Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating by alan mitchell

unloaded garbage bags full of my
clothes from the U-Haul. I probably should have just started fresh and bought a
whole new wardrobe, but there were some old t-shirts and jeans that I had grown
attached to and wanted to keep. Since I had gained some weight I figured I
would keep my old clothes as a measuring stick for the kind of shape I was in
and motivate myself to get back down under 200 pounds. It wasn’t only women who
were trying to fit in their old clothes. Guys did that as well.
    “I don't know what you needed this big ass U-Haul
for, all your stuff is in garbage bags,” Caesar teased.
    “I know. He could’ve moved in a cab,” Khalil chimed
in. The two of them laughed hysterically like that was the funniest shit ever.
    “Whatever.  I like to travel light.”
    “I don't think you had much choice since Kennedy
owned everything. But you still got this raggedy ass couch.”
    “And the knife and fork she left you. What type of
sick bitch leaves you with only a knife and fork?” Caesar asked.
    “A hurt, sick bitch. That one was personal. I mean,
she even took the carpet off the floors!”
    “Anyway. You're going to like Brooklyn.  This is
where all the artists and hip people kick it now,” Khalil said.
    “And the homos, too,” Caesar added.
    “That's not true.”
    “You would know.”
    “How the fuck would I know?” barked Khalil.
    “Just drop it,” I urged the Odd Couple comedy duo.
    Caesar made it a point to tease Khalil about his
sexuality any chance he got. It wasn’t Khalil’s fault that he had soft,
feminine-looking features, dressed well, and was into theatre. People would
always ask him if he were wearing eye liner and he would respond angrily, “What
man wears eye liner besides Prince?”
    We walked down the urine-soaked steps to my side
entrance. Bums used to use the stairwell as their own private bathroom, so I
made a mental note to post a sign warning: “ This isn’t a fucking bathroom! I
don’t piss on your shopping cart, so give me the same respect! -Occupant.
    I was beginning to feel claustrophobic just from the
walk down the narrow hallway into the basement apartment. I struggled to get
the door open, but finally did to behold the one-room apartment. Not one
bedroom, one room! A studio would be considered spacious. But what did you
expect for $988.00 per month in New York? Nonetheless, I didn’t care because I
saw nothing but potential. I would hook it up with rustic black leather
sectional, flowing white chiffon curtains, and small accents of red via roses,
candles, and abstract artwork.
    The fellas looked at each other, then burst into
laughter again.
    “Go ahead. Get it out.”
    “No problem,” exclaimed Khalil. “This place is so
small you can turn the channel on the TV while you're sitting in the bathtub.” What
bathtub? I thought.
    “This place is so small you have to go outside to
change your mind! Just kidding, man. At least it's yours. And think of all the
fine dime pieces you'll have coming through,” Caesar reminded me as he stared
out the window. “Like that bitch across the street,” he said, referring to a tall,
dreadlocked sista who was walking her Pomeranian. We rushed to the window to lustfully
undress her with our eyes like a bunch of seventh grade boys during recess.
    “Does every woman have to be a bitch to you? Was
your momma a bitch?” Khalil asked.
    “First of all, if you say anything about my momma, I
will kick your ass. And secondly, yes, she was a bitch! My daddy told me so. You
need to get the estrogen out of your blood and stop acting like a sissy.”
    “Your momma!” responded Khalil. It was still the
universal trump card when it came to ending arguments and starting them.
    “What did I just tell you?” Caesar fired.
    Too much playing around. I had to stop it. “Guys,
please. Must we go through this every time?” I decided to change gears, so I
changed the subject. “Who hung the clothes in the closet?”
    “Me. Why?”
    I took