This is the first short story I've written in a while. It's not in my blog-writing voice, it's in my writing-writing voice, which I think is a bit different and more serious.

When I was looking for apartments in Venice Beach, I met some interesting people. The places were interesting, too, but I remember the people much more vividly.

The third studio I saw, in a four story place right on the boardwalk, seemed perfect.

The unit was tiny, but they all were. I was in love with it because the building had that kind of charm, that kind of charm that says Yeah, I used to be a flophouse. But now mostly respectable folks live here. Mostly. The bathroom had a clawfoot tub and small, white honeycomb tiles from the floor to halfway up the walls. I wanted it. I put down my deposit. But nearly a month later, after I still didn't have a firm move-in date from the manager (who'd been using my future apartment as personal storage), and getting dicked around by him long enough to figure out that he just didn't much WANT me to move in, I asked for my deposit back and forged ahead.

Next, I found a place a block from the boardwalk, on an alley off Ocean. The front door was right on the sidewalk. No gate, no porch, nothing. Just, my front door, practically on the street. It was a box with a bathroom and a closet stuck on the back. The kitchenette was dingy and depressing. The tiny windows had bars over them. The dumpster was beneath one.

The manager’s name was Gerry, and he was a tall man of that particular body type—a great round stomach and bulky chest, with perfectly normal arms and legs. He looked about 45, with a full head of salt and pepper hair, and talked a kind of slang like maybe he was a stoner a long time ago, or maybe he was one now. He wore flip flops and khaki shorts, a T-shirt that read MAUI.

Gerry showed me all the little things he'd done here and there to spruce the place up, himself. New curtains he sewed. Brand new molding along the walls. He lovingly caressed the ceiling fan as he pulled the chain one-two clicks to show me his craftsmanship.

He told me about the previous tenant and how she was a real party girl; she'd trashed the place. One time, he said, no one had seen her for days. He got concerned and took a hard look through the dirty windows, to see her lying face down on the carpet. When she didn't respond to his pounding on the door, he kicked it in. He said he scooped her up in his arms, that he thought she might be dead. But when he shook her, she woke up. She was alive, barely. According to Gerry.

I was in a hurry to find a place, and the price was right. So I told him I'd take it. I would have to return to fill out all the paperwork for the credit check, he didn't have any ready to go. He suggested I come by on my lunch break the next day, he said he'd make us something to eat.

His studio was two doors down from my place-to-be, but much bigger. He had a kitchen table, computer desk, futon, and a bookshelf in it. His had a proper stove, and there was a skillet heating up on it.

"How about a tuna melt?" he called. Sounds good. "I make a great tuna melt. I can make anything, with this skillet."

He served me orange juice (because the only other thing he had to drink was beer, and I didn't much feel like one) and we ate our sandwiches at his table.

He started telling me about how he ended up here, how he'd been living with a woman for more than fifteen years out near Big Bear but she'd left him. And his friend, his friend owned several buildings, and he thought it might be a good idea if Gerry could come manage this one for him, until he figured things out.

I looked around the studio while we talked. A blanket, the colorful woven kind they sell down at the border, was draped across his futon. He had an acoustic guitar in one corner. There were posters of tropical beaches—one on each wall. On his bookshelf there were a few books, a lot of sea shells, and a jar with some rocks in it.

"This is a really great building," Gerry said. "We have barbecues once a month, everyone comes out and we drink beer, and play music, and have a good time. I do the grilling. But, we have a good time. Like a family. I think you'd fit in real well."

He offered me another sandwich, but I said I should probably take care of our paperwork and get back to my office.

After I signed everything, Gerry said, "It's just a formality, you know. I can tell you're a good girl, you've got it together. But I have to. As soon as it comes back, the place is yours. You can even move in before the end of the month. I won't charge you for it."

I thanked him for lunch, and started back to the office. On the way, I passed a building with a For Rent sign outside.

The unit was much bigger than Gerry's. It came with a parking spot. It had a full kitchen and bath. It was $200 less. And it was in a gated building, closer to the boardwalk. I left an application with the manager, and went back to work with a sour feeling in my stomach. I blamed the tuna melt.

Gerry called me that same afternoon. "Well, just like I thought! Perfect credit. You just come by tonight with that check and it's yours. I'm not showing it to anybody else." I told him, I'll be there at 6:00, right after work.

Hoping to find out about the other unit, I stalled as long as I could. At 6:30 I sent Gerry an email saying I'd had to stay late and I was so sorry. I'd come by tomorrow at my lunch.

Lunch came and went, and I had heard nothing. I wrote and said I'd swing by after work, I was swamped.

Then the other manager called. She said I was approved, to just bring the check by. I did. I signed my lease that night.

When I drove past the Gerry's building, I saw the light on in his apartment.

He called me a few times, but I ignored the messages. Then he started calling at work, the other receptionist would pick up the phone and mouth, "It's him!"

Finally, I realized I'd just have to bite the bullet.

I apologized to him for my behavior. I was honest and said, I found another place, and I just didn't know how to tell you.

"You have to be honest about these things," he said quietly. "I would've understood, if you just told me. But to leave someone waiting on you, counting on you—if you're not going to come through, you should just tell them so they can move on."

You're right, Gerry. It was a shitty thing to do, and I'm sorry.