They’re at it again. In the evenings I can hear the wild cats in the gardens behind my Brooklyn apartment. They play hard to get before finally going at it. On the street side the song from the local ice cream truck plays into the night, his customers staying up beyond bed time tossing a ball or skating or engaging in their own mating rituals.
My new apartment is in an old building; four rooms in need of some Tyrus Loving Care. I’ve been here since April Fools Day, pulling bastardized shelves off the trim lined walls, painting them, hanging curtains, fretting about the ugly probably asbestos made tiles throughout the apartment, wondering if the roaches will make an appearance, contemplating the security of that window that filled with water during a rainstorm, assessing the lean of the kitchen and the smallness of the bathroom.
Old friend Marc (ten years this June) has been out twice to frustrate at my slow pace and disorganization. New neighbor Joel appeared one Saturday to insist I take down the cupboards in the kitchen. Upstairs friends Marcos and Francesco invite me up to their dens of cleanliness.
From just over one month ago, I can see progress. The flaming orange that once covered three walls is now restricted to a heating pipe. A set of empty shelves grace one wall. The refrigerator resting in a new spot. But still living out of suitcases, it’s time to buy some furniture. And a pot (or two) to cook in.
And in the night the cats call. Their song a taunt to those “sleeping single in a double bed”. But their presence a smiling reminder that rats don’t dig in the trash cans. And that life punctuated by sounds from outside my four rooms continues, progresses.
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