The Living Arrangement

My father’s relentless determination to shelter me from the equal evils of Liberals and male predators extended well into my college years. Fueled with good intentions, he soon managed to locate, research, and arrange a rather curious living situation that was all but guaranteed to promote and preserve my morality and virtue through the formative years of higher education.

When I pulled up to Lancaster House I was impressed. Located just across the street from the university, the main house was a solid looking Victorian, complete with shutters and flower boxes and flanked by ten or so “cottages” where the students lived. I sat in a small decorative room that could only be described as a parlor where I met the elderly Mr. & Mrs. Lancaster who insisted on being called “Pa” and “Ma.” They even referred to each other with these parental monikers making me wonder if perhaps they had actually forgotten their real names.

Graduation created several vacancies at the Lancaster residences, and due to the fact that I could not convince any of my friends to sign up with me despite the charm and convenience, my single name quickly rose to the top of the list to fill a spot in the “Carriage House.” I  thought the name of my new residence sounded charming, but I was more than slightly apprehensive about the idea of moving into a house without knowledge or influence on the selection of my future roommates. I decided to file this new experience under “adventure” and in the vein of Aldous Huxley, I packed my t-shirts and TV in preparation for my big move.

Lancaster House was built over a hundred years ago and has the historical landmark plaque nailed to the front porch to prove it. However, I soon learned what it possesses in charm, it pays for in the way of living space and modern conveniences. While the exterior was picturesque, closer inspection would reveal chipped paint draping decrepit buildings in various states of disrepair. I suspected that we actually were living in old slave houses from the Civil War era.

General maintenance of the property also left something to be desired. When we alerted our elderly landlords of the increasing number of insects found in our residence, Pa acquired an industry-sized can of poison with an attached spray gun. He would shuffle along, feebly spraying a fine mist over every surface of our little apartment as we tried to shield our food, beds and toothbrushes from the toxic shower.

As explained during my rigorous interview process (read: Ma & Pa gave me cookies to eat and a homemade brochure to read while asking me hard hitting questions like where I was from, what church I attended, etc.), there were a number of rules that came with living in this fine establishment. This was all laid out to us during the annual meeting Ma christened the “Fajita Greeta.” Each house received a handmade flyer informing of us of the day and time and a firm warning that attendance was mandatory. On the day of the big event, Pa would grill up some steak Me-he-can style and the 30 of us would cram into our well-meaning Slum Lord’s living room so Ma and Pa could lay down the law. The rules were as follows: no drinking at all (whether at the residences or not), no visitors of the opposite sex after 10 PM any night of the week, and weekly clean-up checks every Friday.

While it is part of the college student’s nature to reject all authority and boundaries, I took these guidelines in stride. I had drunk my weight in Smirnoff Ice during my senior year of high school so I was fine with a short hiatus from the booze. Considering I shared a 750 square foot space with three other people (that was in fact over a garage, no less) was not exactly conducive for hosting visitors of either sex no matter what the time of day.  Clean-up check presented somewhat of a problem because though I do not consider myself to be particularly untidy, I do not make up my bed everyday and I did not want to scrub toilets. However, once we realized that the “judges” were actually sophomore guys, we simply left cookies with a somewhat threatening note and we received the highest scores in the compound.

With so many tenants, a rent drop box of some kind would seem to make a lot of sense, but Ma and Pa would have none of it. Instead, once a month we were required to walk to the main house and personally hand over a modest sum in rent and then submit to at least a solid half hour of polite conversation with our elderly proprietors. If you happened to pop in after six in the evening, the two of them were usually already in bed. Not necessarily asleep, but simply dressed and waiting. As if the act of going to bed was an event that demanded an extensive preamble.

On more than one occasion, I was invited up to their bedroom where I stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. Ma would be tucked in the covers, clad in a beautiful nightgown, complete with long sleeves and an ornate collar. Pa would often be wearing only long socks, a thin undershirt, and boxers, sitting comfortably in a chair. The two did not seem to think anything was unusual about my presence or the utter ridiculousness of the setting, and after awhile, neither did I.  

My younger brother K.C. also lived in one of the neighboring Lancaster buildings. His dwelling looked very much like one of those ready-made sheds you see in the parking lot of Home Depot, although any of those would probably have been a vast improvement to the shack he lived in.

While my brother’s roommate was a year older, he held K.C.’s opinion in exceedingly high esteem and regularly submitted to his bidding. He made the mistake of admitting to my brother that he had done rather poorly in his studies the year before, due almost entirely to an unhealthy obsession to computer games. K.C. soon solved the problem by insisting that he put a pass code on the roommate’s laptop so that he could monitor his playing time. My brother would then use his discretion as to whether or not to allow the roommate access to his own computer.

