A Rat Between The Walls

I met this man on Saturday night. He came over to my apartment because he was a friend of the boyfriend of a friend of my roommate. I found him instantly obnoxious. He made me feel out of place in my own home. There are not too many seats in my living room. It only really accomodates 3 comfortably. There happened to be five people squashed into the small room. Most of us had to sit on the floor. This man in his early forties wearing a tight, faded gray t-shirt and khakis was sitting on my couch talking about his pet rats and all the reasons why San Francisco bothers him. He had only been in town for a day or two, and this is already how he was thinking. He had just sold his house to take a somewhat transitory union organizing job. He would be living in six states throughout the year. When he sold his house, the real estate agent told him that it would be impossible to sell the house to anyone if they saw his two pet rats. He must dispense of them in some way. But, as he was fond of the creatures he refused. Instead, every time he showed the home to any prospective buyers, the real estate agent would arrive ten minutes early, pick up the rats, and drive around with them in her truck for the duration of the client's visit. Every conversation continued in a similar vein. He was a talker. I tried to chime in, to prove that I am not a kid, but all I could think about was how he must see the place: The books on the shelf are a mess. My roommates large laptop is setting precariously on top of the disheveled books, and one shelf is a mess of electrical cords and modems, half of which are not even currently in use. My place is some fashion of bachelorette pad, but I may as well be a bachelor for how it appears. And I didn't even make any contributions to the decor. But I like my apartment. I would just rather that it wasn't populated by these loud-mouthed men who can only talk about rats.

Tags:

• pet+rats


• apartment


• SanFrancisco