With the money I earn, I pay some bills, refill my gas tank, and drive back to my shitty apartment building called Emerald Cove. But to tell you the truth, I'm not looking forward to it.

Before I dropped out of college, my ex-girlfriend saw the place in a newspaper article and told me all about its rough brick texture, its incredible view, and its cheap rent. But as I look back, I wish I had moved to Greenwich Village.

Couples yell behind locked doors. Unsupervised teenagers cruise across the cracked concrete with skateboards, blasting Nirvana from their giant boombox. Older adults steer their rusty cars to the parking space until there is nowhere else to park.

Falling beside me are men's clothes, underwear, and personal VHS tapes. A tweaked man looks at them in horror and yells at his angry girlfriend, who pushes a large suitcase out of the five-story window. Shaking my head, I open the door, move past a boring couple, and trot to the lobby, where the elevators are.

The entire floor smells like lemons. Dark streaks tarnish the brown tiled floor. Pushing the UP button with her thumb, I wait for the door to open until the rancid odor of body spray tumbles inside my nostrils.

It came from my Romani-American landlord, Stanley, who marches out of the bathroom, attempting to buckle his belt. His short, gray hair hides behind his ears. His head appears to have been replaced by a misshapen pumpkin. Dark, greasy stains sit on his white tank top. Once he saw me waiting near the elevator door, Stanley held out his hand.

"You're three weeks behind rent, Theresa!" he shouts.

"Look, Stanley," I sighed, removing my backpack. "I literally paid you yesterday—"

"I. Don't. Care." Stanley says harshly. "Where's the rest of it?"

I take a deep breath and exhale a sigh. "Relax, it's in my backpack."

Stanley lets out a pig-like snort and leans his sweaty back against the wall next to me. His tank top reeks of cow piss, and God knows what else. I try to move away, but Stanley keeps violating my personal space. It's like he wants me to strangle him.

"Will you drop the sarcasm, Terry, and give me what you owe?" Stanley demanded. "Your folks might think its funny, but I can't stand it one bit."

"You do know there's a technique called 'sitting', right?" I ask, opening my bag. "Maybe if you sat down, it'll fix your disgusting breath."

Snarling, Stanley is about to say something nasty when I reach into my bag and shove the envelope into his hands - just in time for the elevators to open.

"Here you go," I tell him, slowly boarding the elevator.

Stanley's eyes widen. He counts the cash inside the envelope and asks me where I got the money.

"Easy, I had sex with your mom last night," I answer sarcastically.

"Funny." my landlord snarls. "Well, don't act cute. I'll need the rent paid by next month, or else I'm throwing you, your friends, and your fucking cat out of the apartment."

Bobbing my head, I walk to the elevator shaft, but just as I push the third button, I stare at Stanley until the doors close.

Removing the pager from my back pocket, I stare at the green screen and scroll through the old messages my friends and family sent me. Some were jokes; others were reminders about picking up groceries and joining study groups.

The more I push the UP button with my thumb, the more anxious I become. Since there aren't any recent job offers, monsters, or people to track down, I think about the website I created at St. Hawthorne and decide to broaden my search at the New York Public Library tomorrow.

Last year, I was in this crime-obsessed group called The Maltese Investigations. The team...