Wednesday, March 31, 2004

As I cleaned out my apartment yesterday, gentle reader, I heard three sharp knocks on my door. I waited a bit, heard three more knocks, and opened the door to two police officers, one of whom offered a piercing question.

“Sir, have you heard any screaming recently?” she asked, motioning to the apartment next door.

I said I’d not heard any screams, that I’d been preoccupied with moving the past few evenings.

“No, I mean recently,” she clarified. “In the last five to ten minutes.”

“Nope,” I answered, “though I was burglarized recently.”

This apparently was funny because she chuckled and left with her partner, leaving me alone in my big, vacant apartment as leaves and trash swirled outside in the cold moonlight. Within moments, all the little creaks and croaks in the studio became creakier and croakier, and more than once I paused in the gathering stillness to listen for more taps on the door.

An hour or so later I left the apartment for good, and so ended by dismal housing experience. Clutching my mop and cleaning supplies, I dashed out the door, and said this tenant of B&A, “Nevermore, nevermore.”