Chapter Text
I really, really should have expected this. I mean, what possible conclusion can you draw from it going up basically every two years, hm? Any bright ideas? Maybe I should include this tantalising hypothetical in my next lesson: ‘How on Earth is Mr. Grace, our very funny and usually observant science teacher, so bad at pattern recognition?’
Because honestly, how have I managed to consistently stay as unprepared as possible for every single problem!?
My rent is going up. I can’t avoid it anymore. It’s been trending up for all of the years I’ve lived in this little two-bedroom. Following inflation and other various expenses, my rent steadily increased from forty-seven-hundred to fifty-one to fifty-nine. But I’ve never seen it climb this high before! It used to be a pretty good deal all things considered. How that ship has sailed.
I’ve been ignoring emails from my landlady for weeks now, I even started pretending I was invisible in hallways and have slowly began soft blocking her on social media. No divine intervention can save me now, it seems: nothing can erase my email from her memory. So eventually her friendly nudges turned to official notices and they got through to me. And here I am, staring at my laptop in disbelief in my room, the sight of my overflowing inbox searing into my retinas. Ready to haunt my dreams when I go to sleep tonight.
Because wow. Honestly, I admire this brave woman for her sheer courage. Seriously, she nailed this email. All the terrible tenant-landlady relationship dealbreakers and bad decisions all wrapped neatly in a little bow of professionalism. It reminds me of the scathing emails I used to send to people I found stupid back in academia. Just steeped in passive aggression.
I sit and stare in awe at the sheer audacity of it all. The bravery she must possess to actually press send on this—it must’ve taken days to work up the courage, you can’t rush that type of brilliance. Or maybe that amount of gaul just runs in her family. Who knows. Sasha Greenhorn, the woman that you are.
I really can’t afford this.
The sum stares back at me like it wants to take a hearty bite out of my pride (and my wallet). Jesus, yeah there’s no way I’m making that on a teacher’s salary.
I’ve been thinking of ways to cut back my lifestyle a bit for the past twenty minutes, but I honestly can’t think of where I don’t live barebones. TV dinners most nights, minimal furniture and some thrifted decor, doing all I can to snag coupons here and there. And good saving and budgeting habits to boot. Man, only twelve PM on a Saturday and things are already taking a turn. What the hell else does the weekend intend to do to me? This is supposed to be a time of rest.
Ten minutes later I’m getting up to make lunch (and drink my second coffee today). I eat and try to forget about it for the day. I can stress tomorrow, this is meant to be my time to relax. I don’t really need to lesson plan for a while so I’m good on that front. Just need to sort this stupid rent situation out. Maybe I can haggle… do landlords accept haggling? Is that a thing?
“You look stressed,” comes a voice from beside me.
I’m right outside my front door, leaning on the doorframe. It’s become habit since my kitchen counter is right next to it and it’s some different scenery to look at. Watching my neighbours going about their business, coming or going, well it’s better than staring at my phone.
“I’m not stressed,” I reply, “just thinking.”
My left-side-neighbour, Eva Stratt, seems to have had the same idea. She’s a decently tall woman, modest dress sense with light red hair and many lines on her face despite being only a little older than me. I think she’s Dutch? Or German, one of the two. She definitely has a reminiscent accent. I’ve heard her speaking a language that sounds like both of those through the walls on some occasions. Maybe I’ll work up the nerve to ask her one day. Through some strange act of god, we’ve accidentally synced up our coffee drinking times.
I’m not sure how. Maybe she was just spying on me and wanted some conversation? Or maybe I subconsciously did it. Because admittedly, I do too. Conversation with some fellow adults feels good to have when it isn’t in my break room. Bottom line—when she comes out to lean on her doorframe with a mug in hand, so do I.
Eva hums. “Is it the increase?” She takes a pause before saying, “I know you’re a teacher, how doable is it?”
I frown into my cup as I take a sip. I don’t know much about what Eva does (I don’t know much about her at all), but she doesn’t seem at all worried. I know that it must be some kind of high-paying government job considering she’s pretty secretive about it. I’m not even sure how she knows I’m a teacher, to be honest. Maybe she saw my lanyard at one point, but she seems consistently good at either guessing or just knowing things about me that I’ve never told her.
Literally the only thing I really know about Eva is that she likes cats. Almost every mug I’ve ever seen of hers has some kind of cat or cat pun on it. Paw prints, cartoon kitties, even one with ‘Pawfect Coffee’ written on it. I had to stifle my laughter during that conversation multiple times. I never would’ve guessed it but people can surprise you, can’t they?
