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Mon | October 24, 2005

City Life

I have noticed that I go through phases of what may be called cabin fever, though calling it that somewhat trivializes the state I am in at these times. I live in suburban New Jersey and I work part time for an income, and the rest of the time I am "trying to be a writer." I do not have nearly enough local friends and am always a bit socially hungry. However, most of my friends and acquaintances would be surprised to hear me say that, because I am fairly good at shelving this when I do see people.

These episodes of cabin fever come somewhat regularly, and I sometimes wonder if they may be attached to the third week of my menstrual cycle. At any rate I had the idea to intercept the cycle by spending a few days at my friend's place in Brooklyn. I called up my friend and he said, "sure!" and that he gets lonely going home to an empty apartment. I had told him that I wanted to try writing in a different setting, for a change of pace, or scene, to see if I would get more done that way. This was true, and was really just another way of stating the same problem. If my cabin fever did not result in distraction, unproductivity, and finally despair, with respect to writing, I would not mind it at all.

My friend happens to be my ex-boyfriend, and he happens to have absolutely broken my heart about a year ago. Because of this I do not feel guilty asking him for anything. Nothing short of a donated kidney could make up the balance sheet between us. That makes it sound as if I am not really over it, but I know myself pretty well, and I know the relationship even better, and I am well over it all. I have forgiven and forgotten-- but I have the archives should they ever need to be retrieved.

We sat on the couch in his living room-kitchen, after having gone to dinner, after he met me, much later than he had given the impression he would meet me, at the cafe near his apartment.
"Do you want to sleep here, or in there?" he asked, pointing to his bedroom.
"And you would sleep here?" I asked hopefully.
"No, we would both sleep there. I think we could manage it," he said, without the least bit of suggestiveness.
"I think I had better sleep out here," I said neutrally.

That night I woke several times to rustling. Was it the shades? The windows were closed. I could see the streetlight through the interstices of the venetian blinds. There was no movement, although I stared until it seemed there might be. I feared that great New York fear, the everyday fear, of vermin. It sounded like the rustling of plastic bags or foil. It took a few wakeups to think of this. My senses were heightened as I tried to localize the sound. I could only fall asleep by saying to myself, it's only the wind.

In the morning I got up and brushed my teeth. Eric had left his dishes in the sink. I washed them. Then continuing with the cleaning theme I took a look at the counter. He had left the cutting board out with crumbs on it, and more crumbs on the counter. I remembered noting this habit of his a year ago when I had been there last. I emptied the cutting board into the sink and then used the board to catch the remaining crumbs as I wiped them off the table with a paper towel. It was then that I noticed the unmistakable sight of mice droppings on the counter by the wall. They are like dried henna, as it chips off your skin-- except they are shaped specifically as tiny long thin pellets. I swept them onto the cutting board and considered whether I would tell him what I had found. He would question how I knew those were mice droppings and I would say, when I worked at A&G we had a mouse problem and it kept us engaged for a few weeks.

I did not come to fill lacks in Eric's domestic duties, and I knew I must stop or I'd be cleaning the whole apartment. I did one more thing-- I wet the paper towel and gave the steel counter a wipedown. The upturned towel was black with soot. I felt a renewed gratefulness for my mother's neatness at home. As well as my own.

The rest of the day was much like any other day, with writing alternating with what must be called daydreaming. The difference was that I took the subway into Manhattan at around 4, to hang about a different cafe, and meet with a friend for an hour at around 5, and then go to Kurt Vonnegut's reading at around 6:30. However the reading was cancelled and I only met with the friend.

That night during the course of our conversation I diplomatically related my findings of the morning. "Oh, I know," he said.

"I thought I was breaking bad news."

"No," he said.

"And last night, I heard a sound like rustling, of aluminum foil--"

"I had a roll in a plastic bag," he said, "and there was a hole in it this morning about this deep." He held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. I was vaguely reminded of fish stories, wherein the teller brags about his catch.

He had gotten out two conjoined glossy styrofoam squares. "My landlord gave me these about a year ago," he said. "They smell like bananas and peanut butter."

"Your habits make the mice come," I said. "That won't really change anything."

"Well," he said, ignoring me, "should I put them out now or--"

"Wait until I'm gone," I said.

"Right."

Now I am back in New Jersey and the rain is clean and refreshing. I slept very late this morning. I might have had some catching up to do, because Eric's place also has a lot of street traffic noise, and I have never slept really well there, mice or no mice.

As I was thinking it all over I realized that he must have eaten the roll.

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