All This Life

Luckily for Kathleen the doorbell rings, and so she walks toward the door, truncating their conversation. The living room is right by the entrance, and she turns the deadbolt, welcoming the stranger into her home.

He looks to be in his early forties, a couple years older than Kathleen. His hair is short and black, and he has significant stubble, the jet whiskers near his chin mixed with some gray. Right around six feet and doughy, but he’s not unattractive. Kat thinks that last word, unattractive, and scolds herself.

The detail that truly engrosses her is that Wes wears a lab coat, buttoned up. There are blue jeans sticking out from under it, along with navy Chuck Taylors. And a T-shirt is underneath the lab coat, which seems weird to Kathleen; she would have expected a tie and a pocket protector. Maybe this is called scientist-casual.

“You must be Wes,” she says, smiling at him.

“I am here about the room for rent,” he says.

Wes stares at her. It’s clear that she’s supposed to be in charge of steering the conversation, but what should she ask him first? For references? Should she demand a credit report? Show him some Rorschach inkblots?

Deb said that this decision is best left to the gut, but Kat doesn’t trust her own judgment. That’s why her sponsor is here in the first place. Yes, she’s unofficial muscle, but Deb is really here to help Kathleen read him and see if this will work. If this will be safe.

Five seconds go by with the two of them staring at each other in the doorway.

“Are you a doctor?” she asks.

“A scientist.”

“What field?”

“I work down at Fresno State and am up here doing a couple months of research at UCSF.”

“That’s such a relief,” she says.

“May I see the room?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, inviting him in with a wave. “I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ve never invited someone inside your house before?” he asks.

This makes Kathleen laugh, which makes her relax some. Good, he’s got a sense of humor.

“I’ve never invited a stranger into my house,” she says, “to live for a couple months.”

Deb is up off the couch and standing behind Kathleen, introducing herself as the “brash best friend,” brandishing the title like permission to butt in and be in charge whenever she feels like it. Deb extends her hand past Kathleen, who regrets not shaking Wes’s hand herself, and he grabs Deb’s hand. Up and down their palms go.

“Solid grip,” he says.

“I’m a badass,” says Deb.

“Come in,” Kathleen says, ushering him by Deb before the talk gets any more uncomfortable.

Once inside the door, Wes surveys the hallway. He looks up at the ceiling, down at the floor. Kathleen hopes that his scrutiny won’t turn him off. She really should have purchased some cheese.

“What are the pounds per square inch of oxygen in here?” he says.

“Is that a serious question?” Deb says.

Kathleen says, “I have no idea how much oxygen is in here. How would I tell?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“I haven’t had any trouble breathing in here,” Kat says.

“Good to know,” he says.

“Let me give you a tour,” she says.

They walk down the apartment’s main hall, stopping first in the living room, then the kitchen and bathroom, which should have gotten a thorough cleaning earlier before the girl with the black eye, her baby, and Tyler distracted Kat from getting the house in order.

The two bedrooms are in the back and Kathleen decides not to show him hers, goes into the place where he’ll be laying down his head, assuming the pounds per square inch of oxygen pass his inspection.

They arrive at the room. The door is closed. She should have opened it, made the room more inviting. Maybe some flowers. Daisies. Yeah, a vase of daisies to bring some cheer. No one wants to live in a hovel. It feels like the whole city has a pall over it because of the brass band. She could have thrown open the blinds and cranked up the window, even if she has to hear all the kids from the playground. Even if that makes her think of Rodney. Even if she’s one of the worst people alive.

It’s a small room. Ten by twelve. Walls painted maroon, except for the closet door, which is white. There’s a futon in the far corner and an armoire next to it. A poster of Bob Marley smoking a joint. The roommate’s stuff is pretty nice, or so Kat thinks. She wonders how it must look to a scientist.

“How’s the oxygen level?” Deb asks from the doorway.

Wes takes a deep breath, says, “Optimal.”

Kathleen laughs again, harder this time.

“Do you have any questions for us?” Deb says.

“Not at this time. The room will do nicely. I have several garbage bags and small boxes filled with supplies out in the car,” he says.

“Hold your horses, cowboy,” says Deb.

“I can do this,” Kathleen says to her.

Deb waves her away. “Did your other plans fall through?” Deb asks Wes.

“Other plans?”

“You must have had a place lined up before you got here.”

“This opportunity came together at the last minute,” he says, walking over and touching the mirror on the armoire’s door.

“What are you doing at UCSF?” asks Deb.