Here's the Catch...help me graduate?

I've been traveling and dropping off these dinky business cards that I got for free. Part of the reasoning behind that is I'm trying to do an accelerated field study so that I can graduate from my MFA program in December.

The field study has something to do with worlds within worlds, possibly similar to fractals. My previous mentor who invited me on to the project has created a few of these worlds in a series of published and upcoming books called the Julia Set.

OK, so in one of these worlds she has created, there is a character called Kathryn Dow, who lives somewhere in Iowa in a town rife with myth. Kathryn finds a book that one of her relatives had written about finding this entry point or portal in to another world. She rewrites the book and publishes it.

I've created a character named Kyle Venn, a high school sophomore who discovers Kathryn Dow after he reads a Choose Your Own Adventure book that leads him to discover some of her work. Oh yeah, and there are goblins or otherworld dwellers somehow thrown into all of this.

To make this as straightforward as possible, we're working within a world where characters create other worlds that may then lead them to find other worlds within their own world. OK, maybe that's not so straightforward.

Right now, I'm in the process of writing that CYOA book that Kyle Venn discovers. Actually, I'm in the process of trying to get as many people as possible to help me write this story.

My main goal is for people, who may or may not identify as writers, to remember that they are storytellers. I want to get people involved in interactive fiction, to realize that they can create as many damn worlds as they please, to start a collective imagination orgasm!

So where do we get off? Well, that depends on you. I really do need your help on this and would be honored if you decide to participate. Think of it as charity work for a cancer kid. If you're interested, then check out the site that I've created to get us started.

If you're worried that what you'll write may be boring or crappy, then I love you all the more for contributing. That's sort of the point - to not feel too self-conscious about creating, to tell a story any way you damn well please and have fun doing it. I'll be eternally grateful if you wanted to contribute even a few sentences, since there are no limitations on length.

OK, I'll stop sounding too desperate. E-mail me if you have any questions or if you want dibs on certain decisions (the dibs part will make sense once you visit the Twisted Tale site). Thanks!

Never Ever Ever

OK, so I know I wrote an “Urban Legends Part 1” - believe me, there is definitely a Part 2 coming that has to do with more roof tops and subway tracks, but I feel a bit out of time. All of these posts have a time lag. For example, as I've written this, I am back in Chicago to pick up my boxed belongings from my former apartment. However, I have this one done for whatever reason, and I'd like to post it for any lovely readers who keep reading. It takes place as I'm about to leave Boston, anyway:

I met a wise man and his name was George.

I first encountered him while walking to Boston's South Station to catch my 10 PM MegaBus back to D.C. I felt tired, out of place, and sad like I had lost something but couldn't remember what had been lost. I sized up other people on the street, hoping for a reference point, some flaw to make me feel better about myself.

George had combed-back white hair, a shiny forehead, a huge gap of missing top row teeth, and bulbous blue eyes. I was walking a few steps behind him with my luggage as a line of three people, strung out across the sidewalk, approached us from the opposite direction. Rather than sidestep or angle himself between the group, George fluttered his hands in front of his face as if a giant moth had just attacked his head. My luggage and I followed him through the gap he had created in the group.

Within a few seconds, I was side by side with him. He muttered something and kept pace with me. I cooed and grunted something soothing. He hummed back and asked “are you lost?”

“I don't know,” I lied and sped up my pace.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” George yelled. A sane-looking pedestrian crossing the street laughed at him. I couldn't smile – George's bellow sounded desolate, lonely, forsaken.

I sped up my pace even more and heard a distant “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” again. When I looked back, I saw George flutter his hands in front of his face again as his forehead lightly bumped a street pole. I wondered if he needed glasses.

I learned his name because he later said “My name is George. My name is George. My name is George. My name is George.” I think he was saying that to everyone and to no one in particular.

This name-learning happened about 20 minutes later, since I had spent that time circumnavigating South Station, guided by my horrible directional instincts. If you ever ask me where to go and I say right, then you should probably go left. Anyway, I somehow eventually put two and two together and walked into the corner building with the huge South Station sign over a series of double doors. After buying a generic but generous amount of Chinese food at the station's eatery, I situated myself at a table with a lone chair.

There was a group of four people, two guys and two girls about my age, occupying two tables to my left. One of the guys was talking about European taxation practices versus United States procedures; he was speaking in a lecturing tone, the sort of tone I had used with my ex when I wanted to expound upon some topic for which I had little to no research or experience in.