I pull myself back into the conversation, tracing the wood grain on the opposite door with my eyes. “Not at all, really,” I say, chuckling. “What about you?”
Eva blinks at me as I look over to her. “Me? I’m fine.”
“Lucky,” I shrug, sipping. It tastes good, but a bit like shame.
Eva sips too, leaning on her doorframe. “Maybe you can get someone to help you, I don’t know.”
“Huh?”
She stares at me.
“N-No, I’m not,” I stutter. “I’ll be fine. It’s just, you know, annoying. She ups the rent, like, every two years, or something. I wish it could just be the same for longer.”
“Oh really?” Eva then frowns. “Did you see both emails?”
My throat tightens. I think she can tell, she’s sizing me up from the short distance between our doors. “There were two?” I can feel my voice crack.
“Mm. Greenhorn probably did that to mess with people.” Eva always refers to people by their last names. It was what tipped me off to her job most likely being a more official government one. She always calls me Grace. It started weird but I got used to it. I think Grace is used more than my first name at this point, what with my kids and the other teachers all calling me Mr. Grace.
She raises her eyebrows at me and then sighs, maybe in sympathy. “It’s rent and utilities that have been upped, Grace.”
“What?!”
“Yup.”
“To what?”
“Four-hundred-fifty.”
I blink dumbly at her. “D-Dollars?”
Eva rolls her eyes. “Yes, dollars.”
I unhook one arm of my glasses to rest them under my chin and proceed to rub my eyes and groan. “Oh god.”
“That bad?” Eva asks.
I sigh and down the rest of my cup, setting it back inside my apartment on the kitchen counter. “It’s… fine. I can manage, I guess.”
She seems to have finished her coffee as well because she gives me a nod (her usual ‘I’m done talking’ signal) and says, “Good luck with that. I hope you’ll be alright. I sort of like having a neighbour I don’t hate.”
I nod back and laugh. “Thanks, Eva.”
“I’ll be seeing you,” she says, a hint of a smile on her face. Eva then dips back into her apartment and shuts the door.
—
The rent and utilities were my first problem. I found out the second that following day.
My walk to the pharmacy is just as uneventful as ever. After doing tons of errands already, I’m beat and just want to go home. We press on, though. This is my last one. I pass a lot of older buildings, trash, and closed businesses. I’m pretty sure this pharmacy is the only place in this area that hasn’t gone under.
It’s a dingy little building, only about 300 square feet, settled in a row of convenience stores and the odd blank-faced, no-name building. I only go here because it’s closer than Walgreens. The door entry alert goes off loud and whining as I enter and walk up to the desk. I’m not just here for aspirin, after all.
The clerk greets me with a tired smile and I mimic it. “Hi, I’m here to pick up a prescription for Ryland Grace?” After a nod, I can see her fingers hesitate over the keyboard and I quickly add, “Uh, it’s R-Y-L-A-N-D.”
“Got it,” she says. Her name tag says Stephanie. “Ritalin, correct? Can I see some ID?”
“Sure, yeah,” I reply. My wallet is already in my hand so I pull it out and present it. Stephanie nods once so I put it back and return my wallet to my pocket.
“Alright, one moment.” Stephanie turns and walks into the dispensary to grab my stuff and I stand by the counter as a line forms behind me. She comes back in about a minute and drops the month’s worth bottle onto the counter. “That’ll be three-hundred dollars. Are you paying by card?”
I blink. “Wh—“ I was about to ask if it went up. Obviously it did, it used to be around one-hundred dollars. “Um.” I’m left a little speechless, the eyes of the three people waiting behind me burning into the back of my head.
I do some quick mental calculations. With the rent and utility increase on my regular budget, I—oh fudge. I can’t afford this. I only saved a hundred for my meds—nobody told me they went up! What the heck, why did nobody tell me?
I fidget where I stand, weighing dipping into my very limited emergency savings, and Stephanie gives me a sympathetic look. “Sir?”
“Uh—“ I sigh quickly and pull my wallet back out. “Sorry.” I can’t function without these (I mean, they’re 60mg, that’s obvious) and they’re extended release. I have to take them every day so it isn’t like I can just save them and pop a pill when I really need to focus. I have a month before I have to come back here, a month to figure something out.
