"WHAT'S THE MOST SATISFYING THING YOU'VE EVER DONE? Not counting sex."

"What do you mean by 'most satisfying'?" Jen asks.

"Just what I said. Whatever gave you the most satisfaction," Carla says.

"What do you mean by sex?" I ask. Carla gives me the we-are-not-amused look.

"Graduating?" Jen offers.

"You can do better than that," Carla says. "Or if not, I feel sorry for you."

"I once lived in a tiny apartment," I begin. "An efficiency, just one room and a bathroom, in a big Victorian house. This place was amazing, with balconies and a tower, a very complicated house. An orthodontist bought it, had it renovated, put his office on the first floor and turned the rest into apartments. Mine was in this little extra space."

"In the tower?" Jen asks.

"No, actually, the tower apartment wasn't that small. Plus it was very expensive. I could barely afford the one I was in, and the other apartments were sky high. Rent-wise, that is."

"That's the most satisfying thing you've ever done?" Carla demands. "Rented an efficiency apartment?"

"I'm trying to tell a story here."

"Yeah, Carla, a story," Jen says. "Maybe the apartment is integral to the story."

"Integral," I say.

"See? I told you it was. Go on," Jen encourages me.

"Well, like I said, this guy—the orthodontist landlord—was charging so much for the other apartments that when I first moved in I was the only one living there. I had a tiny room with a tiny kitchen, or kitchen area. One morning there were little bitty turds on the counter, all around my butter dish." I hold up my thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart to show the actual size. "I like to keep my butter out so it's soft."

"Me too," Jen agrees.

"Just get on with it," Carla growls.

"This happened more than once. Finally I saw him—him being a mouse—poking his head up from one of the burners." I anticipate Jen's question. "No, the burner wasn't on." Her lips close. "That was how he got in, through the stove. He disappeared again when he saw me, but he kept coming back, even though I put the butter in the refrigerator. He would chew up magazines, any paper he could find."

"They love paper," Jen says.

"When he destroyed a really important poem I was working on, I decided I had to take action. Only I didn't want to put out a mousetrap or poison or anything like that. I didn't want to kill him. So I decided to tell the landlord about it, and let him decide what to do. I had it all worked out so the blame was off me. But as it turned out I didn't even have to worry about the ethics of the situation, because the guy refused to believe me. 'There is no mouse,' he said. 'I hired exterminators. It was one of the first things I did.' He insisted there was no mouse. I told him about the droppings. He said they were probably crumbs. 'Crumbs of what?' I asked. He still wouldn't believe me. So I gave up and went back to life with the mouse."

I take a deep breath, hoping no one will interrupt. "Then one day, in through the window came a cat. A big orange tomcat. Aha, I thought, hoping he might be the one to take care of the problem. I bought some cat food and a litter box, even though the lease said absolutely no pets. He was a good cat. Not much of a mouser, but a good cat. I had to put him out while I was at work, because he didn't exactly have an inside voice. If I wasn't there to open the window and let him out, the landlord would hear. I absolutely hated him—the landlord, I mean. He was a pig, a whiny pig who thought I wasn't good enough to live in his fancy house. He didn't want to rent to me in the first place. And when I told him there was a mouse, he said, 'There is no mouse,' like how dare I suggest such a thing. So one day I found a note on my door saying he was kicking me out for violating the terms of the lease by having a cat. Of course I went down and told him I didn't have a cat, and he said he'd gone into my apartment when I was at work. More than once. Said he saw the litter box and cat food."

"That sucks," Carla says. "He went in when you weren't there?"

"Yeah."

"They can do that. They have the right." Jen nods knowingly.

"Needless to say, though, I was pissed. Luckily someone I knew was moving out of a garage apartment, and I was able to make a smooth transition from one place to another. I had about a week to pack up. So I put the butter back out on the counter, gathered up some mouse droppings and put them in an envelope. I didn't scoop the litter box for days—let it get nice and full and stinky—and I left it on the counter. I propped the envelope with the mouse droppings next to it, addressed to the landlord. Inside was a note that said, 'I told you there was no cat.'"

Carla nods. "That's brilliant."

"Wait. I don't get it," Jen says.


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