About a month or so ago I was tearing my hair out over a water leak in my house, and the City of Elmhurst was charging us out the ass on the bill. I finally figured it out and got a plumber to look at it. He replaced a pump and flapper in the upstairs toilet and advised that I would need to change my toilet handle out, which he could do for an extra two hundred. I didn't have the money, so he told me how to do it myself. I went to the hardware store, got what I needed and went to work.
I promptly cracked the porcelain of the tank, and a giant chip fell out of it. I thought, of course I fucked it up. This is fucking great. Now what? And then I saw that the crack, a hairline, went all the way to the bottom of the tank, and water leaked out from under there onto the floor.
I had some Flextape left over from another goddam crisis and put it over the long crack. It did not work as advertised and continued to drip. I realized then that I had to stop the tank from filling up again and put a bucket under the leak.
Except when I turned the knob to turn off the water to the toilet, it didn't work. So I now I had to get creative. I flushed the toilet, emptied the tank, and pulled back on the lever at the top of the pump, stopping any water from flowing in. Then I used a wrench to hold that lever up and braced it against the edge of the tank. The water stopped flowing.
As I worked to get the plumber back out, my brother arrived home and notified me of a letter taped to our door. He thought our time was finally up, and I had a suspicion he was right. We read it to discover that the house that we'd both grown up in was going to be sold at auction at the DuPage County courthouse on March 27. As of that date, anything in the house will now belong to the new owners, specifically the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, for the wondrous grand total of $231,772.15.
My grandparents got a reverse mortgage on the house to survive, but the deal was, when they died, the house would go to the bank. Gramps passed in 2017, Grandma in 2022. We managed to stay in that house since then. We could have bought the house back for ourselves, but that would require having that money mentioned in the previous paragraph. I am certain I will never see that much money in one place in my entire life, so that was out of the question. We were kind of hoping that the bank had forgotten about us, and that we could live there rent free indefinitely while we saved enough money to get out. Except my mystery illness returned and hit so hard that I lost my life savings to it.
So I found myself facing the prospect of homelessness, but the foremost thought in my head was, "Fuck the toilet. It's not my problem anymore."
A lot of stuff isn't my problem anymore. The shower was falling apart. So many tiles had fallen down that we had a plastic trash bag over where they used to go. Many tiles were duct taped in place. Speaking of the shower, the ceiling just under it was so water damaged that every time I stepped into the shower and heard a crack, I thought I was going to go through the floor. There are so many electrical issues in that house. Heat and AC kind of suck. Honestly, if the Secretary paid that much? They overpaid by at least five figures.
That's my solace. If the new owners planned to rent that place to someone else while they waited for the City of Elmhurst to clear out everyone else in the townhouses (so they can be torn down to build new McMansions), then they're shit out of luck, or SOL, as Gramps used to say. The only money they will ever make off that property is when they tear it down, build something new and hand it off to the next sucker who wants to live in Elmhurst at exorbitant prices.
My brother went his own way, but I spent the month desperately trying to find an apartment for myself. In that time I discovered that the only place I can really afford to live around here is Dekalb, and that's a hike for my morning commute, which is currently three minutes. I took a test drive out there to see some apartments, and I discovered that when it's not rush hour, it takes 45 minutes.
But the biggest thing I learned is that it doesn't matter how much money you have. If your credit score is in the toilet, then you won't find a place to live. Which is fucking stupid. Imagine me having a ton of money, and you not taking any of it in exchange for an apartment. I called in everything I've got pending and made use of any and all refinancing options available to me, so I was able to come up with a significant amount of money. But no one cares because my credit score sucks.
It was OK when I started this nightmare. Not great but barely good enough. Then all these landlords started running their checks, and guess what happened. Yeah, my score got worse and worse until it actually *is* bad now.
I didn't want to live in a room in someone's house. That's not a life. There was an option for a room in a house, but it was more like a boarding house instead of a regular house. But I didn't really want to go there because it reminded me too much of the room I stayed in when I was in detox. I'm still trying to find a place, but for the time being I'm living in a hotel. I'm not a fan of this. This does not feel like home. It feels like I'm on a vacation now, and I can't wait to get home. Except I don't have a home anymore.
So yeah, I've gone around the bend quite a bit since the last time we've had a chat. It's not fun being me. But at least I'm not a frantic mess moving all of my belongings to a hotel or Public Storage. I can relax at least a little bit for now. Because I royally fucked up my back doing that. I'm back to painkillers every morning and every night. To say nothing of my bad foot. I have two holes in it, and the wound care docs recently told me that you can see bone through one of them.
But my favorite thing to do in hotel rooms is to drink. Booze has been screaming in my face ever since I moved into the hotel. I long for it. I even lust for it. I'm pretty sure I'm going to drink if I don't find an actual place soon. I've already discovered that it's a hassle to put your pants back on, especially if you wear a brace on your leg, so you can go back out and smoke more weed. You know what's *not* a hassle? Filling a glass with ice and whiskey. That's pretty easy, and it's looking all the more appetizing every day.
But we'll discuss booze a little more some other night. Maybe tomorrow I'll describe my first night here. Although I have gone back to my house a few times. I was there earlier today to pick a few things up for my brother when I saw some stuff I almost left behind. It was weird being in there again, like walking into a tomb that had just been sealed with a new resident, and I wanted to stay so badly it hurt, but I knew I was technically trespassing, so I didn't stick around all that long.
Some of you might be aware of my attempt to save my mom's beloved piano. I lost that struggle. I had to leave it behind. But I did not leave my mom behind. So yes, I have a roommate of sorts. Mom's urn is on one of the shelves in this room.
I also found myself saying goodbye to my grandparents, as if they were ghosts. Gramps actually did die in my living room. My *old* living room. He'd left behind one half-smoked cigar, so I took it down from on top of the fridge and put it down on the floor where his hospital bed had been, where he'd died. Right where his heart would have been.
It irks me that they're going to tear down that building, forever taking away the place where Gramps died.
I think I've left that place for the final time, now. This hotel will never feel like home, but I'm going to make the best of it for the time being. I got some good news over the weekend about a possible place to live. Nothing's certain yet, but I hope it comes to pass. The one thing is, I can't live in this hotel for very long. One month is a breeze. Two would be difficult. Three might be impossible.
If you live in the Chicago area, and you have a good line on an inexpensive apartment where no one cares about a credit score, let me know.
