A Yellow Roman Candle

September 2, 2014

              Living in Jordan’s apartment without knowing Jordan has been like an archaeological dig. You begin with the top layer: the surfboard, the snowboard, the longboard, the skateboard, the guitar, and the ratty shoes tucked under a desk filled with an assortment of books and camera gear. There are maps on the wall and little Buddha’s on the shelves. There are other exotic art pieces on the walls and shelves, and bright green plants in the window sills. The kitchen table is littered with crayons and an empty wine bottle, and there are dirty mugs on the end table in the living room. Otherwise, the place is clean (clean compared to my expectations of a 22-year-old single dude’s apartment).

              The second layer was removed after I had spent about a day in the place. I was cleaning it up, sweeping and dusting and washing, as a thank you to him for letting me stay there. I found a journal on the desk (NO I didn’t read it). It struck me that he was pensive and patient enough to write. The crayons on the table had been used to decorate an envelope, on which he had colored bubble letters that read, “Count ur blessings,” and then inside was a torn piece of paper with ten things he’s grateful for (yes, I read that… you can judge me). In the cabinet with the few dishes he owns is a plate he had painted when he was 7 years old; he had painted his name in big red sloppy letters. I smiled at the thought of him keeping it all these years.

              I liked learning about the kid while cleaning his house. I couldn’t imagine what he’d be like; there wasn’t a picture of him anywhere. Anyway, I set my mind to cleaning this past weekend. He had written that he’d be home tomorrow, the 3^rd, and I wanted the place to be ready for him. I even washed his towels and blankets so he’d have them clean when he got home. I threw in my dirty underwear and a few dirty t-shirts too. When I went to take the load from the dryer, the damned machine hadn’t done a thing to dry the clothes. I muttered a few curse words as I dragged the wet load up the stairs to his apartment from the laundry room, and got creative with hanging everything up to air dry. My underwear ended up on the knobs of his kitchen cabinets. It brought a good bit of color to the room.

              Happiness. I wake up this morning and I go to work. The apartment’s atrocious and my laundry’s everywhere, but that’s okay. Jordan doesn’t come home until tomorrow. It’s gray out as it always is in the morning, but I bike to work anyway. The bike route is along the water and it’s truly an eccentric experience getting to work in the mornings. You pass the water where the sea planes land, and the little houses in which they filmed Sleepless in Seattle, and you can see towards the South where little bungalows sit nestled into the hills, or to the East you can see the large skyscrapers and the Space Needle. It’s worth the three mile ride. I’m happy here.

              Community. The door to the office is open and Brad’s inside. Let’s go to coffee, he says. We walk the two blocks to the local café he frequents, the kind of café where a macchiato isn’t a flavored drink from Starbucks but a delicate china cup filled with the richest and most serene coffee topped with frothy milk in the shape of a heart. They serve it with a shot glass of soda water to “cleanse the palette” because their macchiatos are holy and must be drunk appropriately. I like these people.

              Surprise. I’m at lunch with the bosses after a morning of responding to client emails, buying office supplies, and playing ping pong. An unknown number, local to the area, calls me and I answer. It’s a terrifically friendly voice introducing itself as Jordan wondering where he can track down the keys to his apartment because he’s home early. “Jordan, hey, good to meet you.” Nervous laugh. I’m awkward as hell. He can’t go home. My underwear is hanging from his kitchen cabinets.

              “You see, I thought you were coming home tomorrow.” I’m pacing in obnoxious circles on the sidewalk outside of this Vietnamese restaurant. “The place… it’s a little out of shape. I mean, I cleaned it for you, but I mean, well, there’s stuff around, my stuff. I didn’t really get a chance to pack up.” No, don’t worry, he just needs a change of clothes and a shower. “But I’d really like to go back with you and throw my stuff together.” No need, he can just pick the keys up from the office. “Jordan, my underwear is hanging from your kitchen cabinets because the dryer didn’t dry them yesterday. I need to go home with you.” Great, sounds good, he’ll meet me at the office and we can go from there.

              He was nice as anything, too, just as I imagined. Tall, curly hair, good face. I actually felt myself blush when I met him because who knew the guy would be so attractive. As I grabbed my stupid underwear and the rest of my clothes and stuff from around the place, he asked where I was going to stay, and I told him a boat. He offered his place to shower and crash for a night if I ever needed to. “Honestly, you can stay here until my lease ends at the end of the month if you want, I don’t care. Pay what you can and pitch in, and it’s fine with me.” So I stopped packing and went to the grocery store instead and filled the refrigerator. And now I have my first friend in Seattle, and a roommate. Pretty cool how things work out.

And don’t worry, he’s safe. The bosses have known him his whole life, and if all else fails I have pepper spray.