Make no mistake: I am a city boy. I was born and raised in a city (Philly), went to college in the suburbs but very close to a city (Boston College/Boston), studied abroad in a city (London), and after graduation moved to a city (NYC). I love me some cities. Cities, cities, cities.

However, I’m not so completely city as to be overly sheltered. I’ve driven across this great country and down its west coast. I’ve spent many luxurious vacations in mountain areas. I can load and properly fire many types of hand guns, thanks to visits to the gun range with my dad. One girl I made out with grew up on a farm. Or in a house. I don’t know – I wasn’t really paying attention. So while I admit that I’m city through-and-through, I do have some experience with the country and country-living.

Where I live now, in a suburb of Los Angeles called Redondo Beach, is by far the least urban place I’ve ever lived. That’s part of the reason why I’ve had so much trouble adjusting out here. For three years prior, I lived above an Italian restaurant in Manhattan’s Little Italy in a five-story building filled with about 150 Chinese people; now I have a two-story house with a lawn, my neighbors are well-off white people that do not sleep seven to a bedroom, and I don’t have a bar or restaurant within walking distance. I hadn’t eaten at a Domino’s or a chain restaurant in years; now Domino’s is the best pizza I can get and I eat at Chili’s so regularly that two different family members got me gifts cards there as Christmas presents. I don’t think “oh, how the mighty have fallen” quite applies, but it’s something like that.

On Monday afternoon, I got home from Vegas (more on this later). It was about 4:45pm and my two roommates were both gone. Having had just driven the whole way back, I plopped down on the couch and was contemplating ordering a cheesesteak when I heard a rattling in the heating vent directly above my head. I’d just turned the heat on, so I attributed the noise to the heater kicking on. But then it made another, louder noise, and soon it was alternating between “thumping” and “scratching”. Something was alive, and something was in the heat vent.

Turns out I was only half-right – whatever was making the noise was not in the heat vent, but rather in the ceiling between the first and second floors. I know this because I traced the sound all over the house, from the living room to the kitchen to the dining room, as this creature made its way all around my home. This thing was not some little mouse or squirrel – there was some serious thumping going on, but no crying-out animal noises. Therefore, I thought it was either a giant rat, a raccoon, or a small wolf and/or baby werewolf that was working its way through the ceiling, noisily banging around. When she got home, my roommate Selena was so freaked out by the noise that she called (in no particular order) the landlord, 911, the fire department, the police department, Redondo Beach Animal Control, Terminex, Orkin, 1-800-Critters, and a few animal trappers, all to no avail. However, the good news was that the noises soon stopped, so the animal either had found its way out or died. If the former, sweet; if the latter, it was going to get ugly and mighty stinky in a day or two.

Fast forward to last night (Wednesday night). I was at the gym, dominating (brah), when I got a text message from Selena, saying that she was sitting in her car because she was convinced either that someone was in the house or that the “monster” was back. Normally, she would contact our other roommate Mark in such dangerous situations, as he is much more manly and stronger than I am, and absolutely, positively does not own a single t-shirt with sleeves. However, Mark is in NYC all week, so I was the next best roommate. I told her that I was leaving the gym but it would take me an hour to get home (since I live in the middle of nowhere), and that, in the meantime, she should go to a bar to kill some time. She said she’d go to the mall, and I told her I’d call when I got close.

As happens when I am at the gym, I drink a lot of water. I do this because I am obese and sweat very much, but the upshot is that by the time I get home after my hour-long (and sometimes longer) drive, I have to piss so bad that I can actually hear my bladder starting to tear. To help with this, I have a nalgene-type water bottle on the floor of the passenger seat of my car to pee in in emergency situations. I have used this twice, but it is not the best option. First, I’m driving, so there’s that (but at least most of my windows are tinted, so I can’t really be seen). Second, after working out, my penis is actually nested inside the lower half of my torso, so I have to a) coax it out of my body; b) pull it out the bottom of the leg of my shorts; and c) aim it directly into the bottle. Even with traffic hardly moving, this is still a very difficult maneuver to pull off (no pun intended), and the last time I tried it, I’m convinced the guy in the truck in the lane next to mine watched me, and watched me so intently that he was slowing down to keep pace while I tried to do this. Long story short, after that experience, I’d rather not pee in the nalgene bottle while driving anymore, thanks.

On Wednesday, as I raced home, I had to pee bad. Like, real bad. I called Selena when I was within two blocks of the place and she was still at the mall. I told her that I wasn’t going to wait for her and was going to check out the house on my own, since I had to piss so tremendously. I knew that it was very unlikely that there was an intruder in the house and that it was much more likely it was the animal, trapped again in the ceiling. No big deal.

But still, as I parked my car in the driveway and started getting out, I grabbed the only “weapon” I had, a tire iron. I figured that if the animal actually was in the house, I’d need to hit it with something. And if there was an intruder, since everyone in Southern California (save for, well, comedians and comedy writers) is very fit, the intruder would be, too, and I’d need all the help I could get fighting him off.