George was sitting behind me with what I took to be a big meal. After he left that seat and a South Station worker cleaned up the table soon after, I realized that it had just been trash. He pulled up a chair and sat next to the cuter girl in the group of four. The lecturing guy kept on speaking and pretended not to notice George.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Hey, I'm sorry,” George said as he touched the girl very lightly and cautiously on the forearm.

“No it's OK. It's fine,” she said and tried not to shift away. They repeated this same back and forth response several times over the next two minutes. Why didn't she ask him what he was sorry for? Were you sorry for not wanting to be invisible, George?

The group of four eventually decided to vacate the tables that George had tried to share. The girl next to George told him to have a good night – the group of four reconvened about fifty feet away. Thus, I was left with George sitting to my left. I halfheartedly stirred my honey chicken, mashed my soggy green beans, and chewed absently on a few more forkfuls of greasy noodles before giving up and staring into space.

I had tried to prolong my travels by buying a series of excruciatingly long bus tickets that would allow me to stop over in Washington D.C. for a day and night. But this first round of travels was admittedly coming to a close – I had had adventures and minor revelations, but I didn't feel changed.

“Are you going to finish that off?” George asked me.

“No, please take it,” I said and handed the styrofoam platter to him. He ate daintily and didn't pay much attention to me. Perhaps I was the invisible one.

“So you said your name was George?” I ventured.

“Yeah, George, George Adelman,” he said.

“I'm Robert, Robert Egan,” I replied. We shook hands and fell silent for awhile. I eventually asked him where he was from and told him that I was traveling. We made small, disjoint talk before he sighed and put down his plastic fork.

“You know it's hard. It can be really hard. I'm not a bad guy – really I'm not a bad guy,” he said. He stayed turned toward me and his huge blue eyes searched my face.

“Well, no one's really bad or good. I mean you can say that people are bad in some ways but good in others. And who's to say who's bad and who's good?” I said.

“You're being an asshole,” George replied.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, OK.” I supposed that I could have come off as patronizing while I theorized on bad and good. Hell, I had started using that same lecturing tone that the guy from the group of four had been using earlier.

“Listen, I'm not a bad guy. I have never ever ever made fun of someone,” George said. His blue eyes twitched from side to side as he gauged my facial expression to see if I understood. I guess I didn't because he continued speaking and pointing out people. “You see that guy over there, carrying all the drinks. I could say 'look at that asshole.' Or that guy cleaning the tables 'what a jerk.' But I don't. All these people in here, they're trying. And who knows where you'll be in ten years. It doesn't matter – you never ever ever make fun of someone.”

“I've made fun of people before,” I said.

I remembered some of the extreme instances when I had done just that, mostly junior high and early high school. There had been a kid with a neat, semi-froggy voice whom I had mocked incessantly. Other classmates with funny names or funny faces were subjected to humiliating doodles, movie references, and nicknames. On an eighth grade trip to Washington D.C. I was part of a group that included a wheelchair-bound kid who was slightly overweight. I and another friend came up with a nickname for him – FAF or Fat Ass Fuck; there was even a poem and everything. Awful.

“You said that you made fun of them,” George asked.

“Yeah, but I wish that I had never made fun of anyone,” I said.

I hadn't been a full-time bully and had been bullied myself, but I had been the worst kind of bully in the above instances. I had done my best to make others feel ashamed of what they could not or didn't want to change. I had tried to rob them of their basic human dignity. I had felt out of place then. Now, I was waiting for a bus to Washington D.C. a decade later, and I still felt out of place.

“Now you just contradicted your own self,” George continued.

“No, I said that I wish I had never made fun – oh,” I said.

Was I contradicting myself? Had I ever stopped making fun? I no longer gave people ignoble nicknames, but from time to time I've caught myself putting people down silently, smugly. Was I more handsome than that guy across the street? Would I ever let myself go completely to fat like the lady waddling up her driveway? How many people within a quarter-mile radius had a dick as big as mine? If we had to fight to the death, then who would win? Was the guy serving me coffee as smart as me? What is the best way to pick up on people's imperfections so that I can feel more awesome, slightly less out of place? 'Look at that asshole.' 'What a jerk.'

“I bet you think you're smarter than me,” George said.

“I never said that,” I replied.

“You're about 20, right?” he asked.

“I'm 23. I know that I have a long ways to go,” I said.

“No, don't say that. You're smart. You just never ever ever make fun of someone,” he said.

“I'll try. I mean, I won't. Thank you. I have to catch my bus. Thanks,” I said. George didn't say anything and went back to eating calmly.

