It was Monday, January 23, 1989.
I woke up on Mark and Bill’s couch, and drove to Northeast Minneapolis.
I hadn’t spent much time up there in the three years I’d lived in the Twin Cities – really, other than watching the occasional band at the occasional bar on Hennepin or Central, I’d never had the occasion to go. But I dug out my old map, and found the address – just a few blocks off Central, near 34th and Johnson.
The owner – actually owners, a late twentysomething guy and his older brother – and I hit it off perfectly. He needed a renter now, and I need a place now. Better, as we talked, we discovered that we had a ton of common acquaintances; they both worked with my old roommate Liz and her boyfriend.
The place was perfect for me – almost the stuff of single-guy dreams. It was the entire upstairs of a small house; I had a private entrance, a waffleplate stairway that led up the back of the house. A nice-sized living room with a south exposure, a tiny (hence less-stuff-to-clean) kitchen with a 20 year old fridge and a beat-up gas stove, a cozy little paneled-wall bedroom, and – mirabile dictu – a bathroom of my very own, for the first time in my life.
They said I could have it; I drove directly to a bank branch over by Apache Plaza, grabbed the damage deposit and a month’s rent, and arranged to move in on Monday.
Life started looking up just a bit.