He pays $2,000 a month for a hotel room, and he can't afford to move

PALM HARBOR, Florida — They drove, windows down, past the big box stores. Past the other roadside motels and hotels, where other families lived.

When they pulled up to the modest house on Guardian Avenue, Richard Rodriguez took a deep breath. He was 52, with kind, tired eyes. He didn’t want to get his hopes up.

It had been four years since the last time he’d toured a place for rent, when he and his family came to Florida in 2020.

At the time, the move made sense. He’d found a 3-bed, 2-bath for $1,285 a month, less than what they paid in Pennsylvania. His two boys shared a room with a video game console. His daughters filled theirs with Hello Kitty decor. And Rodriguez and his wife, TonieMarie, had a bedroom of their own.

A year in, their rent more than doubled. Housing costs across the Tampa Bay region soared during the pandemic, and Rodriguez’s work as an events DJ dried up.

After the eviction, they took refuge at a roadside motel. Nobody said a word as they rolled air mattresses out under ceilings stained with smoke. That was the night that life on the hamster wheel began.

Rodriguez got a job at a pawn shop. His paycheck was just enough to cover the motel’s weekly fee. But taking the job meant losing his Medicaid, and it didn’t offer health insurance. He stopped getting refills on his asthma medication. When he ended up in the hospital for two months, the pawn shop let him go. Being the working poor, he thought, was like trying to climb out of a hole that wouldn’t stop sinking.

It’s been three years, now, of life in motels and hotels along US-19.

Three years of meals cooked in crockpots and air fryers balanced on counters meant for alarm clocks.

Three years of paying week-to-week, forking over paychecks for a roof but not a lease.

Three years of six people in a space built for a temporary stay.

Some days, he’s had to ask neighbors for loans. Some days, waiting for paychecks from shifts cleaning fryers at McDonald’s meant begging management to give him “just one more day.”

Other times he’s felt grateful. Lucky, even. He’s seen people sleeping on benches, at bus stops, and thought, “We’re not that far away.”

Recently, some prayers have been answered. He got a job as a manager at Cricket Wireless, where he opens and closes five days a week. He makes $14 an hour, with commission. The money — comparatively — is good.

After three years, Rodriguez said, parts of a person go numb. That’s why it’s so scary to let hope creep in once more. To Google “houses for rent” and crunch the numbers, imagining a life beyond four walls. When the Zillow notification popped up for the home on Guardian Avenue, something fluttered in his chest.

He pressed open the door.

The house had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, though one of the rooms was more of a porch. The walls were painted the blue of a perfect day. It had a new house smell — though it wasn’t new — like cleaner and sawdust and possibility.

Light flowed in through big windows. At the center of the home, Rodriguez ran his hands along the kitchen’s stone countertops.

“Oh, wow,” he said, opening the oven, the microwave, the fridge. “My wife would absolutely love this.”

He imagined the taste of beans and sweet plantains, the kids gathered around on bar stools instead of trays on hotel beds. He smiled. Here, they could host family and members of their church.

Across the hall, Josh fiddled with a remote for a ceiling fan. He was 13 and lanky — a boy growing into a man without the luxury of privacy.

“So this would be you and mom’s room?” he asked, opening the door to an ensuite.

“I guess it would be,” Rodriguez said, scanning the space. “Which room would you want to be yours?”

Josh nodded toward a square room with a closet. It was plain, but he’d fix it up. On one wall, he’d hang a Cobra Kai poster, on another, a Puerto Rican flag. He’d string LED lights along the walls.

“It’s nice here,” Rodriguez said. “I could get used to this.”

In the bathroom, Rodriguez’s eyes grew wide as he fiddled with a button over the vanity.

“Check it out, Josh,” he gasped, as the lighting changed from cool to warm, then cool again. “It’s a smart mirror!”

“Like Midas,” Josh said, pointing to the gold fixtures.

Now they were smiling at each other.

“Can you believe this is just $200 more a month than what I’m paying right now?” said Rodriguez, straightening his shoulders. “I could really do this. I could make this work.”

Then he softened.

“But they want first rent and security up front,” he almost whispered. “That’s $4,400.”

He’d worked hard over the last year to improve his credit, to find a stable job that paid the rent and supported his kids. His life still hung on every paycheck.

To get out of the hotel, he needed savings. How could he save when he was shelling out $500 a week for a room? Things might be easier if he could accumulate the $1,400 it would take to pay monthly — a discount for the lump sum. So far that had proven impossible, too.

He’d tried the nonprofits, looking for a hand, but there were lots of people like him and only so much help to go around.

“I’m praying for a miracle, he said. “The upfront expenses are all I need.”

After another lap, admiring the dishwasher, the backyard, the bounty of outlets, Rodriguez took a deep breath and exhaled the built-up excitement. He didn’t want to leave, but staying any longer would sharpen the sting of reality. He couldn’t get attached, he knew, but he also couldn’t bear to let go of this dream.

“I guess next step is to put in an application,” he said, resigned.

Even that would cost $35.

He’d have to wait until Wednesday, for his paycheck to come in.