Days 2-4 BC

The 7:30 train was no problem this morning; I was ready for it. That’s because the neighbors’ dogs had me up at 7. I hit up McCafferty’s for an Americano and a comfy place to call renters (The same girls were working, I was pleased to see). By noon I had appointments to check out three places.

The first was Dixon Apartments. It was reasonably priced but its location was questionable. On one hand, it was across from a Westmark hotel, where major tour companies bring visitors, so it couldn’t be that bad. But then again, I had passed about four or five drunks on the dozen or so blocks I walked from McCafferty’s.

The next two places were side-by-side and owned by the same guy. The first was a duplex that had a bar and washer-dryer combo, but it needed some sprucing up and the price was a little steep.

The second place was a converted garage. Had I lived in Florida, this would have been my No. 1 choice. It was a bachelor’s pad to the fullest. “I don’t show this to women,” my guide, Jeff, told me. “This place was made for guys.” The coolest aspect was the garage door, which exposed up the living room with a screen on the outside, a perfect place to grill or tailgate a ball game. If I were in Florida …

There were polished copper pipes snaking in and out of the walls, and the bathroom had the heating system, a contraption straight out of a mad scientist’s lab. Still, it was a garage, from it’s cement floors to its huge front opening -- not exactly where you want to be when the high is -27. Although Jeff assured me I would never freeze, I was too much of a greenhorn to take his word for it.

I spent the afternoon basking in the glow of Bob’s 57-inch plasma, the main perk of my stay there. I got a call offering to show me an efficiency on the north side of town. It was small ... OK, that’s an understatement. It was a freaking box with a door. But… It was liveable and the only place that included electricity in the bill. After all, it beats the couch or living in a basement listening to domestic disputes and, (maybe worse) the ensuing reconciliations.

By the end of the day, I had applications to live in the Box, the place on Drunk Avenue and a Money Pit of a duplex.

The next day, I dropped off all three applications, and at each one there was a member of the military applying as well. Great.

I should have seen that coming, though. Fairbanks is surrounded by military bases, which are a vital part of the community. Many of the young boys here have been dreaming of being an Army/Air Force man since they could walk. In fact, the bases sometimes have "family days" where they let their 3-year-old young’uns hold assault rifles. I kid you not.

I figured I had no chance against anyone with a government-secured income, and contemplated my life on the couch for the next month. I could make it work, I thought.

But I had bigger worries, as tonight was my first night at work.

I soon found out my worries were pointless, since my supervisor wasn’t back from vacation. I just edited page printouts and talked college football with the sports staff until midnight. Rich drove me home (I walked there to give the Kia a break) and he regaled me of his hiking trips over a beer.

I nodded off to the glow of the plasma, knowing the night was over and I was going to have to get very familiar with this couch.

I was wrong on both accounts.

At 2 a.m., Bob woke me. “The aurora’s out, Josh. Wanna see it?”

I don’t even remember leaving the house. I was immediately outside in 45-degree weather wearing a short-sleeved Buccaneers shirt and pajama pants, my head cocked back toward the sky.

And wow. It was faint, but no less amazing -- a blue light wavering across the sky, waning and reappearing throughout. It wasn’t supposed to be active that night. Maybe it was a sign …

The next morning, I expanded my apartment search, which matched my frustration. Basement apartments were in play, and my price range raised. A Post-It pad I took from the News-Miner’s HR office was now completely used up, each sticker covered in my scribble with a phone number and description of a rental.

My living situation was barely on my mind at work. I had six hours to figure out how to design one-fourth of a newspaper, something I had never done professionally (only in class). Yup, there’s nothing like pressure to get your mind off frustration.

Then my phone rang and I scurried to a nearby hallway to answer. It was Renee Hassebroek, the landlord of the Box. Was I still looking for a place to live? Why yes.

I finger-rolled the Post-It pad into the trash can near my desk and got back to editing the national news page.