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My Beefed-Up Landlord Did a Showing While I Was in Bed
It was 4 in the morning
“Mom,” I whispered into my bulky Nokia flip phone, “I need you to come get me.” I was sitting on the outdoor stairs leading into the basement suite I had been renting for just under six months.
“It’s 4 o’clock in the morning, Lindsay. Have you been drinking?” She didn’t sound mad but instead worried and confused.
“Brad barged into my house with a bunch of other guys, and I think they’ve been drinking.”
I’ve lived in many houses over the past forty years. I would guess it’s more than the average person. We never had what I would consider a family home growing up. We were always moving from place to place whenever my belligerent father would get into some sort of an argument with the landlord we were renting from.
Maybe that’s why I don’t mind moving around so much. Perhaps packing up my belongings on the fly and getting the hell out of dodge is just in my blood.
Most of my moving happened between the ages of 16 to 20, though. In those five short years, I lived an entire lifetime.
From staying at a teenage flophouse to couch surfing to moving to Vancouver Island not once but twice and living in countless shitty little apartment buildings in between the big moves…
