Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

Five minutes later, I’m convinced that my first impression based on Tina’s reaction—“dump”—was more accurate. Calling the garage converted is like calling the empty lot across the street a rose garden. The garage door still works; the gaps that let in cold air have been duct-taped over, but there’s still a persistent draft. The concrete floor has been covered with carpet remnants. At least those look clean, if a little haphazard.

The furniture is sparse—two beds with metal frames, a desk that wobbles when I toss my duffle on top, a dresser, and a bare clothing rod against one wall. The bathroom is a boxy installation of not-quite-straight wallboard.

There’s something like a kitchen. Which is to say, there is a single sink, which I would have called stainless steel in another life, except it is most definitely stained, and a foot-long stretch of Formica countertop. A microwave and a hotplate round out the cooking gear. Cinderblocks and particleboard shelves make up the kitchen cabinets.

Okay, this is pretty crappy. It’s also cold.

“Where’s the thermostat?” I ask.

The women smile at each other again. “No heat,” Maria says.

“What?” I stare at them. “Is that even legal?”

“No.”

I blink. “What the hell? Why haven’t you reported them? Do you just not—”

“Oh, I know,” Maria says, waving a hand in my direction. “My grandmother is a lawyer for the City Attorney of San Francisco. I know how this works way better than you ever will. We’d report them. Then the city would decide that this does not pass inspection on about fifty different counts. And then we would have to find somewhere else to live, and nowhere that actually meets housing code will charge us only eight hundred bucks a month. The whole thing is totally illegal. But on the bright side, it makes breaking leases infinitely easier.”

Fine. If they’ve put up with this, I can, too.

“Besides,” Maria says, “it’s the Bay Area, not Wisconsin. It’s not like it ever really gets that cold.”

“Outside,” Tina says. “Sometimes, in the morning, it’s kind of bad. Try and get out early; it’s better that way.”

“Yeah,” Maria says. “But you don’t need our advice. You’re a big, macho man. You eat cold for breakfast.”

I’m pretty sure she’s making fun of me, so I refuse to rise to the bait. “Nope,” I say. “What kind of idiot doesn’t want advice?”

They exchange glances yet again.

Maria sighs. “Should we tell him about the space heater?”

“Honestly, he’s better off not knowing.”

“Come on,” I say. “No holding out on me.”

“Fine. But remember, you asked for it.” Tina rummages around between one of the beds and the dresser and comes up with a black, plastic thing that looks like a fan. “But, um, maybe… There is something we should mention.”

Maria elbows her, but Tina shakes her head.

While they’re talking, I plug the heater into the power strip, turn the dial all the way up, and flip the power switch. The fan starts to whir; the elements inside turn orange. No heat, yet, but—

“You see, it’s not that easy. If you—”

There’s a loud click and the power shuts off. We’re plunged into darkness.

“As I was saying,” Tina says dryly into the darkness, “the wiring in the garage is ancient. So if you use the heater on anything but the lowest setting, you’re kind of screwed.”

“Yeah,” Maria says. “Don’t use it if you’re running anything that draws power. Like a hair dryer.”

“Or the microwave,” Tina adds in.

“Or if the refrigerator turns on.”

“Pretty much don’t use it with anything on at all. And sometimes even then, it’s too much.”

Their voices are flat, but I can tell they’re trying not to laugh at me.

Fine. Whatever. It’s just a little inconvenience, right? I can take it.

I sigh. “So where’s the fuse box again?”

A minute later, I’ve reset the fuse and we have light—crappy, overhead fluorescent light—again.

“Here’s my computer.” Tina gestures to a laptop on the desk. One hinge has been mended with the same blue duct tape that’s been used to block the drafts.

She hands it over, and I take a look at it.

She must have got this used. As a freshman. It’s an old-model laptop, boxy and heavy. I open it; the lid swings at an odd angle, so I have to stop and coax the poor thing into the semblance of an open position.

I turn it on.

It takes forever to boot.

Okay, the cold is one thing. The fuse box is another. Those things amount to roughing it. But when it comes to computer gadgetry, I am downright spoiled. I haven’t gotten a logon screen after a full minute and a half. And it’s been so long since I’ve used a non-Cyclone computer that I have no idea what to do with this beast.

“Also,” Tina says, “about the bank account. As per our agreement, I’ve deposited a check with my entire net worth as of yesterday into your account.” She hands me a deposit slip. “Congratulations. You have $15.22. There’s also about nine pounds of rice left.” She looks at me. “If you need recipes…”

“That’s what Google is for,” I tell her flatly.