That's Disgusting

Over the past few months I've really begun to feel completely at home here in New York. I'm building routines and growing accustomed to all of the things that set me off after my initial move here. And, knock on wood, I haven't gotten a parking ticket in months!

You know you're becoming a New Yorker when: My dog and I were heading out for our morning walk and found the elevator filled with the building maintenance and police officers wearing large plastic gas masks. One of the officers began to make small talk, asking me if I knew the gentleman who lived in 6A. (I had heard the rumors already from other neighbors that the guy in 6A was a schizophrenic and a diabetic and had died and started rotting in his apartment, so I wasn't shocked to see all of the commotion in the elevator.) I told the officer that I didn't really know anyone in the building by their apartment number and that I'd have to see him to know for sure. (I wasn't actually asking to see him, but apparently that's how the officer understandably took my statement.) "You wouldn't want to see him." He said firmly. It was momentarily silent until I finally asked the question that had popped into my mind. "How many rooms is 6A?" I quickly realized that is was the most inappropriate question at the moment and proceeded to change the subject. Besides, with plans for school I really can't afford to upgrade right now.