Having spent a little more than a month in the lovely city
of Everett, I can say with absolute confidence that it lives up to its sterling
reputation as a complete shithole populated by ignorant thugs. That “other side of the train tracks” metaphor- which is such a cliche expression - fully applies in this circumstance; the people are loud and rude, wander around drunk at all hours, litter (we'll get to that in a bit) and generally demonstrate why no one willingly comes to this part of town.
It hasn’t been a pleasant month. I wish I could say
otherwise, but Everett refuses to let me; every attempted utterance is
interrupted by a slew of ghetto fuckers doing everything in their power to ruin
my good mood. Case in point:
My bike was stolen. Not even a
month living here, and my shit gets jacked by some lowlife hooligan. The person
or persons climbed up to my porch, cut the lock, and rode away with my bike, in
broad daylight. I can honestly admit that when I exited my apartment and found
not my bike, but the neatly severed wire lock, I wasn’t surprised in the least.
Infuriated? Oh my, yes. There are no words that can express how angry I was. Oh wait, actually, there are two.
But surprised? No, not in the least.
I’ve lived in some ghetto places in my day; as bad as
Everett is, it has nothing on Kansas City, Mo. Compared to that slice of
rotting Hell, Everett is a pleasant vacation spot. That doesn’t change the fact
that I HATE this place. I hate it the way the Sith hate the Jedi, and I would not be averse to the Empire pulling an Alderaan on this festering heap.
To give you an example of why the majority of Everett
residents should have been aborted, let me tell you about the 4th of
July. As you know, Independence Day is celebrated with fireworks. The night
skies are filled with a dazzling display of colors. And that’s all good. I like
blowing shit up in the name of freedom as much as the next American. But what I don’t like is the mess afterwards.
Now, most communities have the common decency to clean up the smoking remnants
of their freedom bombs after they finish detonating them.
Everett apparently feels that freedom means they have the
right to leave their mess wherever the fuck they like, and to hell with what
anyone else thinks. I came home from work and was greeted with this:
This sort of repulsive disregard even now brings up that
Hulk-like rage I mentioned earlier.
Ahem. So, bikes.
My older brother, being the most generous and emphatic of my siblings, allowed me to
borrow his bike until I could afford one of my own. Of course, having been
sequestered in some dark corner of his garage, it needed some tender loving care
from yours truly. Dusting off the cobwebs, it appeared that all it needed was
some new inner tubes and it would be up and running. Now, I have the mechanical
ability of a one-armed drunken rhesus monkey, but even I can change a bike tire.
Naturally, things weren’t that simple.
It turns out the back tire rim was severely warped in
several spots, and some portions of the rim had somehow broken off, creating
jagged areas which no doubt are the reason I needed to replace the inner tubes.
So a simple 10 minute procedure
transformed into an afternoons excursion as I walked the bike to the bus stop
and rode to a bike shop, where they could hopefully strengthen out the warped
portion of the wheel. And if all went well, I wouldn’t have to spend too much
money.
No such luck, on both accounts.
The entire back wheel was beyond repair and would need to be
replaced. I was tempted to say, “to hell with it, walking isn’t so bad!” But
that would be a lie. Walking everywhere sucks. It’s a slow mode of
transportation, and I value my time. So it was that I grumpily passed my debit
card to overly cheerful bike mechanic and bought a new wheel. A wheel which cost me $49.99 and reduced my
previously healthy checking account into a sickly, pitiful version of itself.
But hey, at least I have a bike again.
In other news, the roommate and I have managed to rid ourselves
of the mountainous piles of boxes that have made our apartment not simply cramped,
but perilous. Gone are the high walls and potential avalanches. Most of our
(her) stuff is neatly tucked away into a few storage units and out of the way
corners. We have enough room to move about and not run into one another, so
that’s good. But all is not well at the Circle K.
Apartment living doesn’t seem to be working well for any of
us. Tensions are high, and the roommate’s fuse, which has always been short, is
virtually nonexistent these days. I don’t think there’s been a single day since we’ve
moved that there hasn’t been some form of angry eruption; arguments, screaming rants at
the pets, and more. I’ve personally attempted to assume a Zen-like attitude, with mixed
success; my temper has ever been an issue with me, and so I’ve found my
restraint tested time and time again. And it’s been just one month! There’s
still 9 months left on our lease.
And the summer heat hasn’t been helping either. For whatever
reason, this apartment seems to produce heat at an alarming rate. I’m certain
that when the eventual Heat Death of Universe takes place, our smoldering apartment
shall still be here, smugly producing the heat of one thousand stars as the
rest of the physical universe comes to a frozen standstill.
 |
| An artist rendition of my apartment |
The Seattle region is in the midst of a weird anomaly. For
the past two weeks, it’s been nothing but clear, sunny skies and temps in the
mid-80’s to low 90’s. It’s freaking insane, and our apartment absorbs it all
and amplifies it.
The pets have also had a hard time with this change in
environment. Let’s go down the list:
Turo, the Labrador/Rottwaler mix, is having a hard time with
the cramped conditions. The poor boy gets bored easily, so he usually wanders
about. That was fine in our spacious townhouse, but not so much in this microscopic
hotbox. No matter where he moves, he’s always underfoot. He can’t catch a
break.
But on the plus side, he does get to go on five or six walks
a day. He hasn’t gone on so many adventures since he was a puppy, and it does
my heart good to see him bounce and prance around, chasing cats and squirrels
and acting half his age.
Khaleesi, the roommate’s cat, is not taking this move well.
She was raised in our old townhouse. Her earliest memories are of prowling
around that house, climbing on counters and bookshelves and peoples clothes. Now
those familiar environs have been replaced by this. She’s mopey and out of
sorts.
Amusingly, she’s currently at war with a mysterious cat that
inhabits the roommate’s bedroom. She can’t seem to figure out that this rival
cat is in fact her own reflection, produced by the built in mirrors on the
closet door. She’s spent hours hiding under the bed, only coming out to
growl at her reflection and then furiously attack it, to no avail.
Not so amusingly, Khaleesi has started spraying in the
roommate’s bedroom in an attempt to mark her territory against this unknown
invader. Naturally, we don’t approve of that sort of behavior. Khaleesi is becoming an outside cat, since she
can’t seem to adapt to these cramped living conditions.
My cat Kira is weathering the move better than the other
pets; she’s moved a time or two, and isn’t quite as bothered. Not that she
likes it; she spends the majority of her time camped out in my bedroom. I’m
told she only ever comes out to use the bathroom, or when I come home from work.
So, in summary, everything about this sucks, and I can’t
wait to leave. 9 more months…
Moto has handled his sixth move fairly well. Our roommates cats wander by him and he simply looks at them. He occasionally tangles with the big fat black one, Krishna, whom he's sent packing a time or two, but I think these days it's more because he's lounging outside my bedroom door (and next to said roomies door) when Krishna decides to come in and return to the bedroom for food or a cooler place to rest. I'm impressed with how Moto is handling the nightmare den, all in all.
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