Copulation

I roll over groggily, tugging the ill-fitting blanket up over my head.  What’s that noise?  Even in the dim light of predawn, glinting through the threadbare curtains, it doesn’t take me long to assess the disturbance.  My roommate is having sex again.

This is the third gentleman caller my roomie has brought home this week.  And it’s only Friday.  I’ll give her credit for tenacity.  There are a few other choice nouns I could use, all starting with “s”, but I prefer to take the high road with regards to most aspects of our contentious relationship.

Reaching down, I find the first available object under my bed, which turns out to be a training shoe, and heft it towards the opposite wall, where the other sleeping area is located.  This footwear bangs against the hollow sheetrock with a loud thud, but the springy foam midsole causes the projectile to bounce vigorously, landing in the middle of the throw rug covered floor, as opposed to atop the messy mattress as I’d planned.

The entangled pair thrashing around under the sheets doesn’t even notice.  So much for that plan.  I don’t even think pulling the fire alarm could dissuade this horny duo.

I put up with two more minutes of grunting and groaning before rising with overly exaggerated furor.  I stomp across the warped, linoleum floor, muttering under my breath.  My bare feet soon transition to the even colder, cracked, tile surface, then I slam the bathroom door with aggressive vigor. 

Due to the thin wood this panel is constructed of, it only marginally mutes the passionate provocations in the adjacent chamber.  But at least it provides a visual barrier from the lude act being perpetrated.

Conceit

Having an ensuite bathroom is a real blessing; one of the only redeeming qualities which keeps me putting up with this absurd living arrangement.  The freshman dorm, a misnomer since my assigned building was all females, only offered up one shared lavatory, in the corner of our L-shaped floor. 

Considering the rusty fixtures in that open communal shower area, chipped porcelain in the narrow bathroom stalls, and scratched glass mirrors in the lengthy row of sinks, there wasn’t enough hand sanitizer, thick towels, or flip flops, to make me feel clean and safe coming out of that primeval space.

This semi-private abode, in a privately managed apartment complex just off campus, started out so much more promising.  More diverse lodging options are afforded to sophomore students like myself.  However, less than a month into the semester, I’m amazingly almost craving that mandatory, structured dorm experience from my first year of college. 

My current roommate is a slob.  Of the highest order.  And, even worse, she’s completely oblivious to the increasingly obvious hints I’ve been firing off regarding this lack of cleanliness.

Safely locked away, I look around this small washroom with growing horror.  I try to tidy up each evening, but it seems like a bomb went off in here since I went to bed. 

Most noticeable is the sink I’m standing at.  After I brushed my teeth last night, I put the dental utensil and paste in a mug sitting on a flat spot left of the faucet, which is my implied side, then wiped the ledge and bowl clean.

Now, this previously pristine white surface is stained with all manner of colored compounds, all related to feminine beauty enhancement.  Streaks of deep red lipstick. Splotches of aquamarine mascara.  Flecks of vibrant purple eye shadow.  Globs of pale goo, which could be face moisturizer, liquid soap, hair gel, or who knows what else.

Apparently, landing these random lads each night requires extensive bodily preparation and constant maintenance.

The source of this cosmetic collection is obvious through a quick visual inspection of the proximity.  Tubes, tins, tubs, and tinctures, which occupy the entire right side of the spigot, encroaching to the point where basic operation of the handle is inhibited.

This pervasion of product has overflowed to the top of the toilet tank adjacent, piled up to a seemingly impossible height, considering the doming and edge curvature of this hard surface.  I would recommend that my suitemate put her stuff in the vanity mounted on the wall above, but she completely filled this cabinet with all manner of unrecognizable corporal enhancement items within days of moving in.  

I’ve only been able to carve out a single shelf of my own.  Fortunately, I content with my natural appearance, and rarely use supplemental treatments.  Still, essential items like sun screen, cough medicine, and deodorant must be stored somewhere.    

