Eryk's Queenie (12 - 14 April 2001)

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You’re not gonna believe this. So, Eryk Eiríkr and I looked at a smallish two bedroom-ish apartment just five doors east of my current address. The woman who showed us the place (on behalf of her parents) works for Playboy magazine—for real! She has the arduous job of auditioning models—yes, that’s right, in the flesh. If we took the place, she told us she’d throw in a couple of Playboy T-shirts. The major drawback to living there, if we choose to do so (we’ll know tonight, after we look at several more potential bachelor pads), is that the one bathroom is only accessible through one of the bedrooms. Meaning: One of us would have to sacrifice some privacy.

12 April 2001

Yeah, so, Eryk owns a high-maintenance feline named, Queenie.* I’ll explain. One may only pet this cat around her neck, under her chin, on most parts of her head, and up to halfway down her back. Touch her anywhere else and without warning she’ll bite you. She’ll also bite you once she’s had her fill of being petted. She’ll even inexplicably strike while she’s sitting there on your lap, purring away, seemingly content. In fairness, her bites are not of the blood-drawing variety—unless you rip your hand away in surprise. Eryk doesn’t want me to warn any potential visitors about his mercurial cat. But I will.

13 April 2001

“No cats,” her parents told her to tell us. A cat could, perhaps, ruin the newly installed carpet. Eryk won’t give up Queenie. “She’s a part of me,” he says. If not for the dang cat, come July, I’d have a real easy move.

Back in college, Eryk and I rented a house with three other dudes. We referred to the place as “The Armpit.” Eryk’s room became a small zoo. He kept a ferret, several different lizards, and a python. More than half of the mice he kept for the snake became pets instead. The mice multiplied like gremlins in a swimming pool.

14 April 2001

*[Eryk’s favorite band was Queen.]

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