Benji
Iwoke up on Mia's couch with a crick in my neck, a cat on my face, and the distinct feeling that the universe was not done with me yet.
Princess Consuela had migrated during the night from her carrier (which I'd left open beside the couch because I'm not a monster) to my chest to my face, where she was now draped across my nose and mouth like a warm, wrinkly, slightly damp washcloth.
Her body rose and fell with her breathing.
Mine was becoming increasingly difficult.
"Mmfph," I said.
She didn't move.
"Prnssss Cnsla."
Nothing.
If anything, she settled more firmly, her tiny paw curling against my eyebrow with the possessive weight of a creature who had decided that this particular patch of human was hers and biology could sort itself out.
I peeled her off my face with both hands, held her at arm's length, and received a look of such concentrated betrayal that I almost put her back.
"I know, baby doll," I told her. "I know. Everything is terrible, but Daddy needs to breathe, and you need to respect the boundary between affection and suffocation."
She blinked at me. Slowly.
The blink that meant, “I have noted your grievance and filed it under things I will never care about.”
From the kitchen, Mia's voice cut through morning fog, "If you're done negotiating with your cat, there's coffee."
I sat up.
Mia was leaning against the counter in scrubs, her hair wrapped and travel mug in hand. She looked like a woman who had been awake and functional for at least an hour, while I'd been slowly asphyxiating under a hairless cat.
"You're an angel," I said.
"I know. Drink fast. I leave in ten and you need to be gone before my landlord does his Wednesday walkthrough. If he sees that cat, I'm getting a lease violation and you're getting a bill for whatever he charges me."
"Princess Consuela is not just a cat, Mia; she's an emotional support companion with a complex inner life and a verified Instagram profile."
"She's a lease violation with ears. Ten minutes, Benji."
I drank the coffee. It was good. Mia always made good coffee, even in crisis situations, because Mia was the kind of person who maintained standards when the world was falling apart.
I aspired to be that person. I was not that person.
I was the person whose apartment was currently a swamp and whose entire housing situation depended on a phone call from a woman named Terri.
The phone call came at 9:47 AM.
I was in my car in the parking lot of Barbacks, which didn't open for hours but which had become my default location when I didn't know where else to go. Princess Consuela was in her carrier in the passenger seat, producing a low, continuous grumble that was her version of white noise.
"Mr. Kwon? This is Terri from Palms at Bayshore."
"Terri!" I said it with the enthusiasm of a man greeting his oldest friend, which was wildly disproportionate to my actual relationship with Terri but felt appropriate given that she currently held my fate in her clipboard-wielding hands. "Good morning. Any news?"
"I have good news. We've identified a placement for you within the building."
My heart did something embarrassing. "You found someone willing to take us?"
"A tenant on your floor has agreed to participate in the temporary housing program.
You'll have use of their spare bedroom for the duration of repairs.
The building will cover the host tenant's rent as compensation, so there's no additional cost to you beyond your existing insurance coverage for temporary housing. "
"That's amazing. Terri, you are a gift. Who is it? Which unit?"
"4B."
The number and letter landed in my brain and sat there for a second, like a package I hadn't ordered.
4B.
Directly across the hall.
4B, where the bulldog snored.
Where the newspaper got delivered.
Where a man in an oatmeal-colored bathrobe had catalogued my boxer briefs and my screaming cat and my 3 AM door-slamming with the quiet precision of someone building a case for a restraining order.
"4B?" I repeated.
"That's correct. Mr. Loupier has a two-bedroom unit and has agreed to make the spare room available. I should let you know that Mr. Loupier has several foster animals in the apartment, so you'll want to be prepared for that. He also requested that I communicate some ground rules."
"Ground rules?"
"He has quiet hours starting at ten PM, he has a structured feeding schedule for the animals that should not be disrupted, and he asked me to convey that this is a temporary arrangement, not a social one."
I sat in my car in the Barbacks parking lot, with my hairless cat grumbling beside me and my sequins in the back seat, and tried to process the fact that the universe had looked at my housing crisis and decided the solution was in the hands of the one person in my building who had already assessed me and found me wanting.
