One morning this week, as I was studying at home, I heard footsteps on the walkway outside my apartment, then a shuffling of papers, a light tapping on my door, and a noise like adhesive tape unspooling to stick up a notice. Like that dreadful blue painter's tape they use for eviction notices. I looked up and saw a young man with a sheaf of papers in one hand pass by my window, walking away from the building while punching the keypad on some type of hand-held device. My heart started thumping and I broke in to a sweat. I checked my wall calendar, noted the date was past the 10th of the month and told myself, "It's too late for a 20-day notice." Still, my hands were shaking as I reached for the doorknob, pulled it open - and found an election campaign flyer taped on my door.
It's three years now since the beginning of the dispute with my old landlord that landed me here in Ferndale. I could think of plenty of negative things to say about my apartment, and the whole town, but the place still feels like such a safe refuge that I've pretty much always been pretty happy here. Still, it's probably good to get over that childish sense of denial that says really bad things won't happen to me, and everything will work out OK.
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