I dropped by at around eleven in the morning for a follow-up meeting and her cats strolled out to greet me.
Looking back on it now, I imagine that this was probably the defining moment in her choice.
Sophie, the smaller and considerably more attractive cat, appeared to have relished the roommate-mining experience, making countless new friends with each passing visitor. She was the flighty sprite dancing about the room, spreading brief moments of love to each friendly face, capturing just enough heart to inspire appreciation before shifting focus to the next guest in the line.
A classic social whore, not unlike her owner.
Isa, the larger and considerably less jovial of her two felines, had taken to tucking herself behind a large dresser during all the apartment showings, trading the comfort and security of a dusty den over the anxiety of meeting a horde of new strangers.
In the cat world, Isa was the equivalent of the cute girl�s fat friend. A grumpy ball-and-chain perpetually linked to her better liked, yet less sincere counterpart.
The classic curmudgeon.
In hindsight, I should have taken notice that the apartment was staffed by three dysfunctional females, albeit two of them feline. While it�s true that I�ve been trapped amid dysfunctional females for all of my life, that�s certainly no reason to perpetuate the trend.
Male instability is usually blatant and defined, generally limited to either violence or substance abuse. When you�re living with a guy who�s off-kilter, you can expect either a fighter or a drunk, and thus deal with them accordingly. But in the totality of destructive male behavior, nearly everything falls into one of two categories: the desire to break things, and the desire to break themselves.
When males are being mentally problematic, they�re either looking to crash into you or smash into a wall, but given those two destinations, the trajectories are relatively simple to avoid. In essence, guys are like speeding traffic. If you look for the cars, you can either step in front of them or between them. The choice is yours.
Women, however, operate in entirely different ways.
It seems that the social subservience of women inspires some subconscious attempt to gain dominance over every male in arms reach, thereby carving out a sly dictatorial sphere of power to counteract their apparent submission. Men are generally unaware of these tiny checks and balances, and continue to believe in their eminent dominance and superiority while ignoring the hold that women maintain upon them.
This results in a society that through some sort of historical or biological agreement, allows men to maintain the illusion of supreme control while ignoring the democratic leanings of our behavior. We are a nation of male politicians who consult their wives on policy. An economy of male-dominated businesses, filtered and fine-tuned through an army of female assistants. A culture of men writing about women, composing songs of women, painting pictures of women, dreaming about women.
In some limited truth, men are nothing more then the hands of women, the henchmen of society.
Because of this indirect base of power, women seem to be far more dangerous on the whole, and when they become mentally unstable or simply bored, they lash out in tactical and insidious ways. Mind games, lies, and social traps are used in covert attempts to establish and maintain an upper hand over those near to them.
Punishment and retribution are concepts exercised often and with little regard for any specific timeline. As a man in any sort of social relationship with a woman, you can expect to be punished for things well after the fact, and often you find yourself paying for things you are only expected to do in the future.
It�s not that women are more crazy, it�s that they�re more subtle in their crazy, and that�s what scares men.
I�ve dealt with malicious and unstable women all my life, and while most people would assume that I�d run screaming from any sort of female relations, I find myself generally more comfortable in their context. In effect, I am the snake-handler, immune to venom yet weary of the bite.
Besides, I couldn�t afford to be picky at this point.
When I arrived, Sophie trotted over in her silky way to offer herself to me, rubbing her body against my leg repeatedly until I finally relished my attention upon her. But shedding her timid ways when I arrived, Isa cautiously strolled from behind the dresser over to the couch where I was sitting and permitted me to pet her.
Apparently, this was the first time she�d decided to be friendly with any of the prospecting house-hunters, and in my potential roommate�s dim eyes, she probably saw this as a sign.
I was offered the apartment on the spot, and regretfully, I accepted the offer.
Over the course of the past few weeks, I�d come to understand that the value of perfection must always be weighed against the effort required for its search. I�ve always been short on effort, so within the context of my limited means and resources, I couldn�t afford to wait for ideal, much less perfection.
This place, with all its faults and drawbacks, had one simple thing in its favor...it was available right now. Going through another round of interviews and viewings seemed more disdainful then dealing with the problems inherent to this apartment, and so I compromised and accepted.
She said that she would need a couple of days to straighten up the apartment, after which point I could move in and stay on the couch until I got my things up from back home.
Doing a little scheduling in my head, I expected that I could get a truckload of my crap up in roughly two weeks time. In the interim, I could probably design and construct the bulk of my loft, providing the physical approximation of a bedroom in which I could finally place my bed, and finally have a place to lay my head.
We ironed out a few more small details, and then made arrangements for my move-in. Satisfied with another of life�s compromises, I said my goodbyes and returned to work with a new illusion of security about me.
Stress the illusion part.
To compliment my shitty job, it seemed that I now had a shitty apartment to call my own.
Only a few days later, I was sleeping on a different couch, trading the aggressive volume of the ghetto for the eerie still of the industrial wasteland. My subway ride was considerably shorter, the food options were drastically reduced and I now had two cats to taunt me with their dander.
The lads were somewhat sad to see me go, but wings must spread and I must soar.
I�d spent my childhood in varying degrees of middle-class opulence, but all that was behind me now.
