California Dreamin' [part XII]
Continued from part XI. To read this story from the beginning, go here.
Friday, April 27, 2006
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
not long after midnight
My cell phone rang as I was touring a building called La Paloma, in a pretty residential neighbourhood in San Jose, a long walk or a short bike ride from the USJ campus. Alex, the new professor who's living until the end of the summer in the residence in which I'm staying, has a car and offered to show me around.
He showed me a tiny two bedroom condo he's thinking of buying when his wife moves here — she stayed behind to wrap things up in Wisconsin, which is why Alex is living temporarily in the student residence. The condo is half the size of my place in Toronto, and he seemed excited that it was only $550,000.
They're insane, these Silicon Valley-ites.
The apartment in La Paloma is a large one bedroom, with a dining room alcove that would be perfect for my desk. This is the model suite, it's furnished, and the bedroom is plenty large, even with a queen size bed and a dresser in it. There's a small private patio, a washer and dryer in the closet, and a back door that goes directly into the indoor parking lot. There are two pools (one for laps, one for lounging), a community patio with gas barbeques, a party room with a large screen TV, and a 24 hour fitness centre. And the rent, all in with utilities, would be $1,500 a month.
I could live here. It reminds me of the building I live in now; low-rise, spread out, lots of doors and private patios. In fact, this seems to be typical of the style of California condos and apartment buildings.
I despise high rises.
When the phone rang I excused myself from Alex and the building manager, and ducked into the bedroom to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hey, you." It was Jack. "How'd it go yesterday?"
"I think it went well but can I tell you about it later? I'm looking at an apartment right now, if you can believe that. I'm not sure I can."
"Of course," he said, and I wasn't sure whether he meant of course I could tell him later, or of course he could believe I might actually be moving to California, eight years after he asked me to.
"I have a place I'd like to take you for dinner," Jack said, "Unless you have your heart set on Gordon Biersch."
I told him I had Gordon Biersch covered yesterday.
"Good," he said. "I'm in Oakland right now but I'm going to try to bust out of here early. I'll call you when I'm on the road so you can explain to me where you are, exactly."
"I'll be waiting."
A few hours later he found the campus's Residence Square, and called again to say he was outside. "I'll come down," I said, "It's too complicated to explain how to find me in this maze. Which street are you on?"
He told me, and when I came outside into the slowly setting sunshine, it was Beauty, not Jack, that I saw first. She was parked just outside the gate. He was leaning against the brick pillar, for the moment out of sight.
I think he wanted me to see her first.
"Hello, sweetheart!" I exclaimed, and ran to hug Jack's car.
We drove north on the 101 to the next silicon city, and along the way Jack regaled me with tales of the Valley. No mention was made of Australia, at least not in the context of his fleeing there. I was puzzled, but happy, and I reminded myself, silently but firmly, to stop trying to figure this man out and just let it be. When I'm able to do that is when things seem to go the best between us.
But the thing is, Gentle Reader, that I can understand why he would be apprehensive. Many years ago, too many to think about, I made Jack a promise, and it was this: I will never show up on your doorstep. What was understood at the time was that I would never show up at his house, packed bags in hand, and announce that I'd just left the X. But it implied more than that, and we both knew it.
I have always kept that promise, and I always intend to, and the fact that I might show up, metaphorically speaking, on the doorstep of his adopted state, packed bags and cat in hand, has nothing to do with him being here and everything to do with my academic career, and yet I can see how it looks and I didn't expect him to believe me. When Jack feels betrayed he either shuts down, or runs, or both.
As he went on, happily pointing out dot com campuses and listing all the powerful people who once lunched at the restaurant we were going to, I tried not to think about the fact that he hadn't commented on the Chanel. And no, Gentle Reader, it is not possible that he didn't notice I was wearing it.
In part XIII, Jack and Sass have dinner, and Sass learns what medium rare plus means.