“Do you think I could play for a little while?” The roommate would timidly ask, careful to never interrupt my brother or to bother him in anyway.

“Well I’m not sure.” K.C. would say, his eyes registering concern, bringing a hand to his face and rubbing his chin in contemplation. “You have that test in accounting next Tuesday. I think you should study for that.”

“You’re right,” the roommate would pleasantly agree, and reach for his textbook.

What my brother might have lacked in a genuine friend, he compensated for in the way of a willing subordinate. I was not so lucky. While my roommates and I acknowledge each other on a Facebook friend level, I do not have their phone numbers and they are not invited to my birthday parties. That being said, it could have been worse.  Only Gayle ended up hating me.

Gayle’s proudest accomplishment was receiving her engagement and senior rings in the same month, a triumph of love and academics. At any excuse, she would proudly hold up both hands, fingers fully splayed, to best display the circular golden prizes trapped on her bony index fingers. I suppose the expectation being that all onlookers would stop and gaze admiringly, much like perusing the trophy case in a high school hallway.

Her fiancé lived in another city, which must have been inconvenient for Gayle, but it was far worse for us. Gayle spent literally hours on the phone, and due to the fact that the walls of our living accommodations evidently held little to no insulation, the rest of us served as an unwilling front-row audience to the trials and tribulations of the long-distance relationship. While this can be unpleasant to endure at any time, it was absolutely unbearable in the dark hours of the night, which is usually reserved for a ritual I fondly refer to as “sleep.”

Maybe it was the crying, or perhaps it was the constant whining for verbal affirmations of love. It could have simply been hearing the same human’s voice for so many hours of the day and night- but finally, I had enough.

“I’m going to hide her phone,” I informed my roommate, a diminutive girl I usually only spoke to as the circumstances dictated; “Have you seen my keys” or “Do you mind if I change the channel?”

Obviously surprised by being addressed about something other than one of my immediate basic needs, Erin looked up from some horribly complicated Math homework that smart people who are stupid enough to be Math majors are required to do.

“You mean Gayle’s?” she asked.

“Of course, “ I answered confidently, feeling better about my plan with every passing second, “I’m going to hide it.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

It was a valid question and I realized that I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. I didn’t want to get in trouble for stealing, especially since I now had a witness that could testify against me if Ma and Pa decided to hold high court in their living room and I wasn’t entirely sure of Erin’s loyalties. I looked to Heaven for help, and was suddenly flush with inspiration.

“I’m going to hide it in the ceiling.”

Probably because our “Carriage House” was actually a sketchy storage space over a garage and was never intended to be inhabited by human beings, most of our accommodations were makeshift at best. The ceiling was an office style drop ceiling, complete with the square grid and foam tiles of its kind.

I boded my time and in a rare moment of telephonic silence, Gayle went to take a shower and left her cell phone, still smoking from overuse, on her desk. Hannah, the miserable underling that was forced to abide in the same room as the garrulous beast and who no doubt suffered more than her fair share, knew better than to ask me what I was up to. I barged into their room, jumped on a chair, punched a ceiling tile up and threw that evil instrument into the dark depths of the attic. I went back into my own room and laughed a great deal with Erin in a rare moment of housemate camaraderie and then waited for the fun to begin.

In about the same amount of time it takes Lance Armstrong to ride his bike around the block, Gayle realized her phone had gone missing. Still dripping wet from her ritual bathing, she began scouring the house for her phone.

At first, she was calm, the only sign of the building panic was a quickening of her movements. I must have left it in the living room, she must have thought. Or maybe, this is exactly why I need a water proof case!

But then, as if the whole thing had been stage managed, her phone began to ring. Gayle began flying around the house looking for the phantom phone.

“Where is it?” she kept asking us, her desperation growing with every ring.

“I really don’t know, Gail.” We said. “You’re the one who’s always using it.  I’ve never even touched the thing.” I tried to feign ignorance, but even I could not help but chuckle, infatuated as I was with my own wit.

It wasn’t long before Gayle’s little detective ears figured out that the ringing was actually coming from above.  My Benedict Arnold of a roommate soon ratted me out.  

Gayle, standing on tip-toe on a chair, her ring-adorned fingers searching blindly in the attic space above, gave me a look that can only be described as hateful.  

“Why would you do this?” her voice cracking under the anxiety as the call went to voicemail and there was a brief silence before her minion dutifully called her again. Erin was quick to point out that she never thought it was a good idea. I tried to laugh it off but it’s hard to be nonchalant when everyone in your household openly hates you.

I wasn’t invited to Gayle’s wedding that summer and I didn’t live with either of those girls the following semester. It just didn’t work out that way.