Indecision

Another call from Marty this morning. “Just want to see if you’re still alive.” “The guy across the hall from me moved. He was the only good neighbor. Now I’ll probably have three crap neighbors. I can’t get an apartment.” “You can’t do it now anyway, with the economy so bad.” “I don’t know if I should sign the lease, or go month to month.” “You should sign the lease, but then you have to stay. You already have one judgment on your credit report from the identity theft, you don’t need another one.” “My credit’s already screwed. Maybe it doesn’t matter.” “Have you been going out?” “I go the gym on the Upper West Side. They have a nice restaurant. I sit there and read.” “Who do you sit with?” “I sit alone. Who am I supposed to sit with; Regis?” “I can’t believe you haven’t found anybody. You can’t be trying.” "I'm trying." “Then you must be contagious. What do you have, MRSA and all the STDs combined?” “You get worse every time I talk to you.” I couldn’t tell him about yesterday’s terrifying near death experience. I had chest pains. I had them for a week, but ignored them. Suddenly, they were all I could think about. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent ten hours in the 93 degree heat, on the sundeck of the Upper East Side location of my health club. I go there every so often to remind myself how much I want to live anywhere but on the Upper East Side. I was listening to “The Confederacy of Dummies”; a gaggle of immature, pathetic old men, bragging about themselves and talking about the twenty something women as if they had a chance. Same cast of characters every week. High white wedge woman; wedge sandals so high she needs a stepladder to put them on. At first glance it looks like she painted two bricks white and taped them to her feet. Old, bald, deaf, senile, fat fart; puts his chairs on top of yours, even though there are miles of unoccupied space; sprays lotion that goes on you, not on his cue ball head or medicine ball stomach; coughs, grunts, and stares at you like he's a wild animal. When someone calls him on his rude behavior, he ignores them. Other characters include an assortment of Park Avenue blonde bimbos, proudly showing off their recent breast implants; butt - floss - wearing "happy ending" masseuses; hookers accompanied by Wall Street losers who bring them as guests. Must stop now. Too depressing. Luckily, I got an appointment with the only decent Dr. on my health plan. Normally, there is a 2-month wait for an appointment. They had a cancellation, and I got right in. I prayed I wasn't dying. The Dr. said my problem was muscular, that chest pain upon exertion is when to worry. After many tests, the Dr. said that I was okay. I didn’t bring my sunglasses to the Dr. because I was sure he would put me in the hospital and I didn’t want them stolen. I felt relieved. At least I wasn’t as dead as my neighborhood. If only the baboon would move. . .