Desperate Times

Desperate times

“That’s the room. It’s 450 a month, bathrooms at the end of the hall. Rents due first of every month and first month’s upfront. You pay late and you’re outta here. You tell me you need more time, you’re outta here. You start complaining, asking for ‘improvements’..”

“I’m outta here. I get the idea”

The landlord gave me a flat look and grunted.

“Any questions?”

How could you charge so much for a shithole like this? Did the roaches come free or was that extra? I could already see one, crawling along the wall where the stained wallpaper was peeling. Its fat body slid into the gap between the paper and the wall and my skin began to crawl. I imagined asking to get rid of the roaches was also an ‘outta here’ worthy question.

“Why’d the last guy leave? Can’t imagine he’d leave a primo establishment like this.”

“Last guy popped his clogs. See that stain on the floor?”

“Fuck man, seriously? He died here? Why the fuck would you even tell me that. What happened to him?”

“Look It ain’t anything you need to worry about okay kid? He was a bum and a loon. All he did was gamble and drink, and he wasn’t much good at either. Kept raving about how he’d hit it big and no one would ever see him again, only he never did. Came in to chase the rent and he was an ex-tenant, his heart finally kicked it and that was that. Capeesh? Now do you want it or not?”

Did I want it? No. Not really. But did I need it?

“Yeah fine. I’ll take it.”

Desperate times.

It didn’t take long for me to move in. All I really had was a bin bag of clothes and a couple cardboard boxes with the basics; a couple mugs, some cutlery, a plate or two. That sort of stuff. I lived, like many in the city, from paycheck to paycheck in a menial job. My bank account never went up and at the end of each month I'd just eat bread and peanut butter to make sure I could stretch and make it to next month. On the months it didn’t stretch I would stay up at night staring at the ceiling, too hungry to sleep, drooling over the thoughts of roast dinners and takeaway pizzas.

My new pad was the last in a long line of dumps. This one was a huge towering shambles of a building with 15 floors divided into as many apartments as possible with shared bathrooms and showers to maximise profits from the desperate, broke, dregs of society like me.

The room was dank and small, the only furniture was a small set of drawers for clothes, a single bed, one shelf, and a small writing table with a chair. At night the walls felt as if they were closing in and a draft blew up through the worn wooden floor. On every side of me I could hear other people in the building. Above me a couple argued loudly, below a speaker boomed loudly enough I could feel the beat in my chest, and to the side a european voice screamed into a phone, or maybe into the abyss, who knows.

I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just the new setting, or the feeling of roaches crawling in the dark, or even the onslaught of noise invading my space. It was the fear of never breaking the cycle. Living paycheck to paycheck for the rest of my life. Never moving up, never moving on. Constantly dreading what tomorrow would bring or whether I would be able to afford to eat. It felt wrong, it wasn’t meant to be like this. When we grew up we were told we could do anything, that the future held opportunity and adventure. They never mentioned this. The existential dread of leaving no legacy or mark. How could a man spend all day working and still end up with nothing. I felt a clock ticking in my head, counting down to some dreadful nothingness.

I got out of bed, I was too in my own head and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep whilst I was this worked up. I turned the light on and decided to try and explore my new space, however little of it there may be. I ran my hands along the wall paper, felt the splits and peels. Studied each stain trying to uncover the story that preceded it. I sat at the table and took it all in, the scratches from where someone had pressed too hard, the tell tale rings where someone had left bottles and glasses that had spilled. The initials ‘JI’ carved into the top right corner with a penknife or some other edge.

I lay on the floor still in my boxers and felt the planks underneath me. They were rough and old. Splintering in some places, and smooth in others where feet had paced across them countless times. I felt the cracks between them, the cool air flowing up through them from the empty space beneath. I walked across every one of them like the hundred people before me had done, like the mysterious ‘JI’ probably did.

As I walked around into the furthest corner, between the desk and the bed, the floorboard groaned beneath me. I got down and studied it. It was the corner piece, no more than a square really, cut to fit the room. It wasn’t properly attached, more like it had just been pushed in lazilly. As I pushed down on one corner, the other lifted up, allowing me to pull it all the way out revealing a little hollowed out space between the floors. Amongst the fiberglass insulation and what looked like rat droppings sat a little black book.