I thanked George because he had pinpointed a major source of unhappiness so elegantly – insecurity, the fear that I'll never be good enough. You start trying to find ways to feel superior to others. The catch is that there will always be someone who is better at some part of life than you'll ever be. You can block that out and focus on people who are worse or just less experienced in the things you've decided to take pride in. You can pick your comparisons carefully and try to design categories where you'll always win.

But if comparing yourself to others is all that you can do, then you cease to be your own person. Take responsibility – you're good enough when you believe you're good enough. No one else can decide that for you.

That personal control, what makes me me, is what I sometimes feel has been lost and forgotten in the losing. It's always a relief when I realize that it's just been waiting patiently. Whatever uncertainty or loss may follow, I'll always have that.

Look around you – short, fat, tall, skinny, ugly, weak, strong, young, old, beautiful, stupid, smart, slow, fast, dark, light, straight, gay, bisexual, poor, rich, saved, damned, two-balled, one-balled, no-balled. Enjoy - laugh but don't make fun. Never ever ever.

Urban Legends (part 1)

“Bwwwrrrrzappp and then she said but he said and zahazaha,” muttered the 30ish-something man with thinning black hair and a thick black moustache. He was either tripping balls, crazy or both. Every once in a while his phone would ring, and he'd stop talking to himself and slapping his knees in merriment to take the call. He sounded sober then, although he spoke in a strange language that sounded like a cross between Spanish and Russian – Turkish? When another passenger asked him where we were along the route from Washington D.C. to New York, he chuckled and said “somewhere in the States, right right?”

I was on the second level of the MegaBus and had spent the last hour and a half waiting for my connection and drinking beer and bourbon at this Irish cop bar. The place was fantastic with deejays, young professionals, established business men, law enforcement, stoners and grungy travelers such as myself brushing elbows. I intend to give it a longer visit on my way back home, but the point is I was slightly drunk at the start of the MegaBus trip. I took the seat near the stairway because it was across from a cute, thick but toned girl. The mustachioed crazy man was sitting behind her.

I opened my netbook, checked my bank account and saw that I had approximately $4 left – how had this happened? My bank had charged me an overdraft fee, which had never happened before. In my drunken, immature state, I tried to put on a show for the cute girl and called my bank to complain about the fee in what I thought was a level, cultivated, confident tone. I was probably very annoying. To my surprise the bank dropped the fee within a minute of me calling, apologized and promised to set me up for online notifications about my balance. I glanced at the cute girl to share my stupid victory, but she was staring out the window.

Mr. Moustache man was slumped forward behind her, clutching his knees and moving his mouth like a fish out of water. When she turned around to look at him, he seemed startled that his dream bus was populated by other human beings. He asked her name in a thick tongue. She responded with something exotic, probably South American, that I knew would be hard to pronounce. He nodded and forgot about her. My net book was about to die and the outlet above my seat wasn't working, so I asked the cute girl if I could use hers. She said yes very nicely and even helped me drape the cord across the aisle. I tried to hang up the cord from the roof outlet without lifting my arm because I'd lost my deodorant in Richmond, Virginia.

I don't think she smelled anything offensive because we started talking. She was an au pair just outside of New York and had been in Washington for the last week visiting friends. Brazil was her home country and she grew offended when I asked if she spoke Spanish. Portuguese is a beautiful language and she started teaching me, laughing at my horrible pronunciation. I gave her one of my dinky business cards, and settled back in to my net book, pretending to work diligently, although I was merely IM-ing friends on Gchat and making pointless loops on Facebook. She facebook-friended me and immediately sent a message when I accepted the request:

i think this guy behind me.. is crazy... he is sooo weirdooo! =O

We debated whether he was high or crazy over facebook for a while before she told me that she was worried that he would stroke her hair. I said something noncommittal but potentially manly along the lines of “let me know if he does stroke your hair.” I've tripped balls before and the guy behind her seemed harmless if a little nutty – but he turned out to be more than that; he became my psychedelic wingman.

The Brazilian girl eventually invited me to sit next to her and watch a movie on her laptop. I adjusted the screen so that our thighs had to touch. The movie wouldn't load, but I found out that she liked the show “Fringe.” We talked about that and she showed me a blog, which consisted of insanely detailed critiques for each episode. I started to lose interest when she started reading the blog intently and grabbed my net book from the seat across the aisle. I nearly dropped it when Mr. Moustache hawked a loogie behind us. I looked at him questioningly; he looked startled, innocent – there was no spit on the floor or on the back of the seat. He had been imagining himself spitting? He gave a guileless smile and I shrugged.

