My predicament was this: I had a new object of my affection (San Francisco) and wanted to stay with this new love as long as I could. However we were having financial issues, and unless we got some money together and worked out our differences we weren't going to be able to continue this accelerated love affair.
If I say the word "house boy", what do you think of? Does it conjure up images of a lecherous old man, a young buff piece of eye candy and domestic tasks which require a lot of picking things up off the floor, preferably in arse-hugging pants, or none at all? Which is why, when I saw the following ad in a small gay media publication:
Couple seeks houseperson to do renovations and some light housework. In return you would get a furnished one-bedroom apartment and a small stipend.
I was slightly relieved to read this at the bottom, in bolder, more obvious letters:
We are NOT looking for a sex exchange
I read the ad, and immediately recognised this as something that I absolutely had to apply for. It meant that I would be able to stay in San Francisco for much longer than I had originally thought. The city was already feeling like home, and at this stage I was sleeping on couches and floors of anyone who would let me. Now I could have my own place, get some cash, and I wouldn't even have to sleep with anybody! Was there a better deal than that?
Composing my email to my potential employers very carefully, I had this objective in mind: sell yourself. I knew I had to convey the fact that the job was right for me, and that I knew that, and that they were stupid if they did not see it. I sent it and hoped that this would be another one of those "land on my feet situations" that I had so often experienced travelling around the world.
A few days and then a week went by.I forgot about the ad. I laughed. I drank margaritas. I rode my bike downhill with no helmet and listened to my ipod (dangerous yet liberating). I had coffee and read the New York Times. I met captivating and fascinating people. I lay in parks in the sun. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, time was measured not by how long it was until something happened, or something ended, or something began, or how much time remained. Instead, it was a period which had had no definitive end nor beginning, it just was that particular moment and I was living in it and loving it.
So when I opened my email one morning, and saw a response from my potential employers asking if I was still interested and did I want to meet up to discuss the job further, I was jolted back into the time approximately two weeks prior, when I had my sights set on a job and some kind of regimented life. Did I really want that again after two weeks of living on what, as someone who worked Monday to Friday, would call "weekend euphoria"?
I didn't, but I did want an apartment, some money to live off, and the chance to continue living in this forward-thinking, anything-goes city. So I replied immediately, saying yes, I was definitely still interested and that they could call me any time.
Now I must advise you here that I was being rather cautious about the whole thing- I'd heard the stories of "the craigslist killer", and I'm aware of the dangers of meeting strangers off the Internet. Which is why my fears were somewhat placated when Mike suggested we meet at Peet's coffeehouse in SoMa, a few blocks from where I was staying.
On first impressions, Mike was a serious-sounding but young-looking man in his early 50s with a soft California accent and crows' feet from working most of his life outdoors. I learnt that I was the only candidate for the job, and because of the nature of the work and the conditions, a lot of homeless kids and transients had applied for the job. Sweet! Here was my chance to show him he didn't NEED to see anyone else- I was the fine piece of ass he was looking for! The picture on the left shows the outfit I wore to the interview, which I think really increased my chances of getting the job,
I sensed Mike was scoping me out, indirectly probing into my life and reasons for being here. I even got the impression that he may have suspected I was a travelling itinerant, with no family, contacts or ties. Couldn't he see that my generation-Y clothes were of the highest quality? What homeless person do you know who wears Nudie jeans and fabulous sunglasses?
The meeting went well, and we parted ways with a future appointment to meet the other half of the couple, Richard, who Mike promised me was "more fun" than he was.
I mulled over the situation. Work approximately 32 hours a week, doing some housework, renovation and light construction and in return I would get a fully furnished one bedroom apartment plus a stipend of $200 a week. This all seemed as if an angel (and I'm talking a costumed, gay pride-style angel here) had delivered this to me on a sequined platter.
I was invited to their house, in an area of San Francisco where all the gay angels congregate on the weekend to parade their sparkles and strut their stuff. For a second opinion, company and mostly protection, I took the discerning and astute Ms Grace Li, long a lover of checking out strangers' homes. The drive over took us into the higher points of San Francisco, and with every ascent the view got better and, as is the trend in the city famous for its hills, the homes more opulent. We pull up in front of a flat facade fairly uniform building. Decorated simply but tastefully, I can already see myself living on this street, where a break in the groomed homes gives way to far-reaching views to the east.
One half of the couple greets us at the door and we go up a few flights of stairs to the top floor.
Ted Bundy's or Mother Teresa's successor? Will they throw me from the wrap-around top floor sun deck, never to be heard of again? Or perhaps they will offer me an opportunity to stay in this liberal melting pot?
