…and his name was Herb

Circa 1998.

Santa Cruz.

Land of the open minded.

Land of the hippies.

Land to my new abode.

At only 19 I was renting my very first apartment in down town Santa Cruz.

If you’ve ever been to Santa Cruz you can picture this perfectly.

If you have not, its an experience you’ve yet to add to your bucket list.

Full of color, full of hippies, full of expression, hairy arm pits fill the side walks and eclectic hair dos are abundant.

One can expect to get whiffs of patchouli oil, and lets just say it ain’t no Chanel.

This was my new town and I was going to own it like it was mine all along.

My little studio apartment cost me $650 (which was considered cheap) and was 2 streets away from Pacific Ave which is the main drag. I loved it. Two little plastic chairs sat on the porch waiting for my arrival home each day.

My new sense of freedom.

One building away was a well known tattoo parlor and two buildings away was an up all night laundry mat that served hamburgers. Great concept to a 19 year old.

Newbie to college life, newbie to living away from parents.

My innocence could only be so obvious. I walked the streets as if invisible.

That was until one evening I walked home and came across a big, very large, intimidating man sitting on one of my adorable plastic white chairs inches from my front door.

Lacking experience in what to do in these situations, I stopped to say hello. He was in my path to the front door, so what else was I supposed to do? (HELLO- turn around and run!)

He spoke back and I proceeded to walk past him to unlock my door.

He said, “Do you want any pot?” With a deep voice that resembled James Earl Jones.

“No thanks” I replied quickly.

“My name is Herb, what’s yours?”

(now I’m trembling. what the heck is he doing sitting in my sweet, white chairs)

“I sit here often on these chairs. Sometimes I even sit on them by the stair well over there.”

Huh? That means he is moving my chairs around, as if they are his and then putting them back?

Now was my time to get into my little apartment that I thought was so safe.

With in that same breadth, Herb proceeded to leave.

Never to return.

It was after that incident (and yes I quickly removed the adorable white plastic chairs) I’d have similar ones…. at that cute little abode off Pacific.

Cops swirled above weekly.

Cops creeped slowly out front with flash lights looking for hiding thugs under my porch.

Even a gun shot rang one night.

It was then I realized the Pacifc Ave I had loved for its originality, I found was not so innocent after all.

 

This post as part of Mama Kat’s Writers Workshop “You stepped into your 1st apartment and thought..”