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Not so ‘Melrose Place’
Doin’ time in the ‘08 has never been this bizarre



By Greg Goodsell, Bakotopia.com Contributor

Some years back, I learned of a very affordable apartment from an artist friend, located on Wilson Avenue in the Oildale area.

It was a modest one-bedroom above the garages in an apartment complex available for a more-than-reasonable $300 a month. I knew full well that the area was not the best place in town, but I had worked in the area for more than a year and found that by and large the people were nice.

Settling in, I found that most of my neighbors were retirees living on fixed incomes.

There was my next door neighbor, son of the landlord, who would regale me with all manner of fascinating topics after downing a case of beer, such as why France developed its own nuclear arsenal and how the very rich had sucked the life out of America’s middle class.

There was the feisty little old lady who seemed to call the rental agency every day with a new or invented complaint, and who would often bang on my door to borrow $10 or ask for a ride to the doctor’s office. There was an older gentleman who was notorious for snapping Polaroids shots of little kids at shopping centers, among many other pursuits that I won’t get into here.

There was also the little old lady who rarely left her house, who many were surprised to see on her infrequent trips to the laundry room, as well as the woman in front who furnished her home in plastic lawn furniture and bric-a-brac found at the 98-cent store.

Then there was me.

Once I shut the door to my place, my apartment was my castle. I decked out my place with a mix of modern and vintage furniture and began to cover my walls with original art. I took pride in the fact that visitors to my place found it a comfortable oasis in an area where the expected décor consisted of a battered chair, a cot and a very old fridge full of Schaeffer beer.

But as with all situations involving renters - including high-end condos to the most barren tenement - there were quite a few people who dragged their sordid existences with them.

One lady who moved in, grew to dislike the place and then told her kids (yelling), “Hey! Why don’t you guys just move in and make the rent between the seven of you instead?”

Drunken orgies every night with blaring music, in addition to parking their cars in front of the driveway so no one could get in. They were ejected.

There was also a growing war between the notorious older gentleman and the feisty little old lady, with him dousing her doorstop with mustard. He sought to demoralize other people in the complex by moving the garbage bins in front of the building every day - his obscure, artistic statement implying that we were all trash.

This gentleman was shipped away to a nursing home where he died from a broken heart less than a month later. A check of his place after his eviction found a bathtub full of petrified dog food and typeset slogans in frames that exhorted the state of Israel and Merle Haggard. The little old lady got into trouble for letting her grandkids use the back parking area to trick out their Chevy pickup, and she too was asked to leave. My next door neighbor finally left for good after his family sold the building to a young real estate entrepreneur … and then the place really went to hell.

In a period of transition between owners, the new landlord was lax and inexperienced about clearing certain forms. The garbage began to pile up uncollected, and then he had the temerity to turn around and raise the rent.

I found lodging less than a block away that was new, clean and spotless. I put all of my things in a wheelbarrow and I was out of there - you can keep my cleaning deposit, thanks.

Alas, this much nicer place would go to the way of all flesh after two meth addicts moved in next-door, and I would leave the ‘Dale altogether afterwards. Looking back, I still have many fond memories of the area. At the time there were lots of great bars and restaurants, locally owned businesses, furniture and antique stores, free of pretension and all within walking distance of where I lived.

However, one incident has forever soured me from ever moving back. After getting new furniture, I gave my next door neighbors my old couch. It was still in very good shape, only slightly faded. The neighbors, who took in those living on reduced circumstances to live in a communal setting, were at first happy to get the couch.

The couch was quickly destroyed by the home’s dogs, and I was reminded every day of my act of charity and goodwill as it rotted underneath the sky in the driveway for more than a year afterwards.

I was to learn the hard way that many so-called bad neighborhoods earn their reputations.

Story originally printed in Bakotopia Magazine, issue 25, 4-3-08