It’s summer term. This means that my apartment complex’s rent is cut in half and people flock to Provo for cheap housing. Each summer, I seem to get the most bizarre roommates, and this summer is no exception. At the time, I have a roommate who is very similar to Napoleon Bonaparte, a roommate who is from Finland, a roommate from Southern California, and a roommate who smokes.
The roommate who smokes (Andrew) thinks that if he bathes himself in enough Axe nobody will ever realize that he smokes a pack a day. Apparently he doesn’t realize that Axe does nothing to cover the odor of smoke, but makes it smell like prepubescent teens who smoke. When he first moved in he confided in me that he smoked, but don’t worry because he smokes before he goes to work and changes before he comes home, so I didn’t think that it would be too much of a problem.
Andrew started to come home smelling less like tobacco and more like marijuana, and he would laze about on the couch and play Guitar Hero while eating Cheetos. I immediately told him that he reeked of pot, but he denied it and continued on with his munchies. After his batteries died in his guitar, he decided to follow me around the apartment and try to get a conversation out of me. I, being the ice queen that I am, would give him one word answers or would text through our conversation, hoping he would catch that I wasn’t in the mood for talking. He continued to follow me around until I left the apartment to sit in the park and read.
Andrew, thinking that I am his best friend, asked me to pick up his friend (Joel) who was just kicked out of his apartment… in Colorado. I have issues telling people, “no,” so I told him I would think about it and I would get back to him. Somehow, this translated to Andrew that I would pick his friend up from Colorado and I would be doing it over the weekend. He let me know that he would pay for all the gas and that he was going to pay me for driving, but I never had intentions to go. The thought of being trapped in the cab of my truck with this high, game junkie made me want to shoot myself. I finally lied to him and told him that my sister might need a ride out to Salt Lake and that she gets priority (which is true). Joel took a Greyhound down to Provo and crashed on my couch for the night. The moment he stepped through the doors, it was like a wave of smoke crashed into our apartment. I didn’t realize he would be staying on my couch because nobody said anything to me, but that is where he stayed.
After four days of Joel living on my couch, the apartment became nearly opaque with smoke. He and Andrew would play Guitar Hero with each other for hours with all the blinds closed, then they would go out to smoke, and then come back to play more Guitar Hero. Joel bought groceries for himself and cleared a shelf for them in our cupboards, making himself right at home. I talked to the other roommates about how they felt about our couch vagabond, and they too didn’t know he would be staying on the couch. I asked Andrew how long Joel would be staying and his response was, “You know, like til’ the middle of June. We’re gonna move in together because I gotta get outta here. Ya know?” The middle of June. I am somewhat intimidated by Andrew because he is my size and a hundred pounds heavier, so I just went to my bedroom to figure out what was going to happen to our apartment.
Andrew must have caught on to the fact that I was dissatisfied, and so he decided to ask all the roommates individually if they had a problem with Joel staying. But he managed to ask in such a way that made it seem that he would kill anyone who said they did have a problem. The roommates told Andrew that they were ok with Joel, but not for a month, and then he came up to me. “You have a problem with Joel staying here?” He tried to seem as intimidating as possible, and something in me snapped. I released my inner sassy-black-woman and told him, “Yeah! Your friend can’t stay here for a month. Your friend can’t stay here for half a month. You know what? Your friend has until Friday to get off my couch before I report him as a stowaway. And when management comes to see that we have a stowaway and they smell the smoke in this apartment, they will kick you out for smoking. So I suggest that you help him find a place to stay.” I am surprised that I didn’t finish by snapping a Z.
That night, Andrew and Joel came into the apartment completely high at midnight and decided it was the perfect time to play Guitar Hero at full blast. I came out of my bedroom and asked them to turn down the volume because I had to get up early in the morning and went back to bed. Five minutes later they had switched from Guitar Hero to sound bites from Beavis and Butthead. I don’t do well when people disturb my beauty sleep, so once again I asked them to keep it down. This time when I went back to my room, I could hear them talking bad about me and how I was such a stick in the mud. After nearly ripping my door off the hinges, I stormed out and chewed the potheads out so badly that they decided to leave the apartment. The moment I heard them at the bottom of the stairs, I immediately locked the door, locked the windows, drew the blinds, and went to bed with my car keys and laptop hidden in my bedroom (because I wouldn’t be surprised if they stole my truck and computer, and then careened off of a mountain in pot-induced ecstasy).
The next morning, I woke up early with the urge to blast Lady Gaga and do dishes as loud as possible. Joel tried to pretend that he wasn’t affected but I could see that he was awake and bothered. I then decided to open all the windows in the house to let as much sunshine as possible. Joel let out an exasperated groan, stuck his head inside of his pillow case, and tried desperately to plug out all the noise from the kitchen by sticking assorted nuts into his ears. I kept the music playing for three hours, and then took off for class.
Later that night, Joel decided to confront me about my morning shenanigans. Mostly, he wanted to find out if I had problems with him and if I was blasting music to get him out of the house. “I was up early, and the dishes needed to be done. I listen to music when I do dishes. Sorry if it disturbed you.” He told me he was leaving the next morning at five and I would never have to see him again.
The next morning, he was gone… but all of his stuff remained. None of his groceries had been packed up, and I knew he was going to sleep on our couch again, but he probably was going to sneak in and sleep on the couch and then leave before anyone got up. So when I got back home, I decided to open the blinds and stay in the front room until he came back. Around midnight, I saw him hiding behind a tree outside, waiting for me to go to bed. I stayed up, waiting, until he came in. He smoked about three cigarettes and walked around the block four times before he just came upstairs.
The vagabond is still here. If he is still on the couch tomorrow morning, then I will report him to the manager. But I also plan on shutting off the water when he goes to get into the shower, and playing opera music in the morning.
