Drama, Diner, and a Deal
When I get back to my apartment, I brace for my new roommate to greet me with a tail-wagging party, but I open the door and—
Fluff.
Everywhere.
My apartment looks like an exploded snow globe.
There are little clouds of stuffing on the rug, on the couch, floating midair. Alice looks like she’s been pacing her bowl
for some time, unimpressed.
I follow the trail all the way to its source: One of my navy throw pillows that literally came with the couch has been torn
to shreds.
And there, next to the scene of the crime, is Ernest. Fluff in his beard. Guilt in his eyes.
He’s hunched like a tiny gargoyle, just staring.
But then his eyes bulge and he starts making this horrible hurk hurk motion with his neck like he’s trying to cough something up.
“Holy crap. Holy crap, are you dying, little guy?”
I scoop him up. He’s trembling again, just like he was when the fireman pulled him from under the stairwell. His eyes are
glassy now.
Holding him like he’s a live grenade, I race down the stairs two at a time. Is there a version of 911 for animals? Where do
people go when dogs are dying? Probably a vet. But where is there a vet? Can I google that while holding this dog with both
hands?
I burst out of the building and right away my eyes land on Corner Coffee & Food. Sami. He’d know what to do. I just know it.
A tiny bell dings as I barrel through the diner door, Ernest still cradled in my arms like I’m Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard. When Sami looks up from behind the counter and locks eyes with me, his face brightens and he stands straighter—then, clocking
my expression, the smile drops like a rock.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think he’s choking!” I hold out Ernest toward him. “He chewed up my pillow and I don’t know why and I don’t know what to
do.” It all comes out in one breath now. Ernest lets out another terrifying hurk.
“Okay, okay.” Sami is already moving, coming around the counter like he does this kind of thing every day. His brows narrow
on the tiny patient as he makes his way closer. “Here, let’s go outside. Put him down for a sec.”
We burst through the diner door, and I lower Ernest gently to the grey, patchy sidewalk. He trembles again, lets out a deep
and dramatic hack, and with it he spits up the tiniest, soggiest tuft of pillow stuffing. I stare from the shiny glob to Ernest.
He blinks up at us each like he’s already forgotten how we all got here.
Sami crosses his arms, nods once. “He’s fine.”
“What?” I scoop Ernest back up, comforted by the warmth of his little body. “He almost died choking and he’s just . . . fine?”
“Yeah, basically.” He nods. “You said he got into one of your pillows? How’d that happen?”
I nod and a new guilt settles in. “Yeah, I left him alone to go visit Irene. I thought he’d be okay.” I sound about as defensive
as I feel.
“Of course.” Sami’s face softens. “He was probably nervous. New place. His person’s gone. Chewing is how dogs deal with stress.”
“Oh no.” I bury my face into Ernest’s furry back. “I’m the stress. Irene was so happy I was helping him. What is she going
to think when—”
“It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice soft as he reaches to pat Ernest, a motion I find strangely comforting as I hold the guy.
“And you can’t exactly stare at him twenty-four seven.
Here—when I get off work later, drop him off.
We can switch off his care, so you can take a break and run errands or whatever. ”
“Seriously?” My voice cracks a little now. “That would be really great.”
“Of course. Like I said, I’m happy to help, plus Ernest can give me the neighborhood tea I missed while working in the diner.”
I chuckle at this and shift Ernest to my other shoulder. I’m glad dogs can’t talk. Ernest has seen too much of how I’ve been
living lately.
Sami jerks his head back toward the diner. “Gotta finish up in there, but I’ll see you two later?”
“For sure.” I grin.
I hold Ernest a little tighter as I head home.
Back in my apartment, I gather the pillow innards and stuff them in the trash. I’m about to grab the blanket that I’d folded
on the end of my couch for him to lie on, but his little body shape is imprinted on it, so I leave it in case he needs to
have a nap here after his walk tomorrow.
My stomach growls, reminding me what a long day it’s been.
It’s slim pickings in the fridge, so I settle for two Babybel cheeses.
That doesn’t do much to alleviate the hunger, so I scrape a well-frosted bean burrito from the bottom corner of my freezer, pop it in the oven, and scroll around on my phone while I wait for it to cook.
First up is a reel of some random toddler doing a sloppy job of feeding some backyard chickens.
(The toddler is the child of this girl I met in college during a Bermuda shorts party.
