Mickey - The View From Here PART TWO - Gallavich

The Policy

On my reluctant trip back to the West Side, I had every intention of telling Ian this apartment wasn’t going to work for me, that we needed to figure something else out because I refused to live like this. I hated how clean everything was, how chipper and friendly everyone was, how people smiled at me and expected a smile in return. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t like feeling so strange, so out of place and uncomfortable in what should have been my new home, like this place was a puzzle to which I wasn’t meant to be a piece. I'd never feel at home here. I would never be comfortable here. I would never feel safe here. I just hoped Ian would understand.

Today would be a day packed with obligation and uncomfortable conversation. I was running out of clean clothes and I needed to figure out when our furniture would be arriving. The only other time I had moved somewhere, the furniture was already placed in a pleasing layout, each item carefully curated by my ex, who had set everything up for me. Although I knew this was different, Russ wasn’t here to buy and design everything, I did assume we had rented a furnished apartment. After all, the mattress Ian was in love with had been waiting for us in its plastic coverings when we moved in. It was safe to assume the rest would arrive today.

Ian was already dressed when I got home, unpacking. When he asked where I had been, I told a half-truth in saying I woke up early and took a walk. He just seemed so…at ease. I couldn’t ruin it, not now at least.

I grabbed a garbage bag that was filled with dirty clothes and tossed it on the bed to sort through.

“I slept great last night,” Ian told me. “You?”

Glancing at the bedroom window, I pointed out, “the moon's really fuckin' bright over here.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the same everywhere.”

“I…guess so,” I said, dejected. Was it too much to hope that Ian would have hated it here as much as I did?

“Wanna check out the amenities in this place?”

“I’m gonna get some laundry done,” I told him, rejecting the invitation.

“Sure you don’t wanna hit up the gym…go for a little dip in the pool after?” he pushed playfully, a wide smirk on his face.

“No,” I replied, my lack of energy obvious in my tone. “I wanna check to see when our furniture’s gettin' here.”

Ian tried to maintain his smirk despite his disappointment that I wouldn’t go out and play with him. “Meet up after, then.”

“Yeah, sure,” I agreed, opting to have that difficult onversation later tonight. I tried to not sound so depressed when I said, “not goin' anywhere.”

Ian's handsome face lit back up. “Okay. Yeah, good,” he said before he came in for a kiss. Pulling back only to look me in the eye, Ian confessed, “I’m glad we rented this place.”

Nodding and smiling, I thought to myself, fuck. He’s happy. I can’t take that from him.

 ...

It was brighter here in the daytime as well as night, the sun bouncing off the pristine white and glass buildings throughout the neighborhood, intensifying to a blinding degree.

Assessing our bedroom window with determination, I grabbed one of the garbage bags of clothes, emptied it, cut it open, and duct taped it over that pain in the ass window.

“Shitty-ass moon,” I cursed at my opponent in victory. I evaluated my work for a moment then shrugged. “Eh. Looks good.”

With the garbage bag now a curtain, I wrapped my arms around the pile of clothes I had dumped out on the bed and started on my way to the laundry room.

Just as I shut the front door, a “morning!” chimed from a foot to my side, nearly giving me a heart attack.

“Jesus!” I exclaimed with annoyed surprise.

It was a middle-aged woman speaking to me, a rich bitch in a suit with a giant white poodle on a leash. I needed a double take, was that dog wearing pink panties?

“Or is it afternoon already?” she asked, still trying to greet me.

“Your dog's wearing a diaper,” I observed, obviously confused.

“Miss Susannah,” the woman clarified the dog's name. “She’s a breeding dog. It’s her time of the month.”

Pleasant.

“That’s fuckin’ weird. Hey, you know where I can find the laundry in this shithole?

Ignoring my question, the woman held my gaze with an ease I didn’t care for. “You know, I couldn’t help but notice that you just hanged some sort of…curtain?”

I literally just did that. Is this bitch psychic?

“Sorry. Who are you again?” I asked her, ready to tell her to mind her own damn business.

Placing a hand over her chest, she introduced herself. “Melanie Runkin, on-site manager. We met after your husband signed the lease. From the South Side, right?” she said, her voice going up an octave or two when she said “South Side.”

“What about it?” I asked, getting back to the point of my makeshift curtain.

“They probably do things differently down there, but here at Arlington Grove, we have a…a whites-only policy.”

Terry would have loved this chick. “That’s some racist-ass shit.”

“I’m talking about curtains,” she clarified, trying not to let her irritation with me show.

“Oh.”

“You can read the guidelines in the CCNRs,” she encouraged before turning on her heals. “Come on, Miss Susannah.”

I was more confused than before. “The CCN what?”

All I got from Melanie, the on-site manager was a, “bye!” as she walked away.

“Poor fucking dog,” I mumbled to myself as I took in my surroundings. I still had no idea where the laundry room was.  “Arlington Grove,” I grumbled with aggravation. The only buildings named “Grove" a Milkovich belonged in were penitentiaries and institutions. Not this clean, plastic, whites only slice of bourgeois city living.

I hated it here. But Ian didn’t, so maybe I would grow into it. Maybe I wouldn’t.