The Random Roommate by Adam Kaz

My landlord Enid lived above my garden unit in a tchotchke-coated little old lady apartment which I had never visited until that fall evening. A Sunday. On her kitchen table were placemats of art nouveau nymphs and salt and pepper shakers fashioned like bowling pins. She handed me a coffee mug in the shape of a cartoon character and said, “I hope this is good.” I didn’t say how I like my coffee, so on her own volition Enid put in lots of cream and lots of sugar.

“It was nice to see your text,” I said, lying. “We don’t talk enough.”

“Yes,” she said and played with her bracelet.

We were silent for a period. At last I offered the obvious question. “Why did you ask me not to bring Dan?”

“I want to talk to you about something that might make your roommate uncomfortable,” she said hesitantly.

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Enid cleared her throat. “Are you two getting along?”

“Sure. I mean we don’t see much of each other. Dan works at home, I work in the Loop. We mostly do our own thing, but we get along fine.”

Her complexion darkened. “And he’s never said anything strange or . . . uh . . . violent to you?” I probably looked confused because End explained, “Sometimes when he’s working from home I hear things.”

“Like what?”

“Like talking, I hear him talking,” she said, then corrected herself, “I mean yelling, he’s yelling, screaming.”

“Like on the phone?”

“No, I don’t think so. I think he’s yelling at himself, or into space, or maybe at some imaginary target. The firmament.”

I frowned with incredulity. “Like he’s crazy?”

“I don’t think that’s the fashionable term these days,” she cautioned. “But, yes, basically that, like he’s crazy.”

I was stunned, off-kilter, as though the apartment shifted forty-five degrees. “What’s he yelling about?”

“My hearing isn’t super hot, so take this with a grain of salt. But mostly he’s yelling about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. He calls you stupid a lot. He’s always yelling, ‘Oliver, that stupid piece of . . .’ I’d rather not say the whole quote, but you know what I mean. There seems to be some bubbling resentment in him that explodes every few hours. Is everyone in their twenties so angry? You seem normal. Are you?”

“Yes, I think so. And Dan always seems normal to me, so calm. I’ve only known him a few months, but . . . Jesus.”

“Maybe he’s one of those uptight people who are so uptight they work doubly hard to appear normal, and so they seem doubly normal even though they’re terribly neurotic.”

“Like he’s masking?”

“I think that is the fashionable term these days, yes.”

When I returned to the apartment Dan was on the couch playing a first-person shooter game. A blanket wrapped around him like a cloak, concealing the Xbox controller and turning him into a pyramid.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, then returned to playing. 

“How are you doing?” I hoped my voice didn’t betray my nervousness.

“Work was work. Now I’m chilling. You?”

“Good, good.” I wanted to say more but could think of nothing. I went to my room.

For the next week a self-conscious jittery dread settled into the apartment. I felt aware constantly that nearby rested someone summoning all sorts of covert nasty thoughts in my direction. Any evidence of Dan’s presence (his clothes in the washer, the video game sounds from the other room) generated in me spasms of hatred. 

At the same time, though, I wanted desperately for Dan to like me, to forgive me for whatever sin or sins compelled the disapproval. So while I despised his fakiness, I became disingenuous myself, more friendly, more attentive, though only to mollify his weird loathing. Our reconciliation, I thought, would return things to normal. To that end I tried on several occasions to engage Dan.

“Hey dude, Sebastian Maniscalco is coming to Chicago,” I said when he was cooking at the stove. “Aren’t you a fan? Wanna go?”

“Nah,” he replied. “Trying to save money.”

I asked about his video games, his family, everything. And always he replied with the brief comments of someone who just works here. His quietness, which I once interpreted as cool, now came off bitter and suspicious.

On Wednesday I stopped by Enid’s to see if things had improved.

“He’s calling you pretentious now, and he wants to do stuff to your toothbrush.”

I bought a new toothbrush but left the old one in the bathroom, as a decoy. My real toothbrush I hid in a drawer and carried to the bathroom whenever I needed it. Walking my toothbrush Thursday evening, with gunfire coming from the living room, I decided something needed to be done.

The next morning, as I approached the front door, I stopped and looked over to Dan at his desk.

“Hey, do you have a minute?”

He finished typing something and turned his office chair to me. “Sure, what’s up?”

“I’ve been getting the feeling lately that you don’t like me very much.” I was certain I would die, my heart was racing so fast. “I don’t know why. But if there’s beef between us, please let me know what’s up. I like you. You’re a cool guy. Whatever I’ve done to upset you, I promise I’m sorry.”

But Dan just looked confused. He chuckled mildly. “No, dude, we’re fine. I’m not even sure what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, great.”

The relief lasted a few moments. Long enough for me to leave the apartment and walk to the train. Once I was on the Pink Line doubt multiplied like amoebas, and a needling question returned. What if he lied?

After work I stopped by Enid’s again. “I think you should hide the knives,” she advised.

Adam Kaz

Image by Christiana from Pixabay – silhouette of a computer gamer’s head against a bright coloured screen.