Life in Reno, or Murphy's Law is Proven in Full
Life started to look up, after we left Oklahoma. With low expectations, our lovely apartment with a mountain view seemed to be a pretty decent slice of cake. The weather was a dream, and we arrived safely in relatively sound mental health. But hey, all things considered, we're lucky we didn't come out as twisted, psychologically scarred sociopaths.
Twenty four hours later, life started to look down. As our U-box hadn't arrived yet, we ate from plastic bowls. Which doesn't sound too bad unless you also use them as utensils for boiling hot soup. Which, in turn doesn't sound too bad, when you consider that trying to boil soup in a plastic bowl often results in melted plastic over the stoves burned hands as a result of trying to take the molten plastic bowl off the stove, acidic smoke permeating every last corner of the apartment, and a lovely visit from the local fire department. The canned soup was finally cooked in Ian's water bottle, and though we've scrubbed and scrubbed, the stain still hasn't come out.
After our lovely dinner, we put on our hiking shoes and headed outside for a walk. The mountains were lovely and really quite peaceful. In fact, Dad was moved to tears- although I was moved the most. That is to be exact, Dad was so moved, he threw out his hand to give me a 'Look at this' squeeze, but missed and knocked me slightly off balance, which caused me to stumble slightly and trip over a rock, which in turn caused me to step awkwardly on a ledge which crumbled under my foot, which in turn caused me to break into a stumbling run, pinwheeling my arms down a steep slope, which in turn caused me to snag my foot in a root sticking out of the ground, which in turn caused me to get a twisted ankle, fractured shin, and various assorted cuts, scrapes and bruises over my person. What was that about not turning into a twisted, psychologically scarred sociopath?
Angry, tired and stressed to perfection, we rolled out our sleeping bags to try and get a good night's sleep. A much needed item, which apparently, wasn't on our itinerary for the night. 30 minutes into the night, Ian and I were still awake, listening to the drip, drip, drip of our leaky bathroom faucet, and trying to keep from smothering as we pressed cloths to our face to try and block out the smell emanating from the carpet. Then, just to reassure us that yes, someone was there! Dad snuck quietly into the room and,(right when the drip, drip, drip was beginning to become soothing) and whispered, quite close to our ears: "Are you guys awake? Did you hear that?" Needless to say, we awoke very suddenly (In fact, I believe Ian nearly had a seizure), and, to be sure, our screams must have wakened the neighbors as well. Grumbling, moaning and crabby to the bone, we headed inside his room and waited as he hushed us. And waited. And waited. Then we heard the unmistakable scritch-scritch-scratch of the beloved tenant up above, who apparently, was just warming up for a busy night's work ahead. He serenaded us to sleep that night with his chatters and scratching as he scurried to and fro. Did I mention that Dad is mortally afraid of rodents?
Although maybe his total lack of sleep was due to his room's ceiling's pregnancy, which is strange, even for Nevada. That is to say- a strange bump resembling, well, you know, was located right above his head. But I digress-
As Ian rolled out of bed to take an early shower, he noticed, to his surprise, that he appeared to be taking a bath, which, though the floor was free of objects, seemed to result from the shower drain being obstructed by an unidentified freakin' object. As that bathroom in particular didn't happen to have a tub, or a functional shower seal, he soon found that the wood floor, and most of the carpet around the door was taking an unanticipated deep-cleaning. And the one bar of hotel soap that was to be shared among us was looking awfully small.
Of course, that shower was all for naught, because and hour and a half later, our U-Box arrived.
I'm not quite sure where they get the drivers for those things, but I can say with absolute certainty, we're not paying for the damage the dear lady did to our fellow tenants' cars. I can just hope she has one heck of an insurance, because how she managed to total 3 cars in under two hours is beyond me. Opening the U-box was a joyous event. Seeing what was in it, was not. Our stuffed-to-perfection U-box, apparently, wasn't able to close correctly, and the rain shield, apparently, didn't shield the rain at all. The first 1/3 of our possessions that we removed from the U-box had obtained significant water damage (Of course, they were all the important documents and favorite books that we packed last, just to be safe). Trying to be optimistic, under those conditions, was just a tad difficult, especially when you took a good look around and saw the flight of stairs that we would have to take to get to the sidewalk, the three flights of stairs we would have to take to get up to the apartment complex, and the two flights of stairs we would have to take to get to the flight of stairs that would bring us to our apartment door.
