Vol. 2: Do Toads Swim in August?
This story is part of “To Live and Drive in Los Angeles,” a series of short stories based on local writer Joe Eckstein’s real, personal experiences in Los Angeles since he moved here nearly a decade ago, spanning the wide range of homes, jobs, people, and drives he has encountered along the way.
A version of this piece first appeared in Issue 01: Lore, Factory Settings’ first print issue, published October 2026.
After six months, the tedium of sharing one room with three other guys had begun to take its toll. The novelty of having a room named St. Louis had faded, as had the landlord’s selectiveness with tenants. O.G. had clocked out. Strange characters signed leases. Should any cash-strapped L.A. transplants attempting to secure a proper, affordable living situation be reading right now, live by this: Once meth becomes involved, it’s time to head for the hills.
I found a Facebook listing for a single room opening in a house in Palms.
The house in Palms was at the end of a cul-de-sac. I drove around the circle slowly and slowed deliberately when passing the address. A man with zero body fat lifted fifty-pound dumbbells in the driveway, but he said nothing to me despite the obviously inquisitive window-down slowing of my vehicle upon passing the address five minutes before the scheduled meeting with the tenants at one pm on a Thursday. Apparently Fat-free-skinny-dumbbell-lifting-weights-in-the-driveway over here had no knowledge of my arrival, or, Fat-free-skinny-dumbbell-lifting-weights-in-the-driveway was an entitled jackass who wanted to show off his masculinity to the relatively anonymous potential roommate replacing his other roommate. Was his other roommate headed towards the hills as well?
I had to park about seven minutes away, which implied bad parking. That was strike number one. When interviewing for a job, you need to keep in mind that you’re also kind of interviewing the employer as well.
I walked up towards the house and spoke to Fat-free-skinny-dumbbell-lifting-weights-in-the-driveway mid-rep. “Jesus, it’s been seven minutes, how are you still repping curls on a 50-pound dumbbell?” I thought.
“Hey there, is this 447 Palm Circle?”
“Oh, yeah, hey!”
He said that as if he hadn’t seen me slowly cruising by ten minutes ago looking for a sign of life. Fat-free-skinny-dumbbell-lifting-weights-in-the-driveway dropped a dumbbell with an obnoxious thud and met me at the curb. His abdomen looked like a carapace. His eyes were weird. They were bulging—bugging, even. His teeth were white.
“I’m Joe—for the tour of the extra room?”
“Oh, yeah! Yeah, nice to meet you man. My name’s Swim.”
We shook hands.
“Go on ahead through the garage. August should be right inside.”
I proceeded to the garage. There were no cars in the garage. Swim sat back down, curled the iron once or twice, and then hollered back to me.
“Sorry, the only other door is the front door but we barred it shut because of last summer.”
That entire interaction was strike number two. I entered through the garage into what appeared to be the laundry room. I took my shoes off. August immediately met me. August was a skinny Mexican dude.
“Hey man.”
August and I talked about David Lynch and exchanged pleasantries. He seemed nervous. He guided me through the living room. There was an unplugged mini-fridge with its door ajar by a dusty sofa. Empty Amazon packages littered the floor. Animal hair was everywhere. There was no animal. August led me up the stairs to the potential room. Swim materialized at the top of the stairs. He peered down at us.
“Hello.”
“Oh hey! Good to see ya again”
“Huh?”
“Oh, uh, I was just saying… that it’s good to see you again.”
Swim didn’t seem to comprehend or grasp my greeting as he looked down upon me from the second floor. I thought I smelled an electrical fire.
“Oh! No, yeah, I thought… yeah, no, no… I thought that you had met me at a previous time in life. Like, besides now.”
“No, just out there in the driveway.”
“Sweet, man. Well, I heard that you were coming over to check out the room.”
I’ve dealt with weird shirtless dudes my entire life. I’ve been a weird shirtless dude once or twice. It didn’t bother me that Swim was weird. It didn’t bother me that Swim was shirtless. What bothered me was that, given my knowledge of the entrances and exits of 447 Palm Circle, Swim’s presence on the second floor was logistically impossible. I tempered my disbelief, and August hesitantly corralled us from the stairs and into the second floor hallway.
“Well, let’s show you the room. Is Toad in there?”
“Yeah, Toad’s in there.”
August knocked on the door of the room that I’d potentially be renting. Swim waited behind us. He was anticipating something. August knocked again.
“Toad?”
“One sec.”
Toad opened the door. A nostril-tingling scent of pot and patchouli wafted out of Toad’s room.
“Sup.”
“This is Joe. We’re showing him the room—that still cool?”
“Yeah, cool. C’mon in.”
Toad clung to wet paintbrushes and a cup of splashing water as he ushered the three of us inside.
“Sorry, man—getting in one more painting before I bounce.”
My eyes naturally fell on his half-finished canvas. I couldn’t tell what Toad was painting. I realized what he was painting once I scanned the walls.
Assholes. Puckered assholes. Hairy puckered assholes. Toad was painting hairy puckered assholes. Sometimes there was a little hairy man spreading his hairy puckered asshole towards the viewer. Sometimes it would be a closeup, and there would be two hairy-knuckled thumbs spreading apart hairy asscheeks to reveal a hairy puckered asshole. They covered the walls. There were at least twenty-five of them.
Toad himself was a hairy little man. Toad was a short, portly little fellow. Toad was not an amphibian. Upon viewing the Toad’s menagerie hairy puckered assholes, it took me about two seconds to overcome my jolt of surprise. It took me about four seconds to appreciate Toad’s unapologetic depiction of the natural male figure, however unpleasant it may be. It took me about six seconds to appreciate that the only smell in the room was pot and patchouli. August chimed in:
“Toad’s an artist.”
I left the premises and returned to the duplex on 56th and Vermont. I immediately told Swim and August that I was available to take Toad’s room as soon as possible. They opted not to take me. My gig-based income as a dog walker for Wag was deemed inadequate.
