Friday, March 23, 1973
Tonight is my last night living in the house I grew up in . . . since I was five.
Tomorrow, I’m moving into a 500-square foot studio apartment in a recently completed complex that’s opening to new residents this weekend.
I just need to get away from 23rd Avenue, so I won’t hear the N-street car and the 71-bus roaring by and shaking the house every ten minutes. There’s other stuff I want to forget, too. All the death and dying I’m seeing every night at work is triggering the memories of what happened to Mom in the upstairs bathroom.
But, hey I’m a cop. If I can’t handle that shit—I’d better get out of the business.
A Numbers Game
Meanwhile, found a renter for this place — Huffington, a cop on the day watch who has two kids and wanted a four-bedroom house with a backyard. Charging him $250 a month, exactly what my rent is at the new apartment. Isn’t that Cool!
Pop bought the place back in 1955 for $14,000. The house payment is $95 a month, and property tax is now up to $75 a month. It’s still in decent shape because of the remodel my folks did just before Pop died in ‘63.
Hmmmm. That San Francisco spring smell in the air today: not hot — not cold. Like they said in the fairy tale: “Just right.”
I’m such a wimp about the weather. Must have been because I grew up with the fog. If it’s 80 degrees — it’s too hot. If it’s 48 degrees — it’s too cold. Just something else I got from Mom. If she was still alive today she might have enjoyed the weather – but I kind of doubt it.
Good Night for the last time from 23rd Avenue.