We got stoned and decided we were kindred spirits who should start a no-nonsense advice agency.
We exchanged IG follows and never spoke again. Now I’m watching this.)
A knock sounds at my door. Ernest, once again, starts losing his entire shit in barks and acrobatics toward the door. A great
sign.
I pull the door open and answer. “Hello.”
It’s Lana, holding a giant box in her arms and a chunky ring of keys dangling from her fingers. “Hi, Mona. I wanted to follow
up on what we discussed in the hospital, make sure you have everything you need.”
Before I could say anything, she shoves the box into my arms. It thuds against my stomach.
“Sorry—what is this?” I stagger back a step under the weight.
“Information on the building, the tenants, everything you’ll need.”
I blink at her before setting the box down on my hall bench. “Oh. This seems like a lot.”
“It’s really not! I just read your tenant profile. You’re in marketing at Westmore Communications, right? It’s totally the
same. Marketing is all about identifying needs, solving problems, managing expectations—right?”
“I mean . . . yes, but—”
Lana steps closer to the doorway, and shame bubbles as her eyes rove over my vision board behind me. I’m going to need a new
place for that thing if people are going to keep showing up like this.
I stand taller to block as much as I can and clear my throat. “I’d invite you in but . . .” My eyes land on Ernest, who has
settled into a spot on the hall floor. Of course! “It’s just with your allergies—”
“That’s okay, I’m not staying here long.
” She says it a little too quickly, before a polite grin softens her expression.
“But I’m sure you’ve noticed my aunt has been having trouble keeping up with this place for a while.
Even the tenants are expressing concerns in varying .
. . creative ways.” That’s about the classiest way someone could’ve put the lobby fiasco.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve considered moving to another building.
One that’s more . . . suitable for a young professional. ”
There’s no use pretending I haven’t. Especially as her stares behind my shoulders keep focusing in on that board. “Yeah, I . . .
of course Irene’s been really great, but I’ve had those thoughts.”
“That makes a lot of sense. You don’t seem like the other tenants here.” I try (and fail) not to take that as a compliment.
Her voice has brightened all the way up before taking a solemn, almost practiced, dip. “But I have quite a few colleagues
who work the rental market, and from what I hear, it’s even worse than last year. We all hate those stories about hundreds
of applicants just for a glorified closet.”
I think about my own earlier rental website browsing. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad out there.”
“Worst I’ve seen in a long time.” Lana shakes her head. “Not many privately owned buildings like this one left.”
Her focus lands on Ernest. He’s licking his anus rather pointedly in our direction.
She continues, “And I know my aunt does her best, but it’s getting tough. She won’t admit it, though. The building means a
lot to her, and to watch it go this south like this, along with her health . . .”
Another flash of guilt. “Yeah, I’m really sorry to hear this—”
Then it hits me. But of course: Lana’s a realtor. And because I’m a genius, I only now realize what this means.
“Wait, are you going to sell Valleyview Apartments?”
It would make sense. Irene is getting too old to keep running the building herself, and the way the neighborhood has been changing, now is the perfect
time. Still, I’m surprised. Irene didn’t even seem to want a management company in here when we spoke at the hospital.
Surprise flickers across her face. She laughs again, and this time its concerningly forced. Might I know how to speak realtor?
“Not right now.” She lowers her voice. “But to let you in on a bit of a secret, it’s something we’ve been discussing.”
“Oh . . . that’s . . .” I don’t say more.
Her eyes widen with sincerity. “I’m sure it’s clear she doesn’t want to sell to just . . . anyone. We’re hopeful we can find
the right buyer with a vision to preserve the structure and do their best to keep the current tenants. A private owner like
my aunt. But you can imagine, most developers take one look at this place in its current state and just want to tear it down
and build new.”
I nod. This place would probably have been worth more if it really had burned down—save the developer some time.
Lana chuckles for no reason. “But my aunt is adamant. She believes in this building staying put, so in order to get it sold
the way my aunt would like, there are quite a few things that will need to be updated, and issues to resolve.” Her tone brightens.
“Hey! I had a thought. Something that could help solve both our problems.”
Her words make me instantly wary. It’s not just that I want her to like me for some reason, but because she’s a realtor and
that makes her sales-y, and sales-y people are a weakness of mine. If I shop any type of retail where I’m alone with the worker
who greets me, instead of shopping, I will become what can only be described as a performer of shopping: making interested