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08 November 05.
If I were ever to write a comedy, it would be about finding roommates. It's the perfect setup: a long string of mismatched characters show up at your house and try to impress you with how well-matched they actually are. Hilarity ensues. If I did write the script, I wouldn't actually have to write in the sense of inventing original content, but would just take a transcript.
[Applicant is a white female, maybe 27. People passing in and out while I was interviewing her insisted that she was trying to flirt with me, but I missed it entirely.]
Me: So, what was your worst roommate experience?
Her: Well, there was this guy, I mean, he was nice enough most of the time, but sometimes he would just seriously lose his temper. He's just all-out yell at the TV during sports. Sometimes when we told him to wash the dishes he'd left in the sink for a month, he would throw things.
Me: I can see how that would be pretty unpleasant.
Her: Well, it got unsafe sometimes too. We were right by a Chili's, and sometimes people would park in his space. He'd leave them a note to come to his apartment. So people would come up to our address—_my_ address, and he'd tell them that they owed him fifty bucks an hour for parking in his spot.
Me: People would actually go to an address posted on their windshield?
Her: Yeah, so I have this not-so-bright person standing at my door, yelling at my roommate, and my roommate is yelling back, and you can imagine I'm a little scared.
Me: Yeah, this guy's gotta go. How long were you with this ass?
Her: Um, three years. [commences sobbing.]
[Applicant is a white male, about 20. His phone message turned us off, because he sounded like the perfect stereotype of the stoner.
Him: Yeah, um, I saw your roommate wanted ad. [pause] So, um, is that still open, `cause, uh, I'm lookin' for a place. [pause] Gimme a call, at [phone number].
We didn't call back. Fortunately, he left a message again. The third time, I picked up, because we were expecting Thai food and it could have been a lost delivery guy. Within five minutes of giving applicant our address, he was at the door.]
Me: So what brings you to sunny LA?
Him: Well, my wife and I left our apartment in Seattle last month, because, uh, our roommate was a heroin addict and he kept stealing—I mean, that's not us, and our landlord can give you a pretty good recommendation. We're clean. [pause] But our roommate was pretty bad.
Me: Your wife? You seem pretty young.
Him: Yeah, well, we found out that she's pregnant a few months ago.
Me: Would she be moving in with you?
Him: Uh. [Pause] No. Now she's at her parents' house in Las Vegas, and I'm here in LA, y'know, trying to find a job and an apartment. I guess she'd mostly be living there.
Me: How's the job search going?
Him: Well, I just got back from a job interview for a manager position at the Barnes and Noble. Yeah.
Me: That's the sort of thing you were doing in Seattle?
Him: No, but the interview went pretty well.
[Rustling at the door. The Thai food arrives and various roommates begin laying out containers on the table by the kitchen.]
Me: Well, I guess I'll let you know about things. Good luck getting things together with your wife and all. I wish I could help you out more.
Him: OK, thanks.
[He stands up, and sort of inspects the Thai food. He lingers a little.]
Me: Um, would you like some drunken noodles?
Him: Yeah, I haven't eaten all day!
[I'm not sure how this one ends, but it took under an hour to get him out of the house. I did feel bad for the guy, but there was no way he was going to be our roommate.]
Leave your own in the comments, people, because I know each and every one of you has a story that can top these.
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Replies: 3 comments
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on Tuesday, November 8th, MK said
Applicant (MM) is 24, male, everything was going fine but when I showed him the room it went something like this--
MM: Hmm, this might do.
MK: What's wrong?
MM: Well there's not really so much wallspace.
MK: (Stunned into stupidity) What, do you paint murals?
MM: No, it's just that I've got a lot of re-CORDS.
[And he said it just like that, emphasis on CORDS, because, see, he had just earned a master's from LSE and we all know that in nine months' time naturally you acquire the poshest of London accents. For a while I avoided Sparky's because every time I went there I ran into this kid and he was cold whenever I approached him; now we just pointedly ignore each other.]
Then there's the all-about-me DNC campaign coordination assistant, male, 22-going-on-12. He asked _me_ to call _him_ to remind him of our appointment and was still forty-five minutes late. At the door he says, "I know it's a three-month sublet, but I'll only be here for two months, and I can't pay rent for the third. Sorry." He goes on to tell me that his job is "really important" so he wouldn't be able to help with chores. Ever. And I think my favorite, chatting in the living room, he tells me he does not have any furniture, points to the futon I'm sitting on and asks, "Hey, is anyone using that?"
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on Tuesday, November 8th, Ms. DH of Ann Arbor said
It's late Fall 2000. He applies for our room on Park Rd in Mt Pleasant. It's a beautiful victorian row house. We have maybe 70 people call about the room in the first week and decide to hold a huge open house. He comes in. He has brown curly hair. Very relaxed. Very. I mean this is DC, Lots of people came in presenting themselves as "hipsters" but the dilligence and nerdiness of those post-ivy non-profit/ think tank/ do gooder kids shone right through their long sleved t-shirts underneath hip baseball t's. But not this one. He was chill to the core. No 4.0 Yale Political Science major hidden underneath his now-liberated urban self. "What do you do?" "Oh I walk dogs." "That's it? You can make rent walking dogs?" "Hell yeah. There's so many rich people in this city, you wouldn't believe what you can get for walkingone dog. And I have a few regular clients."... and the conversation continues about what he likes about Mt. Pleasant etc etc. I vote for the DAI research assistant. My rommates vote for Mr. Chill.
One month later my potter's weel arrives from home. Uncrating it with a crowbar he asks, "can I have a go at that?" and tears into it like that crate was the most vile creature on this earth. Another month passes. Our sandwich baggies disappear. Another month passes and people are coming into and out of our house 1 AM, 2AM. They go up to his room, talk for a minute and rapidly leave. More baggies disappear. We call a house meeting. We decide he has to go. We tell him he has 2 weeks. It's one night after the ''eviction.'' It's 12 AM and I'm walking home from the office where I was studying for calculus. The road has a long curve along an elevated sidewalk. The perspective is strange as you walk down the road. I see a fire truck parked. Is that our house? Nah that can't be our house. Wait, no that is my house. It's parked in front of my house. Wait, smoke? Is that smoke coming out of our windows? Are those my roommates in front of my house? "Hey Debra. Can you believe? That fucker burnt down the house?!? He burnt it down?!?" And so I moved into a studio.
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on Tuesday, November 15th, ds said
was i interviewed?
and i passed ?
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