September 10, 1993

The morning after the cat ran off, we began to search for a place to live. In the morning, my roommate’s ex-girlfriend’s neighbor’s head popped over the fence as I sat in the yard, and spat “You can’t stay here! Don’t think you can stay here!” Really? We can’t live in the fucking yard?

“I know—we’re finding something today.” I said, taking the route of conciliation. Her scowling face receded behind the fence, muttering. We began our search with the realtors.

No rentals were available on our first try, but “Boys, are you new in town? Do you need bartending jobs?” Did ooze out of our realtor’s mouth. He had “connections” to a new bar opening on the island. Yeah, they needed bartenders, and strippers. “Did I mention strippers? They really need strippers, too…” He said, grinning and leering altruistically, sitting behind his desk, sweating, in his fat right hand, a business card.

The air conditioner produced only noise. The air was stale, filled with old coffee odors and the carbon dioxide residue of the sleazy fuck handing us a business card we’d never use, with a number we soon forgot. We left with only a small lift in our spirits. The sun blazes once we are again outside. There are few people around. All have the faces of strangers. We continue to look for home.