Heat Wave: Richmond

Chapter 2

Shonda said to arrive by four, and I make it to the management office of Ginter Manor with seconds to spare. My tires squeal to a stop in front of the building, and I slam the car door shut as I sprint around the back of my beat up Honda Civic, heading for the sidewalk. Through the panes of glass on the front door of the office, I see her seated at a desk in front of a computer, studiously ignoring me. When I almost barrel through the door in my haste to get inside in time, she glances up and gives me a look of pure loathing. I can almost feel her glaring at me, willing me to turn around and leave.

But when I enter the office, she’s all smiles. “Let me guess. Mr. Masterson?” she asks without rising.

“I’m Danny, yes.” I’m a little breathless from racing to make it in time. I take a chair in front of her desk without being asked and sigh. Then I laugh, excited all over again. “I made it!”

“Hmm.” She spends another minute or two typing on her computer—answering emails, most likely, or posting to f*******:, who knows? I’m sweating again, despite the air conditioning.

Finally, when it seems she isn’t going to bother getting back to me unless I do something to remind her I’m sitting right here waiting, I dig the money I withdrew from the bank out of my pocket and start counting it onto her desk. Seven hundred and ten dollars for the first month’s rent, three hundred and fifty for the security deposit. I’ve never held this much cash in my hands at one time, ever. I feel gangster peeling off the twenties as I count them under my breath. One, two, three, four, five. Two, two, three, four, five. Three, two, three, four…

She notices, how could she not? Pushing aside her keyboard, she pulls out a folder from a stack of paperwork on her desk. “Alright, then,” she says, flashing me an insincere smile. “I’m sorry we don’t have much time to go through everything, but we’re closing a little early today—”

“You said five.” I look up from my money as I lose count. “I can move in today, right?”

“Right, right,” she says, a little too quickly. “We’ll sign everything and I’ll give you the key before you leave. But it’s a holiday weekend, you know, so I’m going to have to sort of rush through this, if you don’t mind—”

I shake my head. “No, no. Whatever you have to do.” As long as I get the key tonight.

“You can come back Tuesday to go over the other stuff,” Shonda continues. “Like the pool policy, and the clubhouse rules. Nonessential things, you know what I mean.”

I nod, though I’m not really sure what she’s talking about. Still, I lean forward in my chair and try to read the lease upside down as she breezes through it—the dos and don’ts, standard things I’m already familiar with because they’re similar to what Rob’s lease entails, though technically I’m not on his. She warns me not to grill on my balcony, not to paint my walls, not to leave motorcycles or boats in the parking lots, not to bring in any pets that aren’t listed on my lease. As I don’t have any, that isn’t a problem. I have an assigned parking spot, a decal to stick on my car so it won’t get towed, a pool pass, and three keys—one for my door, one for my mailbox, and one for the clubhouse, wherever that might be.

Once I initial the pages of the lease and sign my name in a dozen different places, she gives me copies of everything and takes my money, handing me a receipt in exchange for the cash. Easy come, easy go. It’s after four thirty now, and I can tell she wants to wrap things up and head out for the day, but there’s still the walk-through.

As she hands over the folder full of my copies, she sighs. “Well, I had hoped we’d be done by now, but I guess there’s still time to take you over there and show you around.”

“Is it far?” I want to know.

She nods at the window across from her desk. Outside I see my car parked at the curb and, on the other side of the street, a row of townhouses stretches down to the end of the block. On the next block over are a pair of two-story garden apartment buildings. “You’re in the first one there,” she tells me. “Apartment G, upstairs. It’s a single with a fireplace—”

I whistle, impressed. “No way!”

She gives me an odd look. “Didn’t you look it over before you filled out the application?”

“I toured a townhouse.” I’d asked for a single apartment, and wasn’t even sure what the difference was between them. “Why’s it called a garden?”

“Because it’s all on one floor,” she explains. “The townhomes have two floors, living area on the first with the bedrooms on the second, and in the garden apartments, everything’s on one level. Since your apartment’s upstairs, you have a balcony. The ones downstairs have terraces.”

I’ll probably use a balcony about as much as I’ll use a fireplace, but it’ll give the place ambiance, if nothing else. “Okay.”

Shonda continues, “You have everything the townhomes have—full kitchen, dishwasher, washer and dryer, all inside the apartment. Central air, too. Cable ready, though you have to call the company yourself. The electric and gas are already on, so you should be good to go.”

“The first building across the block?” I get up to look out the window; I can see the apartment from here. The balcony looks promising, actually. I can imagine a few deck chairs and a table out there, kicking back after work, drinking a few beers, watching the sun go down. “Which is it again? G?”

“I’ll take you over and show you,” Shonda says. “It really won’t take too long…”

But I assure her, “No, it’s cool. Go on and start your holiday, I understand. I can go by myself.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, skeptical.

“I’m a big boy,” I joke. “I think I can figure it out.”