His name was Lester, and he was the one who greeted me when I came to see the apartment. A large, barefoot old man with long gray hair and facial hair that looked like it had given up on life. He unlocked the door and let me into the unit that was available.
It was bright. Full of windows and light. Fresh yellow paint on the walls and gleaming hardwood floors. I fell in love instantly. This was the only apartment I’d managed to get a showing for, and I needed it — desperately. I was tired of living in my car, and the weather was turning cold.
Lester told me about the place while tossing in some half‑hearted flirting. The previous tenant had been a drug dealer who let homeless people sleep in the hall for a few bucks. People coming and going at all hours. Noise. Chaos. He and the landlord were praying the next tenant wouldn’t be a repeat performance.
I assured him I was quiet. No friends. No parties. No revolving door of strangers. Just me, trying to survive. He warned me about the homeless and drug addicts roaming the streets and told me to be cautious. Then he told me I was pretty and that he’d “love to have me as a neighbor.” He added that when his wife died, he’d come calling and “rock my world.”
Yuck. Absolutely not my type, and entertaining his advances was the last thing I’d ever do. But I played along after he promised to put in a good word with the landlord. Survival makes you do things you’d never do otherwise.
The next day, the landlord called. A week later, I was signing the lease and handing over my hard‑earned money. I had a roof over my head. I was thrilled. I could move in that weekend. They told me to arrange movers.
Movers? I barely owned anything. No furniture. Just clothes, a pillow, and a blanket. I bought an air mattress with what little money I had left and waited for move‑in day. An air mattress was heaven compared to sleeping in the front seat of my car.
Moving day came, and I was on top of the world. Finally — a place to call home again. I hadn’t had a home in over five months. Cheap motels and parking lots had worn me down to nothing.
But once I brought my meager belongings inside, I really looked around.
It was filthy. Just plain filthy.
The refrigerator held the remains of spilled food and the smells of the last tenant. The bathroom? God awful. I would’ve rather used the driveway. But I’d seen worse. Nothing a few gallons of bleach, hot water, and elbow grease couldn’t fix.
So I scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. After a few days, it was habitable. It was mine. And there was no way I was letting anyone take it from me.
I arranged my things — clothes in the closet, air mattress on the floor, blanket and pillow neatly placed. All mine. No roommates. No drama. No one telling me what to do. I resigned myself to slowly furnishing the place, piece by piece.
Within a month, it was perfect. Comfortable. A real home. Sometimes I still walk around in awe. I worked hard for this place, and I’m determined no one will take it from me again.
In the beginning, people banged on my windows asking for the guy who used to live there, wanting a fix. I turned away at least one person a day, but I knew word would eventually get out.
But then there was Lester.
Right next door, always ready with a comment. He liked my clothes. My hair. Wanted me to “come visit” when I had time. I learned that blowing him a kiss kept him pacified for a while. Annoying, yes — but manageable.
And honestly? It was nice having someone who noticed if I came home or not. Someone who’d open the door for me so I didn’t have to fumble for my keys. Someone who, in his own strange way, cared whether I was dead or alive.
I can put up with Lester. I’ve put up with worse. And anything — anything — is better than being homeless again.
I’ve lived through worse and I always survive,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 