"Mr. Kwon? Does this work for you?"
Did it work for me?
The man had looked at my CHAOTIC GOOD tank top like it was evidence of a personality disorder, but the alternative was sleeping in my car with a cat who was one bad night away from eating my face.
"Okay, yes. It works," I said. "When can I move in?"
"Mr. Loupier indicated that today would be acceptable. I'd suggest reaching out to him directly to coordinate timing."
"I don't have his number."
"I can provide it, or you could simply knock. You are, after all, across the hall."
There was something in Terri's voice that might have been amusement, though it was hard to tell with Terri. Her emotional range operated in a very narrow band between "professional" and "professionally tired."
"Right," I said. "I'll just knock."
"Best of luck, Mr. Kwon."
I sat there, phone to my ear, long after the line went dead. Princess Consuela's grumble shifted into a higher register, which was her way of asking whether we were going to sit in the parking lot all day or whether I was going to get my life together.
I called Mia.
She picked up on the first ring. "Tell me everything."
"They found me a placement. In the building. Across the hall."
"That's perfect. Who is it?"
"Newspaper Robe Man."
Silence.
"The weather check guy? The one who clocked your underwear? Or, more specifically, what was poking through its thin fabric?"
"The very same."
"The one you described as, and I'm quoting you from last night, 'the human equivalent of a Do Not Disturb sign'?"
"That is an accurate quote, yes."
Mia was quiet for two seconds. I counted my heartbeats. I have perfect pulmonary timing. It was was the longest I'd ever known her to go without speaking.
Then she started laughing.
Not a polite laugh or a sympathetic chuckle.
This was a full wheezing, doubled-over laugh that I could hear bouncing off the walls of whatever room she was in at the dental office.
"This isn't funny, Mia."
"This is the funniest thing that has ever happened to you, and I was there when you accidentally went to a furry convention thinking it was a Halloween costume party."
"We agreed to never discuss that."
"Benji, this is a sitcom. This is a show I would watch every week."
"I'm glad my housing crisis is entertaining."
"Oh, it's beyond entertaining. It's art." She took a breath, composing herself. "Okay. Okay. Here's what you do. You go over there and knock on his door. You are polite and grateful and you do not lead with the full Benji experience. Dial it back to like thirty percent Benji, maybe twenty."
"I don't have a dial, Mia, or a volume control. I’m a fixed setting."
"Then fake it. This man is giving you a roof and a bed and tolerating your cat. You can be a little less you for five minutes."
"That's the most hurtful, if accurate, thing you've ever said to me."
"I love you, Benj. Go knock on his door. Text me the second you're inside."
As the call went dead, I looked at Princess Consuela.
She looked at me.
"Twenty percent," I said.
She yawned, showing every one of her tiny needle teeth in a way that communicated absolute confidence that I would fail at this and not even look fabulous doing so.
I knocked on the door of 4B at 6:15 PM. I'd wanted to go earlier, but instead, I'd spent the afternoon at Barbacks, where the group chat had exploded with reactions to the Newspaper Robe Man development, and where Finn had sat me down and said, very seriously, "Be respectful of his space. This man is doing you a huge favor."
And then Jacks had said, "Also maybe put on real pants," which was fair because I'd been considering showing up in the coral boxer briefs just to establish continuity.
When I knocked, I was wearing real pants.
In fact, I wore jeans, a t-shirt that did not contain rhinestones, and sneakers.
My hair was tamed into something approaching intentional, and I had removed all visible glitter, though I knew from experience that invisible glitter was a permanent condition, and that trace amounts would be detectable on my person until I died and possibly after.
My only fear was unintentionally shedding glitter all over Mister Robe’s floor.
I was holding Princess Consuela's carrier in my right hand. The carrier was vibrating slightly because Princess Consuela had been in it for most of the day and was composing yet another opera of discontent. My suitcase stood behind me. The garment bag was draped over my shoulder.
Twenty percent Benji.
Calm, measured, and grateful. I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out as slowly as humanly possible.
Then I knocked.