’t like people that complain about their government jobs or contracting position, complaining about it over drinks but also squawking about how much they make and where they live what they drive, blah blah. I gladly told people that I was unemployed when the question came “what do you do?” I was unemployed, living in a great spot and LOVE gloating about it (even though secretly I didn’t feel like it was something I should be gloating about). My cultural pursuits in the district may have warranted my being there in of themselves– in simple reference to art galleries collection of art from the last century.
The story of us leaving for Salt Lake City is really a story of hopes for a new beginning. Christopher and I had been living in the Newport west on 14th and Rhode Island Ave NW in the District of Columbia. Those who know the corner know that there is a Caribou coffee right around the corner and a Whole Foods Market behind it. While we were sufficiently comfortable there, I spent a meager allowance that allowed me to live sufficiently and looked for paltry work in the meantime.
First: without getting any deeper into how I was really living, let me say that I look fondly back at this time in the district. I was waking up to Christopher lying next to me, heap fulls of clothes scattered throughout the room, because it just would not do for either one of us to get dressed into an outfit (for an outing that might only last an hour), and be happily satisfied with what we were wearing. From the clothes Christopher might pick from pick from my discontentedly-scattered and tempest-tossed wardrobe while I might pick from the odd shirt that a third party (living temporarily in the next room). I felt justified in doing so because he often picked from my wardrobe too. Those who know this system will label it in some form as the “gay bartering system.” Either way, with so much going for both Christopher and I, we paid these little indiscretions no mind. Although it should go without me mentioning, that we wanted the temporary roommate out. In fact, we wanted him out so badly that we partook in extreme theatrics in order to enact this desire into a reality.
This third party I will call Millhouse. Without being outwardly cruel myself, I will say that one fellow I know described Millhouse as being a real-life Arthur the Aardvark, on account of his particular skin-shade, shape of his head and the glasses he wore. All superficiality aside, we wanted rid of Millhouse because he treated our place of residence as though he were a house-boy, which two guys in their mid-twenties without doubt, do not need. Especially, one looking like Arthur the Aardvark. Just barely touching on what we were go through in order to get rid of this lad, I recall one night Christopher and I entering the apartment, –without the need of any alcohol at all– being caught in some inconsequential argument. However, upon hearing the argument as it was–as Christopher and I bantered and entered the apartment–it could have seemed quite serious. With little more than a phrase whispered between both Christopher, we escalated “the argument” and added references to give it meaning to the common eavesdropper (or unfortunate persons in the neighboring room –or adjacent apartments for that matter). Then push comes to shove, one ventured unto insult and drinking glass goes smashing on the floor accompanied by shouting (my touch). At that moment smiles have crept onto both of our faces and we are trying to keep those smiles from sounding off in the discourse of the “argument.” Performing very well under pressure, broken glass under foot, and real emotion understood to houseboy, we conclude our “argument” and exit the apartment in a dramatic fashion only suiting for such a ridiculous farce–giving us a means to relieve the laughter that has been building up inside of us.
So as you can see, our lives in the District were not completely without merits for staying or going. Pressure was building in my mind about the financial feasibility of our situation and I was of the believe that if something was not done the longevity of Christopher and I might suffer the more for our lack of foresight and action.
However, it seems that fate always has a plan in store, whether or not the parties involved in that plan were ready for it. As it turned out come April, Christopher and I were being evicted in the most clandestine way possible. No notice at the door, our exorbitantly expensive rent was being paid on time, nor any mail from the courts. I had the inkling that my mail was being intercepted when I checked it upon arrival one day, returned it to my mailbox and re-entered the building only to fetch mail that was no longer there. Strange? I agree.
Let me first say that I was renting a sub-leased apartment– on the chance taken that I was certain it would not be allowed and if discovered would only serve to see me kicked out. Well without too many details this saw itself into fruition. Should I mentioned that I was packed and ready to go, with everything in the truck by 3:30 PM, when Federal Marshals bang down your door to see you out of your dwelling-unit? Well both Christopher and I were ready and we had train-tickets to see our personal effects and our persons on the train to Salt Lake City the following day. I hope that the aardvark living there had ample time to get his stuff and get out. I am not a particularly vengeful person, but seeing as he was the primary cause for getting us booted, I thought it quite sporting of me to give him a good four-hour head-start before the marshals were scheduled to arrive.
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(I haven’t survived some of this without a little help)