Friday, April 27, 2006
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
not long after midnight
My cell phone rang as I was touring a building called La Paloma, in a pretty residential neighbourhood in San Jose, a long walk or a short bike ride from the USJ campus. Alex, the new professor who's living until the end of the summer in the residence in which I'm staying, has a car and offered to show me around.
He showed me a tiny two bedroom condo he's thinking of buying when his wife moves here — she stayed behind to wrap things up in Wisconsin, which is why Alex is living temporarily in the student residence. The condo is half the size of my place in Toronto, and he seemed excited that it was only $550,000.
They're insane, these Silicon Valley-ites.
The apartment in La Paloma is a large one bedroom, with a dining room alcove that would be perfect for my desk. This is the model suite, it's furnished, and the bedroom is plenty large, even with a queen size bed and a dresser in it. There's a small private patio, a washer and dryer in the closet, and a back door that goes directly into the indoor parking lot. There are two pools (one for laps, one for lounging), a community patio with gas barbeques, a party room with a large screen TV, and a 24 hour fitness centre. And the rent, all in with utilities, would be $1,500 a month.
I could live here. It reminds me of the building I live in now; low-rise, spread out, lots of doors and private patios. In fact, this seems to be typical of the style of California condos and apartment buildings.
I despise high rises.
When the phone rang I excused myself from Alex and the building manager, and ducked into the bedroom to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hey, you." It was Jack. "How'd it go yesterday?"
"I think it went well but can I tell you about it later? I'm looking at an apartment right now, if you can believe that. I'm not sure I can."
"Of course," he said, and I wasn't sure whether he meant of course I could tell him later, or of course he could believe I might actually be moving to California, eight years after he asked me to.
"I have a place I'd like to take you for dinner," Jack said, "Unless you have your heart set on Gordon Biersch."
I told him I had Gordon Biersch covered yesterday.
"Good," he said. "I'm in Oakland right now but I'm going to try to bust out of here early. I'll call you when I'm on the road so you can explain to me where you are, exactly."
"I'll be waiting."
A few hours later he found the campus's Residence Square, and called again to say he was outside. "I'll come down," I said, "It's too complicated to explain how to find me in this maze. Which street are you on?"
He told me, and when I came outside into the slowly setting sunshine, it was Beauty, not Jack, that I saw first. She was parked just outside the gate. He was leaning against the brick pillar, for the moment out of sight.
I think he wanted me to see her first.
"Hello, sweetheart!" I exclaimed, and ran to hug Jack's car.
We drove north on the 101 to the next silicon city, and along the way Jack regaled me with tales of the Valley. No mention was made of Australia, at least not in the context of his fleeing there. I was puzzled, but happy, and I reminded myself, silently but firmly, to stop trying to figure this man out and just let it be. When I'm able to do that is when things seem to go the best between us.
But the thing is, Gentle Reader, that I can understand why he would be apprehensive. Many years ago, too many to think about, I made Jack a promise, and it was this: I will never show up on your doorstep. What was understood at the time was that I would never show up at his house, packed bags in hand, and announce that I'd just left the X. But it implied more than that, and we both knew it.
I have always kept that promise, and I always intend to, and the fact that I might show up, metaphorically speaking, on the doorstep of his adopted state, packed bags and cat in hand, has nothing to do with him being here and everything to do with my academic career, and yet I can see how it looks and I didn't expect him to believe me. When Jack feels betrayed he either shuts down, or runs, or both.
As he went on, happily pointing out dot com campuses and listing all the powerful people who once lunched at the restaurant we were going to, I tried not to think about the fact that he hadn't commented on the Chanel. And no, Gentle Reader, it is not possible that he didn't notice I was wearing it.
In part XIII, Jack and Sass have dinner, and Sass learns what medium rare plus means.
Labels: Jack, moving to California
1 Comments:
San Jose, all utilities, and only $1,500? That's surprisingly good. I'm frightened that I'm actually saying that seeing as how my mortgage with almost all our utilities is pretty equivalent. But I'm in Illinois, not Silicon Valley.
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