March 24, 2002 | 6:19 PM

This morning the landlord calls. He leaves the following message on the answering machine.

Hi this is Achmed from Beta Management. I want to show a prospective tenant the apartment. I�m on my way up.

John, Jenn, and I are all moving out in September. Jenn is getting a place with another friend, and John and I are (for the first time ever) going to have our own one bedroom apartment. Right now we are just trying to raise the money for the down payment. Over the next couple months we�ll begin looking.

The landlord is not supposed to know that I live here, because if he knew there were three people instead of two, he would raise the (already overpriced) rent astronomically.

When he calls, I am the only one in the apartment. Having participated in an evening of debacuchery with Suki, I have just woken up and am still wearing peppermint candy pajama bottoms and a bra. My hair is matted and yester-night�s lipstick is still smeared across my mouth (I was too drunk to take it off.)

I stand in the middle of the foyer, biting my nails, my addled brain attempting to come up with some explanation as to why I�m here all by myself.

There is a knock on the door.

I freeze.

There is another knock, and then I hear a key turning.

I duck into the bathroom, turn on the shower, rip off my clothes and jump in, praying that Achmed isn�t stupid enough or rude enough to fling open the door, revealing my non-lease signing self sporting nothing but a flabby birthday suit.

I crouch naked and shivering with fright in the bath tub for upwards of half an hour until I am sure they have left.

See. I still have all these residual homelessness issues. It�s like some mild form of post traumatic stress disorder and I�m always terrified that someone is going to come and take away my apartment from me.

Expect a SAGA update tomorrow.