Roomie

The sun had set and I waited on my couch, legs bouncing. He was late. My nerves were fried and I hadn’t eaten anything all day because my stomach was trying to rip itself out of my body. The place was cleaned up, including the empty room that I hadn’t wanted to set foot in ever again. There was nothing in there, although I was expecting to find some lost remnant of times before and have to spend the rest of the day crying or drinking. When that didn’t happen, I ended up doing both anyway.

By now I was fairly sober, and I should have known that the alcohol would make me more anxious like it always did. I wished I was like everyone else, able to drown away their sorrows in bottles of booze, but I was stuck being the sad drunk. No one enjoyed going to bars with a sad drunk, which was why I got drunk alone in my room. It only made the ordeal even sadder.

And now, I checked the time again. He said he’d be here around dinnertime, which I assumed was six or so. He was probably one of those real go-getter smart types that was so busy saving the world that they forgot to eat for a week straight. It was nearing eight and I decided to call it off. I was exhausted from the terrible afternoon I’d put myself through, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything enough to distract myself.

I stood up on shaky legs and loped over to the door, sliding in the chain lock. My hand dropped back to my side and I began to turn around when there was a loud banging at the door. I quickly put my eye to the peephole and peered out to see a man in sunglasses standing with an assortment of bags. His dirty blond hair, which was obviously a combination of failed bleaches and black re-dyes, was trimmed short on the sides and slicked back like a greaser. Thinner than me, he was decked out in black, pairing skinny jeans with a blazer. After I fumbled with the locks, I pulled open the door and gave the man a smile. I hoped I didn’t have anything in my teeth from all the chunks I blew earlier, but it was too late now.
He looked down at me and nodded, his sunglasses making it difficult for me to read his body language. Smacking his gum, he grabbed one of his rolling bags and held his other hand out of me, “I’m Mikey. You’re Frank?”

“Uh, yeah yeah, yeah,” I stuttered, giving him the strongest handshake I could. It was probably still pretty weak anyway, this guy was a good four inches taller than me and much leaner. He dropped my hand after a second and I hurried to get out of his way so he could come in. “Here, bring your stuff in and we can get this started…”

He nodded again and walked in, and I hauled the rest of his stuff over the threshold and closed the door. Making sure to lock it, I then turned around to watch him take off his sunglasses and slide them into his pocket. He looked around the living room at the shabby carpet and chipped paint job, and I hoped that he wasn't too unimpressed with the place. It was New Jersey, after all.

"Been living here very long?" Mikey asked me.

"Sort of, yeah, I got this place in college and never relocated or anything. You in college...?" I eyed the man up. He seemed young, no facial hair, no apathetic dullness in his eyes. Maybe fresh out of high school, or from a cushy childhood life.

"No," he waved his hand in front of himself as if brushing off the comment. "I graduated last year from NYU."

Well that was a surprise. He sure didn't look like he was older than me. "Oh, that must've been fun. Uh, why would you come to Jersey...? It's, it's nice and all but, New York is-"
He cut me off with a laugh. "I grew up here. I know Jersey is nothing to be impressed with, but I got offered an internship out here and it made me a little homesick, so I accepted." Mikey went over and gathered his things, sliding them by the coffee table. "Do you have anything to drink? I've been on my feet for hours."

"Sure, you want, uh..." I walked to the fridge and checked out what I had to offer. "Beer? Coke?"

"Honestly, water would be great." He made himself comfortable on the couch.

I got myself a soda, then closed the fridge and filled him up a glass, "That famous NJ tap water." I handed him the cup when I reentered the room, then sat myself on the opposite end of the couch.

"Thanks." Mikey took a gulp of water. "What'd you go to school for?"

That was a terrible question. "Well, literature studies, but uh-"

He cut me off before I could deflect the next inevitable question, "So you're an English teacher? Kids probably love all of your tattoos. The "cool teacher", you know."

Playing with the frayed hem of my ripped jeans, I shook my head. I wouldn't have gotten hired if I had graduated, anyway. I doubted that even a library would like to have me working there. "I didn't exactly get a degree." The stench of failure filled my nostrils.

"Ah, who cares," he said, to my surprise. I was beginning to warm up to this guy - anyone that was uninterested in my dropout was a friend of mine. "Do you have a job?"

"No, I'm... I'm between jobs right now. That's why I needed a roommate." I laughed, but all he did was give me a little smile. I knew it was pathetic of me not to have a job, but I was too nervous and scared to apply to anything. Working with customers made me anxious and I couldn’t be a salesperson to save my life, what else was there to do? The only person I was comfortable with was myself. I drank some more of my soda in my eternal awkwardness, then rapped my fingers on the armrest and asked, "What's your internship for?"

"Music production," Mikey replied enthusiastically, angling his body more towards me. "My professor got me all buddy-buddy with the recording agencies, and now they're transferring me to this sort of new record label. I'm being paid, luckily. New Jersey's not worth an unpaid internship."

I was pretty impressed by his accomplishment. I'd always wanted to work with music for a living, but I got shot down by all of my peers when they told me I wouldn't make any money. Maybe some of his skill would rub off on me while he stayed here. "Shit that's, that's great man! Were you ever in a band, or do you just produce?"

"I had piano lessons when I was a kid and sorta messed around with it in high school, but nothing happened with it. I'm alright just helping other people get their music out." He uncrossed his legs and continued, "This place is nice and close to the studio, so I'm happy with that."

"Yeah, sorry if the place is a little worn down and shit but it... Works." I rubbed the back of my neck, sheepish. I noticed Mikey had finished his water and quickly asked, "Want to check out your room?"

He nodded and stood up, and we dragged his bags to his new room. While passing by my own room, he stopped me by putting his hand on my shoulder. I stumbled and looked back at him.

"Hold up," Mikey grinned at me, stepping into my room. I watched him go inside and pull my white Epiphone off of its stand. "You play? You should've said something!"

Rushing in, I took the guitar from him and put it back down gently. "Just for fun, I, I didn't think it mattered...." Since I was jobless, I had a lot more time lately to start fiddling around with my guitar again. I wasn't one to brag, so I hadn't mentioned it.

"We always need guys coming through the studio. The more music we can put out with out label on it, the better. I'll take you in there, no charge."

I started backing out of the room, "I don't have a band."

"You don't need one," said Mikey, giving my guitar one last look as he followed me out. "You just need yourself."

I brought his stuff into his room and put it on the bed, which I had just fitted with clean white bedding. The whole room was white actually, except for the grey carpet, but I was sure that it had used to be white at some point. Mikey started unpacking his clothes and I waved as I tried to leave without saying anything else.

"Hey, you never know, alright," he told me as I left. "You could make a name out of yourself."
I mumbled an, "Uh-huh," and slipped away into my room. Closing the door behind me, I plopped down on my bed and sunk underneath my covers fully dressed. Anxiety swept over me. I couldn't record, there was nothing special that I could do. I was too shy, too inexperienced, and too unwilling.

My stomach started to cramp.

I pushed the thoughts out of my mind and focused on the fact that I had finally filled the vacant room. New memories would be made, and old ones would disappear. I would be comfortable in my own home again. I could forget.

And now, I could sleep.

Notes

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