My Roommate the "Writer"
There are a lot of pics of Florida here, and of my good friend McKenzie who lives in Florida still. This may be my intent to balance out the content with something close to my heart. There are no photos of my current dwelling, or the roommates that live there with me.
Chicago is not necessarily known for being an affordable city to live in, PA fellowships are not known for paying top dollar while in them, winter in the north creates some massive energy bills for those living in poorly insulated homes. I have foregone travel opportunities for nearly a decade in order to pay for school.
Combine all of these facts together, and what soon develops is the idea to move out of my chilly, adorable, expensive Logan Square 2 bed and into a less appealing but less expensive living situation. This involves what is known in Chicago as a “3 flat”, meaning there are three levels in the building, each being its own flat with 3-4 bedrooms. This one in particular I chose because the landlady rented each bedroom individually month to month, and had become a bit creative with the floorplan. She had taken what had originally been a 3 bedroom, and walled off the sitting room and sunroom, creating a fourth “bedroom” which incidentally housed the fireplace and a very large radiator. This was perfect because I adore heat sources and simplicity.
My furniture moved into a storage unit, I was sad to leave my privacy behind, but excited for what I could now afford to do outside of my various obligations.
The very first adventure presented itself immediately upon moving in. Of the three roommates, made up of a young latina barista who maintained ghost status quite effectively, an older social worker rehabbing herself through a previous stroke, something she has only recently shared with me, and a third who quickly became the most interesting roommate.
Speaking erratically and almost certainly in flights of fancy, she informed me that she is a published writer, just moved here from MO due to a strained relationship with her father, and before that from Philadelphia. Amidst discussions of her leg injury and plans to workout, she describes her current manifesto script, her “life’s work”, associated publisher, and upcoming interviews with local news stations. She then casually mentions her dancing activities at work, before moving on to describe the vicious and oppressive conditions put upon her by her fellow dancing coworkers. I was later to learn that she is the only person I have ever met who has managed to be fired from dancing employment, and need to then find a new establishment.
A group chat between the four of us existed briefly, before the barista blocked the writer, followed later by the older roommate. The social worker and I are close, she is kind and likes to keep the house clean with me, she also chaperones my mail when I am out of town, and I help with projects of hers requiring some height. For a short time, I was concerned about what to expect from the writer, did she have violent tendencies, did she bring home company, and so on. I learned that while she may be capable of violence, she was fairly docile in the house, and did not have friends over. The most disruptive thing being her incessant and incoherent chatter while I was cooking, and her hyena or frog-like laugh coming from her bedroom most days. I was convinced there was a strange, dying bird in the house for a bit before realizing it was the writer, laughing.
The second night in the house, she knocked on my door after I had come home and used the microwave. She informed me that my use of the microwave had “put her to sleep” and that normally, she’d “be tweaking”. I acknowledged her announcement, a bit unsure of what to do next. She said goodnight, turned and went to bed.
Maybe the best thing about her has been the accidental text messages sent by her to either myself, or to the group chat. Novels of random, illogical rambling sourcing from somewhere in the mind unknown. I appreciate them in way for their uniqueness and insensibility.
At any rate, things here in the house have settled. There have been no fights, no harsh words, no conflicts inside. The gay man, who lives downstairs with the roommate who works at a movie theater and cooks amazing food every day, did share with me over a few beers, that he was held up at gunpoint in the alley that our garage opens out into the other day. He described how, in his drunken state, that he knew they weren’t going to do anything, and took the gun out of their hands. I told he was asking for a colostomy bag, but respected his grit. Although I am not often at home, during the short time that I do spend there I have already seen four domestic disturbances, in the street during daylight hours, requiring EMS and police on scene. Because those have generally involved a young, angry, screaming woman as opposed to gang activity and more gun violence, I‘m not worried yet.
