rules for survival and some observations

"Follow these rules and you might survive long enough to move out of this shithole:
1. Never, ever, under any circumstance enter my room.
2. Don't let anyone inside, especially if it's that nosy 'repair woman.' - Psh, repair woman, my ass.
3. Don't clean the common areas. What you do in your room is your business.
4. Keep the curtains closed.
5. Don't give Mercutio table scraps - Oh, Mercutio's the mouse. Don't worry, he's just as tame as I am.
6. Don't bother me. I keep strange hours due to my job, so I probably won't be around to chat, not that I''d want to anyway."

This is the kind of shit you have to put up with when you find your roommate on Craig's List.

---

Some observations about Ethan:

1. He was a giant. Saying that he was tall would be like saying Everest was just a hill: a gross understatement. The guy was near seven foot, had to be. He wasn't beefy, kinda average, besides the height thing. His arms were long and lanky and all his jeans were cut off at the knee, probably because they'd been too short to wear as long pants.
2. He seemed like "that type" of guy, i.e: lazy, and the apartment was an absolute mess because of it. The living room was the nearest thing to an indoor cave that I have ever seen.
3. He had the faint remnants of a foreign accent. I wasn't an expert, but the best I could say was European.
4. He smoked like a chimney and was proud of it.
5. And the rat was probably the closest friend he had, because he sure talked to it like it was.

---

I went outside because there wasn't much to do inside after I'd unpacked everything. There wasn't a TV. There wasn't anything to read. And the rat had taken to watching me when he wasn't draped around Ethan's shoulder like a mangy scarf.
There was a little boy in the lobby, sitting at the front desk. He looked about eleven or twelve and he frowned at me as I passed by.
"You're new, ain't you?" he called after me.
"Yeah."
"I'm gonna need your name. It's my job to keep track of everyone around here."
I smiled at him. "Oh, really."
"Yup." He pulled on the lapels of the over-sized suit he wore. "The name's Chambers. Braxton Chambers Jr."
"Sam Marconi."
He stuck his hand in mine and pumped it up and down.
"Mind if I call you Sammy Macaroni? It sounds nicer."
I shrugged. "Sure."
"That's settled then." Braxton took the pencil from behind his ear and began writing on a piece of paper: the name "Sammy Macaroni" and a little squiggle beside it which was, presumably, a noodle.
"It's a pleasure doing business with you," he said with a wink and a nod.

---

Later, the power went out. There was a boom and then darkness, like the Big Bang Theory in reverse.
After shrieking and taking a few seconds to calm myself, I went over to the window and pulled back the curtain, just an inch, but I still couldn't see anything. No flashlights, no candles, no stars, no distant glow from the bigger, nicer city down the highway. Frowning, I pushed the curtain back all the way. Blackness. The windows were painted over. I could feel the brushstrokes in the paint beneath my fingers.
Below, I could hear people shouting to one another.
"What the hell was that?"
"It's the aliens!"
"The power's out!"
"Say, you got light over there, Dave?"
"I can't even see my own hand in fronta my face!"

reasons why and reasons why not

I categorize my life into managable lists; reasons why and reasons why not. For example, I did not have any reasons why moving was a good idea. I did, however, have plenty of reasons why it was a very bad idea.

1. I don't fit in here... At all.

I got off the bus and felt the hiss of the doors sliding shut behind me. It made me jump a little and maybe that's what got everyone's attention, that little movement. Or maybe it was the two suitcases I was trying to juggle as I felt around in my pants pocket for the address of my new apartment. Or maybe it was my hair, I don't know. It must have been something because it felt like all eyes were on me as I heaved my bags onto the sidewalk and looked around.
A street sign a little ways down the block told me that I was currently standing on Navajo and a faded billboard told me that I should consider Jamaica as my next vacation destination. I smiled grimly. I didn't forsee any vacations in my future. Across the street was a laundry mat and I hefted my suitcases, one in each hand, and made my way over to it, almost getting splattered by an old green Jaguar in the process.
" 'ey! Watch it!" a man rolled down the window to yell at me. A cloud of grey smoke trailed after his voice as he drove on.
Note to self: Watch for traffic.

A bell jingled over the door as I entered the laundry mat, struggling to manuver the heavy bags through the inconveniently small doorway. There was no way in hell I was leaving everything I owned outside on the stoop. That was like screaming, "Hey, free shit!" Uh-uh. Nope.
"Can I help you?"
"I just need directions."
"Wash and dry, one load one dollar."
"No, I don't need anything washed. I need directions."
"You don't have money, you got to leave."
"I have money, I just don't need anything washed!"
"What you standin around for then? Get out of here!"
I am ashamed to say I was chased out of the laundry mat by a woman waving a wire hanger.
Note to self: Don't ask for directions.

Outside, a safe distance away from the laundry mat and the homicidal maniac with the hanger, I saw a woman of debatable age and occupation leaning against the side of a building picking at her nails. She looked up as I walked by.
"You need something, sweetie?"
"Er... directions. To Wilshire Tower on Mercy Street."
"Keep walking straight," she told me, pointing a curving talon down the street. "Take a right at Mercy and you'll find the Tower soon enough."
I smiled. "Thanks."
She smiled too with lipstick-stained teeth. "No problem, hun."
Note to self: Apparently you can trust a hooker.

She was right, I did find the Tower. It was hard to miss, being the tallest thing on the block. It was right across the street from a bar called The Last Stop. I laughed.
The guy at the front desk barely looked up when I introduced myself.
"Sam Marconi, apartment 115."
"So you're the new roommate. Third one since July."
"They don't stay long?"
"Nah, Ethan's strange about who he let's live in his room. Shit, he's pretty strange about everything."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see," he said to me. "Good luck with that," he said then, jerking his thumb at the stairs. "The elevator's broke."
Shrugging, I walked over the the stairs, dragging my suitcases up the steps behind me. One floor wasn't so bad.
Note to self: Watch out for third step from top; it's warped.

Left from the staircase, and down the hall a few doors was 115, my new home.
With a sigh, I dropped my bags and knocked. Immediately the door was thrown open. The man standing in the door frame -- no, blocking the doorframe -- was staring down at me with angry green eyes.
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. Take your cookies somewhere else."
He tried to shut the door, but I caught it and, with considerable effort, forced it back open.
"No, I'm Sam. Sam Marconi... Ethan, right? We spoke on the phone."
The man's eyebrows rose then fell and his grip on the door eased. "Oh, right. Heh, sorry. Come in."
Note to self: Don't judge a man by his voice over the phone. You will be surprised.