One Bedroom. One Bath.
Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden (1530) by Lucas Cranach the Elder
By Charlie Shoup
Adam and Eve crossed the Los Angeles landscape for the third time that day. The dust-covered Honda Fit diverted half its power to the air conditioner, pumping out a tepid breeze which smelled of plastic. Meanwhile, its tiny wheels scrambled on the 170 freeway. All around them, the Jack-in-the-Boxes, Fallas Discount Department Stores, and T-Mobiles seemed to daoistically melt into the concrete landscape.
“Adam! Directions!” Screamed Eve, hunched over the steering wheel. Adam sat up, skin unsticking from the vinyl. They had been meaning to buy some proper clothes but each Fallas Discount Department Store had thrown them out for lack of clothing. Yes, we know! Adam would yell. That’s why we are here! Then a large Salvadorian man would walk them out to the parking lot, occasionally stuffing a fist in Adam’s face.
“That’s the exit,” Adam said, lifting himself from a nap to utter the three words. Eve screamed as she slid the little Honda across five lanes, earning her the honks and fingers of her soon-to-be fellow Angelenos.
“Just get the next one, babe,” Adam said, returning to his nap.
“No! We’re already late and this is the last place we can afford,” she declared. All the listings, all the numbers, and all the street names sizzled and scattered across her brain. 342, 2489, 2094, Drew Street, Ross Street, Virgil Avenue. The numbers and letters were engulfed in orgy, leaving Eve’s mind fragile.
They arrived at 15239 Vose Street as confirmed by the Zillow listing on Eve’s phone. They stepped from the car and as their bare toes touched the ground, heat seared their soles. They danced their painful dance across the hot pavement as if arriving at the beach in the middle of August. But they were not at the beach or any place fun or interesting. They were in Van Nuys, California.
“Isn’t this place far from my improv classes?”
“Weren’t you kicked out?”
“Well, when they lift the ban, I don’t want to you driving me an hour each way.”
“That’s very considerate you,” Eve said through a twitching smile.
So they crossed over into the stained stucco world and arrived at apartment 2B. And behind the door to apartment 2B was Monica Guzman. Chatting on the phone, her cheek grew sweaty from the hot screen while she paced all four hundred and twenty five square feet of the unit. Through the cheap, crinkly blinds she spotted a couple draped in vines. “Finally,” She said. “They’re here. I have to go.”
The door timidly opened as Eve led the way. Monica greeted the naked couple and stuffed a hastily stapled application in Eve’s hands. “Hi, you must be Eve and Adam.”
“It sounds weird in that order,” Adam said, brazenly entering and sizing up the apartment.
“Adam! Where are your manners?” Eve chuckled. “It’s so nice to meet you...” Eve waited and waited for Monica to finish the sentence.
“Oh. Me? Monica.”
“Wow! What a lovely name. Did you hear that, Adam? Monica.” In introductions of high stakes, Eve would often default to exuberance and utter astonishment. Names became Nobel prize-worthy accomplishments. “Such a gorgeous name, Monica.”
“Thank you,” Monica said, although it came out as a question.
The apartment itself contained all the colors of the off-white rainbow: egg shell, dusty beige, and dirty vanilla. While the building had been erected forty years ago, it wasn’t vintage or retro. Just old. Vaguely gesturing at the unit’s fixtures, Monica regurgitated her script, “The unit is a one bedroom, one bath. Water is included—”
“Hey hey!” Adam shouted excitedly. “You hear that, babe? Water’s included. You can do all the gardening you want! Won’t have to run it by anyone.”
Eve turned to Monica, feeling the need for explanation. “You see, our last place wasn’t very flexible with the landscaping.”
“Past residences. That’s a great place to start,” Monica said, snatching back the application. “Any evictions?”
“Well,” Adam began, “There was this slight misunderstanding involving produce. But long story short—”
“No!” Eve shrieked accompanied by the uncomfortable echo exclusive to empty apartments. “No, no, no. Neither of us. No. Never have. Never will! Evicted? What’s that mean? I don’t know because it’s never happened!”
“Okay,” Monica said, unconvinced. “Let’s move on. What are your last names?”
“Our last what?” Eve asked.
“You see, we never got one of those,” Adam added.
“Do you have jobs?”
“How would you define jobs?” Adam asked.
“A place that pays you.”
“Then no.”
“Right,” Monica said with a heavy sigh. “I have to be honest. The only chance you have is if there’s a cosigner.”
Eve bit her lip and turned to Adam who rummaged through the kitchen’s plywood cabinets. His face lit up as he came across an old box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
“Adam,” Eve said softly, having to break him from his discovery. “We need a cosigner and I was thinking, what if we asked your dad?”
Adam dropped the cereal to the ground, dusting the linoleum with clumps of brown sugar.
“Eve. Absolutely not. You know what he’s like!”
“Listen. It’s our only shot. Don’t you want to move in together?”
“Me? Yes. Him?” His voice trailed off.
“Are you saying he doesn’t like me?”
“I wouldn’t say he approves. But don’t worry, babe. If this place says no, you’ll find another spot. You’re great like that.”
The little circuits in Eve’s mind sparked and crackled. Like the bullets in trench warfare, numbers, words, and names shot across her mind. 2972, Windsor Avenue, 845, Gary, Euclid Street, 2343, Linda, Monica, Monica, Monica.
“Monica!” She screamed.
Too frightened to speak, Monica clutched the application.
“I can’t do it any more,” Eve said. “I refuse look at one more ugly apartment, I refuse talk to one more Monica, and I refuse to smell cheap paint one more time. I don’t want to hear about parking spaces, laundry rooms, water bills, credit checks, and pet deposits. Can we just have the goddamn apartment?”
Atop the asphalt of the 405 freeway and underneath the purpling sky, the Honda Fit puttered off into the horizon.
Charlie Shoup is a writer living in Los Angeles. Having written for DreamWorks Animation and performed at the Comedy Store, he believes storytelling is the best medicine (unless you need actual medicine, then definitely get that). He spends his down time taking motorcycles apart and occasionally putting them back together.
