Monthly Archives: October 2010

At the point when my grandfather had pretty much recovered from his heart surgery, I got a call from one of my best friends from film school –

Friend: “Yo Josh, a couple of buddies and I have an opening in this great apartment in the C.C./Los Angeles area.  Would you like to move in?”

And as my Grandmother said –

Grammy: “Oh, Josh.  That’s Momma’s phone!  You can’t use that.”

– I screamed into the receiver –

Josh: “Yes!!!”

This is where making assumptions is problematic.  I assumed that when I moved in, my friend would still be living there with me.  I assumed that C.C. stood for Culver City — not Crime Central.  …and I assumed that when he said “great apartment,” he didn’t actually mean “little piece of shit with walls.”

So what did I do when I got there and saw the absolute dump of a place?  I signed the lease.

My mom believes it’s a self-esteem thing.  She thinks that deep down, I feel like I don’t deserve to live in a nice place; that my brain sees holes in walls, leaky plumbing, and angry Hispanic people with machetes and thinks, “Home sweet home.”

My sister thinks it’s that I don’t like to waste time.  That I drove an hour and a half to Los Angeles and thought, “Well, I already got this far.  Might as well live here.”

I think I just have an unfortunate ability to justify bad decisions.

– “No shower head?  That’s okay.  I like baths.”
– “The room’s barely bigger than my bed?  That’s okay.  Living like a monk will be good for my mind.”
– “The place is infested with cockroaches and termites?  This will be a great opportunity to use all that Raid that’s gonna expire.””

It’s either that or I just blacked out — because truthfully, I don’t remember singing the lease.  I just remember waking up in a bed going –

Josh: “How did all of my stuff get here?”

* * *

Once I was all moved in, another piece of information hit me.  The rent was $2,800 a month and my limit was $550.  Doing a quick calculation, I deduced that if I were to take the smallest of the three bedrooms, a fair split would mean, at minimum, I would still have to pay…

We needed a fourth roommate.

Now of the three roommates from before, only one had decided to stay.  This was Barent.

Barent was a 29-year-old staunch Republican whose penchant for eating was matched only by his penchant for weaponry.  I know this because when I woke up one day, Barent asked –

Barent: “Would you, um, like to see my bullets?”

I was like –

Josh: “Barent, if that’s a euphemism, it is way too early in the morning…and our relationship.”  {Pause.}  “…but given your stance on homosexuality, I’m going to assume that –”

{Barent cocks a gun.}

Josh: “Sweet lord.”
Barent: “Amen.”

Barent and I agreed to share a room, and to split it right down the middle – financially and quite literally.

Our room looked like a political battlefield.

On my side, there was an action figure of Obama.  On his side, there was an action figure of Jesus.  (No irony intended.)

On my side, there was a poster for Annie Hall.  On his side, there was a poster for Pearl Harbor.  Not the movie.

On my side, there was a twin-sized mattress.  On his side, there was an American flag.  Barent said he didn’t need a bed; he had freedom to keep him warm.

It also became obvious to me very quickly that Barent had Asperger’s, a condition in which the individual can’t pick up on social cues.  For example, I’d say –

Josh: “I hate you, Barent.”

– and he’d respond with –

Barent: “Cool.  You wanna go bowling?”

Barent and I began our roommate search simply.

Josh: “Barent, do you have any friends?”
Barent: “Does my collection of WWII memorabilia –”
Josh: “No, it doesn’t count.”
Barent: “Then no.”  {Pause.}  “Do you?”
Josh: {sighs} “Not anymore.”
Barent: {holding up his gun} “We could intimidate people into living with us by –”
Josh: “Craigslist it is.”

Barent wrote the first posting, which read something like this:

“WILL ACCEPT BLOWJOBS FOR RENT.”

I was like –

Josh: “Barent!  What the hell?  That’s awful.”
Barent: “Too degrading?”
Josh: “We need the money.” {then} “Oh, degrading.  Yeah.  That too.  I was more financially focused, but good call.”
Barent: “We can change the posting.  Maybe they can pay us for the blowjobs?  Oh wait.”  {Realizing this makes no sense, tragedy spreads across his face.}  “Oh no.  My dreams…”

I wrote the next posting and we started to get responses from the types of people you’d expect to get on cragislist: recently divorced men, a 40-year-old ex-leather bean bag manufacturer with three children, and my grandfather.

Grandfather: “I want out.”
Josh: “Papa, our A.C. doesn’t work, our tap water is brown, and I can’t sleep because there’s a dog outside who won’t stop barking.”
Grandfather: “So?  I live with your grandmother.  I’m used to bitches barking at me.”

When we did start to get some good responses, Barent would scare them off.  Especially women.  Example –

Girl: “My first question was about the parking situation.  I know the ad said –”
Barent: “Would you, um, like to see my guns?”
Girl: {sort of mocking his flexing her arms} “Um, I guess so.”

{Barent cocks his gun.}

Girl: “Oh my God!”
Barent: {to Josh} “I actually have tickets to the gun show.”
Josh: “Please stop.”

