Celeste checked the chipped numbers on the letterbox against the address stored in her phone. Unfortunately they both read 582, meaning the dilapidated box falling apart behind her was now her house. A college dropout, Celeste had two semesters of student loan but little to show for it. The photographs she'd seen showing 582 Bayou Gulch Drive must have been at least a decade old. They had shown a well-kept lawn, tidy brick exterior and freshly painted wooden fixtures. Desperate to have somewhere, other than her mother's, to live when she got kicked out of her dorm room Celeste had arranged the moving truck without thinking the situation through.
The grass was incredibly wild. The fog rolling in off the lake and the trees hid the sun, making the summer day dank and uninspired. Indulging in a moment of self pity, Celeste put her face in her hands. 'How could I have been so stupid?' she asked herself 'How am I going to live here?!' Lifting her head back up, Celeste attempted to master herself. 'Maybe it wont be so bad inside' she thought. While a cynical, inner voice answered 'Yeah, right!' She inserted the key in the rusty lock, opened the faded and flaking door and stepped inside.
The main room housed an out-of-date sofa, rug and coffee table as well as a kitchen area with a dining bar. The appliances and bench tops were done in a mint green colour not popular since the 50s. A little cautious testing revealed the stove top to be at least semi-functional. Relieved, Celeste thought 'I should be able to eat anyway.'
The single bedroom was dark. The linen and mattress on the old brass bed smelled like they held years of dust. Deciding to tackle the problem of sleeping arrangements when her stuff arrived, Celeste moved on.
The bathroom was done in more green tones. The toilet was dirty. The sink was chipping. Celeste took one look at the bath (no shower) and shuddered. Gingerly she turned the tap in the sink. Thankfully, after a groan from the pipes and a brown trickle at first, the water cleared.
Lastly Celeste went down to the basement. She slowly descended the concrete steps, being careful not to touch the metal railings. As expected, by now, the basement was dirty and poorly lit. A washing machine and clothes dryer of at least equal vintage to the kitchen (and indeed the rest of the house) moulded quietly in one corner.
Tour done, Celeste sat on the edge of the ugly plaid seat (which matched the ugly plaid sofa) to consider her options. She had a roof and walls to (hopefully) keep out the weather. She had a bathroom (although that bathtub was going to be a problem), a kitchen (the ancient appliances even functioned) and a bedroom (though a bed frame like that squeaked if you so much as looked at it). NOTHING was as she'd expected. The advertisement had described it as a "fixer upper". It mentioned the property was "a bit behind on maintenance". Celeste snorted in disgust, the place felt like it hadn't been lived in for years (which it probably hadn't). Someone had made a brief effort to vacuum and get rid of the cobwebs and that was about all.
Overwhelmed, Celeste stood up and moved rapidly towards the front door. Not quite running, she crossed the yard in angry strides. On the bridge that crossed the stream that ran behind the house, Celeste turned. Looking back towards number 582, she wondered what the chances were of getting her bond back. She'd had to sell her car. Celeste imagined turning up at her mother's; on foot, worldly possessions in tow. She'd have to explain not only why she dropped out of college, but why she was without transportation and jobless to boot. At least in Twinbrook, there was significant distance between herself and her overbearing, oh-so-frequently-disapproving parent.
Feeling trapped between two unpleasant possibilities, Celeste wandered aimlessly. Just this side of the bridge was the industrial part of town. Celeste looked across at a junkyard, twin water towers and some sort of water treatment facility. Not really a sight to lift her sagging spirits. At least it was less foggy up here. Remembering something from a time when she was younger, Celeste crossed the road and approached the junkyard.
Cautiously opening the gate, Celeste stepped in for a look around. She tried (unsuccessfully) not to make comparisons between the squat building in the centre of the yard and the house she had left behind her. Looking at the nearest pile of twisted metal, Celeste was lost in memory. Grandpa had bought her somewhere like this when she was a little girl. He used make sculptures and things from the junk people had thrown away. He'd shown Celeste how to use a drill and a hammer. Together they'd take old stuff and make something new. Like a mailbox in the shape of a fish. Maybe Celeste could fix up the old house, just maybe. She could almost imagine Grandpa nodding encouragingly to her and smiled a bit at the thought. Turning around, Celeste headed back down the small hill. It wouldn't do to miss the truck with her gear.
It took a surprisingly short time to unload. There wasn't much besides her modest wardrobe, a few art supplies and a toolbox. The clothes went in the drawers in the bedroom. A set of dishes went in the cupboards in the kitchen. Wiping sweat off her face and listening to her stomach rumble, Celeste decided that what she needed was some supplies. The telephone had a card attached with frequently called numbers, including one labelled "Yellow Cabs". Wondering if it was still valid and if the old phone still worked, Celeste dialled. To her surprise, a pleasant woman's voice answered. Celeste ordered a taxi and was told it would be there in about ten minutes.
Thanking the driver as he dropped her outside the superette, Celeste looked around in appreciation. Twinbrook was a small, wet town on the bayou but the buildings were bright with fresh paint, the residents smiling as they went about their business. Celeste filled a basket with bread, milk, cereal and one of every cleaner on the shelf. Frowning at the thought of the work that awaited her, Celeste elected not to stay in town long.
Hours later, Celeste filled the freshly scrubbed bathtub. The oven had been the worst and the toilet positively scary. She hadn't the courage to call either the landlord to complain about the state of the house, nor her mother to explain her new address.
In bed, about to turn off the lamp, Celeste's thought was; 'No car, no job, a rickety old house that no one else would want to live in. Things must get better from here.' She closed her eyes to dream of a better tomorrow.
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