Carpet Muncher

When my first roommate Carrie and I decided to amicably kick her out of the apartment in the fall of 2006, I was in desperate need of another roommate. Struggling to pay bills, there was no way I’d be able to afford the place on my own (a fun side effect of the life of a temp). I logged on to Craigslist.com, a website where you could find roommates, jobs, hand jobs, blow jobs, and slightly used IKEA furniture for cheap. On it, I posted an ad for my small windowless available bedroom.

“$750 Cute Room Available in the Heart of Astoria!

Hi, my name is Danny and I’m a 22 year-old gay male (you had to say you were gay so that women would respond as well). I am looking for someone to take over my lease with me. The lease is more of a rental agreement, so if you ever have to split, it wont be too difficult to get out of (please, I need a roommate!). The cute (small) room has plenty of closet space (actually true) and no window. But don’t worry, that’s never been a problem in the summer months (tombs like that are always a problem) with an A/C unit nearby (on the opposite side of the apartment). I’m looking for someone around my age, and while we don’t have to be best friends, it would be great if we had things in common (besides breathing). Please let me know if you have any questions, thanks!

Danny”

After weeding through several hundred emails, I began the process of interviewing potential roommates. Most of them were young, fresh-from-college girls, like myself, who had grown tired of squatting on their friends’ couches, and were desperate for a place for a place of their own. One of the main problems in attracting people was my lack of furniture. Having moved out to New York with only two suitcases, all the furniture my apartment had come to know, left when Carrie did. The more I met with these girls, the more their desperation soured me. “My parents can have a U-Haul of furniture up here in 5 minutes if you’ll PLEASE give me the apartment!” they’d say. “I’m really eager to get this apartment. What do you need from me? What do you want to know? Would you like my first born?” they’d ask. It was then I realized I’d never be good at hiring people to work for me when I grow older. The straw that broke the camel’s back arrived on my doorstep in the form of a mid 40 year-old Asian scientist (a far cry from her email stating age of early 30’s). After shuffling up the stairs to the apartment, she glumly stared at the tiny room and started sighing and stating she didn’t know what she would do with all of her window plants. I stood there in shock. How could she treat this gem of a room (to some desperate 20 year-olds) this way? She and I parted wishing each other good luck in our search. To this day I will always stand by that I dumped her first.

All seemed lost, until I met Erica; daddy’s Italian-Princess. She was short with a thick head of hair and an even thicker Long Island accent (which didn’t make sense since she hailed from Connecticut). She was brassy and in your face, a far cry from Carrie’s passive aggressive attitude, and she reminded me a bit of Nelly Furtado (which sealed the deal for me). Recently graduating from college, Erica had hoped to strike it big on Broadway. She went on and on about her crushes in the musical Wicked and how big of a lesbian she is. The deal was done, and Erica moved in the following week.

Within a week, she started to get on my nerves. It’s amazing how much free time you have when you’re an unemployed actress who refuses to find stable work on the side because it clashes with your dance and voice classes. I found myself coming home to a puppy eager for attention. “How was work? What’d you do? Do you want to catch a matinee of Wicked with me?” Playing 20 Questions may sound fun when you’re drunk, but after nine-hour workdays, it’s the last thing you want to face coming home. Eventually she landed a job at American Eagle Outfitters. Working most nights, I was free to relax in my own apartment without the hint of The Wizard of Oz music playing in the background.

What I’ve learned most in this process of interviewing potential roommates, is that a person will lie through their teeth to get what they want, even when it comes to housing and being forced to live through that lie. When I interviewed Erica, she seemed to have an OK relationship with her parents. Aside from the usual eye rolling everything seemed normal. Then came the phone calls. Like clockwork every night, Erica would speak with her family and as soon as her mother got on the phone, the screaming would ensue. “I’m going to fucking kill myself! Do you hear me? No, don’t put her on! I will slit my wrists and kill myself because she’s being a bitch!” It was one of those awkward social situations where you know and they know that it’s awkward, but you both refuse to acknowledge it. In interviewing Erica, I also learned that whenever she gets mad, she cleans. She’s a very clean person. The pile of dishes in the sink and dirty room begged otherwise. I wound up having to clean the apartment every day. It got to the point where Erica started treating me like the landlord.

“Hey Danny, it’s Erica. The sink is clogged…”

“OK…”

“Yeah...”

“Well, could you please go get some Draino and fix it?”

“Uh, OK, yeah….I guess I could do that.”

It had only been a month or so and I was desperate for this to work out, so I sucked it up and just let the drama continue. One night after hearing her complain that she always has to go to gay MALE bars, I agreed to join her on a trip to a lesbian bar. We wound up at Henrietta Hudson in Soho. The moment I stepped into the bar, literally every woman’s head turned and stared me down like I just made fun of Ellen Degeneres. I quickly made my way to the back to hunker down by the bar and out of sight. I downed rum and cokes while Erica attempted to score with the local ladies. Eventually I spotted a gay guy and then another. “Thank god!” I said, and I made my way to talk to them. Finally, I had someone to commiserate with. Unfortunately, even as a last resort, I rank somewhere near the bottom, as the two gay guys began making out with each other and subsequently started to ignore me. Erica and I eventually took off, depressed due to our lack of a partner for the evening.

Halloween rolled around, and I invited her to come with me to my friend’s party. Dressing up as a cop and Erica, a witch, we both went to have some fun. Unfortunately, lesbian theater lovers aren’t so great in new social situations, as Erica spent the entire time playing with her phone. Even after repeated attempts, it became clear, she wasn’t interested in getting to know my friends.

Things quickly degenerated from there. Erica got mugged for her sidekick near her work, which sent her into a frenzy for a good couple weeks. Later, she would get fired for mouthing off to her boss at American Eagle. Our last few weeks together, is when the shit hit the fan. After being fired, Erica confessed she was going to move out (after two months) because she could no longer afford the apartment and taking acting classes to aid her stalled career. She found an apartment, further into Queens with another girl, and I would be left hunting on Craigslist yet again, after living with her for two months. Unfortunately for the both of us, she decided to move out halfway through the month and refused to pay a full month’s rent for it, which would also cut down my time to find a replacement.

“I’m not going to pay for a full month’s rent if I’m not going to be living here, you know?”

“I understand, but you can’t expect me to find a roommate on such short notice.”

“Look, I’m moving out. I’ll keep my eyes open for anyone looking for a room.”

I decided to stick it to her in one final swoop. Getting the landlord on my side, he and I agreed that the remainder of the rent would be deducted from her security deposit. This definitely put the nail in the coffin on our “friendship”. Messages via MySpace and emails went flying between the two of us, both of us airing grievances over the other one as a terrible roommate.

On the day her parents came to help her move out, I hid in the gym. I didn’t want to be in there to help her take her stuff down and I didn’t want to fake a heartfelt good luck and goodbye. So I waited until she left to return to an empty apartment with the keys on the kitchen table.

Over the next couple months, I’d receive an email here and there asking if any of her mail had wound up at her old address. And as I shoved some of her bank statements into the trash, I told her I’d keep my eyes open.

DP