My unpacking finished, cleaning complete, two rooms painted, the anticipation
of starting my job
at fred flare on Monday and I am feeling great about
my first
week here in my new apartment.
Unfortunately that feeling didn't last for long when I heard a loud
knock at my
door. It was the
super of my building reprimanding me about cardboard
boxes I had taken out earlier. There
seemed to be trouble about where
I put them
and
the way in which they were tied together. So
much trouble! You see, there
are
very strict trash rules in the building and in Brooklyn in general.
Fines
will be
given out to the building and then to me if I don’t adhere to the
rules
immediately.
I take this very seriously. I study the rules, talk to my friends about
the rules. I
come into work
and tell Chris and Keith that my supervisor has set me
straight. They tell me "super" actually
stands for superintendent,
not supervisor.
Apparently I still have a lot to learn.
I am now obsessed with the trash. So much so that I notice when other tenants
put their
cardboard boxes in the wrong place, don't tie them together with
twine, and don't separate their
bottles and cans. This is very helpful
because
whenever this happens I get another loud knock
at the door. You see, being
the
new girl and all, the assumption is that I am disobeying the trash
rules
again.
All of this behind me, I'm feeling great about my new apartment. Then
the inevitable happened.
Mice! I see one – or was it two? – under
the living room
couch and scream!! I call my mother and
cry. I set up camp in the bedroom.
Then I develop my strategy. They’re going to have to play by
my
rules! My plan
is to poison them and scare them away with the television on 24 hours
a day,
or until they are gone. Better yet, dead!!!
This is how I met my downstairs neighbor. All was going well with my plan
until
he decided he
could not take the TV on constantly. I found this out at
4 am
when he came banging on my door.
I could tell how unhappy he was from all
the screaming and swearing. I calmly explained I had
mice and apologized.
I said I wished he would have told me earlier and without the swearing.
He
stormed back downstairs. The next morning I knocked on his door to let
him
know I was sorry
about the noise but didn't appreciate his delivery. There
was
no answer and he has never been
heard from again.
The mice were still there, however. The poison was taking too long to work
and
now no TV. A
new strategy was in order: I don't like mice. Mice don't like
kittens.
I like kittens. The solution
was simple.
The morning after the incident with the downstairs neighbor Chris and I
set out
in search of a
kitten. We trucked all over town in search of the perfect
one.
Several trains and not so nice
places later we ended up at the ASPCA in
Manhattan. This was the nicest of all the places we
had been. It was the
most
expensive, too. But the kitten came with a fantastic gift bag. We
thought
that
was cute. There were several contestants in the new kitten contest but
the
winner
was a 3 month old, 2 1/2 pound, all black kitten. We named him Billy,
short for Williamsburg.
I no longer have mice – Billy took care of that in a flash – but
it looks as though
my neighbors
still hate me. At least my new roommate is tons of fun!