Acknowledging a common morning impulse, I relieve my bladder, moving slowly and carefully, to avoid toppling the unstable tower perched behind my seated position.  I then shift back to the small sink, and wash my hands vigorously, a process which supplementally helps flush some of the dispersed debris down the drain.

Moving on to oral care, I discover a few reflective particulates have somehow become lodged in the bristles of my toothbrush.  Extracting these incumbrancers with a pair of fairly short and unadorned nails, at the end of thin but muscular fingers, I discover the source of the problem.  Glimmering glitter.  No doubt another contribution from the tramp I’m forced to cohabitate with.

​

Competition

Surprisingly, we do have a few things in common.  For one, we’re both student athletes.  Her nightly bedtime aerobics aside.

However, our chosen sports couldn’t be more divergent.  I’m starting my second year on the track team, hoping to earn a starting spot in four separate events.  This rigorous pursuit encompasses three separate seasons, and requires a year-long training commitment, to maintain both muscle mass and refined technique.

In contrast, my roomie is an alternate on the golf squad.  I couldn’t come up with a more highbrow, privileged, idle endeavor if I tried.  Except maybe crew.

During my entire life, I’ve never set foot in a country club or rowing regatta.  These posh activities seem to personify every weekend for my rich counterpart.  Such jaunts appear to often be associated with drinking heavily, and carousing with older gentlemen.  I’m not one to judge, but this seems like a pretty risqué lifestyle.

Originally, I tried to give this crazy gal the benefit of the doubt.  Our language barrier must be the reason that we’re failing to align on pretty much every topic since we started living together back in early January. 

While we both know English well, my slow southern drawl, and her rapid NYC cadence, make the alternating sounds in our brief conversations completely divergent.  However, even after I sent her some emoji-ladened texts, and even a few carefully-penned paper notes, suggesting a few simple adjustments which could be made to improve our residential collab, no changes were made.  Her lack of comprehension apparently extends beyond the verbal realm.

Dirty clothes remain strewn across the floor.  Dirty dishes sit on the coffee table for days.  Grime in all forms pervades our bathroom experience.  It almost seems as if her transgressions have gotten even worse since I called these disheveled acts out.

For a little while, I cleaned up after this monster, but that situation got old real quick.  I started spending more and more time outside the room.  But that arrangement is become unsustainable as well.  I can’t be occupying all my waking hours at the library, gym, and dining hall.  Plus, I’ve definitely been getting less sleep than desired due to this awkward, close-proximity, bedding arrangement.

I pay good money for this place, well above standard dorm rates.  As such, I’m resolved to get my money’s worth. 

I should have known this living arrangement wasn’t cut out for success, based solely on the initial hours spent moving in together.  The signs were obvious, yet I ignored them all. 

Absurd furniture, in terms of both aesthetics and quantity, which my new partner, supported by her familial entourage, transported in, through the aid of an undoubtably expensive moving company.  Even if she had the entire place to herself, there’s no way all the unloaded stuff would fit comfortably.

In contrast, I had a single large suitcase of clothes, with a few supplemental cardboard boxes of ancillary possessions, which I carried up the stairs in just two quick trips.

While her crazy cohort has long since left, and the most egregious furnishings have been removed, there are still lingering contributions from that stressful first day.  The ancient and ugly braided rug, with faded red, green, and white colorway, and incredibly abrasive feel underfoot.  This shared, central, oval covering is half on my side, and half on hers.  However, the floor décor selection was decidedly one-sided.

The couch and table, positioned against the main room’s only window; a large pane of streaked glass which looks out onto the busy thoroughfare below.  This communal social space was much appreciated initially.  Bathed in natural light during mid-day, provided the perpetual cloud cover cleared, this seating configuration provided a welcome break from my rigid, upright, metal, desk chair. 

However, the previously spacious setup has long since been cluttered with all manner of junk, ranging from party dresses, to glamour magazines, to golf clubs, to school books. Based on my observations, these items are listed in the order of usage frequency, and the pile seems to be perpetually growing.  These days, there’s not even a single, narrow, space to squeeze my butt on the settee, and I don’t dare leaving anything on the disorderly tabletop, for fear it will be buried, or even worse, damaged. 

