I suspect that most of us have shared living space with a roommate at some point or another. I count myself among the fortunate in that mine was a pleasant experience.
I’ve heard stories about roommate situations- some were hilarious, others were downright disturbing. A friend recently informed: “I think I’m going to divorce my roommate”. Huh? I didn’t know what to say. Will lawyers be involved?
I once knew a young lady, Kristen, who was at her wits end. One day Kristen announced the following:
"I’ve about had it with Wendy. She NEVER puts the dishes in the dishwasher, she leaves her clothes all over the floor and, I can’t prove it but, I think she slept with my boyfriend. I’m sick and tired of her banging around when she comes in at 4am! And she always leaves her TV on!"
Judging by the complaint ranking I’m not quite sure that Kristen’s concerns are in the correct order.
I had a roommate who was a porn fanatic. Thank God my mom always gave advance notice and never randomly popped in. I’m forever thankful that I had lead-time to politely ask that my roommate stow his scattered collection of “films”. Mom understood that guys would be guys but I’m fairly certain that seeing titles such as “Anal Intruders 7“, “The People’s Republic of Poon-tang” and “Penitentiary Penetration” would have tested her “coolness factor“. Incidentally, Anal Intruders 1 is the best. I wonder if the book was better?
Actually, I was the designated “sanitizer” for my roommate. By that, I mean that I was the house consigliore should anything ever happen to him. My job was to dispose of any and all offensive material in his room so that the final memories that his parents held would be those of joy and thankfulness for their baby son rather than to leave them in a state of bewilderment, wondering where they went wrong in rearing (no pun intended) the young lad.
Another situation with two other buddies who had a little too much to drink one evening: Friend #1 did the prudent thing and went straight to bed and passed out. Friend #2, however, decided that after about 12 vodkas he’d visit the freezer and retrieve a half gallon of double chocolate fudge ice cream. Lying in bed, he shoveled a few spoonfuls from the carton before passing out.
The following morning friend #1 peeked in to check on his roommate to make sure he was okay. He faced a horrific scene. Try to visualize giant swaths of dark brown stains from side to side and end to end of the bed then imagine what YOUR first thought would be. God! I wish so very much he’d snapped a picture!
I lived with a girlfriend once who suggested that it might be financially prudent if we were to find a third person to share the house. I immediately stepped up and offered to spearhead the search. Upon my first two presentations I was dismissed from search committee duties. Who knew that attractive young females could strike such a nerve with a girlfriend? They need a place to live too!
Even though I reside in privacy, there is a common area. It’s shared among 7 people, of which includes a nice young couple, a couple of male college roommates and a couple of random dudes. All of which, apparently, have a camera trained on my every move, specifically when I need to do laundry. They somehow always know when I gather my clothes in the basket, immediately prompting ALL of them to converge upon the machines at once.
The young couple usually leaves their clothes in the washer and dryer all day, as though their clothes will magically fold themselves and fly upstairs to their closet.
Often times, in the interest of courtesy, one of the other tenants or I will fold their clothes-- making room for our own laundry. I feel a certain level of perv-ness when I handle a stranger’s panties and bras. When I say panties I mean a tiny strip of cloth and a string. How do you FOLD this stuff? Is there a secret code only known to women? I usually just toss them in a pile beneath the other clothes and walk away feeling as though I’ve just committed a sex crime.
Apparently only I and my next door neighbor know that there are lint traps in dryers. I emptied what I thought to be a winter sweater or a small puppy this weekend.
There’s a side exit to the common area; it opens directly to the outside and, when left open during a typical stifling New Orleans day, it feels as though it were the gate leading directly to hell. It amazes me that almost no one in the building knows how to close this door.
Wondering if it took brut strength or if the door might, in fact, be broken, I gave it a whirl. Click! Smooth as silk- it worked perfectly and with little effort at all.
After the common area A/C unit froze I tried the neighborly approach and left a polite note:
To keep the laundry and common area cool and to prevent the landlord from raising our rent please make sure this door is completely latched at all times. Thanks!
This note worked for all of about three days. Upon arriving home to a hallway that registered about 1,800 degrees I tried a different approach and left another note that, I figured, might relay a clearer message:
I’m not an engineer but my educated guess is that ¼ of a pound per square inch of pressure is all it takes to securely close this door. It will keep the joint a lot cooler in the common area and save the landlord money for electricity and repairs so he doesn’t pass the cost on to all of us. Plus, I firmly believe that it will aid the United States in the war on terror. I can’t prove that claim, but I have a gut feeling. Thanks for your help as we work together to hunt down and kill Bin Laden and to keep our country safe…and frigid!
If my parents were still alive they would attest to the fact that my notes to the teacher got me in trouble at school on more than one occasion.
Another gentleman in the building hardly ever says hello- even if you say it FIRST! No big deal, just a bit odd. It reminds me of a time with a roommate who almost went absolutely insane about one of our neighbors who did the same.
Each and every day he would come in ranting and raving about our upstairs neighbor who shunned my roommate’s attempts at cordiality. My buddy politely nodded and shot a “Hey, how ya’ doin’ man” every day, only to slam into a brick wall of expressionless silence as our neighbor looked at the walkway. My friend became obsessed with this, seemingly, lack of manners.
One day, sitting at the kitchen table, I noticed our neighbor in the parking lot with a friend. I called for my roommate to come see. There, he spotted Mr. Silent Treatment conversing with someone. Neither of us knew what they were talking about but it was abundantly clear that they were speaking in universal sign language. He was deaf. I remember two things after enlightenment blazed through our dining room window as though we were watching the Discovery Channel:
I laughed until I almost peed my pants and my roommate didn’t talk to me for a little while.
Whether you share space with someone out of friendship, assignment or necessity, it’s a useful preparatory learning experience. It can be rewarding, it’s sometimes packed with comedy and, inevitably, it will be challenging at times.
We all share living space in a very large, yet small, world. Living under the same roof is but one study which prepares us for the larger stage.
For instance, I learned that Anal Intruders 4 was when the series finally returned to its pureness and roots of episode 1.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
