The concept of picking up and starting over is one of those American notions like baseball and apple pie.
This is not one of those stories. By definition, I didn’t do that. When I moved to my apartment on Second Street near Redondo Avenue, I had no new job or started out alone in the world. I, especially, did not have to make a new set of friends.
My life was the same in almost every sense except I had to find a new center. Months after the only relationship I had been in ended, I had been able to get on with my life.
This apartment was the first step since it represented a new starting point for my day.
The only real truth about me living the American idea of starting over was that I had no real possessions with me except for a laptop, clothes and stuff. I had no furniture, hardly any type of kitchen ware and no television.
I was fortunate to have a roommate who had all this and was willing to share. I had a bed, dresser and a place to start again.
And it did just that. This white apartment building was a crutch to help me until I got my life in a new order.
So when I got the eviction notice, just after four years and a few weeks after I moved in, it was hard. This place was my shelter through many tough times.
Alas, I have to go. It’s the law after all.
I’ll never forget what this apartment gave me, however.
Goodbye, for the last time, from apartment #1.