“I think I'm going to try to get some sleep,” Brazilian girl said.

“Oh excuse me, I didn't mean to be creeping up on you,” I said. Our thighs were still touching, so I gathered up my netbook, nearly tripped over the cord, and pretended not to be embarrassed as I sat back in my own seat. I was trying to finish web writing an article about retirement specialists when she spoke again.

“These cookies are definitely not from God.” She held up a box of Oreos.

“Not from God – like the devil? I mean they aren't bad – they're good but not good for you,” I said.

“No, not from God – what is the word?” she said as she proffered the box of Oreos to me.

“Artificial.” I started laughing at her because of her accent and because the phrase itself was delightful. She laughed too and handed me the box of Oreos. Later on, she gave me some of her sandwich and food that was “from God.” The sun had set and we were about 2 and a half hours outside of New York, but Mr. Moustache was still going strong on whatever substance or wavelength compelled him. The Brazilian girl was restless in his presence and couldn't sleep, so she told me so.

“Well, not to be a creep, but maybe it would better if you had someone to lean against?” I said. It wasn't even good enough to be a lame pick-up line, but she nodded. I sat back next to her and ended up stroking her hair before realizing that she had been worried about Mr. Moustache doing the same. I guess it depended on context. Mr. Moustache spit another imaginary loogie and the Brazilian girl leaned in closer. We kissed.

She had this weird, amazing way of sucking on my bottom lip and flipping it over, which should have been physically impossible. We kissed and cuddled for the remainder of the trip to New York. Since, as an au pair, she lived with two small children and their single mother, I didn't think we would see each other after the trip. We made tentative plans to meet up that weekend, but I figured that was a New York thing, a mere courtesy that didn't mean anything.

We got off the bus and tried to help each other figure out the subway routes, since she wasn't used to taking them either. She got on the right train for her destination. I got on the wrong train. I don't know what became of Mr. Moustache, my psychedelic wingman, but I'm sure he had a mystical journey.

Oh yeah, my cell phone also died. I had forgotten to charge it on the bus. I've lived in Chicago and have taken the El trains frequently, but I wasn't prepared for the New York subway system. Apparently, the signs above the trains on certain platforms only hold true for certain trains at certain times and sometimes certain dates. The E train followed the F train route after midnight. The platform I went to was for the A, C, and E trains, and I knew that I needed a C line, which was also called the blue line to 110^th. I would be heading north toward Manhattan or in the uptown direction. But first I'd have to take the E-line connection at 42^nd Bryant, which would require me to double-back, go south, and then get the C-line. But since the E had become the F then the C would include another train whose letter I have long since forgotten.

I determined this and nodded sagely after asking three different people and getting three different routes. I ended up taking an E train to Queens. After about 7 stops, I asked some more people where I was going. I didn't quite understand their directions, since I'm basically mentally handicapped when the answers involve anything more than left, right, or keep going. I got off that train and walked to the opposite side of the platform, since that would mean that I would catch a train going in the opposite direction, right? No, 20 minutes later I found out that I had to climb the stairs and walk around to another platform.

My MegaBus had gotten in around 10PM – it was now about midnight. The E train had become the F train, but the F train was now following a slightly different express route for the dates of April 18-22. And older Polish woman looked at the big subway map with me and gave me several different options, saying that those directions could change at any time, so I would have to listen to the intercom, which made no sense to me (I also don't have the best hearing). She also told me that, under no circumstances, should I get off at the other 110^th stop, east of Central Park.

I started getting paranoid – would the predators of New York smell my fear? How would I defend myself if I got off at the wrong stop? I remembered that I had a compass and at a straight edge. I chuckled to myself about possible geometry jokes as I dug into my duffel bag side pockets for my razor-sharp straight edge.

Ow. I had found the straight edge, which slashed open the middle finger of my left hand almost instantly. The straight edge was a rusty razor that I had bought from an antique shop after graduating high school – the rust specks failed to completely cover the logo “Army Special” on the steel blade, which had been adorned with a cheap black plastic handle that had long since shattered. Anyway, my finger wouldn't stop bleeding.

I reached back into my duffel bag and grabbed a cheap collared tee-shirt to put pressure on the cut. I realized that I looked exactly as I was, a stupid fucking kid who had no idea where he was going. If any of the New York monsters who feasted on outsiders smelled my blood, they gave no outward signs.