My own bootleg wooden desk, created by raising up the small nightstand with a few bricks, and the sagging mattress twin bed, both originally provided in this semi-furnished unit, are my only remaining personal sanctuaries in this space.   

The final offensive display is at least on my combative colleague’s side of the chamber. Which doesn’t make this visual imposition any less offensive.  A panorama of Italian opera singers, each poster larger than life, and mounted in cheap plastic frames covered by chipping gold paint. 

I still don’t know the difference between Pavarotti and Pausini, despite the best efforts of my annoying neighbor.  Yet, I still need to stare at the pocked pale skin, and greasy dark hair, of these debatable celebrities, every day from across the room.     

Granted, I’m not trying very hard to learn, as this invasive sound was not remotely relevant during my modest, rural, West Virginia upbringing.  Without the earned athletic scholarship subsidies, likely a product of my family’s history of hard labor, farming the fields, I wouldn’t be able to attend this fine educational institution.

In contrast, “donna’s” clan combines Venetian hereditary roots with Long Island construction money.  Tuition costs were of no consideration for her decision to go to university here.  And earning a degree doesn’t seem particularly important to my study mate either, based on observed work ethic.  If one person’s behavior is representative, this deviant diva and her ancestors have clearly spent some time on the Jersey Shore as well.

I have no idea how our defaulted pair of unique individuals ended up at the same university, located essentially halfway between our disparate childhood experiences, located 3 hours away in opposite directions.

Over the past few months, it’s become increasingly evident how divergent the two of us are.  Slacker vs. hard working.  Outgoing vs. shy.  Messy vs. germophobic.  Partier vs. athlete.  Apparently, I should have done more screening of this individual. 

It’s now abundantly clear that the two of us are definitely different people with regards to study habits.  And dating promiscuity.  And organizational skills.  And work ethic.  And the purpose of the entire collegiate complex as a whole.

I guess I never considered roommate selection like a job interview.  Maybe I should have.

Cleansing

If restful sleep is off the table, then I may as well get some work done.  I have plenty of studying to do, but my sluggish mind is too slow to execute any productive thinking right now.  How about laundry?  It’s hard to come up with a more menial task.  Plus, the communal machines should be available at this ungodly early hour.

While the main perk of my new lodging situation is the private lavatory, there are other key cleaning elements which I’m still sharing.  Most notably, the washer and dryer.  Time to head down to the basement.

Scrounging up my dirty clothes, as quickly and quietly as possible, while the methodic thumping and intermittent screeching continues adjacent, I make my escape.  Just being tangentially privy to that vigorous activity, I’m tempted to wash my own virgin sheets.

Descending the concrete stairs, the back of my flimsy slides slap against this solid grey surface, echoing loudly against the walls of the narrow corridor.  I should have put in my headphones, but forgot this piece of sound cancelling electronics in my hasty flight from the apartment. 

Finally, I reach the underground dungeon, which houses ancient clothes washing machinery, a locked closet for janitorial supply storage, and a shared rec room with board games lacking pieces and furniture lacking comfort.  I push through the relevant door with my boney shoulder, since my hands and arms are encumbered by my weighty load.

Being a collegiate track athlete, with multiple practice commitments daily, I generate a lot of laundry.  Finding all the washers empty, I lift the heavy metal lid of the nearest one, then plunge into the plastic bin which houses my dirty outfits, and start fishing out various items.  

Warm leggings, for cold weather training, and short shorts, for indoor hot yoga sessions. Multiple swimsuits, cut and color ranging from subtle to suggestive.  Hooded sweatshirts, with matching baggy sweatpants, fabric in the blue and white hues which define this university’s branding.  Stretchy sports bras, complaint but constrictive.  Race day tunics, emblazoned with my college’s feline mascot, which need to be cleansed before the upcoming meet this weekend.

