Wednesday, September 13, 2006


I'm more grossed out by rats than anyone. Hell, I read Rats by Robert Sullivan twice. I was born on the day of the only known rat attacking a human in New York City history. I freak out when I see their lumpy backs cross in front of me on the street at night and shower the instant I get home just fearing their fleas have jumped onto me carrying the Black Plague. But, living in a big city, you learn to deal with rats.

You also learn to deal with pour trash pick-up and rude people. My upstair neighbor is moving out to the burbs in a week to live with his fiance. He's been cleaning up his apartment and left the items needing to be recycled in open bins next to where I park my car. It doesn't really bother me if the rats have a Templeton at the state fair adventure there. I've come to terms with the fact that they exist outside of my apartment. As long as they don't come into my kitchen, I'm content with their adventures outside.

My older neighbor came to the door last night. He had silver hair and round glasses and a frown on his face.

"Do you know who's trash that is?"
"What trash?" I said.
"The trash next to your car. The rats are having a field day. It shouldn't be there."
"I have no idea who's it is. We put our trash in the bins."
"Well, it's next to your car."
"Well, it's not mine."
"It has to be someone's. It's hard enough to control the rats, you know."
"I know. They ate my radiator cord a while ago, however, it is not my trash."
"Who's is it then?"
"I don't know. Maybe the guy's upstairs. Recycling comes tomorrow. I've been assuming it was out there awaiting weekly recycling."
"Well it needs to be moved."
"I agree, but you can complain to me all you like, and it is still not my trash."
"Well. It needs to be moved."
"Great. Good luck with that."

And I slammed the door. Who are these people?


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