My apartment building is inhabited by the most dumpy assortment of lowly blue-collar sloptards the galaxy has ever seen. At best, the most intelligent resident in the building works at the return counter at Target. But he could never afford San Francisco rent on a Target cashier’s salary; his side hustle is manufacturing meth that clocks in at about 11% purity. Cops can’t even arrest him because it’s technically closer to bug spray than meth. The kid’s got heart though.
Then there’s the low-watt trash heaps in apt #902 cussing up a storm while sitting on duck-taped beanbag chairs in an otherwise furniture-free apartment. Night after night spooning through a soggy bowl of Lucky Charms, looking for any remaining purple horseshoes leaking Red-40 among the cardboard-flavored oat pieces… Quite the metaphor really… This whole building is occupied by “oat pieces”; I feel like by comparison I’m the only goddamned “marshmallow” in the bowl! I’m different. I’m going places. My apartment smells like spring breeze and vanilla bean, everyone else’s smells like failure and hot diaper.
Every week or so there’s a passive-aggressively handwritten sign taped to the elevator stating they have to shut off the water to the building for a few hours to repair a pipe. Again. What the sign fails to mention is they have to repair a pipe again because Edgar up on the 12th floor continues to wipe his ass with Bounty Super-Duty paper towels, sabotaging the entire septic system.
Thanks Edgar! I didn’t want to wash the dishes anyway; I’d much rather chisel the oatmeal off of the bowl a day later, rather than rinse it off with running water like a modern human. I should stomp some sardines into his welcome mat – payback for not being able to flush my toilet once a week… but that’s something an oat would do; I’m a marshmallow.