Plus, over a dozen pairs of socks, encompassing various sizes, colors, and heights. Somehow, these items always end up getting mismatched, misplaced, or mistaken, during the seemingly simple and linear 2-hour process required to wash, dry, and fold laundry.  They need to put a tracking device on these elusive foot coverings.

None of this gear smells pleasant, but at least I’m diligent enough to execute a few loads per week so the garb, and stench, does pile up.  In stark contrast, I don’t remember the last time my roomie ventured down here to clean her clothes.  As such, there’s a perpetual mingled stench, hovering somewhere between sweat and sex, which pervades our shared space upstairs, despite my best efforts with air freshener spray and incense lighting odor mitigation.

As I carefully sort through my apparel, creating one dark, high-temp water then rapid dry, and one light, low-temp liquid before gently fluff, piles, a few items of interest materialize. 

A skimpy thong, pale rose in color, but with some suggestive darker stains in the nether region.  Definitely not something I would wear, or soil, in this manner.  Also unearthed in this personal bin is a bra, made from a lacy, crimson material, which appears at least two cup sizes larger then my sleek, aerodynamic breasts. 

Based on the sexual deviance of the busty beast who pays half the rent, often late, the source of this lingerie is clear.  Paraphernalia which was inadvertently tossed my way, during one of the seemingly infinite string of passionate nightly forays with random male visitors.  I hastily toss these foreign items to the floor, far afield of my own possessions.   

I’m fairly anal about most things in life.  Having a regimented routine has served me well, in both my educational study and sporting pursuits.  This formality of process applies to even the most basic and mundane tasks in life.  Like doing laundry.  My own laundry. 

As a result, I keep the required cleaning payment with the liquid detergent; in this case, a brown paper roll of quarters acquired from the on-campus bank, duct taped to the side of the plastic container.  

Lifting this jug by the handle, I notice that it feels noticeably lighter than the last time I used it.  That’s odd.  The cause of this diminished mass quickly becomes evident.  The vessel is nearly empty, as is the sleeve of coins.  Both these were over half full this past Monday, the last time I ventured down to wash apparel.

As this combo package is kept in my room, next to my hamper, at all times, there’s really only one explanation.  My roommate apparently does launder her clothes.  Under the cover of darkness, using my own materials.  Which is completely inappropriate, based on my principle-based moral stance.  Apparently, others are not so noble.     

Pouring out the contents of the quarter roll, I’m left with 3 dingy metallic disks sitting in my brown-skinned palm.  Every load, be it the washer or dryer, costs a dollar.  Cussing under my breath, a rare occurrence considering my religious upbringing, and typically temperate demeanor, I realize I can’t even get my project started without scrounging up more currency.

A 41-minute round trip later, accompanied by much additional swearing, I’m back in the basement, and finally initiating my first round of rinsing.  During this wasted time, I reclimbed the 4 sets of stairs to our argumentative apartment, grabbed my wallet and winter coat, slogged 3 blocks in miserable sleet to the local convenient store, eventually got the groggy clerk to break a $10 bill for change, then trudged back here as quickly as possible.  Which explains the current numb condition of my frozen feet. 

All because of the theft perpetrated by my new nemesis.  My blood is boiling.

While upstairs, I had the foresight to grab my backpack, which contains a laptop, notebook, and headphones.  Though the fornication seemed to be complete for now, the loud snoring of both fatigued participants was just as distracting for focused studying.

Apparently, I’m going to be relegated to the crappy game room this morning, if I want to get anything productive done.  Granted, productivity appears to be subjective, considering this morning’s developments thus far.

After a half hour, during which I’m able to get a report written, and catch up on the new country album my relay teammate turned me onto, my cellphone alarm buzzes.  Time to switch the laundry.  And finish of the last dregs of my depleted detergent.

Crossing the hallway, I encounter the first person in the building today who’s clothed.  This must be another ambitious early riser, looking to get chores done early.  Hopefully their decision was elective as opposed to forced.  The clunky rumple of a washing machine, to the right of my own paired selections, confirms this musing. 

