Your office?

"Uh, okay," I said.

The stuff kept multiplying. He hung velvet curtians. And a towel in my bathroom. A towel, mind you.

He brought up a gold plate and a vase of ugly plastic flowers. Then a antique expresso maker, three feet tall.

"It's worth $6,000," he said.

"Ummm," I said.

I called Tim. "What do I do?"

"Get the key back," Tim said.

"I thought I raised you better than that," Mama said.

Then he brought up boxes of Irish whiskey. A shaker. And those bottles began to mate and produce more bottles.

I was working on a manuscript. I was working feverishly on a manuscript. Up all hours of the night. I was fuming. Mad at myself for being so naive.

How do I get the key back?

"Ask him if his wife kicked him out," Daughter Ashley suggested. Make it funny and maybe he won't notice.

Good idea, I said.

So I asked.

"Bob, did Harper kick you out?"

"No," he said. "She would never do that."

Oh. He realized. "I'm going to get my stuff out soon. I'm renting an office nearby. Next week."

Okay, I said.

Then Saturday came. And he was up and down those stairs all day long, until the last knock came at 11:30 p.m.

"Sorry to bother you," he said. He came in, fixed himself another drink. I'd lost count of how many he'd had. Poured it from the shaker into a coffee cup and left.

I was up till 4:30 a.m. Sunday morning, working around the noise emanating from the restuarant and the piano bar.

Oh. My. Nerves. Are. Shot. All. To. Hell.

Pounding woke me at 7:30 a.m. They are remodeling the loft across the street. I want to hang a sign from my window and warn away any would-be-renters: "LOFT-DWELLERS REVOLT!"

I have got to get the key back, I told my neighbor Jesse. "Look at all this stuff he's moved in."

"Unbelieveable," Jesse said. "Do you want me to ask Bob for the key?"

"Would you?" I said. "I've got to go to Charleston today."

"Sure," Jesse offered.

But then there was Bob, at the bottom of the stairwell, with my key, again.

"Bob," I said. "I have to have my key back."

I said it flat out, just like that.

"Uh-oh," he said. "I'm in the dog-house now. I'm sorry I broke trust with you."

"It's okay," I said. "But I have to leave town and I need my key."

"I have to get some of my stuff," he said.

I took the key from Bob, gave it to Jesse. "Do you mind helping him?"

"Not at all," Jesse said. He's a farm kid from Wisconsin. That's the kind of people they raise up there.

Twenty boxes of stuff. That's how much Jesse told me he carried out of my apartment for Bob. 20 boxes.

Now, I'm moving. They let me out of the lease, YAY!!, after I called the police for the 3rd time for noice abatement issues and after I complained to the good doctor who owns half the downtown. He made a call and just like that, I was out of the lease.

"You need to find someone who has a mansion with a writers cottage out back," suggested a friend from D.C.

"Great idea," I said. "Do you know of any for rent around here?"

Chapel Hill is too far too commute, said my boss.

"How far is too far?" I asked.

"An hour-and-half," he said.

"Ah!" I replied. "My brother drives 2 hours a day in Seattle. At least from Chapel Hill there wouldn't be hardly any traffic."

This is like that Where's Waldo game. You get to help me pick a place within driving distance to my job to move to. Make a suggestion. Where should I look?