THE NARRATIVE ARC
Being the ‘Poor Guy’ Never Stopped Me From Being Happy
A front row seat to gentrification reminded me not to worry about fancy things
Jagged wooden planks lay on my front porch, weathered and splintered and eager to trip my guests. My interior floors creaked and groaned, as if to lament their age. The roof was on its last legs. My AC heaved to keep the house cold in the blistering throes of summer.
Doors hung askew throughout the house, like crooked teeth in a weary old smile. There were two separate and widespread rat infestations, one of which I resolved with a magnificently ruthless black cat. The other, with a few traps, but not before trapping my fingers on accident, leaving me reciting choice words to the gods.
I spent thirteen years living in my home, despite its slow and steady descent into disrepair. Candidly, the house probably scared off a few potential girlfriends. My current partner, Laura, later admitted, “Don’t be mad. But I almost didn’t date you because of your house.”
Yes, I could have easily bought something bigger and nicer, but I liked saving money and socking it away into investments. My property tax was a paltry sum that didn’t induce soundless rants about the government as I paced my hallways. My…
