Friday, February 02, 2007

We Are Excellent Tenants

The evening started off weird when, on the subway, headed home, this vaguely European-looking guy cut a loud, long fart like he wasn't in public. Everyone on the car was fairly repulsed because, and not to be too crude here, but it sounded like a wet one and the smell certainly backed up that theory. The guy, He Who Unquestionably Dealt It, wasn't even phased. He kept on grooving to his iPod, oblivious, as we choked on his pungent wind.

When I got home, Girlfriend (who shall henceforth remain anonymous due to her teaching job) and I commiserated on our respective bad days and decided that a night of drinking was the only option worth exploring in our current frames of mind. She poured herself a pint glass of Irish cream and I began to work my way through a bottle of Bushmill's, one cup at a time. Somewhere between the first pour of liquor and the last bite of dinner, I switched from drinking my whiskey out of a glass to simply taking it straight out of the bottle, apparently forgetting that I'm not in college in anymore. Around 8pm, the scene was looking pretty much like this:

Then there was a knock at the door. What with all the subway farts and couples-style drinking, I'd kinda sorta forgotten that it was the first of the month and the Landlord was coming by to pick up the rent check. Girlfriend and I stagger, panicked, to our feet, and I realize two things, almost simultaneously:

1. I'm way drunker than I thought I was.


2. I have no idea where my checkbook is.

We let him in and I say something along the lines of, "Shtay right here... checkbook... coming soon!!!" and I hightail it into my office to try and get my shit together, no easy task in my current polluted state. I stop, I take a deep breath... I focus... I realize that I've just left an open bottle of whiskey on the floor of my living room in full view of my landlord... I panic... I regain my focus... I manage, somehow, to locate my checkbook... I write the check, probably spelling my Landlord's name wrong and listing the date as "Blebruarrry 81, 207"... I rip it out, leaving a ragged, ripped edge on the top.

When I get back into the living room, Girlfriend and Landlord are talking about cooking. Girlfriend, actually, is doing a pretty heroic job of keeping up a steady stream of chatter as a smokescreen so her unsteady, shambling boyfriend can produce the check in his own sweet time. The details of their exchange are still (predictably) a little fuzzy, but I do remember this gem:

Landlord: Yeah, I do all the cooking and the cleaning. My wife doesn't really do any of that.
Girlfriend: (brightly) Well, at least she's pretty!

Awesome. I thrust the check into my Landlord's hand with a hearty, "Wellitwasgreattoseeyouhaveaniceeveninghahahaha!!!" and, finally, he leaves. Girlfriend and I collapse in a fit of nervous laughter and drunken sillies. As an encore, while reenacting my side of the story for my girlfriend's amusement, I manage to drive the palm of my right hand into the thumb of my left hand with enough force to jam the thumb like I'd just caught a major league fastball. And then I bit my tongue.

With the evening pretty much shot, we called it a night and both fell asleep/passed out before 9:30.

So. Moral of this story? The landlord comes on the first of the month, every month, and you should probably not be drunk when he shows up, even if he's cool with it.



Blogger Jonathan T said...

You've got balls as big as church bells.

3:37 PM  
Blogger Clinton said...

Which makes it really hard to find pants that fit.

3:47 PM  
Blogger Ms. C said...

You forgot to mention we were both wearing your PJs at 7PM at night.

I also recall brings up that I used to eat Chicken Tonight out of a bag.


4:34 PM  
Blogger Katie. said...

Being a Californian, and not a New Yorker, when our landlords come on the first, all we have to do is make sure to hide the bong.

Although I would never hide my Bushmills! And here I thought I was the only person (besides my alcoholic friend, Josh, who got me started on Bushmills in the first place) who drank Bushmills straight from the bottle.

Having not gone to college, I was at the ripe age of 20 before I'd done any drinking. Josh started me on Bushmills and I have loved it ever since. I'll slum it with other whiskies but, really, my heart is with Bushmills.

And the fact that you could hold it together enough to write a check? I salute you. Once I'm that far into a bottle of Bushmills, my husband is lucky that I haven't just passed out somewhere.

This is seriously making me want some Bushmills. Which is exactly the tonic I need to go with my sinus infection. Whisky is medicinal.

4:38 PM  
Blogger Respective Minority said...

Who cares if your landlord sees you drunk? He isn't your R.A.

4:58 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

you should shave that pre-teen stache.

5:30 PM  
Blogger C.R. III said...

I am "that guy". Alas, your sweet tale of morality has reached me too late...

11:43 PM  
Blogger Clinton said...

Katie... What's funny is that Bushmill's is a fairly recent addition to my drinking adventures. For y-e-a-r-s I was a Jack Daniels man;I branched out to Bushmill's just to try something different. Not sure I'll ever go back, truthfully. It is, in fact, the bestest (especially when drunk straight from the bottle).

Respective... Yeah, but still. Bad form. This is the guy that's going to decide, next month, if we get to renew our lease. And we LOVE our apartment. It has blue walls; 'nuff said.

Anonymous... I like my pre-teen 'stache, thanks.

C.R. III... Blast! You can't save everyone, I guess. Ah well; drink up then.

9:28 AM  
Blogger Alan Cabal said...

My landlord knows better than to come around knocking on my door. Rebel Yell and a shotgun trumps Bushmills and a checkbook any day of the week. Lose the moustache, kid.

12:32 PM  

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