(I wrote this many years ago, while I was still dating. My housekeeping, sadly, has not improved much since then.)Funny how I never noticed before -- the filth I mean. Weeks of laundry marked out a footpath on the floor -- the clean, the dirty, the indifferent -- and that pile by the bed seemed, from time to time, to move on its own. The magazines and papers heaped artfully against one wall and the precarious stack of album covers, long ago orphaned from their records, teetered a foot-high on the tattered coffee table, my most treasured bargain from Goodwill. The stereo groaned under the weight of records, thick with dust and stacked ten high -- the topmost, Magical Mystery Tour, covered in paw prints and kitty litter from the cat's most recent experimental, if brief, dance maneuver on the spinning turntable. Books and books and more books littered every flat surface and milk crate in the place. There was dirt everywhere. And this was only the living room.
As I made my way through the half-empty boxes of fried chicken, doughnuts, and pizza, I felt a growing dread. I could smell the kitchen even before I got there. My God, had the cat murdered something and squirreled it away under the stove for a future feast? Was some putrid rodent carcass rotting under the floorboards? I paused at the door, overcome. Did other single guys live like this? And if so, how did the species survive? Did I really live like this? Every plate, every fork, every knife, every spoon piled in the sink. Spent Pepsi cans and milk cartons, crowded together, marched shoulder to shoulder across the counter like anxious soldiers heading to war. It was a war zone. I remembered emptying the garbage once -- didn't I? Walking across the floor, my sneakers sucked at the linoleum, sticking to -- what was that on the floor?
I stopped and gathered courage at the refrigerator door. “Be brave, boy,” I told myself. After all, what could be in there? I was poverty-stricken. I didn't have money for real food -- nothing that would need refrigeration at least. I yanked at the door as it struggled against me. Was there something living in there? Had that been the reason the light had gone out – the little refrigerator man finally got fed up and sabotaged the bulb for a little privacy? I reached for the flashlight I kept in the freezer and cautiously peered in. One bottle of cheap champagne. Check. A tomato. A tomato? A tomato. Check. Some cheese -- I think. Raisin bread. Where did that come from? And something leathery and shriveled that might have been Jell-O. Or maybe gravy from last Thanksgiving. Well, not exactly a feast. Maybe the cat would share. I carefully closed the door and headed for the bathroom.
As I headed down the hall, I considered my options carefully. I had exactly an hour to pull it all together. Yet -- there was no doubt about it -- I needed a week. I didn't even know where the vacuum cleaner was. Right now, I couldn't even remember if I owned a vacuum cleaner -- or if I knew anyone who did. I knew I had some Pledge, but wasn't sure it would work on dirty dishes. And where would I stuff all my stuff? The closets were a hopeless, bulging mass of rubble and junk. And if the bathroom was half as bad as I remembered...
And then there it was. The bathroom. Maybe, I thought as I staggered back, maybe she won't have to pee. All night? How realistic was that? Women pee. Or they do something in bathrooms. Usually with other women. In packs. Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about a pack of women peeing in my bathroom tonight. Just one. And I couldn't very well send her out into the bushes if she needed to relieve herself. Well, I could, but it was certain I'd never date her again. Maybe I could lie and tell her the pipes were broken. She might feel sorry for me, having to suffer so. Sympathy can be romantic, can't it? No, that wouldn't work. And what if I had to pee? "Excuse me, Dear, I have to go outside to water the marigolds. Sit tight. I'll be right back. Can I get you a petunia while I'm out?" No. I needed a plan.
No. I needed a new apartment.
I had just finished dressing (I sniffed around and by a small miracle followed the clean pile of clothes) when the doorbell rang. And there she stood -- stunning -- beautiful -- civilized -- clean. I couldn't bring this innocent into my den of dirt.
Quickly, I killed the lights behind me as I stepped out onto the landing to meet her.
"I thought we were going to spend the evening at your place?" she said, radiantly.
"How much do you love me? I whispered in her ear.
"I love you terribly!" she sighed, looking at me peculiarly.
"Let's keep it that way, then,” I laughed as I bolted the door. "At least for a little longer. How about we do dinner and a movie instead?"
"Well, okay. Sure. That sounds like fun too. But what happened? I thought you had the night all planned? I was looking forward to seeing your place."
Yeah, I thought. You and my place -- Goldilocks meets Chernobyl. "I did. I really did." I hesitated. "But the pipes in my bathroom burst and, well..."
"Oh, you poor guy!" she soothed as she grabbed my hand and gave it a knowing squeeze. She looked around and giggled. "These bushes don't look very inviting anyway. And I'd hate to ruin the marigolds."
What a girl!
