You, Me, and AirBnB

Peter Moran
Sep 7, 2018 · 5 min read

He was a short Hispanic man with more tattoos on his head than hair and more paint on his jeans than tattoos on his body. And she’d smoked so many cigarettes she was starting to look like one, wearing 4-inch heels that added to her already 6-inch height advantage over him. Together they were visiting Los Angeles, and for the minimal price of $30 a night, they were staying at my studio apartment for the weekend via AirBnB. Aside from my lease disallowing me from renting out my living space and the fact that I would be staying in the same room as my guests, there were a couple other issues. First, they paid me in cash, despite the fact that this was supposed to be brokered through the AirBnB website. I was unsure if they were clueless to the process or had perhaps been removed from the site for past issues, but for some reason I decided not to ask. Either way, they were no longer AirBnB customers with the associated responsibilities and insurance, they were merely two strangers who had given me a small sum to ruin my weekend. Second, and perhaps most daunting, my studio was 500 square feet and contained a small foam pad I used as a bed, a creaky chair from Ikea and a TV propped up by an ironing board I was certain not to use. It was hardly a suitable dwelling for myself, never mind the addition of two odorous visitors.

“Really,” I told them as we toured the place, “I totally understand if this doesn’t work for you. I was expecting to have more furniture by now.”

I wasn’t.

“And we’d sleep there?” he confirmed, glancing at my “bed” which offered about half as much room as the door Rose floated to safety on in the Titanic, refusing to save the man she “loved”, and probably even less comfort. I nodded sheepishly.

“Like I said, man, no worries if you want to cancel.”

He paused while I held my breath, both metaphorically as I hoped they’d leave and literally, because my apartment was already beginning to reek of stale tobacco and a passive approach to hygiene.

“And where would you sleep?” he continued, weighing his options as if I were giving him a tour of a luxury rental, not downplaying what was functionally a carpeted jail cell with a fridge.

“Right here,” I stated frankly, hoping the thought of me in a sleeping bag four feet away would terrify him as much as it did me. He paused and glanced at his wife who was stoically perched on my chair as she had been for her entire stay. They locked eyes and I imagined the non-verbal communication they shared to to be nothing more than a getaway plan. Finally, he turned back to me.

“We’ll take it.”

My heart sank to my chest as I handed him a pair of keys, made an excuse to leave, and drove across town for the day, silently berating myself for every life decision that had led to this moment.

I returned several hours later to an empty home, enjoying couple moments of solitude before they showed up.

“Mind if we smoke,” he asked belligerently as they poured through my door, alcohol now another odor added to their arsenal.

“Sure,” I conceded as I mentally reviewed potential sleeping positions within my car. “Whatever you want.”

He brushed past me onto the balcony and I stared at my guests, imagining a single tear rolling down my eye, not unlike the teardrop tattoo my new roommate was sporting. I was a defeated man. A moment of quiet reflection passed before he addressed me once more.

“Hey, man,” he slurred. “My wife and I…we-we….we could use some privacy? Maybe there’s a hotel nearby?”

I breathed a sigh of relief so sharp it extinguished his lit cigarette as I wondered what it would be like to not be a pushover. Thanking him, I stuffed his payment back in his hands and collapsed into my 2 inches of mattress as they exited. I opened my computer to delete the app when a message appeared on the screen:

“Hello, Peter. My wife and our 14 week old baby are coming in from Guatemala next week and are looking for a place for two weeks.”

Now, that sounded interesting. Maybe I’d keep my doors open just a little longer.

****

Well, folks, it’s December. Thanksgiving — that wonderful time of year when we all pretend to be grateful if for no reason other than to post self-aggrandizing pictures to Instagram about our lives (hashtag blessed) in hopes that the digital affirmation from others who are only liking your pictures to receive a like back will make you truly grateful for your life — has passed. And it was good, it was a good time. But now it’s Christmas season, and I encourage you all to be a little different. Be sincere. Be genuine. Let’s make this Christmas about pure, unadulterated selfishness. Make lists of everything you need in order to be thankful next November and ask the people around you to spend their own money on getting them for you just so you can lose it at a friend of a fake friend’s house two months later and not even realize it because it meant so little to you. Maybe you’re one of those “giving is better than receiving” people. That’s fine. Then give. Give to your heart’s content. Give until you’ve given everything you can and get every last drop of joy from it. But don’t trick yourself into thinking you’re doing it for them — accept wholeheartedly the fact that you are giving for your own selfish reasons, regardless of whether or not the corollary effects are positive to others. Let’s host Christmas parties. Host Christmas parties with all your friends and family just for the opportunity to be the center of attention, to have everyone come into your home and compliment you on your neat furniture and lovely family photos. And stress out the whole time because you don’t actually want those people in your home, you just want them to know how well you’re doing. And, lastly, let’s sing Christmas songs. Let’s repeatedly listen to Mariah Carey sing “All I Want for Christmas is You” and think about that special someone that you’d do anything for and that truly is all you want for Christmas. And you would do anything for that person, maybe. But you’d do it because they’re what you want. So, as you gently kiss under the mistletoe and take pictures in your ugly Christmas sweaters that aren’t ugly at all because you’re concerned more with your appearance in photos than embracing the humorous nature of goofy clothing and as you hold hands walking through the snow, remember that you’re with that person because of what they can do for you. And the feel the same exact way. So, have a wonderful time this December, and embrace your loved ones. But also embrace your inherent selfishness. Merry Christmas.