Notes on Charleston: the Bachelor Pad

 “What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.“

—Charles Bukowski

    I haven’t slept properly for days.  The new roommate finally moved off the couch and into the second bed in my room.  He wears a CPAP machine which roars all night like a tempestuous surf, and occasionally he pulls the hose out of the machine and it just screams air into the room and I awake in sheer terror.  Then there’s his phone…which he does not silence.  The damn thing beeps and rings and bops and boops and vibrates all night and well into the morning.  Most of his belongings stile reside tucked into brown grocery bags which he rummages through at all hours.  The noise is like an earthquake.  Not to mention the mattresses which creak and groan at every shift of the body.  The black and blue bags drooping beneath my eyes are so large I could smuggle drugs across the border and no one would notice.  I look rough and worn, beat and pillaged.

    The walls are thin and the wondrous songs of the calls of nature echo violently through the apartment.  Plus, being an early sleeper and early riser, my roommates movements can be heard in my room as if no wall or door existed.  I can hear them talk, I can make out every word blaring from the television, every note of a plucked guitar string, the crush of beer cans, the melody of smoke alarms singing the tune of yet another burned pizza.  When the one guy gets drunk and passes out drunk on the couch, I can hear him snore.  At times the young one will stay up half the night and wash clothes—the grumbling of the washer and dryer I, too, can hear from my bed.

    Aside from the noises, the clutter is unbearable.  I am not a clean person.  I’m messy and disorganized.  But I’m also not a fucking child.  There is a trash can conveniently located in the kitchen, though all the empty wrappers, boxes, and cans seem afraid of the damn thing.  They cling to the countertops and tables for their very lives.  When trash does go into a bag, it’s one of the paper grocery bags all the stores seem to use down here in lieu of plastic.  So all the time we just have these brown poke sacks stacked in the kitchen full of trash.  

    Another pet-peeve of mine is grown ass men who cannot cook.  I’ll wake up in the morning and fry and egg, toast some bread, and maybe cook some breakfast meats.  In the afternoon I’ll fix something simple like hamburgers or Korean short ribs, a sandwich or a healthy spinach salad.  While these guys rely solely on frozen meals from cardboard boxes.  If it didn’t come with microwave instructions, these fuckers would starve.  It all reminds me of college.  Grown men munching on pizza rolls and hot pockets like juveniles.  

    While there are no women to speak of at my work, and I have yet to venture out much yet on account of my schedule and going back home on my last day off, no suitable woman would step foot in this house.  I had the foresight to bring a laundry hamper for my dirty clothes and I also utilize the dresser in the bedroom.  These guys just pile their laundry up in little clumps around the room like mounds in a litter box.  There’s a pile in the bathroom, multiple piles in the bedroom, and most of the one guy’s belongings are still in plastic or paper bags.

    Strangely, I am the adult in this house.  The responsible one.  The only one who loads and unloads the dishwasher instead of piling glasses and dishes into the sink.  The only one who washes soiled pots and pans and returns them to the drying rack.  I’m used to being by myself, so having to deal with the quirks and clutter of other people is not in my bones or blood.  When I walk through the door at the end of the day, I am overwhelmed with this looming sense of shame.  

    I am afraid I’ve been alone too long to properly function living with other people again.  For years, all I wanted was a friend or a girlfriend to share my life with and have someone to talk and joke with.  I don’t want that so much these days.  Sure, it’s fun to have someone to go out on the town with, work as a wingman at the bars, or go fishing with.  But having someone 24/7 in your home with you is mind-boggling inane.  I might lose my mind.  Most days I long to hear they have to work a late shift and I won’t see them except for that twilight hour just before I go to bed.

    Maybe my view will improve and my thought process will grew more open and accepting over the following months.  But as for now, this is sheer torture.  One roommate was more than plenty and was manageable, but two is superfluous and overbearing.  I just pray we don’t acquire another.  There’s still an empty bed to be had.  So we will see.  Only time will tell.