Today, as I methodically vacuumed the rugs, I remembered something that happened a few weeks ago. The maintenance people were systematically going from apartment to apartment, changing air filters and checking the smoke detectors. A stern little woman herded the maintenance men around, delegating which apartment each should go to.
Eventually they came to my apartment. Once the little woman had a chance to appraise my place she said, “This isn’t your apartment, is it? Is this your girlfriend’s?” When I insisted that I lived there and asked her to explain, she just snickered. I would love to meet someone who had three video game consoles and a Millennium Falcon in her living room.
Just before she left, she looked at my rugs and exclaimed, “Where did you get these?”
I told her I bought them years ago at Wal-Mart.
She said, “No. I looked at Wal-Mart for rugs like this and they didn’t have them.”
Then she walked out.