MOVING DAY (WTF)

Moving Day: Big Earl and the Door Decibels I finally rolled up to the Victorian—my very own WTF: What The Fiasco headquarters—with a truck full of belongings. My room was a prime slice of real estate: middle of the first floor, right in front of the main staircase. This gave me a tactical choice for unloading: Park in the backyard and brave the chaotic Downstairs Kitchen, or park on the street and run the gauntlet of the front door? I chose the front. My first and immediate mistake.

I thought I was avoiding the bottleneck of the kitchen. Instead, I ran directly into the orbital path of Big Earl, the house's self-appointed (and heavily armed) security chief. His room is the first one in the house, and its windows and perpetually open door function as his personal, non-negotiable CCTV system. He was, as always, lying on his bed, watching TV, but his true focus was the surveillance feed: me, dragging boxes. Big Earl is an ex-Marine. His tiny room—seriously, it was the size of a child's closet—was a temple of neat, terrifying organization. Everything had its place, and by extension, everything I did had to be done his way. If you wanted to coexist with this mountainous man, you simply complied. He's not just intimidating; he's the reason we all learned to tiptoe. And God help my soul if the front door dared to close with anything less than a gentle, reverent sigh. Slamming it, letting it thud, or even letting the latch click too loudly meant a slow, booming lecture from the dark corner of his room. Now, my room came "furnished" (a bed, a dresser, and a chair that looked like a discarded bus seat), but I, the fool, brought more stuff: a massive bookshelf, a dry bar, an antique drop-side table, chairs, and enough boxes of clothes and "collectibles" to build a second, smaller Victorian inside my room. Trying to organize all this into a livable space was agony. But the real joy was the constant parade of interruptions. Tenants kept popping their heads in. I couldn't tell if they were genuinely interested in meeting the New Fiasco, or if they were just scouting my boxes to see what junk they could quietly walk off with later. Welcome to my new home. WTF: WHAT THE FIASCO!

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My New "Home": Where Dreams Go to Die (and Rent is Dirt Cheap)

I found this "room for rent" on the internet, which is a lot like finding a gourmet meal in a dumpster—the description promised filet mignon, but my eyeballs immediately detected soggy socks. Of course, the sheer, glaring, structural, and existential faults of the house only became apparent after I had already signed the lease and was committed to a life of low-grade peril.

The place is an "Spooky Looking Old Victorian," which is a fancy way of saying a giant, three-story, drafty coffin with a terrifyingly ancient fire escape bolted to the back, probably just waiting for its moment to spontaneously detach. The siding is a magnificent tapestry of half-hearted DIY repairs, looking less like a home and more like a fever dream stitched together by a very tired squirrel. It sits on a corner lot, mercifully shrouded from the judgmental gaze of its neighbors by a pathetic chainlink fence and a truly dedicated effort of overgrown bushes. That’s right, the house needs shrubbery to actively hide its shame.

I bravely navigated the gate and the long, suspicious walkway to the front door for my appointment with the landlord. The door itself was an ancient, grimy relic secured by a modern combination lock, which is exactly the kind of jarring, nonsensical contrast that defines this whole property. I knocked. Nothing. I could hear distinct human noises inside—like the faint sound of souls being mildly inconvenienced—but no answer. I knocked again, getting the same passive-aggressive silence. I checked my phone, texted the landlord (a beacon of futility), and then, with the sheer audacity of a desperate person, I knocked one more time, with the added thump of genuine annoyance.

The door was then ripped open by a genuinely scary big older black man with a magnificent gray mane, sporting a crisp, white, sleeveless tee—a sartorial choice that somehow managed to scream, "I haven't been happy since 1987."

"Yer what you want!" he bellowed, perfectly capturing the essence of a man whose day was already a masterpiece of misery. "I'm here to rent the room," I managed to squeak. "So call the Landlord!" And with the speed and finality of a guillotine, he slammed the door shut.

That, right there, was my sign. My glorious, flashing, neon-lit, heavenly choir-singing sign that I should have executed a perfect 180 and never looked back. But alas, I am a creature driven by the two most powerful forces in the universe: poverty and desperation.

Just then, my savior/tormentor, the landlord, appeared. He punched the magical code into the grimy lock and ushered us into the abode. Inside, it looked "normal enough," which in this context means "not actively on fire." He revealed the charming details: 20 rooms, all men. It’s less a house and more a highly pressurized man-can. The bathroom situation is a delightful game of musical chairs: two full baths (with showers, praise be) on the first floor, and two half-baths on the second. The third floor, apparently, has been designated a pee-free zone by decree.

The ground floor features a "kitchen" that appears to have been designed by someone whose concept of cooking involves staring wistfully at a stove. It has a full fridge, a sink, and a stove, but a generous one foot of counter space—just enough room to perfectly balance a single teaspoon of existential dread.

My humble quarters were on the first floor, conveniently located directly in front of the stately, yet probably creaky, Victorian staircase. The landlord proudly informed me it was the biggest room in the house. At 11 x 14, it was "okay," furnished with a bed, dresser, and an "EZ chair" all conveniently provided by the last tenant (who probably fled in the middle of the night, leaving only their furniture and a faint scent of regret).

Considering the price was a blissful one-third of what any sad, boxy studio apartment was going for, I decided that a life of shared bathrooms, zero counter space, and being regularly yelled at by a shirtless man was a steal.

I jumped on it. Because apparently, I have a Ph.D. in making terrible life choices. 

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