You Know I'm No Good

The eviction notice had been nailed to the door.

It was an unnecessary measure in my opinion, but it certainly got the point across. It waxed on for several paragraphs about my inability to pay my rent on time, my nasty cigarette habit that, due to the central air in the building, was “poisoning the other tenants”. It mentioned my penchant for blasting Dr. Dre at four in the morning, as well as the one or two times that I was so completely knackered that I frightened the neighbors by trying unlock their door instead of my own. It assured me that all necessary measures had been taken, and that I had received a number of warnings leading up to the eventual eviction. And despite how furious I was, I knew that it was true.

My landlord hadn’t wasted any time getting rid of me. Everything I owned had been removed from the shelves, counters, and floors, boxed up and sealed with duct tape. I supposed that’s what I deserved for leaving my apartment and not returning for five days after I received the news that I was, indeed, being forcibly removed from my home. I figured he’d get over it, much like all the other times he’d threatened to throw me out. But the culmination of every other booze-fueled (on my part) shouting match was staring me in the face; bold black letters on stark white paper listing why I wasn’t even capable of residing in a shit-hole apartment in New York. And to be honest, it hadn’t even scratched the surface.

It didn’t mention the fact that I had overstayed my visa by nearly a year, or that I had only spoken to my parents a handful of times since I’d been here. It didn’t detail the disappointment that washed over their faces every time my name was brought up over dinner. It certainly didn’t mention that fact that they only relationship I maintained the entire time I had been in New York was with Ben, my drug-addled almost-boyfriend that despite knowing me for two plus years, probably struggles to remember my name most of the time.

A soft meow pulled my attention from the paper on the door toward a wire crate at the end of the row of boxes. My face twisted into a frown when I spotted him, perched at the door of the cage, his small blue eyes staring up at me expectantly. The left one was still a bit dodgy. It was something I had hoped he would grow out of with the weeks… no dice.

I knelt down beside the crate, my knees cracking and popping on the way down. I peered in, desperately wanting to open the front, fill his food bowl, and let him stretch his legs. I sighed as I wondered which box his food was packed in. I stood and sauntered over to where my suitcase was propped up against the wall and tossed it forward, watching as it landed on the floor with a loud crack. I then opened the first box, rifling through and tugging out random items of significance: clothes, photos, albums, anything I could fit in the decently sized trunk. It went on like this for almost two hours, picking and pulling apart each box until everything I owned fit into a 29-inch case.

With one last glance at the rusted “3B” on the door, I clutched the metal crate in my hand, pulling my suitcase in the other, and made my way to elevator.