I finally found a D line train that took me to 110^th – the 110^th that I shouldn't go to under any circumstances? Once, I got there, I asked one of the public transit workers if I could use the outlet behind his plexiglass fortress, which was probably also bullet-proof. He nodded and slid open a small counter door with a steel tray for me to put in my cell phone and charger. The cell wouldn't charge; the public transit worker claimed it was my charger. I had taken the shirt off from my left hand, and the finger began to bleed once more. I thanked him, asked how to get to 108^th street, and set out.

Just like a dozen times earlier that night, I hadn't understood the directions. I got out my steel compass, lined up the red arrow with North and headed West. My straight edge was in my pocket, but I was worried about slicing up my right thigh if I made sudden movements. I walked with a cautious limp until I found the cross streets of 108^th and Manhattan. I thought I had found the building with the address my friend had given me. The streets were surprisingly empty – was that a good or bad sign? I sat down on the stairs leading up to the building and unpacked my netbook with the wireless broadband card.

I had been trying to use it earlier while in the subways to contact my friend, a roommate for all of undergrad, but I hadn't been able to get a connection in the city's underbelly. I also realized that walking around with an open laptop with a hand wrapped in a bloody shirt and trailing luggage was not a good way to go unnoticed. It was 1:30 and I had been on the subway for over three hours by then.

My friend was still up, and I was at the right building! I had made it. During the remainder of the week, I found that New York wasn't a city peopled by cutthroat, ambitious monsters; people were damned decent, genuine, and wonderfully rushed – but more on that in the next post.

I hadn't forgotten about the Brazilian girl; she had taken the time to type her name and number into my phone before it died. I sent here a text Friday morning that said “I want your from God body.” She responded, and we met at a place called Fat Cat's with some of her other friends that she had met couch surfing. The place had pool, ping-pong, shuffle board, chess, scrabble, and live music. Later in the night, we started bragging to each other about how good we both were at ping-pong.

I said that if I beat her in a game, then she should come home with me. She kicked my ass, but we agreed that it was a tie, and she took the subway back with me.

I'm not much of a planner, but I had been preparing for this possible date in my own slow way. My friend that I was staying with didn't have a working shower. This was because his superintendent had tried to fix a shower handle that had fallen off and stripped off an important piece instead. The super allowed my friend and his roommate to use the shower in a vacant apartment next door. As the week progressed, the super ended up scavenging a part from that working shower in the vacant apartment and switching it to the shower in my roommate's bathroom. Still, he had never locked up the empty apartment, so I had dragged my borrowed futon in there that Friday morning.

It was close to 2 when I got back, and I buzzed frantically for my former roommate to open the building door – my cell phone had died again. The door buzzed, we went up to the sixth story vacant apartment, and I brought in two cups for water and the remainder of the “not from God” Oreos box that the Brazilian girl had given me on the MegaBus. We settled in and had a very cool night. I had kept my vow of not getting off if it didn't involve another human being.

I had finished thrusting, whipped off my condom, and started stroking.

“Where do you want it?” I wondered if that would become my regular ending line.

“What do you mean where I want it?” she asked.

“I'm about to come – where should I do that?” I said desperately.

“I don't know!” she cried.

“Auuuuuuuugggggggghhhhh-gah-gah-gah-unnnhhh.” I had turned away from her at the last instant and came on my half of the bedspread instead. It was like someone was spraying a can of streamers. I slumped against the wall while she laughed. I covered my side of the futon with another blanket and promptly passed out. The next morning was even better.

Afterwards, we went to a small Turkish cafe down the street, which had become one of my favorite places in New York. She insisted on buying breakfast, since I had bought drinks last night. I pretended to be indignant but was secretly flattered. It had been raining all that morning, and we had no umbrella as we left the cafe. I covered her head with the side of my jacket and walked her to the subway. She sucked and twisted my lower lip one more time before we said good bye.

Instead of going straight back to the apartment, I walked aimlessly around Central Park for several hours. I figured that would give my former roommate more time to sleep in, but mostly, I had this sweet sadness that I wanted to let linger. I walked around the reservoir several times and made my way back to the apartment.

The door to the vacant apartment was now locked. I remembered then that the Brazilian girl had asked me to lock it as we settled in for the night. The futon and everything I had brought in last night were still left in there. I told my former roommate, and he determined that I could try to get in via the fire escape. He knew a way to finagle the emergency exit door to the roof so as not to sound the alarm.

The roof was wet. I was wet. The narrow, rusted fire escape ladder that curled over the seventh story fire ledge to the sixth story fire escape below was wet too. The light rain kept coming and things got wetter. Did I mention that I have just a slight fear of heights?

