a happy ending.

I don't know about you guys, but I have a place to live.

I don't mean to gloat over the homeless or anything. Of course, if you live on the street, but have a computer and an internet connection, maybe your priorities just aren't in order.

The apartment search is officially over, as Wednesday night I signed my name to a six-page, very thorough lease that my new landlords, the Hartleys, had borrowed from a lawyer friend of theirs. Actually, I signed my name twice, once for each copy of the lease. I did read the whole thing, because that's what big girls who are going to live by themselves do. I agreed to pay my rent on time every month (or pay a 10% late fee), to report all problems immediately, to not use an inordinate amount of toilet paper, and to have "No Beer Keg Parties". Then I signed my name again, this time on a big fat check covering the security deposit and the first month's rent. It was a big day for my John Hancock.

The Hartleys are very nice people, very southern, traditional people. She's a retired school teacher and works now in the antique store downtown. He's a surveyor. Their son, who was my liaison for finding and seeing the property, is a contractor. The Hartleys are expecting a grandbaby soon. I know a lot about them, because like southerners, we sat around talked for an hour even though we came for a specific task and had never previously met.

I saw the ad in the paper about two weeks ago: 2 bedroom, dishwasher, $425 a month. That's a good deal. So I gave the number a call and made an appointment to see the place. Ashley and I followed the directions the day before to make sure I could find it, as it seemed a little out of the way. It was about ten minutes out of town, but the drive was gorgeous. The trees were starting to bloom, the grass was green, and the sky was as sky blue as a sky can be. Mother Nature wanted me to like this place.

We passed the farm, the Choose-n-Cut, the gun club. The reason people from around here measure distance in how long it takes to get there is because a number of miles won't tell you anything. It was four and a half miles from the last stoplight in Boone, but those curves slow you down. We pulled in the dirt road that ran alongside a tiny stream and into the driveway by a few big trees.

Admittedly, the house looks a little weather-beaten from the outside. The paint is peeling and the stairs creak, but those are things I can live with. I'll be on the inside most of the time anyway. It was a two-story duplex, and the top was the part being advertised. Of course it was locked, but we dared to peek in the windows, the multitude of windows that made our hearts pitter patter, hearts that had been living in a basement apartment for two years now.

The kitchen and living room were all we could see, but it was a lot to take in. The kitchen was wide and open, with tons of cabinets and counter-space, almost new appliances, an antique china cabinet and lovely new faucets. The living room had real carpet, not the stuff you find in high schools, other institutions, libraries, and basement apartments that our feet had been walking on for the the past two years. Glory be, I would have to get a vacuum cleaner! The ceiling was tilted up along with the slant of the roof, with a ceiling fan and a chandelier. The ceiling itself was like the inside of a log cabin, covered in finished boards. It was the first time I had been actually impressed with a place since I'd seen the apartments for poor people that I couldn't live in.

I had to bring some references to the meeting. Well, the ad in the paper had said they were required, though he had said they would be "helpful" on the phone. I'd never really made a list of references before, so I did the best I could. I typed it up all pretty, with my name and two phone numbers on it. I put down references for everything I could think of: personal references, employment, credit, rental (although I was a little hesitant on putting down my current landlord, as I'm not quite sure how he feels about me). I figured any other applicants were probably college students as well, and hoped I they would all just have a couple of smudgy phone numbers on a cocktail napkin if anything.

I was excited the next day when I arrived promptly at 1 pm for my appointment to see the inside. I tried really hard not to be too excited, as there might still be something wrong with the place. It was hard to stay calm. It was again a gorgeous day, and I drove with my windows down, singing as loud and as off-key as I could. It was hard not to feel good. I pulled into the driveway and sent a little woodchuck scampering off into the woods. I got out, took a seat on the truck of my car, and waited.

And waited.

Look, a cardinal.

Waited.

It sure is quiet out here. Nothing like in town.

Hmm, wonder where he is?

Guess I'll just sit on this stoop.

Hope he hasn't gotten into a car accident or anything.

Every pickup truck that passed by caused me to perk my head up and then slouch down again when it continued without stopping. Somehow, I just knew he was a pickup truck kind of guy. Several cars passed, and every single person waved at me. I wanted to be their new neighbor; they all seemed so nice. But no one stopped.

To demonstrate how badly I wanted to see the inside of this place, I waited an hour. I called his cell phone three times (noting that I did get limited cell phone reception out here) and left three very friendly, but confused messages. I still didn't want to get on his bad side. I took one last look through the window and headed back to town, deflated. I turned the radio up loud and tried to sing to improve my mood, but I just wasn't in the mood anymore. I thought of the different reasons he might not have shown. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he had seen me peeking through the window yesterday and decided I was too crazy to live there. Maybe he had already found a renter and was blowing me off.

I decided to just forget about it, and then promptly did not. I thought about it all the next week, until Thursday when I decided, just for kicks, to see if the ad was still in the paper. It was. Dare I call?

Oh yeah. I dare.

He apologized up and down. He had forgotten and said he had lost my number. That was crap, because I left my cell phone number on each of the three messages I had left for him in the hour I sat outside the apartment I could see but could not have. Whatever, just let me inside! We made yet another appointment, this time in just a few hours. I figured he wouldn't have time to forget. I even skipped class.

The drive was becoming familiar now, and I rejoiced as I saw a heavy-duty red pickup pull into one of the parking spaces next to the house. We shook hands and again he apologized. For a cheap two bedroom, I decided I could forgive him. Maybe now I had some leverage.

Inside, the kitchen and living area were just as nice as I had hoped. The two little bedrooms were very odd. They were perfectly square and had no closets. One of them was directly connected to the bathroom, which after sharing a bathroom with two or three other people, was delightful. They were odd, but clean and nice and nothing I couldn't handle. And if they were a little small, it didn't matter. After all, I had two of them. The only downside I saw was the shower. It was a stall, and I'm a fan of the bathtub. I had already rejected several places with shower stalls because the rest of the apartment hadn't been nice enough to make up for it. This one was.

I asked a few basic questions about utilities, if the roads were scraped, etc., etc., and so forth. I told him I was very impressed, but hadn't decided officially quite yet. I'm not big on making big decisions. I like to hesitate a while. I was as decided to live here as I was going to be until I was forced to decide. I gave him my references (he looked impressed), assured him that I had a job (thank goodness for the computer lab!), and said that my parents would be willing to co-sign the lease if that would make them feel more comfortable. He said he'd check on my references, which I doubted. I wouldn't put them down if I didn't think they would have good things to say. He just needed to know that there existed people who would say nice things about me without payment.

I was actually looking at ads for other places when he called the next day. I didn't want to snatch this place up too hastily, as if looking at apartments for the past four months would have been hasty. He said he'd had a lot of calls and wanted to know if I had decided. I thought he might be exaggerating on the number of calls, but I wanted the place anyway and signed myself up.

I've wanted to write this out so many times in the past week, but since the story didn't really end until Wednesday night, I waited. Last night I signed the lease, and last night the story was given a happy ending. I talked to the Hartleys for a long time about the price of progress and how good blueberries taste off the bushes, just because we're nice southern people and that's what we do.

And now I can write no more entries about apartment searching. It really was excellent literary fodder, and I didn't even write about half the weird stuff I could have written about. Despite my loss of quick and easy inspiration, I'm glad it's over, that I don't have to worry about having a place to live anymore. Not that I would have been out on the street, lugging around a futon and a desktop computer, but I would have faced a fate far worse than that.

Moving back into my parents' house.