Our house is two stories, the second much smaller than the first, so the first floor has a slightly sloped roof leading up to the second floor (kinda like this place, but we don’t have a porch, so the sloped roof ends at the front door). It’s a rapist’s dream, really; even I can stand at the front door, reach up and pull myself onto the sloped roof, and walk right up to either second floor bedroom’s window.

I was thinking about this as I marched up to the front of the house, but I was worrying less about the potential animal or intruder and more about how I was going to soil myself. Tire iron in my right hand, I reached in my pocket for my keys with my left hand, and as I pulled them out of my pocket and they made their jingling noise, I felt something move. I froze, stopping a few feet before the door, and looked up. There, perched on the end of the roof just above the door, was a ginormous raccoon.

After farting or pooing a little bit, I slowly backed away. The raccoon looked on, only mildly interested in the sweaty chubby guy before him. When I was far enough away, I called Selena and told her not to park in the driveway (the driveway is within striking distance of the roof). I warned her about the raccoon and after she parked, she got out, shrieked, and began calling all those authorities that she called last time, with similar results. All the while, the raccoon paced along the roof, as if he was daring us to step up.

As I do in all situations in which I don’t feel manly and need help, I called my dad. I explained the situation to him and he was perhaps a little disappointed, saying that I should throw something at it. This idea was not without its merits; I had a softball-sized roll of electrical tape in my car and got that ready, because I was sure I could hit the raccoon, giving Selena and I enough time to get into the place. But after we hung up and I stood there, watching the raccoon, which was now just sitting on the roof, more and more I thought throwing a roll of tape at it was a bad idea. For one, what if I missed and it jumped off the roof and came it me? Who do you think would win that one: the wild raccoon or the fat fuck who’s afraid of thunder and was asked “Do you need help?” three times just an hour earlier after completing a half-mile run at the gym? Alternatively, what if I hit it, chased it away, and Selena and I snuck into the house? Wouldn’t the raccoon then think “People in front of house = bad” and maul me the next time me, Mark or Selena came home? I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I like to drink a little bit, and I’m not exactly sharp after 1am on Friday and Saturday nights. I’d be eeeeeeeezzzzz pickins’ for a raccoon out for vengeance.

So instead, a good ol’ fashioned Mexican standoff developed. Selena stood across the street, I stood in the middle of the street, and the raccoon just prowled that roof. At one point I wondered if someone was going to call the cops on me – reports of a white male in his late 20’s, disheveled and sweaty, standing in the middle of the street in an affluent suburb with a tire iron in one hand and a role of electrical tape in other (my ether-soaked rag was in my sock). But no cops came. And we just stood there.

After about twenty minutes, it looked like the raccoon walked to the back of the roof, near one of the trees, and disappeared. We waited a little while longer and devised a plan: Selena would walk slowly to the front door, unlock it and leave it open. I would cover her, would throw the tape at the raccoon if it reappeared, and if not, would walk in behind her.

Fortunately, the raccoon did not reappear and we made it safely into the house. But this, obviously, is not an acceptable situation. I called my dad again for ideas as to how to get rid of the raccoon, and his suggestion was not exactly graceful: throw meat on the roof near the second floor window, take a knife, tape it “real good” to a broom, pipe or baseball bat, wait for the raccoon to come to eat the food, and stab it. Good for some, I suppose, but one of my biggest weakness is my lack of stabbing experience. After we hung up, I figured the best way would be to put some food laced with rat poison on the roof, but I’m not sure that would mean instant death. I don’t care about the raccoon’s instant death because I’m humane, but because if it kills it slowly, the raccoon might eat the poison, crawl into the ceiling, and die hours later. Then we’ll dealing with a fifteen pound animal rotting in the ceiling. I know I’m moving this weekend and all, but that’s not something I want any friends of mine to deal with.

Instead, I think that Selena has made arrangements for a trapper to come to the house tomorrow, since Animal Control will neither go into vents or onto roofs (so I guess they only take care of wild animals that walked up to them, smoking a cigarette, and say, “Hey brother, I think I’m ready to turn myself in” – thanks a bunch, Animal Control!). However, I’m not sure that this is the case, since Selena’s not speaking to me today, since I spent the rest of the night last night quietly weeping in my room. It was a traumatic experience. Also, I was hungry and cranky. But at least steps are being taken by people who are not me to resolve this problem. This is how I like things to get figured out.

And you know what? I totally forgot about peeing. I mean, I did eventually, but not once after I saw the raccoon did I think about having to take a monster piss. So I’m throwing away the pissy nalgene bottle and the next time I have to pee on my drive home, I’ll think of that raccoon perched on the roof. That should help.

(Or I’ll just piss myself. Whichever, really.)