There’s another wackjob in the building besides the gay guy upstairs who loudly cackles each and every morning around 7 or 7:15 am. The new guy (who’s actually been here several months) is a young Charles Manson beardo who’s twice asked me if Mouse is my cat. What kind of a saliva-dribbling, pajama-wearing public enemy do you have to be to notice a neighbor calling and clapping for his cat and then say as the cat runs up, “Is that your cat?” Last night around 10:30 pm I opened the door and Manson was standing two feet from the doormat, rock-still like a mental patient on thorazine. I looked at him and told myself not to worry (lots of people stand two feet in front of my door!), and again I called out “Mouse!” and right away he appeared and ran indoors, and this guy said as Mouse ran by, “Is that your cat?” I looked at this twisted fuck and said, “No, he’s a stray. I just call him Mouse because he reminds me of a cat I had who was kidnapped by some guy who looked like Charles Manson. Is he your cat? Do you want to pet him or something? What meds are you on? If they let you out on weekends, don’t you have to be back by Sunday nights at 9 pm?”