The Sublet

This a true story, faithfully copied from an email sent to friends.

I suppose a number of things contributed to my rough condition this morning. I mean, I’d intended to start my evening much earlier, but my restaurant choice of the slowest place in town got us off on the wrong foot. By the time I set foot in the pub, the wheels were already in motion.

You see, my good friend, the Outback Bomber (real name withheld to protect the innocent), was returning from a five-week visit to her native Australia . Five weeks is a long time for anyone to not pay attention to me, so I was excited to have her home. She had been subletting her apartment, however, and was a little concerned about what she might find when she returned.

Gentleman, friend, and martial artist that I am, I offered to go with her when she arrived, just in case he was still there in the middle of some drug-fueled orgy of violence and decadence.

Then I promptly forgot about my offer.

So I was at the pub, tipping back a few. I don’t usually have more than one drink on a weeknight, but I’d had a bit of an emotionally rough day and wanted to blow off a little steam. Besides, I was throwing darts; I needed lubrication for my dart-arm.
When the Bomber called at 10:30, I was in the middle of a game. It was loud and I was kind of unsteady on my feet. I couldn’t really hear everything she was saying, but it sounded like she needed me to come to her place. Foolishly, I asked my opponent to hold the board, I threw on my coat, and ran out into the cold and rain.

I didn’t know what I was headed into or what kind of trouble lay ahead. I briefly wondered if I had made a mistake by not bringing along one of the bigger guys at the pub, one of the ones who have a LOT more experience with non-refereed fights. But then I felt my (only somewhat slightly impaired) skills as an ambassador, negotiator, and diffuser would be more important.

I arrived at Bomber’s place and found her outside with a small gang of young women. In itself this isn’t weird because the Bomber is something of a youngster herself. It was unexpected, though. Tentatively we went inside.

Lest the suspense negatively affect your blood pressure, I’ll just say that the subletter wasn’t there. No one was hurt last night and nothing terrible happened. Breathe easy now.

He had left the place a bit of a mess, though. What’s more, a bunch of his stuff was still there, and there was a general air of him having left in a hurry. There was uncovered broccoli in the fridge, a coat hanging in the closet, and a surprising amount of uncooked macaroni under the burner in the stove.

There were other odd signs. Half a bottle of baby oil had been used, for what purposes neither I nor the young ladies wished to speculate. A sizeable dent had been made in her booze. Furniture, which used to be flush against the wall had been pulled out a little bit; for what purpose? The dog’s collar and little coat were there, but no sign of the dog. A large note which read “Give Lucky pill 5:00” sat on the table. A Brita pitcher filter had gone missing. What did all these clues mean? And did Lucky get his pill?

Bomber’s young friends were kind of freaked out, so I flopped down on the sofa and attempted, in my drunken floppiness, to look relaxed and in charge of the situation. I suggested that Bomber call the guy. While she waited for her laptop to connect, she searched the apartment in search of more weirdness. He’d evidently gotten into her beauty products.

The nice thing about closet-sized Manhattan apartments is that they clean quickly, and by the time she was online, the Bomber was feeling more at home. She checked her email; there was a note from him. Evidently a nosey neighbor had called the police on him and this scared him so much that he fled the apartment and did not return. He was staying with a friend out on Long Island . He apologized for the mess and offered to pay for a maid service.

With the mystery ostensibly solved, I returned to my companions at the pub where my turn at the board had long been lost. And though I ordinarily would have stopped drinking much earlier, I still had ¾ a glass of cider left.

So it was rather late when I staggered home. And I need time to unwind and shower before I can get into bed. And I had to drink a bunch of water, which is why I feel at least as good as I do this morning. But I made it in to work and my Aussie buddy is home, so all is as well as possible.