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Roommate chronicles / Renter #7
Jul. 2nd, 2003 01:16 pmThe names have been changed to protect the innocent LiveJournaler(s) who have dated this guy.
He was the less preferred half of a couple Paul and I were friends with.
When they broke up in the ugliest of fashions, the cooler half - Catherine, decided to understandably move out of the apartment because of the palpable tension. She asked if she could stay with us temporarily while she got her own place and we silently rejoiced at the prospect.
In the course of a single weekend, somehow Jack - the other half managed to screw up even this, the sweetest of arrangements up and stood on our stoop wet with rain holding a duffle bag and asking if he could stay with us instead.
Our hearts sunk a little, but the pesky "friend in need" fly could not be shooed away in good conscience. I am to this day unclear as to why he did not take over the basement apartment, aside from its obvious depressing and deplorable conditions, we assumed at least he would want some alone time.
He chose instead to stay upstairs with us - all of the time, sleep on the couch, smoke menthols and cry.
Now I want to make it perfectly clear, that I do not have a problem with men crying.
I understand completely certain circumstances warrant such an outpouring of emotion, death, marriage, divorce, the birth of a child, a damn good movie, injury and even extreme anger and frustration are all excellent candidates. I even grant that a woman breaking up with you is a completely just cause for weeping, but after three months of it, well it started to wear thin as wasp wings.
Any fiery redhead appearing on the TV screen would set the man off into a lurching, wailing sob. He would fall into my arms and moan piteously, I would do my best to console him, but after a few weeks of this nonsense I took to lightly patting his heaving pitiful form in my lap, saying "there, there" and continuing to eat popcorn and watch the Simpsons over the top of his male pattern baldness.
The thought occurred to me once that he was creatively trying to cop a feel entered my brain, but I dismissed it and chastised myself for being overly callous of a man who was clearly in pain, and happened to be excruciatingly slow to heal over this wound.
When the crying jags had tapered off to once a week or so, I broached the possibility of some kind of rent being paid if he was going to continue to take up valuable couch space. Jack listened carefully and soberly and nodded when appropriate. It was the most unsatisfying exchange. I had felt as if I had conversed with a metal ordering box at a drive-thru window.
A scant two days later he announces that he has fallen in love with a girl he met at the Renaissance festival and he would be moving in with her... you know because of the love.
We offered to help him move, knowing it was the only way to guarantee that it would actually occur. We spent a surreal hour at his parents house to get some furniture that had been in storage since his first divorce at the age of 21.
His step-mother insisted on gleefully pointing out the wild raccoon in their backyard with a Mason jar accidentally wedged onto its head. She and the husband were afraid of rabies, but didn't want it to starve to death so they threw rocks at it until they had broken the glass. The jagged edge mouth of the jar however was still wedged around this poor bastards neck.
I suggested casually perhaps they may want to call animal control and her Mary Kay smile darkened, "I don't want anyone to hurt my baby raccoon!"
"Well no, of course not" I responded and trailed off, "You wouldn't want it to suffer at all..."
A quick ten minute trip brought us to his new girlfriend's place.
It was one of those pre-packaged Mc-partments, shiny and new on the outside with a vague chemical paint smell still hanging in the hallways. The inside however, was a nightmare. She had managed to crowd six rats, two rabbits and five cats with bad attitudes into a one bedroom apartment. The sheer amount of garbage and clutter was impressive even to me, the most reticent of housekeepers.
The smell was pervasive.
Jack introduced us to "Dana" who sat at her kitchen table reading a paper and eating a bowl of Lucky Charms while one enormous cat lay sprawled out on the table, perilously close to her breakfast. Two rotund others sat by her feet, actively licking their privates.
While Jack prattled on about the convenient location, I cast a single suspicious eye on the cat on the table, who returned the look and flicked his tail lazily. With each down motion, the black furry tail would wedge itself firmly into the sugar bowl and out again, covered in white granules. Dana seemed far more concerned with the completion of the Jumble instead of the sugar bowl being emptied bit by bit onto the floor by her fat bastard feline.
With her last bite of Lucky Charms, Dana casually put the cereal bowl on the floor where the other two cats stopped their grooming duties to lap up the leftover milk.
At this point I attempted to extricate ourselves from this half-ass zoo we had unexpectedly wandered into by launching into my pre-prepared speech that was a thinly-veiled version of 'nice knowing you - thank Jebus you are off the damn couch. Please don't call us for bail'
I stopped dead in the middle when I saw Dana reach down and pick up the still partially full bowl of milk from the cats and watched her drink the rest down herself.
