nightlife.
San Francisco is a moldy, dank town. No one tells you this, you just inevitably find it out when you go apartment-hunting. I'd had enough of mildew, of damp, of shitty windows that don't close. The woman who met me at the door was posh--tall, lithe, expensive hair. In a low voice she ran through the details--lots of light, storage in the attic, but do not, repeat, do not descend to the basement. I was so grateful for a warm, dry bedroom that I nodded mutely, willing to agree to anything. She seemed unsurprised at my lack of curiosity, only raising a sculpted eyebrow as I hastily wrote a check. The rent was shockingly low. The keys felt good in my hand as I left. I could not have been happier.
That is, until about 2am, when I awoke, disoriented, my air mattress sighing angrily as I jumped up from the floor. WHISTLE. CRACK. Over, and over. Maybe an old furnace? WHISTLE. CRACK. Nervous, I turned back to bed. What the hell could that be? I tried to apply a rational answer--probably old plumbing, shifting as the temperature dropped overnight. Yeah. Plumbing. I fell into fitful sleep.
Every night, at the same time. A thin whistling sound, and then a sharp crack. Sometimes haunting moans. Finally I mustered up my meager courage and
tiptoed out into the shared hallway. Louder here. It sounded like it was coming from downstairs. Worried, I hesitated. The landlady's words reverberated. But I couldn't take it anymore. The stairs were steep, dark. My footsteps were muffled in plush carpeting, and I watched my hand reach for the knob on the door, my heart thundering in my ears. WHISTLE. CRACK.
I pushed the door open a few inches with tingling fingers. Low music, soft lights. In the middle of the room stood the landlady, thigh-high boots and red lips, flicking a whip expertly in one hand. WHISTLE. CRACK. At a sleek bar behind her, several women lounged, cat-like, watching her with heavily made-up eyes as a young man removed his shirt. Her eyes met mine as she raised an eyebrow. "What took you so long?", she purred.