Roommates

You know, I’m probably not the easiest person to live with. That’s not hard to admit sitting here in the chilly environs of my office, where denial is just a river in Egypt, and public pride is of no use. I’ve more often than not had trouble with roommates since I was first assigned one at the annoying boarding school I attended. Part of that trouble, I have to admit, is my fault. I’m a snob at times, who becomes unforgiving of quirks and tics after only a few hours, although I am loath to recognize my own (I used to snort). Someone chewing and slurping a bowl of cereal can tap into my basest instincts. If, God forbid, I am ever under torture, (not so hard to imagine with the current administration) all the interrogator would have to do is ask me questions with frosted flakes churning in his jaws and milk dribbling down his chin. I’d cave in an instant.

Its things like these that create unfair resentment toward innocent co-habitués. But, that being said, I’ve had some real duds when it comes to roommates. My first real roommate was at the above mentioned boarding school. He was from Chattanooga, and he had the couth of a drunk flamingo. At times we got along, although we loathed each other at first. His real sin, the one that had me hold a grudge against him through the entire year, was eating all the food in my first care-package from home. This was a deplorable slight, and I’ve still never forgiven him. Maybe a couple of rounds of therapy would help me here.

My senior year I had two roommates, and there was tension there too. One roommate settled things for me early on when he slammed me up against a wall and threatened me with a broom because I wasn’t keeping my side of the room clean. I ended up becoming friends with him, but kept away whenever he was on a cleaning binge. The other roommate wrote poetry, had a steady girlfriend, won literary prizes, and received high honors every semester. I hated him, of course.

We survive that year together and looking back I realize that they were good roommates. I cringe to think what they would remember about me. I sometimes meet people who knew me long ago and they’ll say things like, “remember that time that you ripped off the head of a frog down by the creek.” Now, I know, that I’ve never harmed a frog that wasn’t already dead, and that was in biology class, but the statement leaves just the slightest doubt as to what I remember and what I don’t. Note to FBI profilers: That last example is purely hypothetical.

When I was in Africa, someone had the foresight to give me my own living space. I really like this arrangement best, present situation excluded (note the disclaimer). But my incompatibility showed itself in other ways. On a long trip to Zimbabwe, I found myself very agitated by one of our traveling companions, an English public-schooler who made Gore Vidal look unsmug and humble. His refusal to get into the spirit of things—which in my mind meant getting tipsy on cheap beer every night—really got me down. We ended up parting ways, he and his girlfriend opting to hitchhike thousands of miles rather than endure my funk. There was a kind of equality in our spoiledness which made us somewhat more alike than I ever like to admit.
When the South African government turned down my second application for a study visa (this was during Apartheid and no American undergrads were being granted visas, although I had already been accepted to Rhodes University) I went into a small tailspin and ended up in Greensboro. This was not the best place to land after spending a year watching history take place in Africa. I rented an apartment that was way above my means, and soon was forced to find a roommate. I ended up with a guy who was the boyfriend of a girl I knew in high school. He would come home drunk and throw furniture at the wall. Once, when I was away, he had a party, and when I returned my room had been rearranged by one of his friends who reportedly had had sex all night in my bed with allegedly the ugliest woman anyone had ever seen. There was body hair all over.

So, the point here might be that its not just me, but sometimes it is a little bit me.

The last person on the list of roommates is a guy I roomed with when I was at culinary school in Portland, Oregon. He was from Atlanta and was somewhere around six-seven or six-eight. Really, the guy was gigantic. We got along very well the first couple of months. We shared an apartment in the oddly named suburb of Beaverton. We located a decent watering-hole and attended classes together, and we played one-on-one basketball where I would get soundly trounced but was able to improve my hook-shot, which was the only thing you could do against the guy. We were both in different stages of long-distance relationships, he was trying to remain separated from his wife, and I had just begun a relationship with Margaret. The telephone became a life-line.

The trouble started when he informed me that his wife was moving in with us. I maintained a “wait and see” attitude, but I was a little wary. She arrived not long after and, again, it seemed that it would be no problem. She was a little eccentric—she would sit on the couch all day and read piles of library books, however, she was afraid to drive a car—but she was friendly enough, ‘til she got to drinkin’. She was the first redneck genius I had ever met. It was a very strange combination, to hear someone talk about how “twawd the end of his laff, Twalstoy, only ceered abawt freein’ the serfs. Hun, go dwn ta store an git me a pack of Misty Ultra-Light 100s.”

About a month later, after hearing about her nine-year-old son day in and day out, I was informed that he was coming out to live with us as well. The kid had the brain power of his mother, and the eccentricities and insecurities to go with it. Plus he was a nine-year old kid with the squirms and a habit of asking just the wrong questions. But, I have to say, I made an effort to be friendly, and I was told that the kid liked me well enough. Never-the-less, the apartment was getting crowded.

I came home from work one day, and was watching TV, when I started noticing a squawking. I asked what in the world it was and was told that it was a parakeet that they had just purchased. As they told me this, a little fluorescent green bird hopped into the room, jumped on the couch, and preceded to peck me on the head. All of my roommates began to laugh. “I think he laaks yoo,” One of them said.

At four in the morning, the bird would start squawking. He would keep this up most of the morning, with his owners snoring obliviously in the next room. I awoke to this racket every morning, and it was getting to me in the worst way.

One morning, while I rushing around, late for work, I began to tie my shoe and the lace broke. The bird had chewed through it. I rigged some sort of lace and cursed a little as I headed off to work. By the third week of living with the bird, the couch that I used in the living room had been covered with little white parakeet droppings. The camels back was beginning to crack.

The showdown came over the phone bill. The bills were high, due to the length of time that we spent making long distance calls, but I let them handle the actual payment. I would give them the money for my share. They had been late a couple of times but it ended up getting paid eventually, and there wasn’t much more time left on the lease so I was okay with the arrangement. But this time, the bill never got paid. I had given them a large chunk of the payment, and a week later the phone was disconnected. I asked them what was going on and only got a passive-aggressive response. After a day or two I began to get highly agitated. They kept telling me that they would take care of it, but wouldn’t tell me why they couldn’t pay it and get us reconnected. Soon the situation deteriorated into silent stonewalling.

I realized that the man had a drug problem and I was becoming certain that this was where the money had gone. I ended up confronting him, not an easy thing to do with someone who is several inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than you. His response was to say “bite me” and leave the apartment. His wife, left to fend for herself, locked herself and her son in their room, and I was left with no choice but to go to class with nothing resolved. Apparently they decided to resolve it themselves. When I got home from class, they, and all their stuff, including the bird, were gone.

I threw myself on the mercy of the apartment complex, and was granted a month to find a new place to live. I didn’t have the means to keep the apartment on my own. Eventually, I found a place right across the street from Nike village that was a better apartment, and fifty dollars cheaper a month. My roommates were normal guys, with very little hang-ups, and I got along quite well with them. I occupied a loft overlooking the living room, and I could study during the day while they were at work (I was attending night classes at this time). I left Portland with the bad roommate experience behind me.

Those were the last real roommates I ever had. Now I have a housemate, but a girlfriend is a different category, there are bonds there that go deeper than sharing the rent together. We annoy each other sure, but it may be possible that all of the ups and downs I’ve had with roommates in the past were meant to prepare me for this one. I’ve lightened up a little, I like to think anyway, but I still may need help in the category of loud cereal chewing. That one, unfortunately, may never go away.