First Apartment: The "Hovel"

Everyone has a nickname of some sort.  Whether it's a shortened version of your name, something you're known for among friends, or something your enemies whisper loudly as you pass, nicknames distinguish you from your peers.  For better or worse, they're part of who you are.

My apartment has a nickname; it falls pretty well under the "for worse" category.  It came about while I was talking to my mother on the phone one day about finances, telling her my rent was low, so I could afford to save for a car. 

"That's because you live in a h--" she started to say.

"A what--a hole?  I live in a hole?"

"No," she said, "I wasn't going to say 'hole.'"  She was laughing.

"A hovel?"

She didn't answer me; she just laughed, and I could hear her pull the phone away as she snorted.  I started to laugh too.

"Yes," she said, "a hovel.  You live in a hovel."  And that was that: my apartment, the hovel.

I don't blame her for the nickname, really, since I had already been referring to it as "my crappy little apartment."  It was only time before someone took it to the next level.  Her reasons for taking it there are legitimate and twofold, the two w's of where this place went wrong: the wiring and the walls.

As I understand it, usually the electrical wiring in people's homes is cleverly hidden behind the walls, and outlets tend to lie flat, blending into their surroundings.  But this aesthetic arrangement apparently wasn't interesting enough for the electrician who worked on our place, so now the outlets, switches, and wiring are all right where you can see them, encased in a delightful shiny metal tubing.  The tubing runs from one wall across the ceiling to the other, the switch and outlet boxes jutting out like a pop-up book for first-year electricians.

Perhaps this was a place of learning and practice, a teaching hospital of electric surgery.  Not only are the conduits exposed for better view, but I can tell the overhead light and smoke detector were moved in the living room, as well as various outlets throughout the apartment, as if several students were given a go at proper installation.  I can tell they were moved because of the outlines on the ceiling and walls where no dirt or sunlight could reach to fade the area where the fixtures used to be. 

That, and the gaping holes that were left behind.

None of that fancy spackle-and-repaint business for this place, no sir.  Only the transplanted bathroom light switch got that kind of treatment; the rest of the gutted electrical outlets have been left like eyeless sockets, unblinking and--forgive the pun--rather unsightly.

The wiring, as wonderful as it is, could easily be forgiven if the rest of the place were in good condition.  But we arrive now at the second w, the walls, which present an even bigger challenge when it comes to decorating and making the place home.  Not only are the walls thin and painted a depressing, dirty off-white color, they seem to have contracted some sort of disease during the electrical surgery, symptoms of which include cracking, crumbling, and, on occasion, tearing.

In the living room alone are two very long, jagged cracks we've had to cover up with wall hangings.  Pretty material or tapestries have single-handedly saved our living room from looking like it would break in half if you made too much commotion.  (Breathing, for example.)  Paintings, too, can be used to patch up the wounds.  My favorite is a spot in the bedroom that looks like Wolverine dragged his claws across the wall.  Someone attempted to repair the damage with spackle, but they forgot to take the extra step and repaint the area, so a painting now covers it like a custom-designed band-aid.

Unfortunately, not everything can be covered up.  The corner by my roommate's bed is crumbling so much that the two sides barely meet, and you can see inside to the dusty recesses of the walls.  Dusty and spidery, I should say.  She's been killing at least one big one a day, and I know she hasn't been keeping track of the little ones.  I stay out of it because it's not my side of the room, but I'm not thrilled to know our crumbling wall is an arachnid hub.  We try to vacuum it out as often as possible, but you have to be careful not to knock off any more chunks with the hose. 

I had a good laugh about the walls with my roommate this morning as she set off to buy a slipcover for our loveseat, taking a curtain tie and an arm protector from the sofa slipcover as color samples.

"That's a smart idea," I said as she untied a curtain panel.

"I could probably take some of the wall, too, since there are so many places where it's coming off," she replied, and we both cracked up.

The thing is, it's funny.  The two w's and all the other places the apartment went wrong are actually entertaining.  It's hilarious that Wolverine came in here and tore up the place.  It's hysterical that my roommate gets dive-bombed by spiders in her sleep (ok, maybe it's only funny because it's not happening to me).   Life would not be the same if this were a dream house with aesthetically-pleasing outlets and no need for tapestries.  For better or worse, in sickness and in electrical surgery, the "hovel" certainly keeps you on your toes.

I could live without the spiders, though.