I feel like “Moving Horror Stories” are to “Big City” as “twerking” is to Miley Cyrus. It doesn’t necessarily always happen, but it makes for a great tale later on. Before I relocated to Los Angeles, I had already lived in two “hub cities;” New York and Philadelphia. Therefore, I foolishly expected to be immune from the “L.A. Story.” There is a certain level of street smart acquired when inhabiting a big city, and I had my fair share of drama in New York City. To my surprise, I was being completely naïve because shit did go down. We weren’t swindled out of hundreds of dollars by a greedy landlord; nor were we forced to live in an illegal basement “apartment” (both of those were actual stories retold to me).
My first misstep was assuming my roommate and I would be able to secure a lease in six days. I arrived in Los Angeles on May 25th (a holiday weekend) and figured we would find something by May 31st. Nope. May 30, 2013 was spent on Airbnb looking for some semblance of temporary housing so we had a roof over our head. I was staying in a hotel in Culver City and my roommate was in a sublet in Long Beach; we needed to act quick. My roommate found a shared bedroom in a house (for $1,650) that we booked in desperation. I decided to ignore the fact that I paid $1,650 a month to live in a two-bedroom apartment in Queens, because it just wasn’t time to be picky. The listing looked fantastic: although we would have to share a bedroom with two single beds (and one bathroom with however many other guests came), it had “sweeping views of Downtown Los Angeles.”
I would refer to myself as well-traveled. I have had my fair share of connecting flight in the past, and my luck has always been excellent. I once missed a connecting flight in Atlanta back in 2007 because I misread the departure time, and had an extra-long weather delay in Dallas due to a Tornado Warning. But my flight has always departed. Until today.
I moved to Los Angeles this past May to become a Photographer. I transferred my “just-enough-money-to-break-even” hourly job to from the suburbs of Philadelphia to West Hollywood and spent 6 months working myself to death. Finally I quit. I made an executive decision rooted in my lack of energy and time to do anything with my camera, and also the fact that I was literally waking up at 3:30am every day and I am almost positive brain cells were killed in the process. So I did it. Never before in my life have I ever felt so completely terrified and excited at the same time.
Today was the first day of my new job. I was due into LAX at 12:16pm on United Flight 163 from Houston. The only snafu being that my luck completely fucking ran out. Winter Storm Hercules rolled in on the Eastern Seaboard last night, twelve hours before my flight from Philly left for Houston. I refuse to have my entire life put on hold until Sunday. Refuse.
Right now I sit at a table in the café of where I began my “just-enough-money-to-break-even” job (hint… rhymes with Farclucks) listening to two 8-year-olds chatting about their iPhones and touching upon the fact that “everything happens at the bus stop.”
So I begin this new year longing for the days that my biggest problem was “Shit… one of the closers called out.” Or better yet, the days where I would sit in front of the television on Long Island with my sister waiting to see if the impending snow storm would close the Bellmore-Merrick Central High School District and I could go to the mall with Christina and Marissa.
In short, I’ve waited long enough. I refuse to let the snow delay my new career path.