23 vignettes on the rental crisis – by Anna Jacobson
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1. When I move in, the manager stands in my room. He says it’s important for me to be quiet. His gaze fixes on the wall, trying to appease whoever is on the other side.
2. Someone told me that people go missing here – that my street is the Bermuda Triangle of Brisbane. Today was the first day my lips started tasting like metal. I think it’s stress.
3. Urgency fizzes the man’s voice: Can you please tell me – is there anything wrong with this building? I wonder if the man is a journalist or a prospective tenant. He’s pulled up on his bicycle, towering over the restauranteur as though trying to intimidate the truth. You would have to ask the manager, he says, holding my glance as I pass through sliding doors. There’s a tiny sign that reads this building contains ACM. I know there is something strange about the building. Tenants in the building are always coming and going, and the open inspections are held on a Sunday. The building is incredibly quiet on a Sunday – deceptively peaceful. Which is why I was surprised after I’d signed the year-long lease, to hear construction work starting every morning from 6.30am Monday to Saturday. I cannot think from all the noise of jackhammers.
4. Today the water stopped running and I was left holding an empty cup under the faucet. I phoned the manager, and he said yes, plumbing works are being done. Should turn on again in ten minutes. Drink plenty of water.
5. We had a fire drill today. The briefing was held downstairs in the empty restaurant. The woman running the training told us to head down the street if there was ever a fire. Fire travels uphill she says. Tomorrow, I will buy a fire blanket.
6. The dryer that came with the rental makes my clothes smell singed after one minute. I’ve stopped using the dryer. The manager says if I want a replacement, I need to use it until it breaks. I don’t want it to catch on fire, so I set up a clothes rack next to the bed. I hang the fire blanket near the dryer.
7. The room I’m renting is in the same street as my psychiatrist’s office.
8. When I moved in, there was a patch of dried blood on the floor by the edge of the bed. Perhaps the previous tenant had stubbed their toe on the torn-up base. When I moved the bed to get rid of the clumps of dust, I discovered five Q-tips from the previous tenant, cotton-bud heads turned grey. I put on gloves and threw them in the bin. Anything could be in this place.
9. My friends keep telling me that I’ve got to move out. Find a new rental. My applications keep being rejected.
10. Fighter jet planes overheard. I can’t hear my mother on the phone. Neither of us being heard against sky’s roar. The jets are practising for River Fire. Feels like the world is ending. War is coming, says a barefoot woman holding a long stick. She walks through Roma Steet Parklands in a wrap-around dress of grey linen – only I hear her words, louder than my mother’s voice against my phone-pressed ear.
11. There’s a homeless-looking woman sitting on the pavement next to a sleek black dog. A well-dressed woman pauses mid-stride, says to her husband what’s that beautiful dog doing with the likes of her? The well-dressed woman hovers as though contemplating calling the authorities to take away the other woman’s companion. The green man says go so I go.
12. I saw my psychiatrist and told him about my situation. Where’s your rental? he asks again. Around the corner from your office. Up the hill. Sometimes I think we are both under the same forgetting spell.
13. People come and go but I’ve lived here for fifteen years says penthouse-man at the lifts. An older woman gets in at level 3. Coppers are outside, she says. On ground floor I see the street lined with police and ambulances. I go to the park and call a friend. When are you moving? You deserve better, she tells me.
14. There’s no room for a table. I sit on the side-edge of my bed with a bowl balanced on my knees to eat.
15. The loop bus stops right outside the building. There’s a permanent security guard on board because so many fights break out. I’m in the middle section and watch as Security wedges his body between two men – one trying to punch the other. When the bus pulls up to my stop, another girl gets out shaken. I ask if she’s okay. She says she’s been living in my building for a month. I say I’ve been here for a year now and she looks at me in awe. I don’t know whether it’s safer to walk home or catch the loop bus at night. I decide not to go out at night anymore.
16. White powder has started appearing in the grouting and through the cracks in the walls. Maybe it’s mould. Or asbestos. My lips still taste metallic.
17. I walk past a pigeon that has fallen from the sky, neck broken and tucked under its wing. I feel it’s a bad omen to see a dead animal. I’m superstitious. The last time I saw a severed blue tongue on a rail pedestrian crossing the floods came, and I had to move out, find a place quickly. Ended up here.
18. I wake with pain in my hands. The air in my room smells of crushed dust and plaster. I can see particles in the morning light.
19. I head to the rental inspection. The current tenant smokes outside on the balcony. The agent is on the phone nearby. Does it come with a washing machine and fridge? I ask the tenant. It can. I can sell you mine. He exhales smoke into the flyscreen. No room for a dining room table says a woman who is looking on behalf of her daughter. It’s small, says another. To me this place feels huge. But it’s opposite a petrol station that is so new it hasn’t shown up on the map. I can smell the fumes from outside the building. Did you enjoy living here? I ask the tenant. It’s quiet he says. I know he is lying – there must have been a year of construction work and drilling into the foundations to build the new petrol station.
20. The next rental I inspect has no security screens. Do you know if there is construction noise in the area? I ask the agent. The agent pauses. No, I don't know. In her pause I remember I have passed a construction site only a block away.
21. I get in late from my graduation. I unwrap the frame I’ve ordered for my PhD testamur and place the parchment inside. I turn out my light and get into bed. The man in the studio next door waits until all is quiet, then whispers through the walls: You woke me up, you stupid cunt.
22. I am heading out of the building to get my hair cut. When the lift doors open, there is a man leaning against the side of the lift. He looks like he is having an upright seizure. He isn’t wearing a shirt but is wearing shorts. A pair of underpants are twisted on the floor. I am in shock trying to work out what is happening for so long that the lift doors automatically close themselves again. I take the stairs. I figure the man needs help and might be having a drug overdose. I’ve never seen someone having a drug overdose before. I ring the manager and tell him that I think the man needs medical attention. The manager says: I’ll keep it in mind. When I get back from my appointment, the lift is empty, underpants removed.
23. My doorknob handle rattles up and down. Someone is trying to get into my room and is testing my door to see if it will open. This has happened twice in two months that I’ve been in my room. I don’t feel safe. The building will eat me alive. ▼
Image: Anna Jacobson
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