I smiled wanly at Jack, and stuttered out "I am so glad you are happy."
He was the less preferred half of a couple Paul and I were friends with.
When they broke up in the ugliest of fashions, the cooler half - Catherine, decided to understandably move out of the apartment because of the palpable tension. She asked if she could stay with us temporarily while she got her own place and we silently rejoiced at the prospect.
In the course of a single weekend, somehow Jack - the other half managed to screw up even this, the sweetest of arrangements up and stood on our stoop wet with rain holding a duffle bag and asking if he could stay with us instead.
Our hearts sunk a little, but the pesky "friend in need" fly could not be shooed away in good conscience. I am to this day unclear as to why he did not take over the basement apartment, aside from its obvious depressing and deplorable conditions, we assumed at least he would want some alone time.
He chose instead to stay upstairs with us - all of the time, sleep on the couch, smoke menthols and cry.
Now I want to make it perfectly clear, that I do not have a problem with men crying.
I understand completely certain circumstances warrant such an outpouring of emotion, death, marriage, divorce, the birth of a child, a damn good movie, injury and even extreme anger and frustration are all excellent candidates. I even grant that a woman breaking up with you is a completely just cause for weeping, but after three months of it, well it started to wear thin as wasp wings.
Any fiery redhead appearing on the TV screen would set the man off into a lurching, wailing sob. He would fall into my arms and moan piteously, I would do my best to console him, but after a few weeks of this nonsense I took to lightly patting his heaving pitiful form in my lap, saying "there, there" and continuing to eat popcorn and watch the Simpsons over the top of his male pattern baldness.
The thought occurred to me once that he was creatively trying to cop a feel entered my brain, but I dismissed it and chastised myself for being overly callous of a man who was clearly in pain, and happened to be excruciatingly slow to heal over this wound.
When the crying jags had tapered off to once a week or so, I broached the possibility of some kind of rent being paid if he was going to continue to take up valuable couch space. Jack listened carefully and soberly and nodded when appropriate. It was the most unsatisfying exchange. I had felt as if I had conversed with a metal ordering box at a drive-thru window.
A scant two days later he announces that he has fallen in love with a girl he met at the Renaissance festival and he would be moving in with her... you know because of the love.
We offered to help him move, knowing it was the only way to guarantee that it would actually occur. We spent a surreal hour at his parents house to get some furniture that had been in storage since his first divorce at the age of 21.
His step-mother insisted on gleefully pointing out the wild raccoon in their backyard with a Mason jar accidentally wedged onto its head. She and the husband were afraid of rabies, but didn't want it to starve to death so they threw rocks at it until they had broken the glass. The jagged edge mouth of the jar however was still wedged around this poor bastards neck.
I suggested casually perhaps they may want to call animal control and her Mary Kay smile darkened, "I don't want anyone to hurt my baby raccoon!"
"Well no, of course not" I responded and trailed off, "You wouldn't want it to suffer at all..."
A quick ten minute trip brought us to his new girlfriend's place.
It was one of those pre-packaged Mc-partments, shiny and new on the outside with a vague chemical paint smell still hanging in the hallways. The inside however, was a nightmare. She had managed to crowd six rats, two rabbits and five cats with bad attitudes into a one bedroom apartment. The sheer amount of garbage and clutter was impressive even to me, the most reticent of housekeepers.
The smell was pervasive.
Jack introduced us to "Dana" who sat at her kitchen table reading a paper and eating a bowl of Lucky Charms while one enormous cat lay sprawled out on the table, perilously close to her breakfast. Two rotund others sat by her feet, actively licking their privates.
While Jack prattled on about the convenient location, I cast a single suspicious eye on the cat on the table, who returned the look and flicked his tail lazily. With each down motion, the black furry tail would wedge itself firmly into the sugar bowl and out again, covered in white granules. Dana seemed far more concerned with the completion of the Jumble instead of the sugar bowl being emptied bit by bit onto the floor by her fat bastard feline.
With her last bite of Lucky Charms, Dana casually put the cereal bowl on the floor where the other two cats stopped their grooming duties to lap up the leftover milk.
At this point I attempted to extricate ourselves from this half-ass zoo we had unexpectedly wandered into by launching into my pre-prepared speech that was a thinly-veiled version of 'nice knowing you - thank Jebus you are off the damn couch. Please don't call us for bail'
I stopped dead in the middle when I saw Dana reach down and pick up the still partially full bowl of milk from the cats and watched her drink the rest down herself.
I smiled wanly at Jack, and stuttered out "I am so glad you are happy."
