I packed my suitcase and threw it away
Within three hours of completing my last final, thus marking the start to my summer, I find myself helping Matt move his TV and some other things into the apartment. As we fumble his entertainment center up the back stairs, a man walks up asking if we lived there. I told him that I did and he asked my name. After offering this information he riffles through a stack of papers, says, “ok, mmhm” hands me the stack of papers and offers the parting remark, “spread the wealth”.
The wealth was a stack of subpoenas.
Proving once again to be as derelict as ever, Reed thought he could live in an apartment without paying his share of the rent. The four of us are now being sued by our landlord for the $2200 or so that "we" owe.
That night, after making numerious phone calls to straighten up our legal issue, I go to bed. I lay there, unwinding from the semester prior and my new legal battle and try to replace these thoughts with the fun that will be had in the summer ahead. It is then that I hear something under my bed. I jump up but the noise stops. I assume the noise is the house settling and go back to sleep. Five minutes later the noise starts again. I spring out of bed, dive across the room to my light switch and stand there, waiting. I soon find myself back in bed, wondering. A few minutes later, the noise starts again. Same thing: I jump up, turn on the lights, no noise. This time I just stand there, looking at my bed, hoping if that nothing else, I will exhaust myself enough to fall asleep standing up. After a few minutes the noise starts again. It's then that it hits me. I go to Mark's room, look in his hamster cage. . . no hamsters. Fucking Mark. Under any other conditions I would've made him chase after them. Unfortunately for me Mark is at a strip club with his girlfriend. And who said chivalry was dead?
So, I find myself in my boxers chasing two hamsters around the house with a metal lunchbox filled with sunflower seeds. Cornering one of them behind the TV, I lunge for the hamster and in doing so knock over a potted plant, spilling dirt on the carpet.
Both hamsters back in their day-glow plastic habitat, I go downstairs to clean up the mess we [I] made. I sweep the dirt into a dustpan and dump it in the trash. Beer bottles and their cardboard containers lay all around the receptacle for which they were meant to find their final rest. It’s time to take out the trash. In doing so I don’t even bother to put on pants. I figure no one is awake at this hour and those that are probably don’t have pants on anyway. I grab the trash bag in one hand, a handful of cardboard beer cases in the other, and head out to the dumpster. It is the precise moment that I am walking across the parking lot, in my underwear, holding the evidence of well over seven-dozen beer cans, that a cop drives by, slows down to eye me, shakes his head, and drives off.
I am pretty worked up about everything that has happened. I am cursing the names of two of my three roommates. Asleep or awake, I’d have no peace, and so I let it go, but only in the way you have to when you realize there is no other way to move on. I begin to think, maybe I don’t mind being sent to jail for not paying the rent. The house is a mess, hamster feces and dirt matted into the carpet. At the very least the court appearance would give me a chance to put on a suit.
I soon fall asleep and though I can’t remember my dreams from that night I would like to think the thought of spending time in jail chasing hamsters around my concrete cell were replaced with the visions of days spent grilling, playing piano and watching movies. The summer I had planned.
The next day I am supposed to be at the theatre at 7 AM to let the carpet-cleaning guy in. My alarm, set for 6:55, goes off and I roll out of bed, throw on some pants and a shirt and head out. I arrive at the theatre, unlock the doors, sit behind the counter and wait. It is now 7:01 and I am cursing the man who is late and depriving me of sleep. I am trying my best to keep sleep on my shoulder as I plan to drive back home and collapse back into bed.
He finally arrives and I let him in. As I greet him he gives me a weird look. At first I don’t pay much mind. I figure it’s mostly because he expected the manager to be someone of a more distinguished persuasion. Not some half-awake twenty-something with bloodshot eyes and a Led Zeppelin shirt. I hold the door for him as he brings in the various tools needed for such a job. With each pass he eyes me, and nods ever so slightly as if to say, “I thank you, because I have to”. With each pass it also becomes more and more apparent that he is aghast at my appearance. He looks down at me each time, appearing to give me the once over only not limiting himself to the standardized “once”. After moving all of the cleaning supplies into the theatre lobby I ask if he needs anything else. He sheepishly asks if I will turn on the lights, almost as if he is really here to steal boxes of Milk Duds and is astounded at the fact that I bought into his guise of preparing to clean the carpet. After doing so I ask once again if he needs my help. Still clearly rattled at something, the man says no and that I can be on my way. Figuring I will assume the role of manager, or at very least decent guy, I go over to shake his hand, but do so to the great apprehension of this man.
I walk out of the theatre and get in my car. I’ve managed to stay sleepy and know there still might be a chance of me falling asleep as soon as I get back home. As I buckle my seatbelt I look down. . . and catch a glimpse of my penis. Going sans underwear, I had only my zipper to keep things out of sight and neatly tucked away. A zipper I had forgotten to zip.