Frankly, the mountain view isn't worth it.
Wait. Let's pause and give it up for the boys! Due to my fractured shin and the second degree burns on Mom's hands, we were AWOL for the moment (the new shoes, by the way, were from Colorado. Did you really think we would go shopping while you unpacked the U-box? Actually don't answer that, Dad. Um, oooh, my leg hurts. Oooh, owie. I hope you feel bad.). Although personally, of the two, I would take moving any day. But hey- I wasn't completely useless during the five hours and twenty six minutes it took to unload the U-box. Actually, I distinctly remember helping Dad assemble the parents' bed and remarking on how the ceiling's pregnancy seemed to be progressing at an unusual rate. But Dad was too busy worrying about how the curves of the mattress between the slats on his bed made Mount Everest look like a gently sloping hill-- he probably didn't hear me.
After a refreshing shower, we set out to meet our neighbors. All were very nice. There was a family of three below, a widowed Granny next door, a family with twelve children (five of them teenagers), a balding bachelor (Mr. Cher Lukel Omnes) and his mustachioed roomie, and a graduate student who specialized in raising what she called Culiseta Longiareolata, but what I called 'blood-sucking-vampire bugs' (aka mosquitoes) for scientific research at UNR. All in all, very nice people, although Mr. Omnes appeared to have all sorts of riffraff showing up at his door. Maybe that's where all the strange noises at night came from. If I didn't know better, I would have sworn those were gunshots, but no, we live in a good neighborhood.
That night we slept upon real mattresses, which was a relief, because our neighbor above appeared to have multiplied, and our sleeping bags, at this point, were needed to help shut out the noise. Talk about a literal party animal. I'm not sure if those were mini-rodent-raves or communist rantings about how the tenants below (us) were enemies to the people. Either way, it was loud.
Again, the next day, we woke up to the sound of screaming sirens, and, got to witness, first hand, a car chase through our neighborhood. It appeared to be Mr. Omnes' mustachioed friend who was in a car chasing the car that was chasing the car, but I couldn't quite be sure. Breakfast was a sordid affair, but tolerable, and I am certainly glad that the toilet broke down after our partially thawed waffles with syrup, then during it where it may have triggered that interesting physiological reaction termed 'regurgitation'. Although, between you and me, I'm still avoiding that particular bathroom because, as the strong smell clearly evidences, we have not succeeded in clearing out all of the, well, you know. Refuse. There's a handy little thicket out by the fence a short walk away from the apartment, when nature calls. You know, one of those poignant life-skills you learn while vacationing in the Rockies.
Although I can personally say, that even after viewing a whole multitude of different types of flora in the Rockies, I have never seen that particular kind of mold which we discovered in the kitchen cabinets that day. It must have been, I deduced, relatively new in the evolutionary time-line, because, after scrubbing at it with lysol, scraping at it with a spatula, spraying it with air freshener, and having Mom talk to it in Chinese about how lovely Mr. Omne's apartment was and how much nicer it would be for the invinci-mold there, it still hadn't budged.
We called up the leasing office and they kindly called a pest exterminating company, who arrived promptly and quarantined the area. I didn't know exterminators wore such nice, black, two-piece suits or used exterminating jargon such as 'code-red' or 'operation parasite51'. Although they advised us to check out to a hotel somewhere in Salt Lake City, we told them we'd prefer to remain here and they left without much commotion. Although I distinctly remember the smiling men in white lab coats talking amongst themselves about human test subjects.
