Get A Room!

I stood in a drafty living room covered in beer cans,
overflowing ashtrays, and suspicious stains. The most striking aspect
was one wall: a slurred mess of paint and drawings created by a mind
obviously working from a different dimension—a cracked-out
dimension.

But at the moment, this was my best bet; a party house wedged
between a noisy intersection and a McDonald’s. I, like so many other
frustrated temporary homeless, was on a search to rent a room in
Portland.

Who knew it could be this tough?

London Calling

Last summer, I moved back to Portland from London, where I lived for
half a year. By the time I arrived back in Portland, I considered
myself a “flat” search veteran, because nowhere else, except for
perhaps the Gaza Strip, do they pack people in more tightly. Getting a
room in London was also tricky because once a room was posted on the
internet, it was usually snatched up by the next day.

It took about two weeks of hard searching to find a room. During my
hunt, I ended up in dodgy corners of East London, and once found myself
trudging across a field near a highway, cursing myself for thinking
Greenwich looked “close enough” to central London on the map.

Since most Londoners are from out of town, they’re willing to put up
with crappy living conditions. I thought I’d seen the worst when I met
a jumpy Asian apartment owner in a stinking alley in Camden Town, a hip
neighborhood in North London. He opened a door wedged between two shops
and led me up to the flat. It seemed like a bomb filled with spoiled
food and dishes had exploded in the kitchen. Inexplicably forgotten
among the mess sat a whole raw chicken. Six Brazilian men were sleeping
in bunk beds in what at one time might have been the parlor. Though a
room overflowing with handsome Brazilians was tempting, I decided the
chicken was just too much, and eventually found a different flat.

So while finding a room in London was difficult—it’s a snap
compared to Portland.

Just Four Walls and a Roof

Rooms in London were snatched up so quickly because London flatmates
want someone decent (i.e., not a serial killer) and they want the
person now—as in “can you move in tonight?” In comparison,
Portlanders are a bunch of fussy aunts who want to know if your
particular style and personality will fit perfectly with their
carefully constructed social Feng Shui.

To do this, they write lengthy ads describing themselves and their
ideal roommate in detail. Portlanders ask you to fill out a
questionnaire rivaling those for prospective Secret Service agents. One
ad asked a total of 39 questions, including: Pet peeves? Single or not?
Sleepovers? Light sleeper? Favorite holiday? Do you have much stuff?
Can you talk superheroes? Are you willing to accept the fact you will
probably step on a Lego or toy car at some point and see some small
child using the potty with the door open? The ad also included this
cheery addition: “feel free to add more [information]… no BS and no
faking it… this is meant to be enjoyable.”

Well, to answer your questions, I never fake it and I know this is
meant to be enjoyable, but I am indeed a light sleeper and would not
appreciate a sleepover with you. And my pet peeve is people who want
you to answer almost 40 questions before even talking with you in
person. And I’m not babysitting your goddamn kid so it doesn’t matter
if I can “talk superheroes.”

Another ad I found on craigslist was priceless. A “dyke Wiccan
permaculturalist” was looking for another dyke Wiccan permaculturalist
to share her farmhouse. One of the ad’s many house rules was, “If
it’s yellow, let it mellow.” There would also be Wiccan rituals
performed on the grounds. And BDS&M.

I think there are probably two other dyke Wiccan permaculturalists
in Portland, and they’re already dating.

I decided to give Portland’s temporarily homeless a chance to vent
about the difficulty of finding a room to rent, and placed my own ad on
craigslist. This is what Larry Graham had to say: “Some people will
only rent out to vegans… others, you have to be a liberal or
conservative, or you have to be a Christian and you can’t drink. I
mean, all I’m trying to do is look for a room to rent. I’m not looking
for new parents!”

One of the most frustrating signs of pickiness is that craigslist is
a cyberspace black hole—sucking in your replies and yielding no
returns.

T’chaka Sikelianos, a 3-D animator for a media company, has only
been looking for a few weeks, but is already frustrated.

“Although the market seems to be flooded with room rentals,” he
said, “it’s like getting blood from a stone. I think I’ve sent out 15
inquiries and not one, not one, person has gotten back to
me.”

“I’ve been on craigslist for about three months now and have emailed
probably 100 people. I’ve gotten one reply,” wrote Usana Tron, a
29-year-old bricklayer and musician. “I realize it’s a tough market,
but this is ridiculous.”

If you manage to get a response, after sending out your required 100
or so emails, it’s time to turn on the charm.

“I went through a search that lasted a couple months,” said Stephen
Judkins. “When I did find a place I liked, it felt like I was in an
audition to see who’ll be the coolest roommate.”

That’s hitting the nail on the head—to get a place, it’s no
longer important to be just a cool person… but the coolest goddamn
hipster in Portland!

Which brings me back to the gritty party house next to McDonald’s.
Having finally received a response, I knew it was time to be so
dazzlingly hip I would outshine everyone else grappling for this cheap
room. Yes, beer cans covered every surface, the place stank like old
cigarettes, and was painted by tweakers—but hey, I’d seen worse.
And I’d been looking for two months.

Meeting the housemates felt a bit like a networking cocktail party,
except everybody was in black and had at least one piercing. Three of
the five housemates were there, and we were all getting along fine,
laughing, name-dropping. That is, until the last two housemates showed
up. One of them, let’s call her Blair, would win the prize for
über-hipster. She had a black mullet and a dozen tattoos. She gave
me one snide look and said I looked too “straightedge,” even though I
was wearing jeans and a corduroy jacket, not a periwinkle sweater
set.

“We do hard drugs here on a regular basis—like heroin,” she
said, as if she was accusing me of something.

I visualized junkies stealing my boots, needles in the couch, and
cop raids in the middle of the night. Could I jump from a second-story
window onto the roof of McDonald’s? Maybe I was too
straightedge.

It was weeks before I had my next offer. A lesbian, a stripper, and
her four-year-old daughter had a room open in their house. Was I
kid-and-kink friendly? You bet. Was I a feminist? Definitely.

“Do you have an STD?” was the first question Sarah asked when I
showed up at her door. “It’s my experience that housemates usually end
up sleeping with each other.” She laughed manically and offered me a
bowl of soup.

Yes, the house was on a freeway onramp, but the soup and homey
atmosphere were perfect and we all got along. The kid was cute and well
behaved. They asked me to move in.

Victorious, I visualized living there for years. Hey, I wouldn’t
even mind watching the kid once in a while. Maybe I’d teach her
rummy.

One evening, a few weeks after I moved in, Sarah off-handedly said
she should really get around to calling the owner of the house to ask
if I could move in.

“Ask?” I’d already moved in.

“He likes to be asked.”

She made the call. He said no, he wanted a family in that house and
not another single person. He wouldn’t even meet me. Now, technically,
this was illegal—an owner can’t discriminate against someone for
not having yet procreated—but I didn’t want to throw a fit and
have everyone kicked out. Cringing, I once again joined the losers
trawling craigslist.

I made more calls, met more assholes, and saw a room where the only
entrance was through the bathroom.

Finally (miracle of miracles), I answered the ad of an actual
reasonable guy named Mike. This was his list of demands: He wanted
someone who would pay the rent and wouldn’t cause drama.

I moved in the next day.

Thank you, Mike, for providing two requirements I could finally
handle. I’ve learned my lesson, and I will never, ever leave.