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Oh, for the love of cake.
I dip my chin and my body shakes in silent laughter. New York, I like you already. I lift my face and ask slowly, clearly, and loudly, “Do you know Natalie in 306?” I point at Nat’s apartment door to help her along.
The woman looks over at Nat’s apartment, then back up at me. “She’s not home. She works.”
I explain again, “I’m her sister. I just came from California.” I point to my suitcases next to me. “I need the key to my apartment.” I point to my new apartment before making a key-unlocking-a-door motion.
The little old lady’s face beams in recognition. She smiles. “You’re the sister!”
I beam right back at her. “I’m the sister!”
She laughs. “You need the key.”
I chuckle and confirm, “Yes! I need the key! The key, please.”
She nods and steps back into her apartment. “Just a second, sweetie.”
She closes the door and I sigh in relief. I wait. And wait. And wait some more.
Nothing.
I knock once more. Maybe she needs help finding the key. The door opens, and the little old lady looks up at me through her glasses like she’s seeing me for the first time.
Part of me wants to laugh, but another part of me wants to knock her over the head with something so I can find the damn key myself. I smile sweetly. “Do you have the key yet? I really need to get inside.”
The woman blinks. “You’ll have to speak up. My hearin’ isn’t what it used to be.”
I run a hand down my face.
Oy vey.
***
It takes me a whole forty-five minutes to get Mrs. Crandle to give me the fracking key. Turns out she’s not only hard of hearing and forgetful, but she has a thousand cats, all of which she wanted to introduce me to. By name.
She made me promise to come drink tea with her sometime, and I promised I would.
As I put the key into the lock and open the door, I laugh in relief. Relief that this is actually the key and I won’t have to word battle Mrs. Crandle again. I open the door and shuffle my suitcases inside. Pulling the door closed, I look around. My boxes are stacked nice and neatly by the right-hand wall.
A sudden thought comes to mind. You could pack your entire life into eight boxes?
That’s kind of sad. They aren’t even extra-large or large boxes; they’re medium sized boxes, full of crap. Yes, crap, but all of that crap, I love. Pushing the thought aside, I pull my phone out of my purse and text Nat.
Me: I’m at the apartment. Don’t be pissy. I didn’t want to bother you. The place looks amazing!
Approximately thirty seconds later, my phone pings.
Nat: YOU DIRTY TOERAG! I KNEW YOU WERE LYING. YOU ALWAYS LIE! WHY DO YOU LIE?
I snicker.
Me: Whatevs, bro. I’ll see you after work.
Nat: I’m going to tear you a new asshole. But I’ll bring cupcakes.
My eyes widen at the last part. I salivate. I freaking love cupcakes.
Me: Oh Em Gee! Pls pls pls get the salted caramel ones. And the choc fudge brownie. And maybe vanilla creme. You know what? I don’t even care which ones, because CUPCAKES!