While on the topic of government conspiracies and alien invasions, that brings me to our very recent experience at the Washoe county library. The library is located in the intersection between Fair Wren Street and Height Avenue. It's building 451. As libraries go, it's a pretty nice place, although very unconventional in some aspects. Mom wanted us to meet the librarians, so we dutifully introduced ourselves to the man at the front desk, whose name was Mr. Bic Brudder. He, in turn, dutifully took us on a tour of the library, and showed us the room where the library's summer camps were held, where the bulletin board was located, how the books in the adult section were organized chronologically by the author's year of death, the books in the children's section by the last letter of the main character's middle name, and how the fiction books were organized by color. He also issued us library cards and put our names down for a session on the 21st where we would get bar codes tattooed on our wrists, while explaining that every day a book was overdue would result in half an hour in the torture rack. I really think that he was joking, but I guess we'll find out soon because Ian has a book that's been 3 days overdue and we're returning it tomorrow.
At lunch, I decided to attempt to cook a something. It was a bit of a cross between fried eggs, hash browns, and escargo. Although upon looking at it, Ian promptly engaged in that interesting physiological reaction and threw up, in the sink. I didn't even try to show it Mom, or Dad. Instead, I opted to send it down the same route that Ian's interesting physiological reaction took.
Partially thawed waffles and syrup were on the menu for lunch.
And after lunch, things were about to get interesting. You see, only five minutes after we had finished our partially thawed waffles, we had a visit from the graduate student. Instead of the cookies, grape jelly, and vanadinite (we took it out of it's nice glass box and put it on our dinner table, as the tenant below advised us to) that our other neighbors gave us, Ms. Smith gave us some of her best Culiseta Longiareolata/mosquito larvae. It didn't seem to be too much of a bother, because with the faulty shower, clogged toilet and malfunctioning garbage grinder, we were sure to have a place to raise them.
After that, the afternoon became very mundane. We lay around, did stuff on our computers, and, in my case, speculated as to the nature of the ceiling's pregnancy, which, looked about due now. Oh, and we tried to stay far away from the walls, which felt really spongy to the touch, and which bore the unmistakable noises of our neighbor above, who had, at this point, multiplied into an infestation. It was like the very walls themselves were alive. The yellow wallpaper only added to the grotesque effect. Night and rest seemed to be a much needed relief from the surreal world we had landed in.
Although it didn't quite deliver, because instead of doing what most pregnant bellies do, the ceiling's pregnancy decided to defy convention and explode. It had been, at that point dangerously sagging, and sure enough, a half hour before midnight, we heard a pop, a crash, a scream, and the unmistakable chatter of our neighbor above, now amongst us.
Ian and I hesitated for a second between rushing heroically toward's the parents' room, and seeking higher ground, but the end result was a compromised walk towards the source of all the commotion. As we cautiously entered the room, we saw, to our surprise, a mass of writhing, screeching mixture of plaster, old hair, sludge, paper, shiny metal objects and maggots where our parents used to be. We rushed to the rescue-- that is to say, Ian rushed to the rescue and I stood at the door and uttered a bunch of girl-freak-out noises-- and succeeded in peeling back the slimy, soggy sheet and hustling mom out of the bed and to the shower. It was at that point we noticed the strange absence of Dad and hear the shrieks coming from outside.
Throwing open the door, we ran outside, only to see Dad being borne on the backs of an abnormally swift rodent mob that rushed towards the library. He writhed and screamed and clawed at the rodent horde, but to no avail. They swarmed over and under him, transforming him into a living brown column of furry brown rodents that moved at a rapid pace towards the library. He was never heard from again.
We came back in and spent a sleepless night in the middle of the living room, huddling together, because, after completing their nefarious task, our neighbors above had returned and were now seeking another victim among us. It was hard to tell from the pale light shed by the moon, but as our neighbors above scurried to and fro across the floor, they seemed to have oddly fuzzy backs, as if they had cross-breeded with the mold fungus.
