I’m a Victim of The Housing Crisis. PT. 1

In 2019, my father relapsed on alcohol. After spending over a decade as his caretaker, this wasn’t my first time dealing with it. Unfortunately, there were so many that this was the last. That’s how life works.

The events that led to me leaving don’t matter—not for this post, at least. This one’s about a darker reality that’s hit me—and a lot of other Americans: housing. Which, depending on who you ask, ties into cost of living. Unless you’re Gen Z. Or, in my case, a late-blooming Millennial man-child cruising Airbnb, Zillow, or the dead space of Craigslist.

Not like I wasn’t prepared. Ten years of caretaking for an alcoholic can prepare you for a lot of things. Well—except knowing I could’ve been compensated by the state. Seriously, check your state’s laws if you’re living with a disabled parent.

Regardless, I wasn’t blind going out on my own. I paid my own bills—not rent, but still. Worked odd jobs, including another caretaking gig. All while keeping my father sober enough to hold down his janitorial job—so I could keep getting tuition remission as a full-time student.

So, I let 2020 play out. Bided my time after getting laid off for the first time. Still in good spirits. This country always flirts with socialism when enough people die.

Seriously—unemployment didn’t feel like a death sentence. Free public transit. Holding an anti-science administration accountable. America thrives on death until capitalism demands we work ourselves to death.

But that’s beside the point. I chose Los Angeles as my destination. Some may call that foolish, considering LA’s problems are endless. I’d counter that its promise outweighs those issues. Besides, with a BS (punch writes itself) in film/TV, my options were pretty limited.

To pick my exact location, I went through Zillow. Still kind of new to me. Didn’t see the harm in trying. Craigslist felt dead, and Airbnb I only associated with vacations. Naturally, I filtered for something in my range and found a spot for eight hundred a month.

Location, location, location—that was the real reason I took it. Sure, it was a co-living situation. The kind taking over the country right now, if you can believe it. Because for many of us, college was fun.

Of course, there was a catch…

The photo of two bunk‐bed sets had me thinking, “Nice—shouldn’t be too crowded.” Hell, that virtual “tour” of the hammock out back, the chill patio, and the rooftop deck sealed the deal.

So imagine my surprise when I landed and saw those two bunks were just two of eight in the main room—eight people, one bathroom.

And that doesn’t even include the eight beds in the converted guest house—the one with the cool rooftop deck. They shared our single bathroom, so that’s sixteen people sharing one space. A total of twenty in the house when you count the female-only room that fit four.

They could afford that room unlike the two women squeezed into ours. Oh—and one more room had a lone bunk—occupied by the self‑appointed “point man”.

Could I complain? I flew across the country to figure this out myself. Still, credit where it’s due—it was a welcoming environment.

Besides, we were in Melrose and Fairfax! Sure, COVID rules meant limits, and I’d moved right before the election—LA was bracing for riots. The upside? The house held twenty, but only twelve of us moved in. Totally bearable.

My welcome came from an overly enthusiastic roommate—younger, in the same field, but vague about his past. Told me it had something to do with bad luck with women.

The other roommates seemed solid too: an aspiring novelist from New York, a homegrown Angeleno writer, and a handful of actors. One guy stood out—muscular, a voice you’d recognize, always smoking cigs and weed. He had a unique smell to him, and that smell would be his undoing.

Turns out, he had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. A condition that probably deserves its own punchline—but not eviction. Around my one‑month mark, he admitted this wasn’t his first rodeo; he’d been evicted before for the exact same reason. He was apologetic for something clearly beyond his control.

I offered what comfort I could. Chalked it up to life—because I was living it now. A full‑fledged Angeleno: landing gigs, scrounging quarters for laundry (yes, they charged), and waiting for “normal” to roll back around.

And really—how bad could normal be in LA? Sure, the Metro would go back to paid rides, but I had wheels. I’d been here long enough to know homelessness would boom again. Par for the course. Besides, we were all banking on the new normal: remote work, better safety nets, pandemic lessons… remember?

