Saturday morning, SK and I drove to Potrero Hill in the rain to meet the lovely landlords, Frank and Linda.
Frank wore a leather biker’s cap and his denim shirt was extra unbuttoned, which is less gay than it sounds. Linda had short, no-nonsense hair and “the big jewelry of the Southwest,” as SK described it. The couple lived in Phoenix, driving up in an RV to show the apartment.
Frank was a teddy bear. He had grown up in the house, and inherited it when his mom passed away. He charmed us with stories of making wine in the garage and working as an old-school San Francisco butcher (before Safeway killed his business). Though friendly enough, Linda was less chatty- the businessman of the pair. With her tidy clipboard and direct manner, we suspected she might chide Frank for his generous heart. “Sometimes I think you just fell off the turnip truck!”
As predicted, we fell head-over-heels for the apartment. It was quirky and huge and enormously charming. It boasted two chandeliers, a wood-paneled kitchen, a built-in terrarium, a non-functional fireplace, and a spare bedroom with sunshine-yellow walls. It felt lived-in and loved, welcoming and warm.
Or, as SK put it, “this is a home.”
We immediately blurted out our desire to live there. Linda said that was nice, and handed us a lengthy application to fill out. She said they would be showing the apartment all weekend. As we attacked the paperwork, another couple arrived to see the place. I calmly thought to myself, “Get out of our house before I cut you.”