Apartment 914
The other day I found myself in Blanco Center on Leviste Street, where I lived in the early 90s. The name of the street has been changed—it used to be called Alfaro—but everything looks exactly the way it did in 1991: gray, gloomy, institutional, reminiscent of Soviet architecture. The minute I walked in, my feet automatically made for the elevator, and my finger hit 9—if I hadn’t snapped out of it, I would’ve knocked on 914 and demanded to know what those people were doing in my apartment. It was the first apartment I ever had; I shared it with two roommates, corporate types (they’re rich now) who only turned up at sleeping time, so it was mostly mine. If anyone out there wants to do a remake of David Lynch’s Eraserhead, this is your location; bring your own goat parts.
At the time I had a column called Womenagerie, which appeared in a weekly women’s magazine. One time I wrote about my apartment—its dimly-lit corridors, the identical studio units, the ambience of a Stalin-era asylum. I thought it was funny and affectionate—I actually loved the place—but my landlord was not amused. Clearly he did not like irony, because he raised my rent substantially. How did he know that I was referring to his building? I suppose it was a compliment to my descriptive abilities, but when you’re just starting out on your own, you prefer lower rent to a compliment. As far as I know the landlord was not a reader of Woman Today, so I figure some rat fink tenant squealed on me.
When I got the bill I didn’t suspect anything; I thought all the tenants had to pay more rent. But my furious roommate came home one day with a photocopy of my article, and I learned that it was my fault. So I sought a meeting with the landlord. Who gave me a long lecture about conformity, obligations, and how, as I grew older, I would realize that I have to consider what other people think, etcetera etcetera.
That was an important meeting. My entire career is founded on not following that advice. As for the building, someone told me that it will be torn down in December to make room for a new condominium development. I miss it already.
Did you ever live in Blanco, or know someone who lived there? I’m compiling apartment stories.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
August 6th, 2007 at 08:33
hi jessica. im going on my fifth year of living in blanco. id gladly share my experiences with you. just kindly give me a short note and id share my contact nubmers. kind regards and more power,
August 7th, 2007 at 20:46
I once lived in a studio in Blanco apartments as well between 1990 and 1991. It was walking distance to my office (which was at the corner of Paseo and if i remember correctly, Sedeno). However, since i parked on the road, i still drove to work. What i remember from that place is that the first time i entered it, there were lots of small cockroaches in the shower. I remember the windows to be fragile since the glass easily shattered when i was trying to punch it open. There was a time when i (and my then fiance) rushed to the fire exit because a blind masseuse accidentally triggered the fire alarm. I also spent New Year’s eve of 1990 alone in that room because my car broke down and i cannot go home to my parents. Since the Blanco’s had a law firm, i also remember availing of their services from time to time to notarized some of my documents. One last Blanco-related memory (but this was years later in the late 90’s when i was no longer staying there) is after one such notarization. I was walking back to the back street where i parked my car and i crossed paths with a ‘taong grasa’ who upon seeing me, looked like he saw a ghost and promptly ran away. I was wondering what that was all about. When i got in my car, i realized after a minute that i could no longer see any reflection in my side view mirrors as the glass was stolen. By that time (around 1997), i moved to a studio apartment across in 146 Alfaro Place, and by that time, i had a totally different life.