On the Couch

by John Schoenkopf

So, technically, I am homeless.

I had been renting an awesome room in an awesome house with really great roommates and friendly neighbors. It was awesomely located in kick-ass Santa Monica and everything was rad, until I fell a month behind on the rent and got everyone kicked out.

Oops. Sorry!

Really, though, I am. My loserish ways shouldn’t permeate the lives of those who actually work and pay bills, but they sometimes do. The magnitude of my slacking should not be underestimated.

So, my pared-down possessions are underneath my sister’s staircase and I’m couching it whilst I search for some new digs. The loves of my life, my gorgeous and talented girlfriend Lisi and our insanely cute dog Mabel (whom we found as a homeless and dehydrated puppy in the grasslands of eastern New Mexico last September on a cross-country road trip) are on a month-to-month lease, so we’ve been looking for a place for the three of us.

I have no special needs. I can adapt to whatevaz. I’d be fine in Bangladesh. Well, maybe I’d be hungry and the monsoons would suck, but I’d be fine nonetheless. Every single place we’ve looked at, I’ve been ready to jump on. Even the fatally flawed ones: no kitchen? We’ll eat out! It’s a studio, even though the ad says it’s a one-bedroom? That just means there’s more closeness for us to love each other in!

Lisi and the dog have a more discriminating palate, however. My girlfriend wants a kitchen. What’s the point of her man being a brilliant stoner chef if she can’t eat the rewards? She also wants a bedroom, and rejects the notion of a studio or bachelor summarily. Our bed, she insists, is not our couch when friends come over. And she wants to be reasonably close to her work in Hermosa Beach. Right now she’s commuting from North Hollywood every day, and is fully dependent on cooperation from the 405 South in not being late.

After John and Lisi found the perfect apartment with
the perfect kitchen, Mabel had some friends over.

As for the dog, she just wants a yard to pee in. I agree on that one. I’ve never been a fan of dogs living in apartments. It just seems kinda cruel. So, to recap, we’re in the market for a one-bedroom house or duplex somewhat proximate to the South Bay. The will be no yurt in the High Sierras for moi.

We wanted to be in Hermosa, or Redondo, or maybe even San Pedro. But as a one-income household (hers), we quickly realized we weren’t going to be living in the first two, and could afford a place in only the sketchiest part of the third city on our list (if you aren’t familiar with it, San Pedro has some pretty damn sketchy neighborhoods south of Gaffey).

I grew up in Hermosa Beach (relatively) poor with a single mom. I am intimately aware of the median level of wealth its people enjoy. But way back then, all of seven years ago, there was still a smattering of not-rich folk who lived there. There were ugly bungalows still scattered around town and back houses in alleyways that were within financial reach for people who didn’t go to USC and don’t drive GMC Yukons.

our well-used ugly,
oversized house photo

There used to be a place for people like me in Hermosa. Not any longer. All ugly bungalows have been razed, clearing the way for even uglier giant, three-story homes built to within inches of the lot perimeter. I’ve been squeezed out of my hometown. I guess I had to make way for some damn fresh out of college Trojan.

Redondo, it turns out, is probably a bit out of our range too; a humbling thought for someone who was reared one town to the north and had always instinctively considered himself superior.

So we turned our focus towards San Pedro, the dirty little punk rock town right on the cliffs above the L.A. harbor. My mom moved there when I graduated high school, and in my visits to see her, I’d come to really appreciate its uniqueness. There’s way more character there than Redondo, and it’s way cheaper than Hermosa. It’s probably the only city I know whose citizens are about one third black, one third white, and one third Latino.

The thing about it is, there are two San Pedros: above Gaffey Street and below it. My mom’s old place, and thus my whole experience with the city, were above. Cool ocean breezes and kids riding bikes. As it stands, most of the places we can afford are below Gaffey. Gangbangers milling about and stray cats. Ah, the dichotomy. I personally like gangbangers (I’m allergic to cats, however), but Lisi understandably isn’t all that into it.

So we continue to look. The world is imperfect. But by being patient, and not accepting mediocrity, we just might find an anomalous situation: one that actually meets our criteria.

And when that happens, my sister’s couch will be able to breathe a little easier.

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