The Moveout Inspection

i figured there was no way i could calmly explain that i'm the only one who lives in this studio but just happen to play guitar, own three computers, work as a chef, smoke hookah, three kinds of cigarettes, have an oddly high number of cushions spread across my floor and drink gallons of alcohol every night.

i'm sort of a jack of all trades. with a few addictions.

just before the landlord walked in, simon grabbed carmen and took her to the backyard, i stuffed all cat-related items under our sofa and all proof that there is actually three people sleeping in this tiny room into the closet.

and then put on a black shirt, black tie, black pants and black shoes and prepared to look distraught.

funerals tend to distract people from what they should really be asking.

it also helped that the man was over an hour late in meeting me and i was actually pretty upset by that.

"sorry," he said, "i'm a little behind schedule."

a little behind is five minutes.

"it's alright," i mumbled, "i've been... i'm having a lot to think about... anyway."

"oh," he said, "well, shall we look around?"

"ok," i said while sitting slumping into our sofa. i tried to make it clear that i couldn't do anything but sit and be emotional-- a whole lot of studying my fingers intensely and rubbing my knees.

"do you... want to look around with me?"

"no, i don't know. i'm just in a bad area, i just have a lot on my mind. but you can do what you need."

"going through a rough break up?" he laughed. that is a very odd thing to ask someone.

"no... it's just," i stammered, "it's a death."

"oh," he stopped. he knew he had just started a conversation he probably shouldn't have and suddenly my sith lord clothing all made sense to him. "i'm sorry. can i ask what happened?"

at that moment, i realized i had no idea what sort of imaginary death my friend had fallen victim to. but luckily, i had been facebook-stalking my aunt earlier in the day and she'd posted a link to 52 ways to die in a cave.

i decided to go with #1.

"my brother... it was an acetylene explosion," i said, "the fuel from his cave lamp... it just... i guess it happens. but i wish it happened to someone else, you know? i never even went cave-diving with him and he kept asking me to and i just didn't and i hate it. i could've stopped it if i were there-- or i could've, i could've told him that the lamp was dangerous..."

it got very, very silent and i could see the landlord's eyes moving back and forth behind his glasses. he'd never met me before and probably never planned to meet me this way.

"well," he said, "let's take a look at the bathroom!"

nice.

"are you a caver?" i asked him as he looked at my toilet to be sure it worked.

"no," he said, "i'm not the outdoorsy kind of guy-- and i certainly won't be now after that!"

he laughed an awkward laugh and i just stared at him until he stopped. not cool.

"it all looks good here," he straightened up, "so, you're all set. you should be getting the deposit back 21 days after you move. and, of course, if there's... anything... you need... and all... i'm here, of course."

i tried to move in for a hug-- the champion of awkward moves and perhaps so perfect i'd be a jerk to pretend it was my idea and not my friend's-- but he sort of moved his shoulder out of the way and turned the whole thing into a very fidgety handshake.

"okay!" he said, "it was great to meet you and good luck with everything. and i guess you'll be in the e.m.l"

"the e.m.l.?"

"the end of the month."

i've thought this over and i still don't know why there was an "l" in his "end of the month" acronym-- probably because he was so embarrassed by the situation that he just started making shit up-- but the important thing is he didn't notice the cat food hiding behind the cereal boxes, the fact i have three toothbrushes and razors, or the fine layer of cat hair that coats the entire room.

in fact, i would say the man saw literally no part of my apartment in any detail except the bathroom and that may very well be because it was the furthest away from my depressing self.

that's what you get for being an hour late.