Maybe I was too naïve. Hindsight’s 20/20—but maybe that’s just me being hard on myself. Truth is, I was excited. A whole house full of artists in the Melrose area? The possibilities felt endless. Everyone looked like they were putting their best foot forward, and I got along with nearly all of them. But that hindsight creeps in here, too. Still, I refuse to believe everything that happened to me was just because I was too gosh-darn happy.

I felt like an outsider at first. Bound to happen, though. Didn’t really faze me. I had goals—my own goals—no matter how many people I shared a space with. Or so you’d think.

A lot of butting personalities. In one sense, to be expected. In another, butting means conflict comes constantly. At first, it was over the most basic of things: the mispronunciation of a name.

“It’s HAR, not HER. I hate it when people fuckin’ do that.”

I wanted to reply with a simple, “Jesus Christ, got it.”

Instead, I apologized—my Boston accent made me feel ashamed in that moment. Bostonians will know what I mean. Also, I was just on a high, having hit the ground running—and, well, weed.

My success hadn’t gone unnoticed. The so-called eyes and ears for the owners definitely clocked my work ethic, and he finally took a liking to me after spotting me running lines on that backyard porch.

It’s here I need to mess with the timeline a bit—especially since this guy became a part of my life. Even when I didn’t want him to be.

“Not good enough, again.”

In the age of the self-tape, the sycophantic behavior that the TV series Barry made famous is now commonplace across Los Angeles. And sycophantic behavior always curdles into abuse.

It’s here I have to tinker with the timeline ever so slightly. Not long after this—in the grand scheme of things, about a year later—he was still part of my life, whether I wanted him to be or not. It got to the point where I think he believed he knew me.

Even now, writing this almost three years later, I can still hear him forming a rebuttal. Holding onto his version of events—which I’ll give him credit for remembering—just to use it against me somehow.

That’s partly why I take responsibility for having taken on some of his burdens, even as he made me feel less than. That said, I was never in his shoes. He never asked about my life, yet he was always either gloating or complaining about his—depending on the day.

One time, he told me to take an acting role—without mentioning they'd need to shave my head. Luckily, I said no, but his attempt to mask the disappointment didn’t go unnoticed.

When he had his own place, I saw him “spank” his dog and scream at the top of his lungs, “I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP!”

Then came caretaker mode—when he called me from rehab. It was a sharp reminder of my own history, standing in an apartment that wasn’t mine, staring at lines of cocaine. I gathered his things for an hour-long drive, only to be told it wasn’t needed. 

Used, in more ways than one.

He wasn’t the only one I trusted after that first living situation. In this context, “trusted” is a loaded word. But it’s the only one that fits. Anyone trying to find stability in this world knows trust isn’t always emotional—it’s a tool for survival.

I also befriended the guitar player who’d spent a little time inside. Never said for what. He was kind of an enigma. A Mexican-American who bonded with me over classic rock, but also a Trump supporter. They’re out there. He was a cool dude, though—even he had his limits.

“You’re such a stupid bitch.”

He had a way with words when it came to his now ex-girlfriend. Eventually ended up with one of the girls in the all-female room. Which somehow set people off—even ones who didn’t know it was happening. Like me.

I knew they’d get together. I was smitten for a bit, admittedly. But I’d never dealt with an age gap—she was 21, and somehow navigating more than I had to at 30. Even if I had a shot, my mindset hadn’t shifted. Career came first. Always did, despite the distractions.

She didn’t just catch our eyes. The enthusiastic roommate who first greeted me became infatuated with her.

At first, I took his manic energy as youthful exuberance. But the way he communicated started to wear on everyone. It was like watching a snake slowly shed its skin—drawn out, uncomfortable. He seemed torn between who he wanted to become and who he really was.

Very self-conscious about his looks. As was my Mexican compadre. Both spent a lot of time in the bathroom, though Mr. Enthusiastic added $80 pomade to the routine. Their shifting dynamic from when I first arrived reminded me of a life lesson: you hate the people who most remind you of yourself. Their fracture began right before the girl arrived. A slow burn.

All three of us talked rock when we could. It was during these conversations where the enthusiastic roommate would open up more.