With a heavy heart, I pull out my card and offer it to Stephanie. “Here.”
She takes it with a smile and while she’s running it, she apologises under her breath. “It went up recently,” she says, handing my card back to me, “hope it isn’t too bad.”
“It’s fine.” I have to try not to grit my teeth. “Thanks. Have a nice day.”
I leave the line with my tail between my legs and a heavy heart.
The bell chimes as I open the door to go, the weighty medication bottle in my hand teasing me, smirking in three-hundred-dollar-smugness. I glare down at it. Stupid meds that I stupid need to stupid function. Ugh.
I really, really can’t afford this.
And admittedly, Eva was unfortunately right. Maybe I do need someone to help me…
I walk the ten minutes home and start forming a tactical plan. This would be bad even if I wasn’t on a teacher’s salary, but I am and everything is piling up on me, so I need some help. Help how? I don’t really have any family to ask, and I don’t exactly have friends close enough to help me either.
It only hits me just as I’m sliding my key into my front door lock: a roommate!
It’s the perfect plan. I’m a friendly guy, easy to get along with, I don’t eat food that isn’t mine and I’m good with cleaning stuff. My apartment is a two bedroom—I used the other one for storage—and originally it was a good deal, close to Grover Cleveland Middle and a couple stores I now frequent. It was decent inside as well, no landlady specials to worry about and not much that needed TLC. It must’ve seemed an odd decision for a single man with no friends, but that other bedroom has really, really saved me now.
I vow to clear it out, and with my meds now safely tucked away in my kitchen’s medicine box, I know I can get it done with relative ease (touch wood). First, though, I’m going to need Sasha’s approval before I post anything, so I go to my desk and open up my computer. I shoot her an email (after looking up the questions I should ask), and while I wait for a reply I play a bit of solitaire. She usually responds pretty fast, so when my laptop dings I click back into the tab.
I read it over about three times. To her credit, Sasha’s policy seems pretty solid, so I email back a thanks and gingerly get to drafting up an ad.
It becomes very apparent, staring at my empty Word document, that I have never done this before. I’ve never had to do this before and I don’t exactly know what to say. Finding roommates was easier when I was in college: everybody needed one. If you had people you even remotely knew in your lecture then congratulations, you guys now live together! All seven of you.
I sigh and start scrolling through Craigslist, looking at other people’s room share ads. I don’t intend to move out, just maybe borrow some words and phrases…
A couple of minutes later, I’m hauling stuff out of the spare room. I realised I needed to take pictures and (gulp) buy some furniture. I can get that cheaply from IKEA, though, and I have scraps of my savings left (thanks, Ritalin). I can get on a payment plan for it all if it’s too much and once I have the roommate, they can change it out or add stuff if they want.
By the time I’m stuck in, it’s almost nine. Begrudgingly, I leave the task halfway done and make some dinner, just pasta with olive oil. I did say I lived barebones. I bring the bowl to my room instead of the table and go back to my laptop. While I eat, I type up a draft on Word. Info about the apartment and the area, what I want in rent, and (more for myself) some stuff I know I need to buy for the room. I hope I get a bite on this offer, I’m really bleeding money at the moment and I do not need a bad investment on top of it all.
After I finish my food, I return the bowl to the kitchen, make a stop in the bathroom to brush my teeth and then head to bed. I scroll Craigslist some more under the covers, one last check to see if there’s anything I forgot to include in my draft. I come up empty, which should be a good thing. Although I’m still left with a tightness in my chest. I set my phone on the side table and roll over.
The events of the day swirl around like an uneasy soup in my head. I keep replaying the pharmacy. I definitely annoyed those people behind me. And god. Three-hundred dollars. Stephanie looked like she wanted to hug me so I must’ve had one heck of a look on my face. Three whole hundred. I want to cry. That’s insane. I maybe do cry a little. What else am I supposed to do?
I’ve already been as pragmatic and logical about the situation as I could today, I know now is the time where I can afford to feel it emotionally. I just have to hope my rush-job solution works. I don’t know what else I can do. I’m left sniffing in bed, sobbing and curled up around nothing. The walls are thin as heck but I know nobody is really listening.
—
My third problem was brought about on my way back from work that Monday.
I would usually bike home with my headphones playing music or a podcast or something. I usually wouldn’t even go this way home, but nothing about this day is usual at all. My headphones died when I was at work and Eva had mentioned something about a place along this route this morning when I was leaving and she was taking out her trash.
