Homer's Odyssey

11 • A One-Bedroom of One’s Own

It rests with heaven to decide who shall be chief among us, but you shall be master in your own house and over your own possessions.

—HOMER, The Odyssey

THE DOT-COM REVOLUTION CAME EVENTUALLY TO MIAMI—ALBEIT SEVERAL years later than it had arrived in cities like New York and San Francisco—and with it a sudden surge in job opportunities. Start-up companies set up shop in the aging Deco office buildings of South Beach, with apparently limitless budgets and a need to staff up as quickly as possible. Because most of these companies couldn’t fill positions as rapidly as their needs were growing, they required employees who were, in the parlance, able to “wear a lot of different hats.”

One company, for example, needed someone to be their director of event marketing, able to produce large-scale corporate events, cocktail parties, and trade shows. Since they didn’t have a press representative yet, it would be great if that same person also had a working knowledge of the city’s press contacts and how to mobilize them. As they also hadn’t yet found a full-time copywriter, it would be helpful if this new hire had a degree in English or creative writing and could pinch-hit with copywriting responsibilities as necessary. And because the mission of this particular company was to produce a local, online directory replete with information about community activities and volunteer efforts, it would be ideal if they found someone with strong connections in Miami’s nonprofit orbit.

“They know they’re asking for a lot,” the friend who tipped me off to this position told me. “So they’re willing to pay a pretty high salary for the right person.”

My hands trembled over my computer’s keyboard that night as I updated my résumé, so nervous was I that I might submit it too late, or that they might not want me for the position. But I didn’t, and they did.

It was just under two years since I had moved back into my parents’ house. Finally, after so much time spent in what had often felt like a fruitless struggle, I had attained a job and a salary that would more than cover the bills I already had—plus a place of my own.

EVERY SECOND WHEN I wasn’t working over the next couple of months, I devoted to reading real estate listings. I eyed them with the close, loving attention to detail that a shut-in lavishes on reading pornography.

I had never lived in an apartment of my own. After college, I’d moved in with Jorge. After Jorge, I’d lived with Melissa, and then with my parents. So each four-line description in the apartment listings was a window into a glittering, glamorous new life. I could be the fashionable young tenant of a sleek new high-rise on Brickell Avenue, with ocean views, doormen, and concierge service. A converted guesthouse on one of the sprawling older estates on Pine Tree Drive, with palazzo floors and a spiral staircase, would be my entrée to ramshackle bohemia. I could be part of the trendy, cutting-edge set with a garden apartment in Miami’s burgeoning Design District. If what I wanted was SoBe cachet, a charming duplex in a restored Art Deco building was the way to go.

I had a price range in mind, but I didn’t want to spend all the way to the top of it. One never knew what the future held, but what I knew for certain was that I never wanted to be forced again, for financial reasons, to live with my parents.

There were other considerations as well. Anything on the ground floor—like the Design District garden apartment—struck me as unsafe for a woman living alone. And if Homer were to inadvertently scurry his way out the front door, I didn’t want him in a position to run straight out into the street. The gaps between the metal steps in the spiral staircase of that converted guesthouse were dangerous for a small blind cat who could easily, in a fit of playfulness, slip between them and plummet to the ground floor. The balcony of the Brickell Avenue high-rise was a death trap. Homer had no idea that solid ground could end suddenly, and with the speed at which he moved he could be out a balcony door, onto the balcony itself, and over the side in a matter of seconds.

I finally settled on an eleventh-floor, one-bedroom apartment—light-filled and spacious—in a gargantuan complex on South Beach’s West Avenue. It didn’t convey much in the way of personality or lifestyle, but it was sensibly priced in the middle of my range. The apartment featured walk-in closets, an enormous bathroom that could discreetly accommodate a litter box, and a large balcony with sweeping views of Biscayne Bay to the west and the Atlantic Ocean to the east.

I had been deeply conflicted at first, wanting that apartment but also worried about Homer and the balcony. But South Florida living was all about taking advantage of our balmy climate, and just about anything that wasn’t ground-floor had some sort of balcony or adjoining patio. At least this apartment featured a screen door behind the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. A sliding door was in itself a great safety measure, taking longer to open than a hinged door, which meant I had additional seconds to stop a death-defiant Homer from worming his way past me outside. Even if Homer did manage to slip by, there would be a screen behind the door—one he couldn’t squeeze through unless I unlocked it.

The apartment was unfurnished, and I was starting from scratch since I owned nothing beyond my clothes, my books, a small television, and the CDs that had been gathering dust in boxes; I hadn’t wanted to revert to my teenage habit of playing loud music in my room and annoying my parents. Here too, though, in selecting the things that would convert my apartment from anonymous rental unit to comfortable home, were countless hours of joy.

I was as mindful of the cats in selecting furniture as I had been in selecting an apartment. They were all good about using scratching posts, but since Homer didn’t so much leap to the top of tall furniture as climb it, his claws inevitably found their way into things. A leather sofa was out of the question—too many snags, not enough options for covering them. But a cloth sofa made from too delicate a material was equally impractical. I ended up with a neighbor’s red velvet sofa and love seat, which were both appealingly risqué—appropriate, I thought, for the first apartment of my own that I would eventually bring “boys” over to—and made of a fabric surprisingly strong and snag-proof.

A friend suggested declawing Homer, since I was so concerned about the impact of his claws on household furnishings. It was something I couldn’t even bring myself to consider. Not only was I opposed to declawing any of my cats, but Homer’s claws were too much a part of his sense of confidence. He was so comfortable climbing and leaping in part because, even if he couldn’t see that he was about to slide down or tumble backward off something, the quick deployment of his claws would save him from a fall like a mountain climber’s grappling hooks.

“I’m going to miss him,” my mother said when our moving day finally arrived. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. “I’ve really come to love that stupid little cat.”

“Hey!” I protested, but I smiled. “Who are you calling ‘stupid’?”

“Casey and Brandi aren’t going to like it,” my father glumly predicted.

I couldn’t resist teasing him. “Do you think maybe they’ll offer to take care of Homer if, God forbid, something happens to me?”

Leaving this time felt different than it had when I’d first left for college. Back then, I’d known I would return for school breaks and summer vacations. There had never been a single, definitive moment of rupture or leave-taking. This time was different, though. This time, we all knew I wasn’t coming back.

Returning to live in my parents’ home had seemed, at times, like a demoralizing descent back into childhood. All that was already receding, however. Now it struck me that circumstances had brought me closer to my parents, had allowed me to get to know them as an adult in ways I never would have otherwise.

The cats struggled frantically in their carriers as I loaded them into the car. As far as they were concerned, nothing good was ever on the other end of a trip in the carrier. It always meant either a vet visit (bad) or a new home to get used to (even worse).

“This time we’re going to a better place,” I whispered to them. “You’ll love our new home. I promise.”

“Call us when you get there,” my mother said. She pulled me into a hug. “Maybe we’ll bring over bagels or something tomorrow morning, so you don’t have to worry about food while you’re getting settled.”

“That sounds great,” I told her, returning the hug.

The last thing I heard, as I shut the car doors behind the cats and prepared to drive away, was the sound of Casey howling from inside the house.