He was somewhere in his 70s, wore the same gray work shirt every single day, and had a face that did not give away a single thing he was thinking.
His hair was white and cut close to his head.
His hands looked rough, and there was a thin scar near his left thumb.
He looked at me, then at Trixie, then at my car.
The car had stalled twice on the way there.
He asked me three questions: “Did I smoke?” “Did I have a dog?” “Was the little girl mine?”
“No, no, and yes,” I replied.
Mr. Alvarez looked at Trixie again.
She stepped closer to me and held my hand.
Then he said, “$800 a month. First of the month. No lease, because I don’t like paperwork.”
I nearly cried right there in the driveway.
Eight hundred dollars was less than half of what anything else in that city cost.
“Is there a deposit?” I asked.
“No.”
“Application fee?”
“No.”
“Do you need proof of income?”
He stared at me.
“Can you pay $800?”
“Yes.”
“Then move in Saturday.”
That was it.
No background check. No references. No long conversation about my failed marriage or my shaky finances.
I thanked him so many times that his expression finally changed.
“Stop thanking me,” he said. “Just pay on time.”
“I will.”
And I did.
