Gobble Gobble

On this day of giving thanks, I have decided on the one thing I am MOST thankful for. Drumroll please….I am most thankful to be living on a my own, no roommates, no dirty dishes left in the sink. No movie nights that start at 2am. Living alone is pure bliss. Looking back on life since I moved out of my mothers house, I have had my fair share of really crappy roommates.

Runner up for worst roommate is psycho Adam. Adam was Hispanic, closeted and in love with one of my other roommates. He would wait on him hand and foot. Get up early in the morning, sneak into his bedroom and sleep on the floor until he woke up so he could make him breakfast in bed. Bought him all of his groceries. Threatened to commit suicide once a week and kept an honest to goodness hatchet under his bed. I kid you not my friends. While living with him, I feared for my life.

I’ve also had drug dealer roommates, roommates who would only scream to each other from their bedrooms as a means of communication. Talking was not allowed. I’ve had roommates who had sex with people from the internet. Frequently. Roommates with giant chalkboards on their wall on which they would scribble random thoughts. Thoughts like, “It’s not my fault.” “Don’t blame your father.” One time he even wrote his girlfriends name on the chalkboard over 200 times. Like I said, I’ve had my fair share of bad roommates.

By far the worst roommate EVER was my roommate A.R.T. His name wasn’t actually A.R.T. but as he was Chinese, and spoke no English that was what I decided to call him. A.R.T. stands for Asian RoommaTe. I will be the first to admit I was not thrilled about having a Chinese roommate. I have always had a bit of a sore spot in my heart for Chinese people. My prejudice started when I was about 12 and visiting the happiest place on earth. Disney World. We rode the rides, ate the food, saw the shows. It was heaven. Until Splash Mountain. At the end of the ride, your log shaped car travels under a bridge. On the bridge are squirt guns that very closely resemble fire hoses. Fire hoses that pump out roughly a half million gallons of ice cold water. These cannons are strategically placed for the humiliation of those dumb enough to go on this ride. For two quarters you can cause a small child extreme and lingering trauma, a distaste for all amusement park water rides, and possible drowning. As we drew closer to the bridge I could see the Asian tourists and think, “Shit.” Next thing I know I am being hosed down by said tourists as they shout, “Get the fat one! Spray fat one!” Two things happened that day. 1. I forever swore off all water rides. 2. I gained a loathing for Asians. But just the ones straight from Asia.

So in moves A.R.T. Keep in mind, nobody told us about A.R.T. in advance. Our landlord just decided to move him in. Ps. The landlord at the time was a Japanese woman named…wait for it, wait for it…Fung Yu. No lie. Her name was Fung Yu. Anyhow, I come home from work and it’s Panda Express in my kitchen. The smell was indescribable. It was like someone had taken a rotting fish, smeared dog poo all over it, set it in the sun for a couple of months, then pan fried it. I nearly passed out. After opening every window in the apartment, I confronted the cause of the odor. Within a few seconds I realize he speaks no English at all. At this point I come to one of two conclusions. Either one of my roommates is playing a really cruel practical joke on me, or this is a new roommate. I was hoping for someone to jump out from behind the couch screaming, “You got PUNKED!” It didn’t happen.

My biggest issue with A.R.T. was the smell of his cooking. I would walk in the house every day to a different odor. Some would make me want to vomit. Some days I walked into the apartment and swore someone had just thrown a brick straight at my head. Others would make it impossible to breathe, and some would merely make your eyes water. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to smell like this. I’d be known at work at “That stinky guy.” Nobody wants to be “That stinky guy.”

I eventually became a crazy person, and disabled our stove. Permanently. A boys gotta do, what a boys gotta do. Not two days later the smell was back. I didn’t understand. My confusion was overwhelmed by a sudden blinding rage. Where was it coming from? I became a man possessed. The stove was still disabled. The burners were cold. Was this smell karmic? Did the universe hate me so much that it would curse my apartment with phantom smells of kim chee? I sniffed and sniffed and followed my nose to A.R.T’s bedroom door. The smell was coming from his bedroom! What? How? What? Pounding on his door elicited an immediate response. Opening the door wearing nothing but white hanes briefs, yellowed from lack of washing, stood A.R.T. with an electric hot plate in his hand. I gave him the patented Chris Lavoie death glare. “You have two choices,” I said. “Either stop cooking in this house or I’ll beat you to death with that hot plate!.” I turned and walked away. Some sentiments cross the language barrier very easily.

A.R.T. was eventually evicted for not paying his rent. I would like to think I had something to do with it, but sadly I don’t think I did. Looking back at my time with A.R.T. I learned that sometimes the world plays mean jokes on you. Sometimes the world flips you an apartment sized middle finger, and says "Fung YU."