Six weeks.
Forty two days.
One thousand and eight hours.
However you break it down, that’s a long period of time. You could do a decent job backpacking through Europe in that time. Hell, my father worked twenty odd years for the state before seeing that kinda time off. It’s almost a summer vacation for most pre-college students.
And that’s roughly the amount of time this year that I’ve had to spend looking for roommates. Finally, tonite, the search for a roommate is over. Found a great guy to move in September 1st, and I’ve been drinking pretty steadily and watching Cameron Crowe movies with the newly dubbed Obi Wan Hashimoto to celebrate.
Why six weeks, you ask? And why are you bringing this up now, didn’t you just find a roommate a few months ago? Well, to answer the former, “Because it’s finally over.” And to answer the latter, “Yes, and you would think that would have been the end of the story, but no, three weeks ago she told me she had been looking for a place closer to her job and lo, she had found one that day, and had made a bid, and that’s why she hadn’t signed the lease for September yet.”
And just shoot me in the head.
Some people fear the afterlife. I don’t. People fear the afterlife since it is, to them, the unknown. It’s unquantifiable. It’s beyond the beyond. Not me. No way. I’ve seen the afterlife, or precisely, the hell portion of it. And it’s showing my apartment again…and again…and again….until I turn into one of the “Price is Right” girls, with a smile permanently attached to my kisser and using arm motions like I’m simultaneously showing off a hutch and landing an airplane. (It’s that or having season tickets to the Celine Vegas show where the “season” is “eternity” and she’s always only singing “Because You Loved Me”.)
I could go off into a highlight reel of the weirdest moments, but really, I’m just grateful it’s all over, and I landed a guy with whom I discussed Radiohead lyrics (we both agree the last line of “There There” is genius). We clicked, he’s moving in, and the rest is (oh Lord, I pray on High) over and done. Six weeks of my life's energy wasted on this. Six weeks I could have been running, lifting, self-improving, impriving my ceramics skills, exploiting "Open Mic" night at the local Sunoco station, learning how to Photoshop the Commander's head onto Geraldine Ferraro's body...I mean, a lot of misplace energy, is what I'm saying.
OK, I’ll do one story. One story and then bed and then the hangover and then the cover-up at work. Roger.
Had a guy coming in Friday night. It’s 5 pm. I’ve already shown the place to three people, done my dog and pony show, done the same exact routine, done the whole, “Hey, it’s not just a dining room, it’s a library/mailroom/winery as well! Ha ha!” routine, pointing out the bookcase, wine rack, and stack of mail on the dining room table. I’ve gone to Verizon Wireless, since my phone’s only going to voicemail and calling tech support didn’t help. I tell Verizon Help dude my woes, taking my time to explain the problem. Wordless, he summons me to hand him the phone. He pulls out the battery, puts it back in, and says, “All set.” I reward my wasted trip with boneless buffalo wings at 3:30 in the afternoon at Friday's. I get back and fall into a deep food coma. Not asleep, but legally not awake, either. Want to power nap, but can’t, since my 5 pm has to arrive. At 5:20 pm, I’m drifting into sleep. And the phone rings. Which is an improvement over a few hours ago, in that it rang, but I was just about to have a great sex dream involving Alyson Hannigan, I knew it. So it’s my 5 pm, and he’s downstairs. I try to pull it together to seem awake. Do my whole routine. 15 minutes worth. He’s looking around, not saying much. I finally say, “So, here’s the part where you ask me questions or tell me concerns.”
He looks around a sec, puts his hands on his hips, and says, “Yea, man. This is like, way too far for me out of the city.” Shakes my hand, and leaves.
What I’m saying is, I’m glad I have a roommate. Thank you, Frank. Thank you Cameron. Thank you Obi Wan Hashimoto. And thank you, Smirnoff 100 proof vodka.