Yes, That Was Me Wading Through Garbage a Week Ago

Last Saturday, I spent over an hour wading through garbage in order to keep my new apartment. You see, the day before, I signed for a new apartment with my girlfriend in an upscale, downtown Silicon Valley location. It was quite a coup for us: this particular building is very popular and rarely has openings, and I managed to find a flat becoming available at exactly the right time. All I needed to do to lock down the place was to get my previous two earnings statements (showing my total pay and deductions) and to bring those statements into the leasing office on Saturday. With those steps out of the way, the apartment would officially be mine.

Naturally, that seemingly simple scenario didn't play out as initially expected. In a random fit of paranoia during the previous week, I ripped up my most recent earnings statement and, fearing identity thieves, randomly distributed the pieces in two separate trash bags. Yes, I know that is a ridiculous thing to do. In the grand scheme of 'Ridiculous Things I Do,' though, it's a rather minor offense. It was so minor, in fact, that I had forgotten about it entirely by the time I signed for the apartment.

In a spell of rationality, I thought to myself, "Surely I can bring in the previous 10 earnings statements in order to substantiate my alleged income. After all, the people at the leasing office just want proof that I make as much as I say I do, and 10 statements should do the trick!" Sadly, upon returning to the leasing office with a stack of statements in hand, I learned that unless I could provide my most recent earnings statement before the office closed that day, the folks at the leasing office might give the apartment to another candidate.

At that moment, I realized that rationality had been entirely thrown out the window in favor of adherence to rigid bureaucratic rules, a realization I quickly identified as familiar from every single day at work. Desperation, another common workplace feeling, set in. Knowing there was only one thing I could do, I drove home, fished out trash bags from the dumpster, and began looking for the remnants of my last earnings statement.

After nearly an hour of careful sorting through protein bar wrappers, used tissues, and stale hot dog buns, among other delightful artifacts of Silicon Valley home life that had come to reside in the trash, I managed to locate roughly thirty pieces of ripped-up earnings statement that had become sopping wet from immersion in unmentionably ghastly rubbish liquids. I'm bad with any tasks requiring fine hand-eye coordination, so I managed to cajole my girlfriend into assembling these soaked shards of earnings statement into a coherent whole. In about fifteen minutes, she managed to recreate the entire original earnings statement and tape it together without smudging any of the print. It may not have been a feat worthy of canonization, but it definitely earned her a free Jamba Juice on my dime, which is a satisfying reward in its own right (although I must admit that we probably would have gotten those Jamba Juices regardless of her statement assembly performance).

Anyway, we made it back to the leasing office and, thankfully, the woman helping us there took the reconstructed earnings statement, deemed it acceptable, made a quick photocopy, and sent us on our way. My girlfriend and I overcame serious obstacles to save our new apartment, and it felt good. The eventual Jamba Juice celebration felt even better. If you've ever had the now-defunct-but-still-available-by-request 'Peenya Kowlada' smoothie, you'd understand how glorious a celebratory Jamba Juice can be. Seriously, try it.

I'll leave the story at that for now. Tomorrow, I'm traveling with friends to the Russian River Brewing Company (RRBC), a classic getaway for me and my pals, so my next entry may be an introduction to the world of high-intensity fine beering, with sides of commentary on A&W root beer floats and chicken wings. More to come on those topics next time. For tonight, I'm out.

Blogging you with a sweet tenderness that makes you seriously question your other blogging relationships,

Valley J