Pink and yellow and blue and green…

The last time I had to look for an apartment, the process involved sitting in a café, day after day, thumbing through the lively-colored pages of Loot. Every morning I wake up and it was the same: I get out of bed, I buy the paper, I circle them all, then I phone them only to discover they’ve been taken by a bunch of psychic househunters. That was over 10 years ago during which time I’ve actually become a landlord. Now, aged 41, I’ve been seemingly catapulted back in time and find myself in more or less the same situation, with one notable exception: I’m fresh off the boat. This means I have to find someone sympathetic to my situation and willing to accept a few months rent paid in advance instead of a credit check, since I have less than a week’s worth of credit history with a US bank.

Truth be told, I expected this to some extent, but this week’s crushing blow came when I saw that a studio apartment was going in the same building…that Fletch lived in.

Fletch is one of the biggest reasons I became a journalist. Gregory McDonald wrote the original novels and two were brought to the big screen with Chevy Chase in the lead role. The first of which is frankly a cinematic classic. The principal character is an investigative journalist for a Los Angeles newspaper and lives in a lovely building with a Mexican-styled exterior located at 827 4th Street, Santa Monica. I even have photographs of me on my Facebook profile on previous visits to LA standing outside the house – the house where my hero lived. And now I could have the chance to live there too. Was this God’s will? Was this the final and clinching proof of the existence of God?

The advert appeared on Craig’s List and didn’t actually specify an address. It was a small-ish studio apartment, with a good-sized kitchen and fell comfortably within my budget, plus the photographs actually looked pretty good. I replied to the advert, asked for a viewing and the actual address. When I received the reply, my jaw hit the worn-out carpet floor of my motel room. Had I been connected to a hospital heart rate monitor, it would’ve exploded.

I’d even joked about this before I left London. “How cool would it be,” I said, “If I managed to find an apartment in the same building that Fletch lived in?!”

When I went on walkabout, the day after I landed, the first place I went to was 4th street, inbetween Idaho and Montana, to see if by some chance there was a sign up outside advertising a vacancy. There wasn’t, but now, a few days later, the opportunity presented itself. I’d be living the dream, my dream. All I had to do then was a get a job at the LA Times, and if I secured this apartment, then clearly God had forgiven me for all most of my sins and was feeling generous, so surely a staff gig at the Times would be a sinch.

I must have sent half a dozen text messages to this guy, asking him if I could view it that afternoon. He said that someone was coming to see it at 6pm, so he could meet then. OhmyGod. I had to get there before any competition arrived. Could he make it any earlier? He replied that he would try to get there around 5:30pm and naturally I got there 20 minutes earlier than that. He eventually turned up at about 5:45pm…so time was short. He let me into the building and I’m trying so hard to contain my excitement and not sound like a bumbling English buffoon. I even tell Ben – for ‘twas his name – the story of the movie being filmed here. I wipe the foam from my mouth and give him a condensed, casual version like a throwaway anecdote…and not the version that includes me basing my career on a Chevy Chase film.

It turns out I have to fill in an application form. This could be problematic, I thought. I need to speak to the person in charge so I can explain my situation, if this stoned surfer dude – for ‘twas his disposition – wasn’t the guy to convince my cause was just, then who was? The building manager, apparently. Ben did kindly give me his work number, so I make a call right there and then, which goes something along the lines of thus…

“You’ve reached Tom, the Building Manager. I’m not here to take your call, please leave a message. BEEEEP.“

HiTommynameisScottSnowdenI’mherelookingathestudioapartmentnumber303IunderstandfromBenthatIneedtofillinan
applicationbutmysituationisslightlydifferentyouseesinceI’veonlyrecenetlyreallymovedtotheareaitmightbedifficultformeto
getacreditratinghoweverIcanoffersixmonthsrentinadvanceandalargerdepsoittoprovemylegitimacyI’mreallykeenonthis
aprtmentandwouldappreciateitifyoucouldcall…BEEEEP.”

Damn. Damn.

“HiTomit’sScottsnowdenagainI’vejustleftamessageonyouranswerphoneI’mreallyinterestedinthestudioapartmentnumber
303butthebeepwentbeforeIcouldleavemynumbermysituationisslightlydifferentyouseeanywayifyoucouldpleasecallmeon
3106996355whenyougetachanceI’dbeverygratefulthankseversomuch.”

Nailed it.

Meanwhile, the next applicant has turned up, so I say thank you and make my leave. All I’ve managed to do is more or less write my name on the application form. I haven’t brought my bank account details with me, I don’t know who to use as references, I don’t have my social security number yet…and so it goes on. Instead I opt to return to the building the following morning and perhaps catch Tom when he arrives for work at nine or 10 or whatever. It seemed like a logical idea…after all, the building manager of Atlantic Wharf in Wapping starts work at 7am every day…

With only a backgammon app for company, I sat myself down on the steps of 827 4th Street, Santa Monica at about 9am, hoping perhaps to speak to Tom in person. Then, firmly cementing my rapidly growing reputation as an insane Englishman, Ben emerges from the building about half an hour later with his girlfriend in tow and his surfboard under his arm.

“S’up dude.”

“Oh gosh. Er, hi. Yeah, I thought I might try and catch Tom as he gets here so I could explain my situation in person.”

“Awesome dude. Good luck with that.”

Yeah, thanks.

Needless to say Tom never showed up. I sense that perhaps he has more than one property to manage and probably just pops in whenever there’s work to be done. So after about an hour and a half, I leave one more – brief – message on his phone and head off to the house of my only friend in LA to console myself. Thankfully, a hot cup of tea was waiting for me and I explain the whole story.

“Sounds like you bamboozled him,” she says. Instantly I know what she means and realize she’s right. Most folk here are of a simple ilk and this being the first place I really wanted, I’ve suffered from not knowing how to correctly handle it and overwhelmed this poor man with an overcomplicated situation. This is proved to be entirely accurate when in fact Tom calls me back later that afternoon and despite my pleas, he says he cannot go against company policy and my application has been rejected.

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