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But my financial situation also hadn’t changed. Jobs in my field were still as hard to come by. And asking Sam for help—or my accountant parents, who loved me too much to admit to my face what a disappointment I was—was just as unthinkable as ever.
And my landlord was still planning to evict me next week. Which, to be fair, I couldn’t even blame him for. He’d put up with a lot of late rent payments and art-related welding mishaps these past ten months. If I were him I’d probably evict me, too.
Before I could talk myself out of doing it, and with Sam’s worried voice ringing in my ears, I opened my email. I scrolled through my inbox—an ad for a two-for-one sale at Shoe Pavilion; a headline from theChicago Tribuneabout a bizarre string of local blood bank break-ins—and then started typing.
From: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
Subject: Your apartment listing
Hi,
I saw your ad on Craigslist looking for a roommate. My lease is up soon and your place sounds perfect. I’m a 32-year-old art teacher and have lived in Chicago for ten years. I’m a nonsmoker, no pets. You said in your ad that you aren’t home much at night. As for me, I’m almost never home during the day, so this arrangement would work out well for both of us, I think.
I’m guessing you’ve gotten a lot of inquiries about your apartment given the location, price, and everything else. But just in case the room is still available, I’ve included a list of references. I hope to hear from you soon.
Cassie Greenberg
A pang of guilt shot through me over how much I’d fudged some of the important details.
For one thing, I’d just told this complete stranger that I was an art teacher.Technically, that was the truth. It’s what I’d studied to be in college, and it isn’t that I didn’twantto teach. But in my junior year of college I fell in love with applied arts and design beyond all hope of reason, and then in my senior year I took a course where we studied Robert Rauschenberg and his method of combining paintings with sculpture work. And that was it for me. Immediately after graduation I threw myself into an MFA in applied arts and design.
I loved every second of it.
Until, of course, I graduated. That’s when I learned, in a hurry, that my artistic vision and my skill set were too niche to appeal to most school districts hiring art teachers. University art departments were more open-minded, but getting anything more stable than a temporary adjunct position at a university was like winning the lottery. I sometimes made extra cash at art shows when someone who, like me, saw a kind of ironic beauty in rusted-out Coke cans worked into seaside landscapes and bought one of my pieces. But that didn’t happen often. So yes: while technically I was an art teacher, most of my income since getting my MFA had come from low-paying, part-time jobs like this one.
None of this made me sound like an appealing potential tenant. Neither did the fact that myreferencesweren’t former landlords—none of whom would have good things to say about me—but just Sam, Scott, and my mom. Even if I was a disappointment to my parents, they wouldn’t want their only child to become homeless.
After a few moments of angsting about it, I decided it didn’t matter if I’d told a few white lies. I closed my eyes and hitsend. What was the worst that could happen? This person—a perfect stranger—would find out I’d stretched the truth and wouldn’t let me move in?
I wasn’t sure I wanted the apartment anyway.
I had less than ten minutes to worry about it before I got a reply.
From: Frederick J. Fitzwilliam [[email protected]]
To: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
Subject: Your apartment listing
Dear Miss Greenberg,
Thank you for your kind message expressing interest in my extra room. As mentioned in the advertisementthe room is appointed in a modern but tasteful style. I believe, and have been told by others, that it is also quite spacious insofar as spare rooms are concerned. To answer your unasked question: the room remains entirely available, should you remain interested in it. Do let me know at your earliest convenience whether you would like to move in and I will have the necessary paperwork drawn up for your signature.
Yours in good health,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
I stared at that name at the end of the email.
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam?
What kind of name was that?
I read the email again, trying to make sense of it as Marcie pulled out her phone for her daily Facebook scrolling.
So, the person listing the apartment was a guy. Or, at least, someone with a traditionally male name. That didn’t faze me. If I moved in with him, Frederick wouldn’t be the first guy I’d lived with since moving out of my parents’ house.
