Act 1: Outrage
You sycophant! How dare you jump me at the threshold, quarter after 11 with your pseudo adoration and your complete shimmering veneer, almost coated with sticky shitty shtick! I have a sudden flashback of when Mrs. Hohman would tell us to stand in the door frame in case of an earthquake.
It's like a play! Almost as if Arthur Miller wrote it with the skill of a fifth grader and the attention span of a 103-year old vocal sea turtle, shell cracked and swimming/floating on shoreline! My apartment might as well reek of carbon monoxide, but who's Willy?
Act 2: Homecoming
It's 11:45 pm. His boots are soaked. Half due to the Chicago bite and half because his walk from the blue is 15-20 and the webbing between toes is starting to drip.
He unlatches the door.
"Oh, hey!!!!!!!!!!! You just getting home too????????!!!!!!!?????????"
Just getting home - [juhst] [get-ing] [hohm]: to arrive suddenly, and generally within a time frame coinciding in a timely manner
Apparently this is not the case. In an attempt to show that the person speaking shares-in-the-14-hour-work-day, the person is obviously lying. If it was the case, the living room would not have her dinner (finished and probably well-cooked), her homework, and two beers deep while watching syndicated cop dramas.
But it does not really matter to him. He grunts and heaves his satchel onto his desk, knocking over a book and a bottle opener. Destination - bed, shower, beer. ETA - as soon as possible.
Another grunt and he is in the hallway. Almost to his room. Almost. And then.
"Oh hey, just a heads up, I had one of your beers. Sorry man, I just had to have one."
Flapping at the wind with helicopter arms, he's trying to make it to the fridge. Trying to see. Needs to know. Yes, he confirms it - the last beer is not there.
Act 3: Turn the key
He is now in the shower. The steam is rising high in the isolated space. Arthur Miller style. Only substituting waiting for death with sleeping, and the search for life fullfillment with being content to end the day with a frothy beverage. Both of which have escaped both Lohman and Spanner.
91 days until move out.
THE END
(Editor's note: This was not meant to be depressing, as it was a character study in the WHAT IN GOD'S GREEN EARTH IS WRONG WITH MY ROOMMATE sort of way. She's a nice girl, just out to lunch. Constantly)
2.24.2009
dʒʌst
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Diagnosis: Sycophantic Curmudgeon
ReplyDeletePrescription: Assault by Discomfit
Directive:
Every morning leave a small dish filled with a condiment somewhere semi-hidden in the apartment. After 7 or 8 of them appear, the "live-in illness" will request an explanation, whereupon you say, "Eh."
Simultaneously, you drape an article of clothing over the back of every piece of furniture. Every one. This is important.
When asked to explain what your couture is doing spread around the place, wait at least 30 full, silent, beautiful seconds before turning to her and saying, "You know, just letting them breathe."
Also, do sit-ups and push-ups as often as possible on the floor between her and whatever TV show she is watching.
AND NEVER APOLOGIZE.
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