Clio Unclenches

Time was running out. I had less than 12 hours of internet and less than 24 hours to find a new home. Locals calls cost $1/each, so I had to dial wisely. After an hour of searching, emailing, and calling, I only have one appointment, with Paul, for a $475 room that looked like (from the online photos) it would do as a worst case scenario.

Getting there was straightforward, but I realize as I arrive I'm not in a good part of town. Street prostitutes are already out - at noon! Chalet Vegas is a 70's era hotel, with cinder-block construction. It's quite run-down. I make my way up to the second (top) floor and knock on the door. A large black man peers behind the screen.

"You here for Paul?"

"Yes, I'm Clio, here to see the apartment?"

"Yeah, come in!" He opens the door, I walk in, he turns around, shuts the door, and stands in front of it. I don't sense danger, but my spine tingles as I realize this is how women get raped. The flat is disgusting. I would never, ever touch any part of my skin to the carpet or floors. There is an oversized sofa and non-matching recliner which again, would never feel my skin without the introduction of untold chemicals (for the chair or me). There's a mattress on the floor in the bedroom. It's basically a studio apartment, with a little divider between the kitchen and livingroom/bedroom. I peer around to the kitchen and find Paul. He looks like Raymond's brother on Everyone Loves Raymond. Talks like him too. His hands are black with dirt. He does the alpha male thing, sitting down, sprawling out to take up as much space as he can, lights up a cigarette (inside) and uses one of two 32 oz Colt 45 bottles to ash in.

They then go into what I instantly recognizes as a rehearsed routine about how great the place is. I notice there are bars on the doors and windows and ask Ken, who I now know to be the next door neighbor (in a flat also owned by Paul) "is there any crime here?"

His response cracks me up.

"I've never seen a cop here."

Uhhh... okay. I could go on about how disgusting the kitchen area was, how yucky the walls were, the broken door jam where the place was obviously broken into, or the little screens and plastic baggies left behind from the former tenant (for the sheltered reader, those are signs the former resident was addicted to crack), but I think you get the idea. I left as soon as I could, but not before taking a photo of the best part about the flat - the view of UNLV's practice field (now being converted into a rodeo - ew!) and the strip. This photo reminds me of the government housing in London, but with blue paint.

(really big version)

I got into my car and nearly cried. What have I gotten myself into? Seconds after, I banish those thoughts to the curb and head back to the Stratosphere to regroup and continue my search. Clint Eastwood didn't have time to bleed; I didn't have time to cry.

When I got back, there was a reply to my post, "Perfect roommate seeking same." It was very terse, but what caught my eye was that the email was composed with a light pink background having darker pink polka-dots. There was no description of the apartment or anything, but I just had a good feeling about it. I set up a time for 6pm with her and 5pm for the musician post that I had seen before moving out here. How cool to live with a singer and songwriter (who just happened to have 5 keyboards!)

... or so I thought! I show up at house after being escorted there, first meeting at Jack in the Box, which, because I never go there, never did, never will, is forever renamed in my mind - against my will - thanks to my former Vegas roomie, B as "Jackoff in my Box". Dammit, B! Anyway, Ken thinks it's too hard for me to find his house, what with it being ONE ROAD off of the major road, Rainbow, so I meet him there and follow him back to the house. He pulls up into the yard between the house and tree and parks. He doesn't wait for me, gets out, and heads inside.

As I walk in, I'm greeted with 4 cats hanging out on the kitchen table. The entry way has an attached living room with an eclectic, but strangely appealing mix of artwork. Beautiful Asian art of pretty rocks sits next to a Renaissance-style Chagall knock-off, which is then next to a neon print of a naked woman, beside a Roman-style bust of some Venus-like woman next to a 60s-era psychedelic tie-dye print. Glancing around the room, I was reminded of how nice Chalet Vegas looked.

He leads me around the house - I don't dare enter the kitchen - and into what he described as "the naked patio" which looks like it would be a super cool place to hang out and do drugs, were it not attached to this particular house. It would seat 20 people easily and another 20 standing before it would feel crowded. Kinda reminded me of Dana Larsen's pad up in Vancouver in that respect, very well designed for partying - apparently, these guys were professionals. It was totally enclosed with high concrete walls and had three (3!) water fountains, each one churning a differently colored green slime. There were three more cats out here and I noticed a litterbox which had more poo in it than an A. A. Milne novel.

We go inside and he shows me what would be my room - for $500/month - an 8x8 foot ick with a tiny bed and more eclectic art. Next to it, is a bathroom - with no bath or shower - adorned with photos of naked women, some quite ... how to say it? ... grotesquely obese.

His room is a converted garage which looked like a pretty cool pad for a band, or a teenager. No windows. At this moment, a guy walks in bearing a striking resemblance to Lionel Richie. "Clio, meet Lionel Richie," Ken says. "Hi, Lionel". Lionel gives a non-committal "ugh". "Is Lionel the singer?" I ask politely, tongue firmly in cheek. Nah, he just lives here. Oh... so it's not just two people in a 5 bedroom house eh? Then another guy walks in. "Is he the singer?" He was not the singer. Turns out there was no singer, just 4 other large dudes living in the house. I then find out I'd be sharing a bathtub with those 4 other guys. That's like, ick^4. As B says, "Sharing a bathroom with someone is like sharing underwear." I get out as soon as I can and head to Monic's, praying she won't have 10 cats, chain smoke, or live in filth.

She's waiting outside for me as I arrive at the gated community, which is good, because she didn't tell me her apartment number. We head upstairs to what appears to be a completely empty apartment. There's no furniture in any room and plain white walls everywhere. Minimalist to the nth degree! E (Monic was her misspelled moniker) turned out to be really cool and we gelled instantly like sisters. She too was impeccably tidy, and quite ambitious. She looked Asian but was really Mexican. We were both pescetarians, similarly dressed, and with similiar hairstyles. We could have been sisters, save me being pale as a ghost. My search was over, the place was clean and we were both helping each other. It was perfect. I gave her $400 for the first month's rent right then and there and headed back to the Stratosphere where for the first time in over a month, I relaxed and slept like a baby.