Greetings from the Flipside by Rene Gutteridge Page A

It’s my new way of life.
    I walk up the steps, dragging my luggage. I knock gently on the door. The door cracks open and an old man peers at me with one eye. I can see he has a gray beard and a mole on his nose, but that’s about it.
    “Who are you?” he grumbles.
    I beam with friendliness. “I’m here to inquire about the apartment you have for—”
    “No cats!”
    “Excuse me?”
    “No cats!”
    Just at that moment, I feel something brush my leg. It’s soft and furry. I glance down and there is a calico cat circling me like we’re well-acquainted. I shake it off. “It’s not my—” And as if it multiplies right in front of my face, another cat appears. Except this one is a tabby. “. . . cat. Cats.”
    I’m not a fan of cats. Don’t judge me. I know it’s uncool to be prejudiced, but the irony of it is that I always feel like cats are judging me. They seem like they can see right into my soul, but maybe it’s me. Or maybe it’s their green eyes. I don’t know. It’s just weird how they’re circling me like sharks.
    The old man is still looking at me. “No cats!”
    And then I try some New-York-City humor. I watched some YouTube videos to help me prepare. It’s not an easy sense of humor to grasp, mind you, especially if you’re not from the city. But I feel pretty confident I can get this guy to crack a smile.
    “These aren’t cats. They’re dinner.” I say this all straight-faced and calm like I really mean it.
    The door slams.
    I don’t fare well at the next place either. She’s a brick, this one–about 4’11, solid as a concrete birdbath.
    “I’m here to inquire about the apartment for rent.”
    Meow.
    Not the lady, the cats. They’re seriously circling me like ground vultures.
    “They’re not mine,” I say, a scowl cast toward them while I simultaneously cast a pleasant, I’m-dependable-and-catless grin at her.
    Her frown is severe.
    “I’d be a great tenant. I’m not married. Not engaged. No boyfriend and no plans for one. I’m here in New York City, following my dream of becoming—”
    “No single people!”
    I’m about to explain that (1) I haven’t given the ring back yet so technically I’m still engaged. And (2) Statistics show that single people are better tenants. I don’t have data to back that up, but I’m assuming that’s true. Either way, I think I’ve just been discriminated against.
    I wander the streets, pulling my cardigan, looking for an address that doesn’t seem to exist. Sweat has soaked my bangs. And now I have a third cat following me. This one is black with small patches of white around the ears and nose. Perhaps adorable on any other day but this. Now it looks less feline and more leech.
    I glance across the street and see a man trying to put a “for rent” sign up in the window. I hurry across, dragging my luggage and my cats, causing a taxi to lay on its horn. The man doesn’t notice me at first. He’s still working on getting that sign up in the window.
    But he looks like the nicest man. I know, naive to go by looks. But he’s wearing a cardigan. The kind with the wooden buttons. Again, no stats to prove it, but I’m pretty sure serial killers don’t wear cardigans. Secondly, he’s older. His back is hunched slightly. He’s got a newspaper tucked under his armpit. He’s got small tufts of hair growing out of each ear, but he’s remarkably well groomed otherwise. He turns, notices me and smiles the kind of smile only dentures can pull off.
    “Sir!” I don’t mean to shout, I’m just excited and he’s old. He turns down his hearing aid. “Sorry. I’m looking for an apartment.”
    He notices the cats. Who wouldn’t? They’re like a carousel around my feet.
    “These are not my cats.”
    “They look awfully fond of you.”
    “New perfume. I think it’s a little too catnip-ish.” I can’t think of another explanation.
    “You seem nice enough. And I hate showing the place. You wouldn’t believe all the crazies that