The Stipulations Are....

I woke up early.

I did my exercises joyfully, even though there were aches and pains along with it. It was only Six O'clock. I had lined up my meds on the window sill, to remind me what and how much to take. I go down the line, filling my palm with pills and popping them. The apartment is straight and immaculate. There is nothing to clean, nothing to straighten. I dress, but not much. I slept in my slacks. As you can see, I'm still not out of Shelt mode.

I check my computer, it boots up and directly into the Internet. @home is up at 5.5megs. Perfect. I'll take what I can get. I go online until 7:00 and then I head downstairs to Starbucks for two cups of coffee and scones. Yeah, I like Starbucks just that much. The cool thing in buying two cups? I can nuke one of them if it gets cold because I have a damned microwave. Shit I love a home!

I touch the four walls, open and close the door three times, open the window wide. I jump on and off the bed, but when I open the refrigerator I'm pissed. A strange smell is starting to come out of it. I toss out the TV dinners but I leave the milk. I drink the warm orange juice. It tastes pretty good warm. I didn't know that. Next time I might nuke it just to experiment.

At 8:30AM I head out and downstairs to the Sixth floor where Raoul is. He doesn't answer the bell. I come back up to the Eighth floor and ring the bell across from mine where Paula is. She does not answer although I hear noises in her room. But it could be coming from the apartment next to hers.

That's when I turn around and notice that my apartment has no one next to it on both sides. Nothing. No other apartments. A storage closet on the left, a far bathroom on the right. Yippee!!

I go back in and go online, and stay until I get tired. I crawl back into bed and nap my ass off, waking up at noon. The doorbell rings.

It's the super with his crew. They come in to look at the refrigerator. It's dead alright. They leave. Presently the super returns and pulls mine out and plugs in a new one which gives off an annoying hum. He looks up at me: "I'm sorry, but it's all we've got. I took it from another apartment. But it's better than nothing." With that noise I might rather have nothing. But fuck, I'm game if you are. Leave the bastard in there, it sounds like it's the compressor fan. Maybe when it gets cold enough in the little fucker will stop. I'm sure that the people who had it in their apartment weren't going mad behind it. Just my luck. The shit is clean with only a minor mark on the front door. Could almost pass for new, if it wasn't for the awful hum. If it gets cold, I'll go out and by more TV dinners and milk and orange juice.

Listen to me. I sound like a homeowner.

It's almost surreal here. Almost like Fantasy Island. I expect to see Mr. Roarke and Tattoo come walking out dressed in white, brining me the bad news. That I'll have to leave soon. With the arrival of my coordinator, I'm wondering what the news will be. What is the deal here with this place? How long do I get to stay? What are the stipulations? There's always fucking stipulations.

If I get the chance, it's back to school for me. Take up something in communi- cations. Take up something that involves writing. Commercial writing for corporations, television, organizations. Copywriting they call it.

I wonder what the stipulations are. This is too good to be true.

Hobobob