If Aspen has problems, then the APCHA employee housing program is one of the key solutions. I’ve lived in a prefabricated government-subsidized development dwelling for nearly 25 years. If you’re in one of the factions who hate the employee-housing program, the people who live in it and anything to do with new proposed complexes, all I can do is humbly thank you for your generous subsidy; like a tip you’d rather not leave that’s involuntarily been added on at the restaurant much to your dismay. And by the way, you’re getting a smokin’ deal with me.
“Scrap the whole program, it’s rife with trustafarians, scofflaws, loopholes and corruption!” some say. My retort? “Hogwash! I’m living proof the system works. Sure the organization has flaws, but fret not, we have our best people on it!”
I never thought I’d be a middle-class American living in government-subsidized housing. How would you even classify that? “Trickle-up” economics? I epitomize the employee housing program in action. I grew up here, own two businesses, raised two kids under the safety-umbrella (ella-ella-ella-ay-ay, for all you Rihanna fans) and am stealthily planning my exit strategy — retiring in my employee housing — as we speak. You better believe my eye is trained carefully on all of the dialogue about retirement requirements and such. A part of me is scared I’m going to somehow get kicked out. There, employee-housing haters — I’m living in fear. Are you happy now?
When I do retire, I will be of tangible value to our community. I plan on making myself useful by volunteering all over the place — at the Wheeler, up at the schools, walking dogs, signing up for boards and steering committees, engaging in the community, being an on-snow ambassador and giving back to Aspen, a place that has given me so much.
As a kid, my mind was clouded with visions of grandeur that I would forever be living in my parent’s house in the West End. The day would come soon after puberty, I imagined, they would pull me aside and bequeath the three-story, five-bedroom, solar-heated, architectural marvel to its rightful heir, leaving my sisters in a hissy fit to fend for themselves. I could put my Madonna “Boy Toy” poster back up and play KISS on the stereo as loud as I wanted, forever and ever.
Then reality hit. One day I came home and there were the dreaded, tacky “For Sale” signs hammered into the heart of our front yard. The piranha were already circling in their Limited Edition Grand Wagoneers with fake wood paneling, and the trendy new status symbol car kid on the block — the daunting, symbolic Range Rover — all the while talking on their state-of-the-art flip phones. Fine, I thought. If that’s the way you’re going to treat your 24-year-old son who so graciously moved back into your house with your first grandson, so be it.
I put an ad in the paper actively seeking a permanent caretaking gig. Crickets. The chilly winds of desperation blew over me as I looked at the pitiful state, price and size of apartments to rent in town. I looked around and thought to myself, if all these other people can make it happen here, then so can I.
It just so happened I saw an ad in the Aspen Daily News for a room for rent in the West End, mere blocks away, for $600. My first roommate in Aspen was the mighty Bob Meyers of Meyers & Company — a man nearly three times my age. Bob got married and moved out, then my hoodlum buddy Pete Auster moved in. Our living situation was oddly like that show “Three Men and a Baby.” I quickly christened our little carriage house the “Love Shack.”
The world turned much faster as a single dad, and soon enough fate found me in love playing the housing lottery. Our number came up and things happened very quickly. People I’d never met were calling me asking if I was going to buy the place. They, too, were circling like piranha. We bought the house. At the time, growing up here, Cemetery Lane felt like downvalley. Luckily the people who lived there before us were relatively clean and high-functioning, despite one of them being a “Deadhead.”
I cringe at the thought of people buying places in uninhabitable disrepair. If aliens abducted me, and my place came up for sale, buyers would be blown away at how nice and well-maintained the house and grounds are. I also have less than zero respect for people who game the system. I can say with certainty that all of my immediate neighbors are playing by the rules and contributing to our community in deep, meaningful ways. If any of them were doing anything fishy, I would call them out in person and, if things didn’t change, I’d narc on them so fast their heads would spin.
Every 10 years or so, a dialogue pops up about lifting price caps and restrictions on employee housing and letting the whole inventory go back into the free market. The free-market of Aspen has proven itself to be a pitiless Terminator with no conscience, feelings or remorse.
A lot of people would probably take the money and run. But to where? Not me. I’d treat my situation as if I were a contestant on the “Price is Right” — where you’re holding a briefcase with a known amount of cash and the buxom blonde is tantalizing you with the unknown bounty of what’s behind door No. 3. It could be even more cash, or it could be a stuffed animal. I’ll keep the cash because it’s hard to live and retire as a stuffed animal.
To those locals disenchanted with the housing dilemma in Aspen, I would urge you to be persistent, unwavering in your quest and keep playing the employee housing lottery.
Contact Lorenzo at suityourself@sopris.net or follow him via instagram.com/lorenzosemple3/.
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