On Convincing Strangers To Let Me Live In Their Apartment
The first apartment I saw in Boston was The One; I was completely sure. Sure, it was a fourth floor walk-up, and the kitchen appliances could use an update or ten. My potential bedroom was on the smaller side. But the four flights of stairs would help me put off joining a gym, and the antique stove and kettle lent some Pinterest charm.
It was located two minutes from the T stop in a bustling Boston neighborhood with no shortage of restaurants to visit and sights to see. The girls living in the other rooms seemed fun, but not too fun — the “share a glass of wine” type of fun, not the “come home wasted at 3 AM and thrash about the kitchen trying to make eggs” variety (Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in our college apartment anymore). Plus, they said I was a great fit for the place, which they probably told everyone but gave me a newfound sense of achievement I could brag to my parents about.
I asked my repertoire of my nosy room-hunting questions (Is the neighborhood safe? Where’s the nearest grocery store? Are you certain there’s no cat here because if a cat set foot in here once and I mean once I will almost definitely break out in hives?), then of the girls saw me out, telling me “we’ll let you know our decision tomorrow!”
Tomorrow came, and rather than getting a decision text message, I received a much less casual email stating “we need until Friday” (but that they really, really think I’m a great fit!). That was the last I heard. I was successfully ghosted — something that I naively thought only existed in viral thinkpieces and was safe from IRL.
While I was eternally grateful to spend my jobless, post-college summer summer living for free in my parents’ home outside of Providence, the job I took in Boston in the fall complicated the surprisingly blissful simplicity of returning to my childhood bedroom. It was a ten minutes car ride to the station in Providence and then a 75 minute train ride to Boston on top of a 5 minute walk to the office. Twice a day. Nearly half of my daily work hours were spent on a crowded train listening to podcasts, and though my budding NPR knowledge was useful for flirting, my desire to wake up early enough to catch the train waned.
Don’t get me wrong: Not paying rent at home was a welcome blessing for me (and my impending student loan payments). But having my nightly hour-long Netflix scroll result in me giving up and going to bed instead of actually watching something was defeating. Now that I was a working adult, I wanted to relax by paying half-attention to marathons of Chopped while swiping through Tinder like anyone else my age.
I didn’t need a luxury home on a private island. I didn’t even need a kitchen with an island. All I wanted was a room a little bit closer to where I needed to be. My work breaks and weekday evenings were spent perusing Craigslist ads for open bedrooms, then copy-and-pasting and emailing a description of myself (plus my LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and everything short of my social security card) to potential roommates which hopefully presented me as an appealing and legitimate candidate.
Candidate. I hadn’t been a candidate since my unsuccessful college a cappella group auditions or my summer of job interviews. Positioning myself in such a way was familiar but unwelcome. Although the basic information in each message remained the same, I tailored bits of each email in an attempt to match the tone of the craigslist posting.
“Hey, I’m Gabbie!”
No, the hey is too much. And why the exclamation point? That’s venturing into too fun territory.
“Hi, I’m Gabbie, and I think I’d be a great fit for this apartment.”
Does it even matter what I think? Is that too presumptuous? Does any of this matter?
“Hey, I’m Gabbie, and I wanna join your wolfpack.”
They said wolfpack in the ad. Should I say wolfpack, too? And how do I react to the most cringe-inducing pseudo-cryptic phrase of all time, “420 friendly”?
Each apartment visit played out like an audition — handshakes with whatever roommates were there, investigating the space, seeing what special (or safely nondescript) qualities you had to offer. After responding to countless inquiries of what I did for fun, I quite literally answered by saying “typical 20-something girl things,” which always sounded less pretentious in my head. At one apartment, the roommates mentioned an affinity for baking apple pie.
“I make a great apple pie, too! We should have a contest!” I replied with zero irony, trying to sound enthusiastic but probably just sounding like an asshole. During another showing, one roommate remarked, “these bedrooms rooms are smaller than I remember,” upon showing me what I presumed was a walk-in closet off the main hallway. For our coats, I suppose! The day after, I lied and told them another room had worked out.
As an alternative to searching for open bedrooms, I also created a personal ad in the “rooms wanted” section detailing my interest in finding an available room. Replies I received included legitimate leads, rooms available approximately 50 miles from any city that mattered, and the same “free rent for blowjobs” email that appeared each time I renewed the ad. (How many? Is it a one-time blowjob deal or monthly? Blow one, get two months free?)
I even resorted to finding randoms roommates with whom I would somehow magically manage to sign a perfect lease. I was confident that one girl was destined to be my roommate after I accidentally and dramatically tripped inside the Bruegger’s Bagels where we met for lunch. But this cinematic moment went nowhere, as she informed me a few days later that she found a room. Still, that encounter was better than my meeting with two girls who hoped to form a group and search for three bedroom apartments together. I fortunately didn’t blurt out something like “we’d make a great threesome,” but when one of them listed knitting as a Friday night activity, I realize it wouldn’t work out (by not even trying to be fun, I was too fun).
Craigslist listings I hadn’t yet sent a desperate message became few and far between; the vastness of the site’s postings for casual sex and cheap furniture did not extend to apartments. Google searches for “Boston rooms” resulted in services named PadMapper, EasyRoommate, Metroroommates, and other websites whose names were likely generated by an algorithm and whose interfaces were designed to psychologically torture me.
My new form of candidacy stung. There were no grades, no rubrics, no performance evaluations. Maybe there was a secret codeword no one told me about, or some copy of The Beginner’s Guide To Getting A Non-Creepy Person To Sublet Their Empty Bedroom I was missing. Even as I tried to make each reply a little more friendly, a little more responsible, I had no control over where I would eventually live.
There’s no need to pity me, though — after months of searching, I found a room. The charming pink house sits on a steep hill, the kind that knocks the wind out of you by the time you reach the top (you’re welcome, glutes). My third floor bedroom is comfortable, if a bit drafty at night. I laced a string of Christmas lights across the wall and above my bed, admiring its ambience while wondering at what age Christmas lights became an immature decoration. I have three other roommates; the four of us are fun, but not too fun.
My relief in finding a room was met with a frustrating realization: Sometimes, our needs are met in completely ideal ways that are out of our own control. Sure, I put in labor to get this apartment; I sent a cordial email, visited the place and followed my regular script of questions. But this was hardly any different from the previous places I had visited or the other things I said.
There were no fireworks when they asked me to sign the lease. There was no quirky piece of furniture or painting on the wall that convinced me the apartment was the perfect fit. I was in the right place at the right time. I got lucky.
Eight months from now, my long-term sublet agreement will be nearly up, and I’ll have to decide what my next plan of attack will be. Do I sign the lease again or search for other places? Do I join the masses in a cutthroat, city-wide apartment hunt? And if all my efforts fail, will free-rent-for-blowjobs guy still be around?
I won’t be here forever, and I don’t know where I’ll be next. But something will work out. It always does, at some point.
