I can say without hyperbole that finding an apartment in New York is the hardest thing anyone has ever had to do, ever. Finding my current apartment was an absolute unholy nightmare. To be honest, I still haven’t recovered from the experience – not enough to write about it in my blog at least. That, my friends, is a story for another day.
No, this is a much different tale. To set the scene, let me first give you a little background information. After a horrifically traumatic search, my friend Katy and I finally found an apartment we could agree on. It’s big, in a nice neighborhood, and cheap. We thought we were in Heaven…or at least Purgatory…or at least not in Hell anymore.
So together, the two of us moved into our new apartment in early September. It remained sparse, however…mostly because I had volunteered to furnish it, and well frankly, I suck. It was hard to feel comfortable in a place that’s only seating consisted of a broken recliner, and as a result, I shied away from inviting friends to come visit me.
My friend Kathy came in town however, and was excited to come see my new place. How could I say no to Kathy? When Kathy asks you if she can come over, you say yes dammit. So I invited her and her fiancé John to dinner, and in a raging panic, I cleaned my apartment from top to bottom. Worried that word my get out about how I live in squalor, I enlisted the help of Katy. As I turned a broken stool into a decorative end table, Katy recovered two kitchen chairs with an old curtain. We then split up and scrubbed down every square inch till the stench of bleach brought tears to our eyes. By the end, the place looked better than it ever had. Katy and I admired our work, and for the first time, I felt like I was home.
Kathy and John’s visit only affirmed my sense of comfort. Despite the lack of seating, they both complimented the apartment. I was both relieved and excited. Maybe my apartment wasn’t a shit hole after all.
Wrong.
I saw my friends out, and then ran back to tell Katy all the great things they had said about our apartment. “WE FOOLED THEM INTO THINKING WE LIVE LIKE ADULTS!” I started to shout. But as I opened the door, I came upon a bazaar scene that stopped me dead in my tracks. Katy, in her pajamas, stood atop one of her newly refinished curtain chairs, hoisting a cardboard box above her head. I stood in the doorway, the door still open behind me, and she turned and stared at me. Her eyes were big, and for a long moment, we just stared at each other.
I waited for an explanation, and when one didn’t come, I finally asked “Um, what the fuck are you doing?”
There was another pause...with us just staring at each other. And then finally, Katy gathered herself and said in a low whisper:
“Mouse.”
“Fucking A!” I shouted. I hate mice. I hate mice more than I hate the Olsen Twins. They disgust me, with their beady eyes and long tails. I hate them. I fucking hate them.
“I saw him run into the kitchen out of the corner of my eye. I think he went under the stove," she told me as I helped her off the chair.
“What are you doing with the box?” I asked.
“Well, I was going to throw on top of him and trap him in it,” she told me. I didn’t need to tell her she was a giant idiot (although I may have anyway, I don’t quite remember). She pretty much figured it out before she could complete her explanation, and without a breath she tacked on “I DON'T KNOW, I WAS PANICKED!”
Silence fell between the two of us. We looked at the ground, and then at eachother.
“Can we name him?” I asked.
“NO YOU CAN’T NAME THE DAMN MOUSE! WE HAVE TO KILL HIM! ARE YOU INSANE?”
Silence, again. After a moment, Katy looked at the stove, and then back at me.
“How about Waffle?”
to be continued…
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