Between a tattoo parlor and an adult entertainment store (call 989-LUST), a dirty-white “Hotel” on a haggard blue awning invites me in, and up the carpeted steps. Like most San Francisco streets—if you pause a moment in your rush—the hotel’s fragrance is a soft mixture of B.O. and urine, with hints of dust and smoke. Where one scent stops and another begins, I defy you to identify.
The room, 10x10 ft—fifteen dollars more than the 8x8—is more inviting than I’d hoped. I don’t know what color fuchsia is, but I’m tempted to say that is the color of the small dresser and nightstand. A thin comforter on the twin bed matches the burgundy freckles in the teal carpet. There’s a mirror on one wall, and a painting of an impressionist’s river on the other. Other artifacts complete the ambience: a lamp, a dining room chair, a small sink, and an indentation in the wall (meant as a closet).
And the smell! Oh, glory of glories! It smells like... a hotel room! A crisp, sanitary scent. This quickly wears off, of course, but it is enough to give me at least a moment’s illusion that this is not hell. I drop two bills for a week. This is my new home.
This particular stretch of Broadway, between Montgomery and Columbus, is known affectionately (my guide book assures me) as The Strip, and is saturated with "adult entertainment": strip clubs, burlesque shows, peep shows, video and paraphernalia stores. This seems intimidating, but thankfully this strip is just that—a thin sliver, quickly bypassed. A block away begins my journey with the Beat writers and SF literati of the past. North Beach (which is not a beach, but a neighborhood) lies northwest, and creeps up Telegraph Hill’s sloping west side. This is where literature was born in the 50’s. It makes me wish wish I’d read something by Kerouac. And two blocks away, Washington Square spreads before Saints Peter and Paul Church, which towers briefly before being dwarfed by Coit Tower atop the hill to the east.
Three weeks later.
I’m being evicted.
Yeah. I’m being kicked out of my $200 a week, 10x10, stinky, infected, roach-infested hotel room. I have 24 hours to get the hell out.
Why? you ask. Good question. Is it because I didn’t pay my rent? No. Hmm. Was I boisterous and disturbing to the other guests? Of course not. Well, maybe I left the front door unlocked at night, letting in strippers and bums? Unfortunately, no. Then what?
I haven’t been at my job long enough.
No, I didn’t just change the subject. That’s the answer. I had to fill out some bullshit rental application (already ridiculous for this prepay-by-the-week situation), and the rental gods deemed my 3 months on the job insufficient (and apparently they don’t care about my previous employment).
I find this entertaining—in a kick-me-in-groin, catch-22 kind of way—because of course the only reason I’m in this shithole is because I’ve only been in town 3 months and I haven’t established myself and found a permanent place to live. Why else would I be here?!
The manager seems like kind of an asshole, and this whole system they have here is just effed up. I really don’t believe I’m getting kicked out because I haven’t had a job long enough, although I can’t imagine what the real reason would be.
Whatever the case, it’s “So long, Stinktown,” for me.