August 06, 2007


A knock on the door at around 7:30 this morning startled me from my semi-conscious state. My alarm had gone off about 30 minutes prior but I was enjoying that half-hour lazy grace period I always allow myself.

I didn't quite register the knock on the door at first because, at the time, I was entrenched in a very vivid dream. I can't for the life of me tell you what happened in that dream now because it's long forgotten. And for that, I'm certain you're all grateful because, really, is there anything more boring than hearing about someone else's dreams? I think not.

But as I was saying, the first knock on the door fell victim to the disorientation that ensues when I'm unceremoniously rousted from my slumber.

I lay in bed all confused, my eyes darting from side to side trying to figure out if I actually heard a knock or just dreamt it.

And then came a second knock on the door. It wasn't the same violent pounding and aggressive bell ringing I experienced during a carbon monoxide false alarm a few months prior so I ruled out the New York Fire Department.

After the third knock, I got up to inspect. My plan was to look through the peep hole and assess the threat level of the person on the other side. If the person looked like a potential murderer, I was going to pretend I wasn't home. Even if the person didn't look like a potential murderer, I was still going to pretend I wasn't home because I certainly didn't want to deal with whatever bullshit this person deemed important enough to address at 7:30am. Fuck that noise.

Anyhoo, I tiptoed gingerly across my apartment taking great pains to not step on any squeaky floor boards. I quietly lifted the latch on the peep hole and cautiously peered through.

On the other end was a young guy in a t-shirt and from what I could tell, shorts. He didn't look like a potential murderer but I was still uncertain as to whether I should alert of him of my presence.

As I was pondering my options, he yelled, "Tricia, let me in!"

And for reasons I still don't understand, I responded as such: "Um... I think you have... the wrong apartment?"

You know, if there was ever a scenario where it would be completely acceptable to respond, "You're in the wrong building, dumbass!" this would be it. However, for reasons I can't explain, I haltingly responded in the form of the question as if there was a possibility that maybe, just maybe, this Tricia lived in some hidden alcove or wing of my tiny wee studio previously unknown to me.

Fortunately, he didn't pick up on my uncertainty because he was too busy hauling his embarrassed ass out the front door.

Now if you'll excuse, I'm off to find this Tricia.