If I say the word "house boy", what do you think of? Does it conjure up images of a lecherous old man, a young buff piece of eye candy and domestic tasks which require a lot of picking things up off the floor, preferably in arse-hugging pants, or none at all? Which is why, when I saw the following ad in a small gay media publication:
Couple seeks houseperson to do renovations and some light housework. In return you would get a furnished one-bedroom apartment and a small stipend.
I was slightly relieved to read this at the bottom, in bolder, more obvious letters:
We are NOT looking for a sex exchange
I read the ad, and immediately recognised this as something that I absolutely had to apply for. It meant that I would be able to stay in San Francisco for much longer than I had originally thought. The city was already feeling like home, and at this stage I was sleeping on couches and floors of anyone who would let me. Now I could have my own place, get some cash, and I wouldn't even have to sleep with anybody! Was there a better deal than that?
Composing my email to my potential employers very carefully, I had this objective in mind: sell yourself. I knew I had to convey the fact that the job was right for me, and that I knew that, and that they were stupid if they did not see it. I sent it and hoped that this would be another one of those "land on my feet situations" that I had so often experienced travelling around the world.
A few days and then a week went by.I forgot about the ad. I laughed. I drank margaritas. I rode my bike downhill with no helmet and listened to my ipod (dangerous yet liberating). I had coffee and read the New York Times. I met captivating and fascinating people. I lay in parks in the sun. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, time was measured not by how long it was until something happened, or something ended, or something began, or how much time remained. Instead, it was a period which had had no definitive end nor beginning, it just was that particular moment and I was living in it and loving it.
So when I opened my email one morning, and saw a response from my potential employers asking if I was still interested and did I want to meet up to discuss the job further, I was jolted back into the time approximately two weeks prior, when I had my sights set on a job and some kind of regimented life. Did I really want that again after two weeks of living on what, as someone who worked Monday to Friday, would call "weekend euphoria"?
I didn't, but I did want an apartment, some money to live off, and the chance to continue living in this forward-thinking, anything-goes city. So I replied immediately, saying yes, I was definitely still interested and that they could call me any time.
Now I must advise you here that I was being rather cautious about the whole thing- I'd heard the stories of "the craigslist killer", and I'm aware of the dangers of meeting strangers off the Internet. Which is why my fears were somewhat placated when Mike suggested we meet at Peet's coffeehouse in SoMa, a few blocks from where I was staying.
On first impressions, Mike was a serious-sounding but young-looking man in his early 50s with a soft California accent and crows' feet from working most of his life outdoors. I learnt that I was the only candidate for the job, and because of the nature of the work and the conditions, a lot of homeless kids and transients had applied for the job. Sweet! Here was my chance to show him he didn't NEED to see anyone else- I was the fine piece of ass he was looking for! The picture on the left shows the outfit I wore to the interview, which I think really increased my chances of getting the job,
I sensed Mike was scoping me out, indirectly probing into my life and reasons for being here. I even got the impression that he may have suspected I was a travelling itinerant, with no family, contacts or ties. Couldn't he see that my generation-Y clothes were of the highest quality? What homeless person do you know who wears Nudie jeans and fabulous sunglasses?
The meeting went well, and we parted ways with a future appointment to meet the other half of the couple, Richard, who Mike promised me was "more fun" than he was.
I mulled over the situation. Work approximately 32 hours a week, doing some housework, renovation and light construction and in return I would get a fully furnished one bedroom apartment plus a stipend of $200 a week. This all seemed as if an angel (and I'm talking a costumed, gay pride-style angel here) had delivered this to me on a sequined platter.
I was invited to their house, in an area of San Francisco where all the gay angels congregate on the weekend to parade their sparkles and strut their stuff. For a second opinion, company and mostly protection, I took the discerning and astute Ms Grace Li, long a lover of checking out strangers' homes. The drive over took us into the higher points of San Francisco, and with every ascent the view got better and, as is the trend in the city famous for its hills, the homes more opulent. We pull up in front of a flat facade fairly uniform building. Decorated simply but tastefully, I can already see myself living on this street, where a break in the groomed homes gives way to far-reaching views to the east.
One half of the couple greets us at the door and we go up a few flights of stairs to the top floor.
Ted Bundy's or Mother Teresa's successor? Will they throw me from the wrap-around top floor sun deck, never to be heard of again? Or perhaps they will offer me an opportunity to stay in this liberal melting pot?
No comments:
Post a Comment