Joshua Mohr - All This Life

Kat has only lived in the Mission for six years, but even in that small window of time the changes have become noticeable. At first, it was filled with artists and hipsters, college kids and Latino families, and she felt welcomed by all. Here it was okay to eke out a living drawing caricatures. Here it was okay to be poor.

But more dot-commers flocked in, offering landlords sums over the asking price. And some weren’t interested in inflating rents and just bought the cheap apartment buildings, either converting them to one-house units for themselves, or they used the sale to convert to townhouses or condos and raise rents drastically. Kat knew damn well that if she ever got evicted, there was no way she could afford to stay in the city, maybe migrating over to Oakland, but even over there it was getting steep.

It wasn’t only techie twentysomethings toting laptops taking over the Mission, though. There was also a steep rise in young, mostly white families, and this population brought Kathleen face to face with mothers of all kinds. Some days, they were all she could see. In all their various stages of development. Pregnant women outside a yoga studio, proud with their mats and hopeful, swelling bellies. Moms with babies bundled to their chests, cooing at them. Moms who took up the whole sidewalk with designer strollers that must have been mounted on Cadillac chassis. Moms who herded frantic kids, paroled from apartments to Dolores Park to tire themselves out.

In fact, Kat’s apartment was right across the street from that park, and its big playground always sent the kids’ happy shrieking shaking through her windows. All the howls and joys of childhood slapped Kathleen in the face. She couldn’t keep their ecstatic noises out.

Everywhere were reminders that Kathleen was no longer a mom, and she dove out of the way while these mothers monopolized the sidewalk with their Cadillacs, casting her out, away from their club. No offspring, no membership. Something — someone — she willingly left behind.

Currently, Kat and Deb sit in the living room, waiting for Wes Something, who should have arrived exactly one minute ago, and Kathleen points at her phone and says, “This isn’t a great first impression.”

“What do you know about great first impressions, Caricature?”

“Ouch.”

“Give him a few minutes,” says Deb, “and if he doesn’t show, I’ll buy you some sushi.”

“Don’t you have a date tonight?”

“Yeah, but she’s low-maintenance. No dinner. Just sex.”

“Must be nice.”

“You should consider having sex sometime,” Deb says. “It’s pretty fun.”

God, Kathleen hopes he shows. This is the last thing she wants, the subletting turning into some time-consuming annoyance. She doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with that ordeal right now. Too preoccupied with what might be considered a breech in normal mental health, lashing out through the caricature, and how much Rodney’s birthday torments her. She hasn’t even thought about the brass band all afternoon, and not many people can say that: It dominates the Internet, the TV, talk radio, but Kat’s too mired in herself to indulge much thought about anyone else.

Hopefully, Wes Something walks in the room and proclaims it a perfect spot. Hopefully, he likes it enough to move right in, so she doesn’t have to hassle showing it to multiple people. Basically, if he’s not wearing a grim reaper outfit, wielding a scythe and saying, “Death comes for us all!” she has decided the room will be his.

“Assuming he does show,” says Kathleen, trying to get away from the topic of sex, “what should I ask him?”

“Feel him out. Go with your gut.”

“Maybe I should’ve gotten a cheese plate,” she says. “To distract him. It’s pretty dusty in here.”

She’s not wrong. Kathleen’s not a horrible housekeeper, but the rooms of the flat wouldn’t hold up under close inspection. Nothing is filthy, but there’s dust on the sills and floorboards, little tumbleweeds of her long brown hair pock the hardwood. There’s one runner going up the hallway through the railroad apartment, and it hasn’t been cleaned since the vacuum broke a year back.

What is nice, however, is that the apartment gets a lot of natural light. Both bedrooms, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the small living room — where Kat and Deb are — all have big windows and the apartment is always warm with natural light.

“What, you don’t think he can see dust because of some cheese?” Deb asks, running an index finger on the sill and holding it up, a black inchworm of car exhaust and dead skin and cat dander dangling there.

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.”