Somethin's fishy about my new roommate - Part 1
- I made two major earth moving discoveries over the weekend. One--there's an uncanny resemblance of Ashlee Simpson to Talkatoo Cockatoo from Zoobilee Zoo. And two--something is real odd about my new roommate Debbie.
My trust fund barely allows for me to go out on weekends, seeing as how after rent, job interview tuxedo costs, and career preparation seminars, I’m leftover with only about ONE THOUSAND dollars of disposable income per month. As many of you probably know, New York City isn’t a cheap place to live and ONE THOUSAND dollars doesn’t go far. After getting the trust fund check cashed into small bills, I then bring it home, spread it all over my bed into piles, and proceed to roll around with all the hot Hamiltons and lusty Lincolns. It sure would be nice to have two thousand dollars to lay with but I only have ONE THOUSAND every month. *sigh*
About a month ago, I placed a call to the financier of my family, the custodian of the trust, Mother-to-Father. He had taken over the family bank accounts after the operation. I begged and pleaded with him to wire more money immediately. I was making dirty looks over the phone when he told me I’m just going to have to make due with the money I have. “Damn you!!” I howled. “Get a job! or a roommate!” he stabbed back. I slammed the cell phone against the wall. A flatmate? Hmmm...I’ve never considered that before. I’ve heard positive things. But I also heard bad things about flatmates. I once saw a television program in which all these strangers live together and one of them had the audacity to stick his finger in the other’s peanut butter. But I suppose if equal rent at my studio is 800 per person and I charged him or her 1200 plus an equally unequal portion of the utilities, I could buy enough peanut butter so I could stick a finger in it, lick it, then throw the whole thing away.
So I placed an ad on Craigslist:
**VGL hung, uncut Male seeking one roommate to share spacious studio in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I am extremely intelligent and highly respected throughout the community. You be too. Absolutely no blacks, asians, ex-cons, Native Americans, or fatties please. When you knock on the door to look at the apartment and I look out from the 3rd floor window to see you and you fit one of those profiles, I will turn off all the lights and pretend I’m not there.**
I received a sudden influx of inflammatory emails. If these rogue spammers were trying to make my Delete finger prematurely arthritic, then they’ve succeeded. Otherwise it was basically the same bore of a read over and over, "You are a fascist...blah blah blah."
Before long, a steady stream of potential flatmates with similar values came rushing in. What a great turn of events to be the interviewer instead of the one being interviewed. I was fair and just. I asked pertinent questions like, “Lindeman’s Bin 65, your thoughts?” and “Would you mind if I wore your clothes when you weren’t looking?” If they answered incorrectly, I would shout “YOU LOSE!!!” and usher them towards the door.
I was having no luck. One’s hair was too funny. Another’s chin was too misshapen. I needed to find the perfect person to give me 1200 dollars every month. I resigned to the reality that finding a flatmate may take awhile.
And then the buzzer rang. I rushed to the 3rd floor to look out the window facing the street. There was a person holding a satellite phone and wearing what seemed to be a black flowing bedsheet wrapping her whole body, a burqa perhaps.
It was Debbie.