We’d find out he’d been accused of stalking. And that he was essentially kicked out of his grandmother’s place in Florida. It started to make sense—why I always saw him swiping on

Tinder, asking girls in our room random questions once most of us were in bed, and his odd fascination with hair.

That marked the beginning of the end of whatever friendship they had. Then when she came into the equation, we became a kind of protection.

My MAGA bestie came up with a bright idea: a bro-trip. Who the fuck says no to bonding? Well—a smarter person might’ve. Someone who could already see the dynamics starting to crack. Especially since my MAGA buddy said, “It ain’t there yet. But it could be.”

The trip itself should be a separate post altogether. So, I’ll just give the cliff notes:

• It took over a day’s drive. Our first pit stop was some stargazing at night. Romantic—in a toxic masculinity sort of way.

• Mr. Excitement tried to fill the homey’s tank with diesel fuel, which led to this piece of advice: “The fuck you thinking, stupid?” Which he said translated more to: “Let me know if you don’t know!”

• The Mexican son of OGs then scored a hook-up on Tinder before Mr. Excitement.

• OG Mexicano then cried—the prostitute got right down to business, and he dipped.

• I thought it was a bonding moment, but nay-nay.

• Excited Floridian man-child then scored a hook-up in Juarez, but denied the experience due to bullet point 4.

• El Paso is actually gorgeous, and Juarez isn’t what mainstream news says it is.

• I got a cool hat before leaving.

• Tensions boiled over in Arizona, with man-child telling American Me he didn’t know him and to watch himself. To which Americano laughed.

That experience is what made me start looking for other places to live. I decided to take my time more this time. I made excuses for this environment in order to stay. This might be normal to some, but I assume it would’ve seemed absolutely psychotic back when America still counted as part of the developed world.

My journey wasn’t over in this hostel (hostile) situation though. See, in the bed below mine, the Latino John C. Reilly to my Will Ferrell had an alarm to wake him up for work. An alarm that sounded like a bomb about to go off.

This pissed off his usually—and suspiciously—enthusiastic nemesis…

“WHOSE FUCKEN ALARM IS THAT? CUT THE SHIT!” “Yo, calm the fuck down, n****.” “NO! SICK OF THIS SHIT!” “Then do something, pussy.”

That little exchange woke up the room, with people yelling for them to knock it off. I did the mature thing: stayed in my bunk and shook my head.

Remember the last bullet point from Arizona? I figured nothing would happen. I wasn’t scared…

Seriously, I wasn’t…

Okay, let’s try to wrap this up in the next few pages, alright? Stop judging me.

Mr. Excitement had a panic attack, hoping I had his back in a fight. I reminded him this wasn’t high school and that everything was fine.

The con-artist—um, owner—of the house, who owned multiple houses like this (yep, normal occurrence in LA), smoothed things over. They avoided each other after that. But one other person’s presence started to shift the energy.

That girl from earlier was becoming her own woman. I didn’t make a move—we just bonded over shared experiences as performers. I didn’t even interrupt her connection with mi hermano. And boy, did that mess with Mr. Bipolar Mania’s head.

He left before I did. I think he had some kind of mental break. Changed his name to, when translated to English, “Blue Knight.” Cool.

One day, the veteran—someone I had high hopes for—put together a short film involving everyone in the house. By now, we had a guy who left Hawaii because of his coke and sex addiction, and a dude from Iowa who pretty much replaced Blue Knight. Not just his bed—his personality, too.

Mr. Knight began what you could call text-stalking the girl. Basically proclaiming they were a thing. I stepped in. Behind everyone’s back, I texted him directly: told him to knock it off.

Nothing more, nothing less. He did. But it was yet another chaotic situation that wasn’t mine that I still felt responsible for—just because it was happening in what was supposed to be my safe space.

So, I found my own room in Mid-City for the same price. I’d be moving not long after the short film wrapped. At the time, it felt like a relief. I’d be closer to my acting school, which was walking distance in Beverly Hills. Yeah, the neighborhood was a little rough around the edges—not WeHo—but still, that was only a short drive away.

There’s absolutely nothing that could go wrong.

Unless…

Well, wait until you hear about it in Part Two.