The old woman with the old house on University. (Part two.)

The house was located on University Drive in Fort Worth, near Texas Christian University and close to Berry Street. It took me a long time to find the place, due to my own confusion while driving around in an unfamiliar town, but I finally did and pulled into the narrow driveway next to the house.

I knocked on the door. Nothing happened. I waited patiently, and then knocked again. No one came to the door. I could hear people talking inside the house, so I knew that someone was there. After waiting about 10 minutes on the front porch, I knocked really loudly and yelled, "HELLO-OOO!" Finally, I heard someone come to the door and unlatch the lock.

A very old woman with gray hair and glasses hovering on the center of her nose opened the door. She was bent over from age, and five feet tall if she was lucky. She looked up at me through the screen door and smiled one of the sweetest, most gentle smiles I had ever seen. It lit up her entire face and made her look younger than her years.

"Are you Steve?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, just a little agitated from having to wait for so long on the porch. "I talked to you about your room for rent."

"What? You'll have to talk louder, honey. I'm a little hard of hearing."

"I said I'm here to rent a room!" I said, not quite shouting.

She nodded. "OK. I'm Mrs. G. Come on in!"  (I'm not going to use her full name in this blog.)

Mrs. G. lead me into her living room. It felt as if I had suddenly been transported back to the 1940s. The furnishings were old. The sofa was overstuffed and flowery. My eyes started to water because there was a musty odor that intermingled with the strong artificial sweetness of scented bleach. Despite the brightness of the day, the room was very dark. A small color TV stood on a metal stand over in one corner, blaring away, unwatched. Another old woman sat on the sofa, nodded and smiled up at me, almost swallowed up by the deep sofa cushions.

"You'll have to excuse me," said Mrs. G. "This is my neighbor."

After brief, awkward introductions, Mrs. G. said, "I'm sorry for asking if you were white on the phone."

I smiled a sickly looking smile and said, "Oh, that's OK."

"Well," Mrs. G. continued, "Just the other day, someone called about the room. He sounded just as white as you or me, but then he came to the door and he was a negro. I said, 'No, no, no! This won't do!' and I shut the door on him. He pounded on the door, and when he wouldn't stop I threatened to call the police! He finally yelled something and went away. I didn't dare leave my home for hours afterward, because I was afraid that he was still out there, waiting!"

"So when you called today, I just had to be sure!" she said.

I didn't know what to say. I just nodded. It felt like I was in some kind of play. I couldn't believe that in this day and age, blatant racism like this was possible. I was having a hard time reconciling myself to it, and was thinking about making my own excuses and leaving, when Mrs. G. said "The room is on the side of the house. There's a private entrance, and a private bath. It has a bed and a dresser. It's one hundred dollars a month, first month paid in advance."

All I heard was "It's one hundred dollars a month."

I had no money, other than what I had saved and brought with me to Texas. My new job as a copywriter for Radio Shack advertising paid less than 10 thousand dollars a year, before taxes and deductions. I was engaged and due to be married the following March.

I had a hundred dollars, though.

And I was white.

I took the room.