Survivor: Apartment Edition
Graphic by Téa Sklar
There comes a time in the Spring where the air smells fresh from the rain beside the strong scent of apartment leasing contracts in the air. It is at this time you decide to withdraw from the university housing lottery. Instead, you enter a bigger, scarier, ruthless game. Known for its sharp teeth and ego murdering, you enter the University Hill Reaping: Zillow.
You're optimistic for what your future might hold outside of the Watson Hall Quad and South Campus threat. Entering this battle, your strength is your kind nature and roommate with a part-time off-campus job. Your weaknesses, however, hold you back compared to your components as your lack of funds has your wallet filled with dust and tumbleweeds. If I were to empty my pockets you'd find in my wallet a paperclip and a gum wrapper, not three times the rent.
The games begin.
Thrown into the Hunger Games arena is a 19-year-old that's never signed a contract and does not know how to spell the word amenities. The competition, meanwhile, consists of fifty people with two years of rental history, proof of three times the rent, and—most intimidating of all—a car.
The script as a reality television survival contestant simply reads: look down at hands clutching breadcrumb rations and have a flashback of your last dining hall meal.
Even viewing an apartment becomes its own battlefield. I have woven through the leasing office cornucopia, attempting to present the most professional version of myself while silently praying that the odds will be in my favor. Each application fee and background check lands like another small wound.
At this point I've seen it all too. I've seen the neighborhoods, the brick buildings, the off street parking, the questionable laundry room, the uneven floor boards. I’ve even seen the apartment layout in the shape of an isosceles triangle. I’ve seen homes that are haunted and I’ve seen the attic of Tops market, and nothing is worth less than my left leg.
I managed to outrun a guy with a dog for the last remaining closet for less than my budget, but when the broker finally asked if I had a co-signer who owned at least three medium-sized islands, I realized my fate had been sealed.
The torches flickered. The votes were read.
And just like that, the tribe had spoken.