I came home today and my apartment was unlocked. 

The rental agents have been calling pretty much non-stop for the past month.  They've shown my place twenty-five to thirty times, I'd say.  At first it was weekdays when I was at work.  But then they were calling me on the weekends, and today I got four calls, one from an agent saying he was going to drop by to take some pictures to "refresh his file", another from one who wanted to show the place tonight — like after seven.

The problem is they're going about it wrong.  This is a last-minute, last-ditch kind of flat.  They're showing it too early for a September move-in.  It looks great in mid-August.  Something about the morning light through the chiffon drapes and the fact that all the nice flats in the neighborhood have already been rented.

For me this has been a month of hell, more or less.  I'm in my Year of Hell, so why not, right?  But I'm a guy who likes my "fortress of solitude", and the idea of not being able to go home to it whenever I want and do whatever it is I do in there (usually rap with Jor-El) — well, that's the whole reason I'm paying this fucking ridiculous rent, bitches.  That's the reason people have doors.  So that they can close out the world when they want. 

I'm starting to get passive-aggressive about it, too.  I'm not doing it on purpose — but what else can I do? A friend of mine asked if I cleaned up the place when I knew there'd be people seeing it. They don't usually give me much notice, but I tidy up.  I mean, I don't leave my gallon pump-jug of Glide out, if that's what you mean. And Mr. Piddlediddle, my blow-up companion — well, I throw a terry cloth bathrobe on him and sit him in the corner.  It's called "staging". 

She said, "well, I wouldn't!"

And you do feel like: well, it's not my responsibility to make this dump presentable.  Whether they rent it or not, my lease is up August 31st, and I'm outta here. 

The problem with that approach is, you'll have to endure this constant cavalcade of rental agents coming through, more and more desperate to rent the place.  The sooner they find someone, the sooner that part'll be over and you and Mr. Piddlediddle can get back to your routine.

I mean, I remember why I took this place over the identical one downstairs. It's because a cute guy who obviously spent all of his time at his girlfriend's lived here.  The place was immaculate.  I liked his clothes.  There was a cute picture of him and her on his bed stand.  It smelled of sandalwood.  I fantasized about the dude for a week, and was like, OK, I'll take it.  I was hoping some of that would rub off on me, or something.  Like The Tenant.

Downstairs was a girl with a ridiculous number of shoes who was a filthy pig.

That's why I paid fifteen bucks more a month for the 3rd floor flat that was more or less exactly the same as the one right below it.

That's how this works, right?

But like I said, I think I'm sabotaging it.  I had a gentleman caller (note to Bryan: is Tennessee Williams better?) last night.  We went through (TMI ALERT!) all the condoms in the place (OK, there were only three), and I tossed them in a paper bag with the other household waste — including a couple of gnawed-up corn cobs (from a totally separate occasion) I was going to take down in the morning.

But didn't.  Oopsy.

So there they were, when I got home to my unlocked flat tonight, in plain sight at the top of the rubbish pile — the corn cobs and used condoms — right there in the middle of the kitchen where all three of the rental agents that showed the place today couldn't possibly miss 'em. 

Oh, to have been a fly on the wall.

Of course, showing allotments to new applicants for a Fenway Victory Garden you run across similar situations — used condoms, used corn cobs, and worse (much worse), and usually you just pretend they're part of the natural flora and fauna of the Fens, which by now they more or less are.

I imagine it's harder to ignore in a studio apartment.

Shocked and traumatized, unable to purge visions of kinky kitchen sex forced on them by the aftermath, they may have fled the scene of the crime in haste — which is maybe why the flat was left unlocked? 

Whatever.  If they fled in horror, serves 'em right.  Maybe tomorrow I'll leave a cored watermelon and some Cheez Whiz out on the counter for them with a note to be sure to lock up when they're done.