And Then This Crazy Swedish Guy Started a Fight (Or Was That a Fire?)

Yesterday, I didn't feel well. I hadn't slept much the night before, thanks to Hitler-related insomnia, so I was well knackered.

"If I stay sitting perfectly still, though," I explained, "I'll be fine by tomorrow. I just need a bit of rest, is all." And I played video games and read books and ate crackers, and all was well with the world. By the time it got dark, I was feeling almost human again. I was just pecking away at a chicken Caesar salad when--when BEE-NEE-NEE-NEE-NEE--didn't the fire alarm go off! Not the wee smoke-detector on the ceiling, either, but the building fire alarm, which means everyone's got to get out right away.

I pulled myself out of the sofa with quite some effort. "Goddamn fire alarms," I swore. "Why've they always got to have them at ten o'clock at night? I'm not leaving. I'm not! No way!" I started hunting for my shoes. "It's rubbish, this is. Rubbish! Expecting people to get out of their beds at all hours. Man, there isn't even a fire. There's never a fire. Hey, where's my coat?"

"You're wearing it," said my sister, shrugging into her jacket. "Come on. We have to go."

"Fucking fire alarms...."

So we trooped out and headed for the stairs--tramp, tramp, tramp--but halfway down the first flight, I realized we'd forgotten Stella. More cussing ensued, and we tromped back up again. I was suddenly and vividly reminded of the Three Stooges, the way they used to walk around in single file, all bumping into stuff. Two stooges, that's us, plus Stella makes three.

"Shit. I can't find a box."

"This one?"

"No, it's full of packing peanuts. Fuck. Shut up. No, not you--the fire alarm. Christ. Where are all the boxes when you need one?"

"Here's one."

"Thanks."

Then Stella wouldn't get in the box. (Of course.) She hid in her nest, taunting us with that silly bald nose of hers. I shook her nest vigorously. She sat and stared. I promised her we weren't going to the vet. She presented me with her hind end. The fire trucks were pulling up in front of the building, and the damn rat was still in her cage, with us outside begging and pleading and offering her chicken strips.

"This is not happening," I said, except I'd gotten a bit short of breath, so it came out more "issisWHEEEEEEEZEnthppng". People were stamping around in the hallways. A harried atmosphere had crept into the air.

Anyhow, to cut a long story short, after a lengthy struggle, Stella was crammed in a box half her length, and we were off downstairs again. The fire escape was crowded, by this time, and I felt a right wally stumbling and wheezing my way out of the building. We all ended up in the foyer, me and Stella and my sister and about fifty other folks (all of whom, I'm convinced, were staring at us). We were this bizarre little hub of noise and confusion in the middle of everything. I was wheezing away like a deflating weather balloon, Stella was throwing a mini-tantrum in her box, and my poor sister had landed the lovely job of repeatedly smacking her back down, whenever her head started coming out the top. Yeah, see, the flaps didn't quite meet up in the middle, and there was a perfect nose-sized hole in there. Stella kept surging up through it like a sea monster--whouff! My sister kept yelping and smacking, and every time she did, I made a weird laughing sound. (Hey, it was funny, in a so-bad-it's-good sort of way.)

As if things weren't already strange enough, my landlord was there, as well. I don't know what he was doing there. Maybe he lives here, too. Any road, he followed us back up the stairs when the alarm stopped ringing, and caught us having forgotten to lock the door on our way out. Ordinarily, I'd have been mortified, but all I could think about by that time was getting back to sitting absolutely still and doing absolutely nothing--which is precisely what I did. I stayed still all night, in fact, and all day today, and I'll probably do the same for much of tomorrow. All that stair-climbing fair did me in.

Apparently, the person responsible for my pain is some crazy Swedish guy, who is always doing stuff like this. People were talking about it. This is what I heard, over the commotion:

"Yeah, it shouldn't be long, Socar. It was this crazy Swedish guy from upstairs. He always does this. He started a fight."

Having had all night to mull it over, I think they probably said he started the fire, but at the time, I was almightily confused. All in all, it was an almightily confusing night. I've got to find this damn Swedish guy and thank him for ruining the tail end of my winter vacation. All this good health I've been having, and leave it to some Swedish guy...! Once again, bloody Sweden is responsible for much suffering in the Rat's Nest.

That said:

A pox on this "bright new year" glurge;
Let's all sing the old one a dirge!
As you watch oh-four die
Just remember that I
Got my New Year's rhyme in before Virge!*

* His'll be better, though, even if he forgets to write one.