In Search of Space

      Around this time last year, my college-age son, (with “college” now spanning an average of five years, instead of four), announced that he “needed space.”  I recall staring at him for a  few seconds. “Sure,” I said, “take all the space you want.” Obviously, I didn’t get the point of that extra year. Well, no… but we’d already had that pointless discussion. I sensed this was a brand new one. Yeah, I’m clever like that.

     “No, that’s not what I mean,” he said. He heaved a sigh, and chugged a two liter bottle of Coke. “What I mean is, I found this great apartment and I want to move out. Like tomorrow.” He waited. “So, what do you think?”

     “This is kind of sudden.”

     “I’ve been talking about this for months.”

     “Not to me.”  Seriously.

     “You just don’t want me to grow up.”

      Seriously?

     “Let’s go.” I grabbed my car keys and baby, we were out the door and on the highway. Suddenly, I wondered, which of us needed that “space.”

     The “great apartment,” it turned out, was located in a renovated warehouse. The transformation from storage building to loft-style apartment housing was truly awe-inspiring.  I wouldn’t have guessed that such stylish digs emerged from an abandoned warehouse—but then, I’m not a developer with a vision. That part didn’t bother me. You see, the manager wasn’t big on “vision” either.

     “Would you like to see the studio, one, two, or three bedroom apartments, or would you like to take a peek at our Penthouse Suite?”

     Penthouse Suite? What is this? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I recalled my son was a college student. I glanced at him. He shrugged.

     “We’ll look at the one bedroom unit,” I said. “Do you think that will be big enough for one?”

     Now, the manager and my son stared back at me. “One what?”

     Turns out, the one bedroom apartment was surprisingly spacious. The walls were made of exposed brick, and the windows were extra large and insulated, allowing for a generous dose of sunlight, (great antidote for the person who tends to oversleep during his 8 a.m. class.)  The sleek galley-style kitchen unified the living room and bedroom areas, forming an “H” shaped space. Again, I was pleasantly surprised to find new, energy-efficient appliances arranged among new oak cabinets with brass hardware. This minimal space also allowed a stretch of linoleum, which offered an attractive alternative to the indoor-outdoor carpet, on both the living room and bedroom floors.

     “Want to see the bathroom?” the manager said, while he walked in the opposite direction. My son and I followed him out of the kitchen, and back to the front of the apartment. The bathroom, just off of the living room, had a tub and shower, as well as a stylish sink and vanity. No doubt about it. The apartment was suitable—but was it affordable? I was beginning to get nervous about that four letter word, the one that begins with “R” and rhymes with “lent,” as used in the popular request, “Will you pay my rent?”

     “This looks good,” my son said. “We’ll take it.”

     “How much?” I said. Again, my lack of vision blocks my imagination.

     “Well, on the phone, your son said something about a dog.”

     “Um-hm.”

     “We’ll need to add pet rent in addition to the monthly charge, so let me see…”

     Did he just say “pet rent?” Have I lost my mind?

     Finally, his fingers quit punching numbers into his calculator.  He grinned and delivered the sum total. “But, that includes everything.”

     Yeah. It should.

     In fact, he couldn’t stop grinning. Suddenly, he stopped by a large room, filled with white washers and dryers. I closed my eyes to reduce the glare. “Here is your laundry facility, complete with a large sink for your mop and bucket.”

     My son doesn’t know those last three words. I know that. The manager repeated them, you know, in case he couldn’t hear over that churning noise. Why do washing machines they do that, especially when a guy is trying to sleep? So inconsiderate.

     “Mop and bucket? Sir, did you hear me?”  He glanced over his shoulder at my son. “You’ll have to bring your own. Everybody does. No big deal. You know, for your weekly cleaning.”

     Silence.

      “Oh, and the trash room is conveniently located at the end of the hall, so that you can dump your trash when you fill your bucket. I like to recommend Pine-Sol.”

     My son shook his head. “Pine-Sol?”

     “Oh, and I have a duplicate key, just in case you lock yourself out. It will only cost you $25.00 to get a new one.”

     “Twenty what?”

     “So, do we write the check today? Let’s just go on down to my office, and…”

     How did we get back into the car, and on the highway? I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. I do recall the innovative design and efficient use of space displayed in that one bedroom apartment. I may never see such an impressive renovation again. Unless, of course, I decide to view the Penthouse Suite.