Wednesday, July 5, 2006

What do you call it when you know the honeymoon’s going to be short, yet you plunge into the fray with gusto, willful ignorance attuned to high, blinders pointed forward? “Stupidity,” it’s been said in some circles, but in other circles–mine, primarily–it’s synonymous with apartment hunting.

Oh, there are perks to my new digs, don’t get me wrong, and at the same time the knowing treachery that forged the lease has made itself apparent. A month ago, I stepped onto something crunchy while touring one of the units in this apartment complex.

“So, Joe, does this building have any roach problems?” I inquired, shifting my foot off the dead cockroach.

“Never,” he replied in his thick accent. “The inspector comes once a month.”

“What’s that?” I pointed to the crime scene on the bathroom floor.

He bent down, septuagenarian knees giving him pause, and quickly disposed the corpse.

“Just a fly.”

Moments later, his favored verbal tic came to the fore.

“I tell you this,” he said, hand on heart. “Ask anyone in this building. I’m fair. Trustworthy.”

In the past three days, I’ve terminated two silverfishes, an earwig, and this morning I interred a cockroach after a proper Norshore funeral–right in the fucking toilet. There are sounds of scurrying in the ceiling panels, behind which I can only imagine what dangers lurk. I guess I subconsciously expected the roach family in my apartment would be different, rolling into town in a Bentley or, at worst, the back-up Jag. I’m still pretty pleased with the place, though. Like I said, perks.