If I were one to believe in omens, I would pack my bags right now and get the hell out of Charlotte. Well actually, since I haven’t gotten around to unpacking yet, I would stuff my bags back into my car and get the hell out of Charlotte.
My troubles began a few hours outside of town. Around Louisville, KY, I called ahead to book a hotel room in Charlotte for the night. I didn’t think it would be too hard to get a room on a Tuesday — unless a NASCAR race was in town.
That was a joke. As a Northerner, NASCAR-mania is funny to me. I used the joke on my concerned parents back in Chicago, who feared I might be stuck sleeping in my car.
It turns out it wasn’t a NASCAR race causing the no vacancies; it was the Miss United States Teen beauty pageant. All of the inns and boarding houses in the Queen City were packed full of well-rounded young women who represent the ideals and morals of America — or, as I like to call them, hot teens.
A fancy uptown hotel agreed to shelter me for a fee just under the monthly rent I had settled on with my future roommate, who I found on the Internet. Never mind that for more or less the same amount of money, I was getting a roof for eight hours as opposed to 30 days. My deal with new roommate Dylan was too good to get all pouty over an overpriced hotel room.
Speaking of Dylan, here is the percentage breakdown on why I selected him out of the cyber-crowd of potential roomies.
•36%: Rent was $200 a month.
•23%: In his picture he had a scruffy beard, appearing less like a mainstream banker than others.
•21%: In choosing his other profile pictures, he included random pictures of the sea (without explanation), instead of vainly adding more photos of himself, like I did (e.g., Jared in a bucket, Jared w/ awkward Viking, Jared in a life preserver).
•20%: He had a cool name rivaled only by Bridgett in that category.
Dylan was, in fact, too good to be true. At the last minute he backed out, claiming the room had been promised to someone else. And like that, I was homeless in Charlotte.
Just as any seasoned transient would do, I moved into an extended-stay hotel off exit 5. The hotel didn’t have non-smoking rooms on the first floor, which wouldn’t have bothered me had the entire floor not smelled like cancer. Taking a room on the second floor meant, in the absence of an elevator, I had to lug all of my life’s possessions past four doors and up a narrow flight of stairs. That resulted in the death-by-tearing of a duffel bag.
Later that night I accepted a conciliatory invitation to meet Dylan and some of his work buddies for dinner, bypassing a possible grudge since I have no Charlotte friends yet. Dylan and co. worked for some big shipping company and complained about being bored on the job and having to pretend to be busy. When I jokingly compared their situation to the movie Office Space, they became stone cold serious, nodding ill-humoredly at their bitter reality. They told me the TPS reports mentioned in the movie are, in fact, real.
The next night, I crashed a party at Dixie’s Tavern where an entire apartment complex was meeting for drinks. If things went well, I would find someone to bring home. To live with me. Forever.
Eastover Ridge is part dating service, part Club Med and a tiny part apartment complex. I was nervous. I’ve flown solo once to a movie, and even though the object was to stare non-socially at a screen, going alone still made me uncomfortable. I was so flustered at the Dixie’s party I forgot to pay for my beer. The bartender had to track me down. But the night wasn’t a complete wash; I got a free cheese stick.
Back at my hotel, I was on my way to the soda machines when a white guy with flowing gray hair, sporting a tucked-in flannel shirt, stepped into the hallway from his room.
“Did you just knock on my door?” he asked, somewhat peeved. I thought he was talking to me, but then I spotted a suspicious-looking guy in tight black pants and a funny top hat — questionable pimp garb — behind me. (When I saw him later, he even had a cane).
“No sir. No sir, I didn’t,” the pimp responded.
“You did. I saw you in the peep hole,” said Mr. Grayhair.
“Every now and then I go banging on people’s doors, but not this time,” the pimp continued. “Sometimes, I get the numbers all confused.”
“I was on the phone, then I heard banging, and I went up to the door and saw you,” Grayhair went on.
“Don’t you ever get the number confused?” Pimp asked, defensively. “If you came knocking at my door, I’d have a drink waiting for you.”
Leaving the men to their gibbering squabble, I returned to my room, stepped over the blanket I had thrown to the floor after discovering several crusty stains, and reconsidered whether or not I believe in omens.
If you would like to live with Jared, or if you have a hot rooming tip, feel free to email him at jared.neumark@creativeloafing.com. He’s Creative Loafing’s new urban explorer and would like to live in, or near, uptown.
This article appears in Nov 2-8, 2005.
