Wait For It… a blog by Andy Ross

Belly of the Beast

You know how in cartoons, they show the belly of a whale as empty and cavernous? It’s not like that at all. It’s actually very cramped. And wet. There’s a musky dampness to it, even with a dehumidifier running full blast. I’ve heard that the economy makes now a good time to move. All my friends are switching places, but I guess I’m torn.

Because, after a while, you get used to living in a tight space. Proud even. There’s comfort in all the little systems and workarounds. For instance, if I need the blender, I simply slide the desk chair over to the counter and pull a bin down from above the cabinets. Or, I move the hamper out of the way to get to the folding chairs in the back of the closet. And, I know my umbrella is always tucked into the baleen next to the trashcan.

Sure, I could break my lease and probably find more room for less rent, but would moving so soon be worth all the work I put into this whale? Laying furniture out was a huge process. I was literally on my hands and knees measuring the tongue to make everything fit. Forget feng shui; just getting it all in was a hassle. I had to take the legs off the bed to fit it through the mouth. The kitchen table is this ugly IKEA thing, but it folds down into a compact sideboard. Ultimately, I had to sell my tall bookcase, because it kept tipping over whenever we dived.

All that’s not to say I don’t like my place. Everybody who comes over finds it really charming, especially my college friends who commute in from McMansions. There’s a romanticism to it--the pink, fleshy walls, the thick shag taste buds, the constant undulation. I’ll tell you this, a whale is not a bad place to bring back a date. It’s right on the water, and the songs at night are so soothing compared to my last apartment above a fire station. I do wish it got a little more natural light, since the blowhole only opens for a few seconds every ten minutes or so. The trick was to angle mirrors on the mantle to bounce light up towards the large, dangling uvula.

I don’t know, maybe I should just bite the bullet and look for a new place. Every summer, the whale migrates north to gorge on krill, and thousands of the little things flood through the living room. I don’t mind the stains on the curtains, since they’re secondhand, but I have to keep my magazines in Ziplock bags. And, forget about suede shoes. Plus, it’s cold. If you see wall-to-wall blubber in a listing, take that with a grain of salt, because Arctic sea water is freezing. I would rather have a hissing radiator than blubber. Honestly.

So, I guess I’ve made my decision. I’m calling my landlord. Maybe. I’m eighty percent sure. The belly of the whale was my first place without a roommate, so maybe that’s what I’m in love with. I guess I could try for a studio in Morningside Heights. Sigh. I’ll probably just end up staying through the mating season.