The problem with renting a furnished apartment is that you’re stuck with somebody else’s unspeakably bad decor judgement. In fact, due to an extraordinarily-detailed clause in my rental agreement, I’m legally bound to suffer the heinous curtains, the Inquisition-inspired bent bamboo lounger set, and the (ahem) “art”.
“I fucking hate golf,” I growled at Jeffrey, my new friend and fellow Canadian transplant. “It’s for terrible lesbians and rich people.” We stared at the two massive paintings, eyes darting from one to the other to try and decide which was worse:
The faceless man taking a swing with an impossibly full bladder… OR,
… The woman using her golf club to hack at an imagined assailant, apparently unaware that she has what appears to be a plucked chicken arse down the front of her yellow leggings.
“I mean, really. Is this what Roberto imagines ‘Americans’ want to see?” Roberto is my landlord. He’s the keeper of the clause that states that I will get express written permission before I modify any of the furnishings. (“Including the colour of the curtains!” Jeffrey had translated.)
We stood before the offending pieces. Eyes to the left (bladder), eyes to the right (chicken arse). “You could cover them with fabric,” Jeffrey suggested. Eyes left. Eyes right. “Or get a dimmer switch,” I snarled. Bladder. Chicken Arse. “What if you took them down,” Jeffrey suggested. “You could store them.”
Jeffrey lifted the Arse off the wall and carefully set it on the floor. The thing was a tabletop, substantial and thick – a great expanse of golfishness. “Where in the hell can I store this?” I asked. Jeffrey had the Bladder in his hands. He laid the two pieces together, doubling their footprint.
“There’s room above the closet,” I suggested. We carried the pieces into the bedroom and hoisted them above our heads. The space was 28 inches. On their shortest sides, the paintings were 28.17489 inches.
Jeffrey left hours ago. I’m contemplating the legal ramifications of breaking my rental agreement by hurling the golfers off the balcony.
*Lesbianas Terribles o Gente Rica: Una Memoria de Golf
The name of the book that this blog might turn into unless I can come up with a solution.
1. Terrible Lesbians and Rich People: A Golf Memoir