“Oh – a phoo – uh Jeezus,” I moaned with each descending ladder rung as my roommate gave me quiet encouragement from the ledge. The metal fire escape was a narrow grating with a 2 foot high rail. I pressed myself up against the brick wall and found the right window on my second try (the first window I looked into having belonged to an inhabited bedroom). I slid the window open, leaning on it all the while.

And there was the white iron fire escape security grate that could only be opened from the inside my lifting a lever. I tried to slide between the grate and the window but had to peel off my jacket to fit. I had already looked down several times by accident and was beginning to grow frantic. I jammed my arm and shoulder between two of the window bars while wondering absently if I'd get stuck and have to call for help or pull myself free so violently that I'd topple back over the rail. Neither happened, but I couldn't reach that inside lever with any of my maneuvering. I yelled up to my former roommate that I needed a tool. He left for several minutes as I clung to the grate and stared at the futon inside the room's sweet, safe interior.

He came back with a bent clothes hanger that I somehow managed to catch. I tried catching the latch for the next fifteen minutes.

“Uh, Rob, you should come up – it's starting to rain harder,” my former roommate called.

“I'd rather be inside than come back up. I'll try one last time.” OK, I told myself, this will be the winning move. You will hear the sweet release of the latch and clamber inside. I pulled the clothes hanger and it caught before slipping off and losing its hook shape. “OK, I'm coming back up,” I moaned.

I wriggled back into my jacket and left the distorted wire hanger on the fire escape before crawling to the roof ladder. “Oook ooook oooook” each chant growing longer with each ascending rung as I clung to the dripping rails.

“Don't look down man,” my former roommate called as I was on the second to last rung. This caused me to involuntarily look down. The grates of the fire escape allowed me to see clear through to the alley way below. I think I sort of squealed and threw myself onto the roof. I stayed hunched on the roof for a bit before following my former roommate back inside.

The remaining option was to contact the superintendent and ask him to unlock the apartment. I procrastinated for about an hour, and it took me another half hour to track him down in the building. The super, a short hispanic man, was already not in the best of moods; my former roommate and his current roommate (an ex-sniper for Israeli special forces who I ended up giving my straight edge razor to) had understandably hounded him to get the part for their shower fixed. Hence the super becoming frustrated and stripping the part from the working shower in the vacant apartment to fix the other shower that he'd stripped in the first place. Hence there no longer being any reason for me to have anything to do with that vacant apartment.

I showed him the door that I needed unlocked. “Do you live here?” he asked.

“No, I'm visiting. I was using the shower before the other one worked. I left some uh, stuff in there,” I squeaked.

“No, do you live here?” he replied again.

“No, I don't live here?” I answered hesitantly.

“Then what are you doing in there?” he asked.

“I, I, I met a girl in New York and wanted to take her on a date so... I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I promise that I'll clean everything up,” I said.

“You know people are supposed to move in here today. You can't be in there,” he continued.

“I'm really sorry,” I said again. The super stared at me for several more seconds before letting me in. I had hoped that he'd leave, but he followed me inside. When he saw the futon laying in one of the rooms he shook his head and walked to one of the windows facing the street. I folded up the futon including sheets and two condom wrappers before dragging it across the room. I was nearly to the hallway when an orange ping-pong ball from last night's game escaped the folds of the sheets and rolled across the wooden floor. The super turned around and saw the ping pong ball rolling. He refused to look at me as he turned back toward the window.

“OK, I'm just going to clean up everything else then too,” I said. I went to check the bathroom. The toilet bowl was filled with urine, paper towels, and two used condoms. I hit the flush button. Nothing happened. I had forgotten that stripping the shower also meant no water for the toilet. I panicked for a moment before remembering the two cups I had brought into the room the night before. I went to the kitchen sink, which still had running water, and filled both cups up, pouring their contents into the toilet tank. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

After I did this for about two minutes, the super turned from the window and walked out. “Just lock up after you're done then,” he called. I knew better than to say thanks.

I jumped the gun on trying to flush the toilet manually, since I hadn't filled the tank with enough water from the cups. I had to start all over again and plunge the toilet, but finally the New York sewer systems accepted my offerings from the night before.

The last thing I did before locking the apartment was go to the fire escape grate and unlatch it on the off-chance that no one was actually moving in to that apartment. If you're ever in the Big Orange and need a private place, then I can give you the address. I'm sure you'll figure the rest out along the way.