Daylight came, though at that point I rather wished it hadn't. Though its presence had chased away the rodent-fungus hybrids, it soon ushered in the horrors of the inanimate. We opened our eyes only to realize that the strangely soggy walls had only been the incubators of the fungus' spores, and by the time morning had arrived, the fungus mold had spread all the way from the kitchen, to encompass the house itself. Worse still, the sogginess that we had felt under us the whole night seemed to be seeping from the toilet, and it had only needed one absentminded flush to start spewing a never ending geyser of sewage into the air. The faulty shower, meanwhile, started to ooze goo, which, upon later inspection appeared to be moving, and when Mom prodded it tentatively with her finger, released a small, leech-like creature that latched onto Mom's arm and wouldn't let go.
And then, right when we thought it couldn't get worse, a new disaster struck. In the clogged-up sink full with green water with floating white foam and an oily surface....
The mosquitoes hatched.
Let me cut a long story short-- we left the apartment. By that point, it was a stinky, mold-ridden, sewage spilling, rat-infested mosquito breeding ground. But slowly, and surely, one by one we got picked off from the sidelines. The first to go was Dad, carried away by the astonishingly fast mold-rat hybrids. Then Mom got taken in by the men in black for questioning (she later sent us a text message saying that she was OK, but the caller ID didn't show her cellphone, instead it came from Area 51). Next, Ian took to the Peavine mountains, in a last, desperate attempt to try and thwart the librarians of Washoe County Library system, who were, at this point, holding a massive man-hunt in search for him (he left taking a water bottle, a bag of beef jerky, his Chrome OS's motherboard-- in his words, his most precious possession-- and his Nerf gun. For protection). So you see, at the end, I was the only Hong left standing.
Naturally, with limited funds (approximately 2 dollars and 35 cents-- the mold had by that point invaded my room and reduced all my cash to brown sludge) I had nowhere to go but back to the apartment. I sat--no, am sitting right now in the middle of the living room, typing furiously on my computer in a last attempt to tell my story before night falls and the rodents inexorably return. As dusk comes, there is the ominous, inevitable scratching that heralds that angel of fate, and the very walls seethe and groan with the sheer mass of rodents within. All I can say is that, if you ever cared two cents for me, absent thee from felicity awhile, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story...'cause it's about to get real nasty in a few more minutes
Alright, so when did you stop buying the story? Lemme just say, Nevada is great. The apartment is pretty fair, as those things do, and the U-box unpacking went off without a hitch. The librarians...well, as librarians go, they are pretty run of the mill. Let's leave it at that.
So why would I go ahead and waste five hours of my life making up a fictional history of the last two weeks, that is at best, tolerable? I guess I do have a lot of time on my hands. But really, sometimes it's just plain entertaining to spin a yarn that progresses from ironic coincidence to evil omen, and just to see at what point in said yarn does the reader's gullibility fail (by the way, gullible is written on the ceiling). Did I mention I also have a bad sense of humor?
Anyways, thanks for all your concern and prayers. We've arrived safely, and aside from the mold (just kidding) things are really nice here. The weather is a dream, and so far, none of us have been picked off by angry rodent mobs. But really, I'll be sure to make a real blog post about life in Reno sometime, and to include pictures.
So until then, this is Quiet Girl, signing off.
-Shhh...hahahaha
Oh, I forgot to mention credits:
The Wednesday Wars, for the idea of a bulge in the ceiling
Calvin and Hobbes, for opening my eyes to the fact that yes, Librarians do give you dirty looks when you return a book that has been overdue for two weeks.
Allusions, anyone? Did anyone pick up on...
Mr. Cher Lukel Homes = Mr. Sherlock Holmes (naturally, his mustachioed roomie= .....)
The library's location, Fair Wren Height 451= Fahrenheit 451, a dystopian novel about a time where firefighters start fires to burn books. Yes, I realize I just mangled it into pieces, but I'm not that great at summaries.
Mr. Bic Brudder= Big Brother from 1984. Hopefully no explanation needed.