I transfer the color-coded duo of damp garments from one blocky, metallic, white-painted, device, with a door on the top, to a nearly identical unit, except the access point has shifted to the front face.  Before closing the initial dryer door, I decide to check the lint filter.  Per my cleanly nature, I’m unyielding about scraping this sieve after each execution.  It turns out some folks are less diligent.

Extracting the sliding screen, I find it caked with comingled fabric pulp.  The interlocked fibers are quite diverse in format, but are all various shades of a single color.  I definitely don’t know all the individuals in this apartment complex yet by name, or even face, but there’s one occupant who’s perpetually clad in this feminine hue.  My roomie. 

Pretty much any time I see her with clothes on, she’s wearing bright pink.  Fuzzy pants accompanied by a puffy coat.  Stretchy leggings paired with zip-up fleece sweatshirt.  Not to mention her late-night clubbing outfits: incredibly short skirts and absurdly tight tank tops.  All in various shades of pink.

This clothing clog must be of her doing.  Peeling the slab of fluffy fiber from the wire mesh, I’m tempted to save this pelt.  I could easily pin it up on the wall between a few of those gaudy, manicured opera performer’s faces, as a reminder of my adversary’s ineptitude in all things cleanliness related.  However, I quickly realize such pettiness will just lead to a wider rift between us.  If that’s possible.

Another hour, and another homework assignment later, I’m folding the last of my clothes, a one-piece sprinting singlet.  Examining my handiwork, I’m quite happy with the overall results.  Except for the two lone socks sitting on top of the pile, one shin high and navy, the other low cut and grey, which are both missing their mate.  Maybe my apartment partner stole these as well.

Capitulation

Climbing the steep stairs back up to my room, carefully folded clothing in tow, I dump the weighty container on the ground in the hallway, then use my clunky key to open the entry door.  This is the only metallic device I still use for such tasks.  While every other element of life has gone electronic, from car ignitions, to hotel suite access, to bike locks, this old housing complex is still living in the 20th century.  In numerous respects. 

After just 3 weeks, I’ve already given up on knocking.  If my bunkmate is comfortable willingly to shag when I’m knowingly present, I can’t imagine there’s much privacy left in our relationship.  At least from her standpoint.

Scanning the interior, I find myself alone physically, which is ideal.  However, there’s still an unwanted imposition which lingers in the space.  An incredibly commotion coming through the stereo speakers.  This vile noise is piercing, invasive, and by no means part of my daily life growing up.  Unfortunately, through persistent exposure recently, I’m now able to immediately recognize this racket.  Italian opera.

Moving to my counterpart’s expansive, yet incredibly chaotic, desk, I find the offensive electronic unit, then jab the power button.  Silence engulfs the room. 

Between the perpetual cellphone yapping with extended family overseas, excessive volume music of generally undesirable genres, distracting live video game chats with friends on the computer, and of course, raucous casual fucking at all hours, peace and quiet is a rare occurrence here.  I can’t envision a more relaxing ambiance.  Finally, I have this rented sanctuary to myself.

I’ve expended a surprisingly large amount of energy doing essentially nothing for the past few hours.  At least in comparison to my grueling track practice workouts.  My metabolism runs incredibly hot, which is beneficial for athletic prowess, but necessitates constant food intake.

Fortunately, one of the benefits of having a rich benefactor is our own refrigerator.  During freshman year, I kept a few energy bars and other non-perishable snacks around, but was generally forced to visit the dining hall for any meal of significant sustenance.

Now, with a minifridge sitting in the corner, with a microwave stacked atop, I’m able to get both warm and cold offerings, without leaving these cozy confines.  Unfortunately, the comforts afforded by this sketchy setup are rapidly dwindling.

I know I have some homemade chicken noodle soup in chilled storage; the last serving from a batch made in an accommodating assistant coach’s kitchen last weekend, carefully following my grandmother’s family recipe.  Someday soon, I’ll be able to rent place with built-in cooking resources.  