I didn’t do much better with the phone interviews:

Interviewee: “I’m excited to move to L.A.; I’ve never been.  Are they shooting anything outside?”

{Perfectly timed sound of gunshots outside my window.}

Josh: “Yes.”

{Barent cocks his gun.}

Josh: “…and inside.”
Interviewee: “Would you say it’s, like, a homey place?”
Josh: “Definitely.  You are spelling ‘homie’ with an I-E on the end?”

…and it went on like that.

I got so desperate for a roommate, I started going to bars, trying to get random girls drunk enough to sign the lease.

I fantasized they’d come to my house, thinking we were gonna have sex.  She’d say –

Girl: “Is this your room?”
Josh: {sexually} “Mm-hm…” {moving into the room next door} “…and this could be yours.  It has similar features.  The walk-in closet’s really nice, in my opinion.”
Girl: “Walk-in closet?  I thought I came over to…you know –” {licks lips} “– seal the deal.”
Josh: “Oh, awesome.  We can start the credit check right now.  Let me get the paperwork from my car.”

{Enter Barent.}

Barent: “Oh, well, um, hello there.”
Josh: {waving his arms for Barent to go away} “Not a good time, dude!”

* * *

Eventually we found two people to live with us:  an African-American and recent Harvard graduate named Nikki and a Vietnamese college student named Hai.

Hai was a nice enough guy — although the introduction was rough.

Josh: “Hi Hai”
Hai: “IT’S NOT FUCKING FUNNY!”
Josh: “I’m just greeting you.  Jesus.”

I don’t think Hai understood the concept of American humor, either.  He was aware of the whole make-fun-of-your-male-buddies-in-that-mean-but-not-really-mean-way.  You know, like how guys go –

Guy: “Wassup, cock face?”

But he did it totally out of context.  I would come home like –

Josh: {sighs}  “I’m depressed.”
Hai: “That’s because you’re an ass-hole.”

{Hai smiles, pleased with himself.}

Hai came out of the closet to me almost immediately.  He had to.  How else could he explain the anal sex he was having with another man on a bi-nightly basis?

I got pretty nervous for him, though, because I recalled having a conversation in which Barent said –

Barent: “Being gay is a choice.  An evil, evil choice.”

I was like –

Josh: “Barent, do you really believe that?”
Barent: “As much as I believe in the transformative power of Veggie Tales.”
Josh: “Well then, given your level of success with women, maybe you should choose the other path?”

{Barent cocks his gun.}

Josh: “Just kidding.”

Luckily, due to his severe Asperger’s, Barent never picked up on Hai’s sexual preference — not even when he walked in on Hai and his boyfriend sleeping together.

Hai told me that he recalls stumbling for his clothing as Barent continued to stand there, asking –

Barent: “Hey guys, um…you wanna go bowling?  I hear it’s a good place to pick up chicks.”

Hai was like –

Hai: “The hell did Barent think my boyfriend and I were doing?  Taking manly naps?!”

* * *

Nikki was fine, but when she moved in, so did her boyfriend.  It was like buying one ice cream cone and getting the second for free.  …except that the second ice cream cone didn’t clean up after itself.  The second ice cream cone didn’t even offer to pay for its share of the rent.  In fact, the second ice cream cone often ate food that didn’t belong to the second ice cream cone and then lied about having done so.

Those two fucked like rabbits: anally.

I know this because they routinely verbalized a sort of sexual play-by-play.  At night I’d hear –

Female voice: “Mmm.  Your balls taste so scrumptious in my mouth.”
Male voice: “They should.  Because that’s exactly where they are placed right now.  Both the left and the right.”
Female: “Mmmm.”

I was in my room like –

Josh: “This is really graphic.”
Male voice: “This is the best BJ you’ve given me in…at least nine minutes.”
Female: “You want me to kiss it now?”
Male: “In three, two, one…”

{Kissing sound.}

Josh: {shudders}  “Oh God!”

Aside from being slightly disgusting, it made me really jealous.  I couldn’t have sex in my room.  It would be like –

Girl: “Wait.  Josh, do you have protection?”
Josh: “I do.”

{Barent cocks his gun.}

Barent: “So do I.”
Josh: “Barent, for the last time, could you please leave?”
Barent: {laughing} “I could…”  {laughing — heh heh heh}  “I mean, I am capable of doing so…”  {more laughing — heh heh heh}
Josh: {getting angry} “Barent…!!!”
Barent: “You wanna go bowling?”

* * *

If it wasn’t the sound of the dog barking or my roommates screwing, it was the sound of Barent snoring — and Barent had an epically irritating snore.

It sounded like a mix of the usual snore mixed with a cat being strangled, a lawnmower starting, a small child and three women yelling for help on the Titanic, water dripping from a faucet, and the most annoying pokemon you could think of.  Over and over again.

* * *

But I think the worst part about my roommates was how gross they were.  They all seemed to live by that mantra, “If it’s yellow, be mellow; if it’s brown…dahhhh, Josh can flush that, too.”

