Wolfy Chai

 I turned left at a busy intersection. Cars with tinted windows flew by from every direction, pumping vehicular exhaust into the outdoor air.  

Publix. Costco. Starbucks. McDonald’s. CVS. Target. One after the other. Sporting familiar signs that have been forever branded into my memory. 

People frantically pulling in and backing out of parking spaces, policing for the best spot. Cameras capturing every angle. 

I had finally made it to the property—”Sherry Hills Apartment Homes.” Two massive black gates with sharp edges manned the entrance. To enter, I had to feed a machine my driver’s license.

There was a small metal slot beside the keypad. A sticker instructed me to INSERT ID FACE UP. I did. The machine swallowed it without hesitation.

“Please wait,” said a pleasant AI voice. Genderless. Calm. Cheerful in a way that implied neutrality.“Verifying identity.”

Somewhere, something scanned me. Name. Age. Address. A portrait of my face flattened into data. The gate remained closed. 

“We do not recognize that address in our system. Please consult your agent. Access denied.”

I pulled the car behind and waited for another car to enter. After arguing with the chatbot for 10 minutes and getting the leasing office on the line, it finally agreed to let me in. 

“Thank you for your patience,” the voice continued. “Access granted.”

The license slid back out. The gate opened.

***

I entered the leasing office, armed with anti-theft locks. The nauseating smell of plug-ins burned my sensitive nostrils leaving me stunned. A women sitting behind a dual-monitor desk perked up 

“Come on in, come in, have a seat, I don’t bite!” she said, motioning me to sit down. Not at all understanding why I would be experiencing sensory overload in an environment that was her norm.  

She took out a folder from a filing cabinet that contained hundreds of the same. “Here is your quote for our last available 1×1. The units are going so quickly, the unit you were interested in is taken.” She laid out with surgical precision.  

She promptly stood up, “Hey Karen, I am going to take him to see the unit. It will be very quick, thanks” she said. 

She ran out to the golf cart parked in front of the leasing office leaving me following well behind. She started the cart up without saying a word. I barely was able to get on before it started moving. She stomped on the gas, and we jetted over to the unit. 

The apartment smelled like a chemical factory, with notes of Swiffer, Febreze, Bleach, pine sol, and Fabulosa. 

Not new like untouched—new like renovated. New, like refinished. New like something had been aggressively erased 

Plug-ins glowed in every room, emitting a scent that vaguely resembled a cherry. Bedroom. Bathroom. Laundry. Even the outlet by the door hummed softly, high-fragrance, high-compliance. The leasing office had them, too. Same type, different scent. Brand loyalty was important. 

“Look, look, look,” she said. “This unit is newly renovated. Updated with all the latest finishes for this lower-tier price-point” 

 All that registered was “Bang bang bang bang” after each compartment and door opened and closed rapidly. Closet. Laundry room. Cabinets, Sink, Fridge. 

She gestured down. “Luxury vinyl flooring,” she said, lingering on the word luxury as if it might rub off.
Durable. Waterproof. Replaceable. All the finest finished. Hence, the premium pricing. 
Nothing that needed to be mourned.

“High-flow fixtures,” she added, nodding proudly, as if she remembered to check off a box. 
“Impact windows,” she said, tapping the glass. 

On the washer sat a complimentary sample of Gain laundry detergent. Bright. Cheerful. A welcome gift. Perfectly placed. 
This is what conformity smells like, it implied.
Anything else is a defect.

“Units are going very fast,” she said. “At this price—”
She snapped her fingers.
“—like that.” 

The sound landed before the meaning did.

“So all other units are taken,” she continued.
Taken. Passive voice. No subject.
First-come-first-serve.

I tried to stand still long enough to feel the space. The plug-ins would not allow it.

“Rent is priced generously according to the market rate,” she said. “Pricing is dynamic. It updates in real time. Someone can get denied and the unit might come back at a higher rate. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four hundred—no guarantees.” 

Higher? I wondered. Than last month?

“Income requirement is three times the rent,” she added. “Four times with a guarantor. Credit score 700 minimum. 760+ gets priority. Valet Trash Service is included.”

“Valet Trash—”

“You will grow to love it,” she said before I had a chance to think. 

The smell pressed forward, reassuring, synthetic, identical. The apartment did not want me to imagine myself living there. It wanted me to apply.

 In a daze, I pictured touring the next phase of housing. A glorified cave. Smooth stone walls.
The floor is covered in luxury vinyl rock.
A plug-in mounted beside the entrance, glowing faintly.

“Newly refinished,” she’d say.
“Impact rock.”
“High-flow rainwater.”
“Communal Landfill Service.”

“Only two thousand.”
“Market rate.”
“Going fast.”

I asked my questions anyway. She was stunned for a split second that someone could think any thoughts outside of what was written on her sales script. 

The plug-ins kept humming. 

Before I knew it, I was pushed out the gate with a shiny folder in hand and was sent on my way while another potential resident filled my seat.