“Have you heard they’re going to demolish that big, old factory you like?” She asked, bag in hand as I fumbled my keys over and over. Eva can be a gossip when she wants to be, I swear.
I had paused and frowned. “Aw, what? Lame. What was that building even doing to them?”
“They’re going to put a supermarket there,” she said, shrugging. “It’s a good area, the factory is a stain on it, I guess.”
“Hm.” I finally manage to lock my door, clipping my keys onto my lanyard. “Maybe I’ll pay it one last visit before it goes.”
I’m overstimulated, I’m cold and I’m riding in silence. But I said I’d do it earlier, might as well follow through.
I approach the old factory. It’s a big one, I think they made custard or something. I used to ride this way home before I realised the current one was faster. I always liked this place. There’s a certain silence wafting through the air of abandoned buildings. You can see dust motes dancing in the sunlight that filters through the smashed windows. I slow to a stop and prop up my bike on a fence. I tug my helmet off my head and stand, hands in pockets, shrinking into my coat.
To think so many people used to work here, the place bustling with busy movement, industrial factory lines churning out whatever they made (I swear it was custard. Where did I read that?). It’s strange to see such a place so silent and empty. It’s just sort of lonely.
I know what that feels like. It’s that all too familiar feeling that my own apartment is soaked in. Evenings where the only background noise is the TV and my soft breathing. Where I watch the world go by through a window.
Stop being sappy, Ryland. I sigh and take a couple of steps closer. I’m not in a rush to get home, really, so it wouldn’t hurt to get one last look around. The windows are high enough that I can’t see in. I’d love to get inside, I wonder what kind of—
I halt my thoughts momentarily. There was a weird noise just now, something almost imperceptible, high-pitched, whining.
I pause for a second and listen in to my surroundings. The world makes its ambient sounds, bushes and trees rustling in the soft, frigid breeze. Distant birdsong. I can hear traffic a short ways away. I glance around. Did I… imagine that, or something?
No! There is it! What was that? I look around again.
“Hello?” I call out before realising how stupid that was. It’s obviously no person making that noise. Right? No, don’t be an idiot.
And there it is again. My heart then sinks a little as I realise it’s meowing.
Oh, cats. Eva’s not the only one. They’re my weakness.
After a short while of looking around, I finally locate the little guy. After lifting up some light plywood propped up against the factory’s wall, I reveal to the sun a tiny kitten.
It’s a scruffy brown tabby cat, some variation of colour is raked across its back with a cream face and paws. It’s clearly a stray, hissing softly when it first sees me. I give it some space. It seems to be alone. Looking closely, I think it’s a boy.
He seems pretty comfortable shivering amongst the rocks. He almost uses them as cover, big pieces of the factory wall that have crumbled away form his fortress. I notice that he seems to have stepped his pristine white paws into some teal-green paint. I suck a breath in through my teeth—I hope that isn’t toxic, or something. He’s very small, about the size of my hand, and thin as well. He has patches of fur missing, some matted, and an ear that’s torn. He looks like he’s been through a lot. And he’s alone too.
Again, my heart sinks looking at him. No animal deserves to be cast out into the street, especially not a kitten like him. He doesn’t have a collar, either. No ties.
I breathe a laugh through my nose. “Me too, buddy.”
He meows back at the sound of my voice. Then, he steps a little closer, moving clumsily around the rocks that hide away his body. I note briefly how trusting he is. Seemingly unwarranted trust, at that. Do I really look that non-threatening? Should I be insulted?
I crouch down and hold out my hand so he can sniff me, trying to be gentle. If he’s going to get close at all, that’s step one.
He hesitates, stepping around and getting that weird paint stuff everywhere. Then, he slowly starts creeping forward. It’s agonisingly slow, but even still I find myself holding my breath, staring down at him, heart jumping at every step he takes closer. When the kitten finally reaches my outstretched hand, he brings his nose up to sniff it.
Instantly, he recoils back, and I almost get offended. Do I smell bad to cats, or something? How dare he—it’s been insult after insult with this cat! Then, he leans in again and stays there for a couple of moments, gauging if I’ll pounce and attack him. It’s a couple of still, silent seconds. The sun hits my neck. It would be warm enough if it were ten degrees higher. This winter is a cold one, at least for California.
He must be cold, too.
The cat then—oh my god. He brushes his cheek against my finger, petting himself on my still, cold digits. I take that as permission and gently pet him more. And he melts into it, circling around my hand and leaning his head into it whenever I stroke along his matted fur.
