Performer: The Who
Songwriter: Pete Townshend
Original Release: The Who By Numbers
Definitive Version: none
Speaking of 2001, when it became apparent that there was no saving my relationship with Debbie, I went shopping for apartments. My first inclination was to go back to German Village, but I couldn’t find anything that appealed to me. In other words, I couldn’t find a two-bedroom apartment. As I indicated, I wanted a two-bedroom apartment so I could rebuild The Baseball Room and maintain at least have some semblance of consistency and joy in my life.
So I turned to Clintonville. Clintonville, of course, is a neighborhood on the north side of Columbus, about 2 miles north of Ohio State, I suppose. Actually, it’s about even with where I lived in Upper Arlington but on the other side of the Olentangy River. It’s a lot of tree-lined streets and cool established houses.
I would have liked to have lived in Clintonville when Debbie and I were looking for a house, but it was out of our price range, and we never really considered it. We could have looked east of I-71, but it starts to get dicey real quick there.
After combing the papers, I made a few calls and lined up a couple of visits—one landlord had three places to show me—so it was going to be a full Saturday.
It was a seasonably chilly May day, jacket weather, with intermittent sun and clouds. Other than that, I don’t remember much about it or the apartments themselves. The first two must not have struck me in any way, because I don’t remember anything about them except for the shabby condition of the car park at one.
The next apartment was OK. The landlord took me to a place on Blenheim Road near Indianola. It was a six-unit brick row house, similar to what I had in German Village years before. The big differences: The front yard was bigger, the back yard was communal and I had a garage with a door that locked. Rent was $600.
I don’t remember anything about the first time I saw the apartment, other than I liked the wood floors. It seemed fine. One thing that stood out though was that I felt as though I had seen this place before. It turned out it was the same builder—or same design anyway—as the apartment building my parents lived in in Upper Arlington when I was born and where we lived till I was 2.
The next apartment was the one I hoped would be the winner when we got there. It was another townhome on a hill closer to High Street and had a cool exterior, but it was small and not well laid out. I took the apartment on Blenheim.
We went back to the landlord’s tony home a few blocks from where I soon would live, and she laid out the lease with a start date and rent to reflect immediate possession. That’s when the enormity of the situation hit me. I called Debbie.
Look, I’m about to sign the lease, and when I do, there’s no going back. So what do you want me to do here? She said calmly, sign the lease. OK then.
I signed with my eyes starting to mist, which I assumed made me look like a spaz in front of my new landlord, although she probably figured out what was going on considering I was moving from a house to an apartment. She said they would paint and clean, although it really needed neither. I could start moving in right away but just leave boxes or furniture in one corner.
And that was that.