The New Roommate

 “Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink.”

—Charles Bukowski

    A small brown envelope crept from beneath the door mat.  I knew it all too well.  Inside was the key to the apartment for all of us transplants.  Four total.  There were two left, and I looked for the edge of that brown envelope every day when I returned home from work knowing there wouldn’t be some new stranger in my apartment.  Yesterday was different.  It wasn’t there.

    I went to turn the key to unlock the door, but noticed it was already unlocked.  Walking in, a movie blared from the television and I noticed empty grocery store bags next to the trash can.

    “Oh, god” I thought, a new roommate.

    Sitting on the couch was this mid-height, mid-weight, middle-aged man with a brown beard and squinty eyes.  I introduced myself and shook his hand.  I still don’t remember his name.  We talked for a while, nothing of interest.  He’s a sports fan, which I am decidedly not.  We took a shot of tequila and he spewed it out of his nose and all over the floor.  Before going to bed, I mentioned he could help himself to some shots.  Mostly I was being facetious, knowing he couldn’t handle it.

    To my surprise, I woke up this morning to go back home to acquire pots and pans, and noticed the bottle missing.  I searched the cabinets until I found it…2/3rd’s gone.  Damn.  I only had maybe four shots.  I grew worried.  Maybe he was dead?  He passed out on the couch about 1:00AM and I heard him snore.  His CPAP machine was left in the room, still covered in the plastic bags he carried it in with.  I don’t even drink THAT much.  I feel like I’m a bad influence on my roommates.  But then again, it’s up to them to learn to be functional.  And of all the things I am in this world, I am functional.  Not my problem.

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