He has fleas, I can see them crawling around, but it doesn’t bother me much. “You’re all alone out here, aren’t you buddy?” I say, technically to nobody, but I draw the line right after talking to animals. That’s not that weird, come on.
I take a beat between sentences, petting this stray kitten the most ferociously a cat has ever wanted me to. His pace is relentless, speed-running our greetings and getting very acquainted with my scent and general human-ness.
“I’m alone, too,” I murmur to him. He mews back. “Yeah?” I ask and he meows again. I chuckle softly and he pads up closer and rubs his head on my shoes. “My name’s Grace.” I hold up my lanyard and he starts batting it where it hangs, getting paint everywhere.
I hum and look around. “Where are all your friends? Someone as friendly as you probably has a lot.” Nothing really jumps out at me, but I realise I’m actually scanning for that paint colour instead of his fur colour. I comb over the surroundings again and don’t really see much.
I decide to stand up and see if he has a mom cat that’s lost him. He follows me. God, if I’m going to find like ten more kittens, I’m gonna need to call this guy something. I’ll go with Rocky for now, after his fortress. Just until I hear otherwise.
I start to walk around the perimeter. Rocky follows me closely, still trying to paw at my ankles. I scan for that mottled, rusty brown colour amongst all the trash. Rounding a corner, I mostly see weeds, debris and cigarette butts. Just broken pieces of the—
My chest lurches.
—factory… Oh.
Yeah, that’s Rocky’s fur colour alright. A swarm of flies crowds around a kitten’s still body. The sun kisses its fur, turning the strands to amber. It’s a harsh contrast to the dirty concrete, an identical copy of Rocky lies half-underneath a board of wood. I can’t see the rest of it but I can tell what happened by the subtle smell that lingers around the area.
As I look around this side of the building, I can pick out more bodies just like it. My eyes find the side of the road where one more lies, significantly larger. Motionless. I feel a little breathless all of a sudden.
I swallow and turn around harshly, my eyes pricking with tears. I can’t do this, I don’t want to look anymore. I begin to make for my bike again, away from the factory, treading hurried steps towards my escape.
And I don’t even get twenty feet before I hear a little meow.
I take a deep breath and turn around. Rocky has followed me.
“You’re still here?” I ask, crouching again and letting him come up to me. He mews and rubs his cheek on my finger again. The image of his dead siblings pops back into my head and I have to stifle tears. Oh god, he’s all alone, isn’t he? I wonder if anybody else heard him meowing. I wonder if he got ignored, even if they did. Who’s going to pause their day to comfort an orphaned kitten?
Me, I guess.
His little face moves fast over my hands, rubbed on my ankles, his tail swishing languidly. And I know what I need to do, no matter how stupid it is in my current financial situation.
I take off my coat and lay it on the ground, already shivering. Rocky seems confused, just staring at the thing, so I pat the surface. “C’mon. Lemme help you.”
He gingerly steps on and I slowly and deliberately swaddle him in a little burrito. He meows a lot, tries to wriggle free, but soon enough he realises it’s pretty comfortable. I smile. I do this myself with my blanket sometimes. It’s the best. Just one more thing we have in common, Rocky.
I don’t head home immediately despite it being all I wanted to do just half an hour ago. Instead, I ride up to the Walmart I pass on this route, cycling one-handed with a cat under my arm. As I enter I try to look nonchalant, hiding the cat head blob in my wadded up coat. I get some weird stares, but I’m only here for one thing. I’m in and out.
Out in the parking lot, I release Rocky and open the small tin of cat food I bought. The instant the smell hits the air, Rocky goes wild. He claws at the can as it’s opening, meowing loud and long and then attacking the entire thing once I get the lid off. I smile and check my phone while he’s eating. I intend to take him home for a night and then find a shelter tomorrow after work. Hopefully somewhere will take him, the shelters near me are always teaming with strays, but… what’s one more little guy, right?
The rest of the way home, I’m smiling dumbly, my new friend tucked under my arm. I know my apartment allows pets and even if it didn’t I’d still bring him home and break the rules a tiny bit. What’s one night? It won’t matter.
I won’t even need to tell Sasha. Rocky isn’t a real pet anyway, he’s my pal. We’re friends now, whether Sasha Stupid I-Love-Raising-My-Rent Greenhorn likes it or not.