They knew they were gross, though, because there were always notes about cleaning up on the infamous whiteboard.  Yes the whiteboard.  A staple of any twentysomething’s apartment.  Preventing the need for any real conversation or interaction and allowing each roommate to be subtly hostile and passive-aggressive towards the others without any real confrontation.

I came back from work one day and there was this note up there.  It said –

“GUYS, IT’S, UM, CLEAN-UP TIME.  THE APARTMENT IS FILLED WITH GNATS AND SMELLS LIKE ASS.”

And yeah, there were gnats.  Not just like, a gnat here and there you could swat away.  No.  It was like gnats of biblical proportions.

Seriously.  It wasn’t safe to open anything because they might’ve flown out at me like a swarm of locusts.  I just imagined going through the house –

Josh: {opening a can} “How long has this cottage cheese been –”  {upon opening it, gnats fly at Josh’s face} “Aaaaahhhh…oh my God!”

{Josh takes a breath to recover.}

Josh: “I guess I’ll have to throw this container in the trash ca –”  {more gnats inside}  “– aaaoooohh!  They’re in the trash can, too!”

Josh: {looking down}  “Damnit, I spilled this crap all over my pants.”  {Removing them}  “I guess I’ll have to wash these –”  {More gnats}  “– ahhhhh!  How did you fuckers get in there?!”

The worst part of the note, though, was the second observation — the apartment smells like ass.  Now obviously that’s an expression, meaning that something smells badly; but, I reread it and realized, it literally smelled like ass.

And not, like, that good type of ass where maybe you let one go and think, “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”

No.  The apartment smelled like that variety where someone lets one rip on the bus with the windows all up and you wish to God you could afford a car.

I never understood why my apartment was dirty.  After all, one of my roommates was gay.  Shouldn’t he have been clean?

And my other roommate, who NEVER did her half the cleaning, was African-American.

What was the matter with them?  Didn’t they believe in equal rights?

* * *

But the worst roommate wasn’t Hai.  It wan’t Nikki.  Truthfully?  It was me.

I’m a total hypocrite.  I mean, I complain about my roommates being lazy, but I was no better.  Always like –

Josh: “Ugh.  I live with lazy jerks.”
Barent: “Hey, um, Josh, would you like to vacuum the –”
Josh: “No thanks.  I have more important things to organize…like my music collection.”

And I was totally passive-aggressive.  I got on facebook and found out you can invite people to events, like, “Would you like to come to Josh’s birthday party on the first?”  So instead of actually carrying out a given task, I would send Barent invitations on there like –

“JOSH INVITES YOU TO…TAKE OUT THE TRASH.”

Barent: {clicking on the screen} “Um…decline.”  {typing}  “This will be a party of one, motherfucker.”

I didn’t even fight my own battles.  Like if I was pissed with Hai, I didn’t converse with him; I’d just go up to Barent and look really sad until he asked –

Barent: “Josh, is, um, something wrong?”
Josh: “Oh, I don’t know.  I just feel badly for all of the mean things Hai’s been saying about you lately.”
Barent: {slightly angrier} “Really?”
Josh: “Yeah, he’s like, ‘Oh, Barent has a small dick and only shoots blanks.’”

{Josh looks up at Barent.}

{Barent cocks his gun.}

Barent: “It’s time to go bowling.”
Josh: “Oooooh.  Is THAT what that means?”

…and poor Hai (on yet another level).  I was in such desperate need of attention and validation, I’d walk around the apartment half-naked.  He’d be like –

Hai: “Josh, we’ve been over this.  I don’t find you attractive.”
Josh: “How about if I eat this banana?”
Hai: “Josh, c’mon.”
Josh: “Does my crotch look big in this?  Be honest.”
Hai: “No.”
Josh: {instantly sad, covering himself} “Okay, how about don’t be honest?”

…and Nikki got it the worst.  I only had her move in so that I could prove I’m not racist.

I’d pull her into my room every five minutes like –

Josh: “Hey Nikki.  Nikki?  You wanna come see my Obama figurines?”  {Pause.}  “How about Louis Farrakhan?  I got a good poster of him.”  {Pause.}  “I’m playing jazz music.”

She’d get so pissed off –

Nikki: “Josh, do you realize that your specific examples of purported liberalism are ironically anything but?  That they present me as ‘Nikki, the black girl’ as opposed to ‘Nikki, the individual?’  In fact, your consistent mention of wrongheaded stereotypes and general overzealousness at the simple sight of a darker shade is extraordinarily insulting, creating a feeling of discomfort in me and, if I may, implying that my being black is a sort of unique characteristic that requires calling attention to.  In this manner, then, your attempts to create an interpersonal bond are alienating and, unfortunately, wholly counterproductive.”
Josh: “So…you don’t like jazz?”
Nikki: “I fucking like jazz, okay?  Just leave me alone.”
Josh: “Oh.” {head drops} “I miss Grammy.”