Lock, Cock, and Barrel
Mark Ostrowski
After the first couple of calls I knew I was in trouble. My gringo accent spooked them.
Some hung up right away; others hurried me off the phone by dropping words like
"co-signer" and "work contracts." I kept dialing. Then, with just two
numbers to go, I found one. The conversation was pretty much the same as all the others:
"I’m calling about the apartment for rent…"
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Well, to start with, how much is it?"
"You’re not from around here, are you?"
"No, no…I’m Mexican."
"Yeah, I thought as much."
We arranged to meet the following day at 11 o’clock on the Calle Aller.
Gutted, burnt out, crumbling. The buildings on the Calle Aller screamed out for these
and like adjectives. There weren’t any cars in sight. I couldn’t help wondering
whether they were prohibited due to the danger of falling rubble.
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