As I drove home I wondered to myself, what kind of person did this man think I was? Moreover, what of the witnesses to the two prior events? Did these people see me as just another deadbeat delinquent on his rent? Was I just another drunken college student running around in his boxers? Some stoned theatre manager barely cognizant of what day it is and where his genitals are? Or did they imagine, just for one moment, that I might be special?
The wealth was a stack of subpoenas.
Proving once again to be as derelict as ever, Reed thought he could live in an apartment without paying his share of the rent. The four of us are now being sued by our landlord for the $2200 or so that "we" owe.
That night, after making numerious phone calls to straighten up our legal issue, I go to bed. I lay there, unwinding from the semester prior and my new legal battle and try to replace these thoughts with the fun that will be had in the summer ahead. It is then that I hear something under my bed. I jump up but the noise stops. I assume the noise is the house settling and go back to sleep. Five minutes later the noise starts again. I spring out of bed, dive across the room to my light switch and stand there, waiting. I soon find myself back in bed, wondering. A few minutes later, the noise starts again. Same thing: I jump up, turn on the lights, no noise. This time I just stand there, looking at my bed, hoping if that nothing else, I will exhaust myself enough to fall asleep standing up. After a few minutes the noise starts again. It's then that it hits me. I go to Mark's room, look in his hamster cage. . . no hamsters. Fucking Mark. Under any other conditions I would've made him chase after them. Unfortunately for me Mark is at a strip club with his girlfriend. And who said chivalry was dead?
So, I find myself in my boxers chasing two hamsters around the house with a metal lunchbox filled with sunflower seeds. Cornering one of them behind the TV, I lunge for the hamster and in doing so knock over a potted plant, spilling dirt on the carpet.
Both hamsters back in their day-glow plastic habitat, I go downstairs to clean up the mess we [I] made. I sweep the dirt into a dustpan and dump it in the trash. Beer bottles and their cardboard containers lay all around the receptacle for which they were meant to find their final rest. It’s time to take out the trash. In doing so I don’t even bother to put on pants. I figure no one is awake at this hour and those that are probably don’t have pants on anyway. I grab the trash bag in one hand, a handful of cardboard beer cases in the other, and head out to the dumpster. It is the precise moment that I am walking across the parking lot, in my underwear, holding the evidence of well over seven-dozen beer cans, that a cop drives by, slows down to eye me, shakes his head, and drives off.
I am pretty worked up about everything that has happened. I am cursing the names of two of my three roommates. Asleep or awake, I’d have no peace, and so I let it go, but only in the way you have to when you realize there is no other way to move on. I begin to think, maybe I don’t mind being sent to jail for not paying the rent. The house is a mess, hamster feces and dirt matted into the carpet. At the very least the court appearance would give me a chance to put on a suit.
I soon fall asleep and though I can’t remember my dreams from that night I would like to think the thought of spending time in jail chasing hamsters around my concrete cell were replaced with the visions of days spent grilling, playing piano and watching movies. The summer I had planned.
The next day I am supposed to be at the theatre at 7 AM to let the carpet-cleaning guy in. My alarm, set for 6:55, goes off and I roll out of bed, throw on some pants and a shirt and head out. I arrive at the theatre, unlock the doors, sit behind the counter and wait. It is now 7:01 and I am cursing the man who is late and depriving me of sleep. I am trying my best to keep sleep on my shoulder as I plan to drive back home and collapse back into bed.
He finally arrives and I let him in. As I greet him he gives me a weird look. At first I don’t pay much mind. I figure it’s mostly because he expected the manager to be someone of a more distinguished persuasion. Not some half-awake twenty-something with bloodshot eyes and a Led Zeppelin shirt. I hold the door for him as he brings in the various tools needed for such a job. With each pass he eyes me, and nods ever so slightly as if to say, “I thank you, because I have to”. With each pass it also becomes more and more apparent that he is aghast at my appearance. He looks down at me each time, appearing to give me the once over only not limiting himself to the standardized “once”. After moving all of the cleaning supplies into the theatre lobby I ask if he needs anything else. He sheepishly asks if I will turn on the lights, almost as if he is really here to steal boxes of Milk Duds and is astounded at the fact that I bought into his guise of preparing to clean the carpet. After doing so I ask once again if he needs my help. Still clearly rattled at something, the man says no and that I can be on my way. Figuring I will assume the role of manager, or at very least decent guy, I go over to shake his hand, but do so to the great apprehension of this man.
I walk out of the theatre and get in my car. I’ve managed to stay sleepy and know there still might be a chance of me falling asleep as soon as I get back home. As I buckle my seatbelt I look down. . . and catch a glimpse of my penis. Going sans underwear, I had only my zipper to keep things out of sight and neatly tucked away. A zipper I had forgotten to zip.
As I drove home I wondered to myself, what kind of person did this man think I was? Moreover, what of the witnesses to the two prior events? Did these people see me as just another deadbeat delinquent on his rent? Was I just another drunken college student running around in his boxers? Some stoned theatre manager barely cognizant of what day it is and where his genitals are? Or did they imagine, just for one moment, that I might be special?