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The landlord was complaining about the smell again, so when I called in my grocery order (heavy on coffee, steaks, and bottled water), I had them add some baking soda. It's not like you can get anyone to deliver quicklime... not anymore, at least. The groceries arrived later that day, and that was another problem. The regular boy had quit the store to go to college. It took a few minutes for the new boy to understand that I would not open the door, that they were to leave the groceries in front of it, take the tip that I shoved under the door, and leave.
My neighbors, the few left on this floor, are predictable, though. They were all at work, so I made sure no one saw me. No point in taking any chances, though, not after all these years, so the hooded sweater went back on, in spite of the heat in the hallway. That, the dark sunglasses, and the fake beard ensured that even if anyone was watching, they would see exactly what I wanted them to see. I almost forgot the gloves. Can't be too careful. Fingerprints are not likely to be an issue, but why take chances?
While putting down the baking soda, I found what the smell was. Rats, again. A couple of them had died some days ago in the front closet, and I hadn't noticed. An eight room apartment, and I spend most of my time in one of three rooms. The others gather dust. I haven't even been in room I rigged as a laboratory in years. The equipment was woefully out of date then, and I imagine it's only gotten worse. I've lost the desire to tinker with chemicals anyway. If only from what past experience has lead to.
Still, not a bad apartment. The landlord never has to bother me about the rent, the neighbors are quiet, especially now that the rock musician from last year is no longer living next door. And I never have to worry about being harrassed on those occassions when I come and go, because I don't leave the apartment. Not any more. But no matter. I have my computer, my books, and my television. I could have had a better place, but there comes a point of dimishing returns. A higher profile leads to less privacy, and I need all the privacy I can get. All it takes is one person to notice, and it's Wiesbaden all over again.
My neighbors, the few left on this floor, are predictable, though. They were all at work, so I made sure no one saw me. No point in taking any chances, though, not after all these years, so the hooded sweater went back on, in spite of the heat in the hallway. That, the dark sunglasses, and the fake beard ensured that even if anyone was watching, they would see exactly what I wanted them to see. I almost forgot the gloves. Can't be too careful. Fingerprints are not likely to be an issue, but why take chances?
While putting down the baking soda, I found what the smell was. Rats, again. A couple of them had died some days ago in the front closet, and I hadn't noticed. An eight room apartment, and I spend most of my time in one of three rooms. The others gather dust. I haven't even been in room I rigged as a laboratory in years. The equipment was woefully out of date then, and I imagine it's only gotten worse. I've lost the desire to tinker with chemicals anyway. If only from what past experience has lead to.
Still, not a bad apartment. The landlord never has to bother me about the rent, the neighbors are quiet, especially now that the rock musician from last year is no longer living next door. And I never have to worry about being harrassed on those occassions when I come and go, because I don't leave the apartment. Not any more. But no matter. I have my computer, my books, and my television. I could have had a better place, but there comes a point of dimishing returns. A higher profile leads to less privacy, and I need all the privacy I can get. All it takes is one person to notice, and it's Wiesbaden all over again.