When heated to a boil, this thin, but flavorful, broth is a welcome offering during these cold winter months.  Also, there are the vitamin waters which I use to get my nutrient levels balanced leading up to any big meet.  Both those options sound great right about now.

Moving to the appropriate nook, watching carefully for unforeseen encumbrances on the ground, I open the door of the cold chamber, and bend down, searching for certain items.  As soon as the rubber seal is broken, my nose is immediately hit with an aroma which would make even the rottenest fish odor appealing.  What died in here?

Rummaging around, holding my powerful breath, trying not to gag on the emanating stench, I finally find my consommé in the very back, on the bottom shelf.  It’s fortunately sealed in a clear plastic container, though some unidentifiable black sludge now coats the lid.  Gross.  At least the golden contents within appear unscathed.   

However, despite my prolific lung capacity, a result of diligent physical and mental training, my liquid refreshment is nowhere to be found.  After over a minute of searching, I’m forced to concede defeat.  Closing the safe with thud, locking the rot inside, I right myself, eyes tearing, and lungs burning.  I could certainly use frosty brew right now.

This isn’t the first time my energy drinks have gone missing.  Apparently, these concoctions are just as useful for hangover recovery as they are in preparation for prolific exertion. 

After a few of these pricy drinks, provided by the athletics department, disappeared, I’ve started putting just one plastic bottle in the fridge at a time, keeping the rest of the 12-pack stashed under my bed.  I much prefer this complexly flavored concoction cold, but will have to settled for a lukewarm one today. 

With a pair of liquids, one piping hot, the other room temperature, in opposite hands, I glide over to my makeshift desk and chair.  Carefully taking a small spoonful of salty soup in my mouth, then washing it down with sugary slurp of fruity beverage, I sigh in contentment, and open the textbook I’ve been eluding for a while.  This day is turning out alright after all.

Just as I get into my study groove, the bathroom door opens.  And a tempest in a terrycloth pink bathrobe emerges.  Yammering on her phone per usual.  But this is the least surprising element of the developing proceedings. 

Following closely behind her is a man, who I take to be in his early-30’s, clad only in a towel, wrapped around his girthy waist, with the beginnings of a gut handing down below this cotton kilt.  Upon closer inspection, I see this rectangular swatch is my own; one of only two such large drying items I own.  Fortunately, the other was run through the wash this morning.  There’s no way I’m getting near that alternate, clearly soiled, cloth. 

This sketchy guy has one hand on his newfound babe’s butt, probing underneath the thin shawl.  I could care less about this invasive act, which seems to be a recurring theme in this borderline brothel. 

However, adding insult to loss, the other hairy paw is holding my bottle of recovery fuel, which he sips on intermittently.  Based on the condensation covering the container’s outside surface, this drink was recently pulled directly from the fridge, then moved into the humid shower environ.

This is the last straw.  I had high hopes for a self-selected, shared, living experience.  Now, I’m reserved to the fact that my novice character assessment skills are not refined enough to select an appropriate roommate.  Grabbing my rucksack in frustrated annoyance, for the second time this morning, I storm out again yet again. 

It’s back to the basement game room, where I plan to submit my name into the university’s dormitory lottery system for immediate placement.  There’s no way I can suffer through this living situation for even the next few months necessary to satisfy the current semester’s lodging’s monetary commitments.

In any civilized society, this terror would be charged and convicted for her multitude of transgressions.  Theft.  Plagiarizing.  Treason.  Prostitution.  Sure, a few of these terms may be a little harsh.  But they don’t make the damage to my fragile social fabric any less damaging. 

However, I wouldn’t wish this shared jail cell punishment on even the vilest convict.  My redemption will need to be inflicted in the virtual space.  I can’t wait to leave a reference review, on every social media platform I can scrounge up relevant to this college, city, and the country at large.  Good riddance to my coed combatant.