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Word had it that there was an apartment for rent somewhere in East Van. After weeks of my sifting through craigslist and finding only basement suites, dad rang the building manager and set up an appointment. At $1200 a month, it was going to be a steep rent increase for us, but we could swing it. Maybe. Hopefully. So early yesterday morning, we found ourselves back in my childhood neighbourhood, trudging towards the prospective place.
"What are your expectations?" Dad asked as we walked down Can Street.
"I don't know," I confessed. "I stopped having expectations long ago."
As we continued walking, I looked at my surroundings. I spent the first twelve years of my life here. Everything was more or less as I vaguely remembered leaving it. My old apartment building. The community garden. The KFC. The (rumoured) crack house. My old paper route. The places where all my friends and enemies lived. Some things, I'd long since buried under papers and life. Others were still as fresh as the day they happened. But I was a different person then. I'm somebody new now.
"You know," dad said, "if we'd never moved, we wouldn't have this problem." It was a sentiment he voiced often. He'd been outvoted on the last move and hadn't even seen the apartment we would eventually move into, so he'd always felt cheated. The place was closer to his mother-in-law, further away from his work, and had no elevator. And we were now being kicked out without anything.
"Yeah, but let's consider your Sliders parallel universe here," I said. "What else would be different?"
He didn't answer. Obviously, he never really though his scenario through. Not as much as I had, anyway. Not that it really mattered.
We met the manager and she squired us to an apartment tucked into a corner of the sprawling building. It was slightly dingy and small, but the manager said she'd take care of the former. The latter, however, was going to require some decisions on our part. What came with us? What got left behind? We'd think about that later, but right now, there were other pressing concerns to address.
"This may seem like a stupid question, but do you know if this place is slated to be torn down for condos?" dad asked.
"Not to my knowledge," the manager replied.
"What's your pet policy?" I asked.
"No dogs," she said.
"So, yes cats?"
"As long as they're indoor cats, yes."
"Well, ours only goes out on the balcony," dad said.
Next thing I knew, we were led back to her office, where we filled out application forms, said our thank yous and good byes, and left hoping for the best.
That afternoon, we got a call from the manager. The apartment was ours. We move in on November 1st. Yow.
"What are your expectations?" Dad asked as we walked down Can Street.
"I don't know," I confessed. "I stopped having expectations long ago."
As we continued walking, I looked at my surroundings. I spent the first twelve years of my life here. Everything was more or less as I vaguely remembered leaving it. My old apartment building. The community garden. The KFC. The (rumoured) crack house. My old paper route. The places where all my friends and enemies lived. Some things, I'd long since buried under papers and life. Others were still as fresh as the day they happened. But I was a different person then. I'm somebody new now.
"You know," dad said, "if we'd never moved, we wouldn't have this problem." It was a sentiment he voiced often. He'd been outvoted on the last move and hadn't even seen the apartment we would eventually move into, so he'd always felt cheated. The place was closer to his mother-in-law, further away from his work, and had no elevator. And we were now being kicked out without anything.
"Yeah, but let's consider your Sliders parallel universe here," I said. "What else would be different?"
He didn't answer. Obviously, he never really though his scenario through. Not as much as I had, anyway. Not that it really mattered.
We met the manager and she squired us to an apartment tucked into a corner of the sprawling building. It was slightly dingy and small, but the manager said she'd take care of the former. The latter, however, was going to require some decisions on our part. What came with us? What got left behind? We'd think about that later, but right now, there were other pressing concerns to address.
"This may seem like a stupid question, but do you know if this place is slated to be torn down for condos?" dad asked.
"Not to my knowledge," the manager replied.
"What's your pet policy?" I asked.
"No dogs," she said.
"So, yes cats?"
"As long as they're indoor cats, yes."
"Well, ours only goes out on the balcony," dad said.
Next thing I knew, we were led back to her office, where we filled out application forms, said our thank yous and good byes, and left hoping for the best.
That afternoon, we got a call from the manager. The apartment was ours. We move in on November 1st. Yow.