I opened it on the desk. On the first page the words ‘Property of Johnny Ikin’ were written in a hurried hand. The landlord must have been right I thought, as I flicked through the pages they were covered with dates and notes on the races in the same scrawl. ‘Blue glory - colt, sprinter, never bet to show over 5 furloughs Gingerfire - odds off, good flanks, 50 to place’. It went on and on with various opinions, odds, wins, and loses. The further into the little black book I got, the more the handwriting became frenzied, like the manuscript of a madman. At some points he started writing full paragraphs on complete tangents, at other times he seemed to abbreviate his already abbreviated notes until they were little more than scratchings. In some ways I felt some connection to this man, perhaps this was his own manifestation of the dread that was keeping me up. Maybe he felt the clock ticking too.

As I reached towards the last pages of the book the writing hit its crescendo. No longer legible but with sections boldly underlined, and pen pressed so hard it started to tear through the page, and finally… nothing. The final page had been torn out, but in its place a folded piece of paper fell out of the book. I recognised the style before I even unfolded it, a cheque. Not just any check but a check for 20,000. The recipient was left blank, but I could see the faint impression ‘Johnny Ikin’.

Oh johnny, had you really come so close? Was all that stood between you and finally getting out of here a pen that ran out of ink? Shit.

I rummaged around looking for a pen but I guess it hadn’t made the cut into my box of ‘essentials’. Could It really be this easy? It was starting to hit me. This was an unsigned cheque for 20 grand. I’d never had anything close to that before, I felt my heart start to race faster, starting to feel sick with excitement. It couldn't possibly be this easy.

I unlocked the door and went to look for a pen and as I did I heard the door to my right open.

“Johnny? That you? Oh. hey whatcha doin’ in that room? Don’t yanno if you’re caught breakin’ into other peoples rooms your outta here!”

A tall man with a shaved head and a bottle of vodka leant in the door frame of the room next door. It was the same european accent I’d heard yelling earlier.

“Yeah that tracks. Thats my room now, Johnny's past tense friend.”

“Ah no shit? How’d he go?”

“Heart gave out. Sorry to be the messenger, he a friend of yours?”

“Damn, yeah I guess you could say that. Crazy bastard though, always jotting shit down in that little book. Playing the odds and that.”

“Oh yeah? He any good?”

The man smiled, remembering fondly his old friends quirks and mannerisms.

“He was sure something. Damn near lived at the track, won more than he lost I reckon. Not much more a gambling man can hope for.”

He took a big swig from his bottle of store brand vodka.

“Hey man, you got a pen? I’ll bring it right back.”

The bald man grunted, disappeared inside his room, and reappeared and handed me an old Bic biro.

“Keep it. You reckon you’re gonna be sticking around?”

“You know what? I think my luck’s taking a turn. I’m fucking outta here. Nice to meet ya though.”

The bald man just nodded as if it was a sentiment he’d heard many times before, probably from Old Johnny boy coming to think of it.

“Sure thing kid, good luck.”

He ducked back inside his room and the lock clicked behind him.

I went back to the little writing desk in my room and laid the cheque in front of me, armed with my bic. I couldn’t help but think this must have been exactly how Johnny had been, before his pen had failed, followed by his heart in short order. My heart was racing, if i had a heart attack now my obituary would surely read ‘died of acute irony’.

Pen touched paper and I printed my name in the neatest handwriting I could manage. I stared at the now filled in cheque for a moment and thought back to the beginning of this night and the feelings of terror and hopelessness. Thanks johnny boy. I know this probably wasn’t what you had planned, but from one low life to another, thanks. Maybe once I break this cheque I’ll place a bet on the races in your memory. I reckoned he’d like that.

In the morning I packed my shit back up, took one last look at the desk, pressed my hand down one last time on the initials carved into that little desk, and headed out.

As I passed through the lobby the landlord was in a heated debate with the man I’d talked to last night. The words ‘RENT’ and ‘OUTTA HERE’ were being exclaimed loudly by the red faced landlord as he brandished a rolled up newspaper in the face of the bald tenant. As he saw me he turned the newspaper towards me.

“AND YOU! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH ALL THAT! YOU SIGNED A CONTRACT! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?!”

“I’ve hit it big pal! You’re never gonna see me again!”

And he never did.