I stumbled out into the living room for cereal, and walked in on my then roommate throwing his toaster into the trash. I was a bit confused, and politely asked him "What in the hot, glorious fuck are you doing?"
He wrinkled his nose, in response to my cursing. "The toaster is broken. I'm going to get a new one this afternoon."
I asked him if he had opened it up to see what was wrong, and he told me no, as if I were the stupid one. I shook my head, knowing it was a losing battle. Chalking it up to the difference in our upbringing, I made breakfast.
Where I come from, professionals are a last resort, and only if what is broken is absolutely necessary. They represent the admission of impotence and failure. Everyone in the family has their own set of tools, various forms of tape and adhesive, and everyone can do something. My father has worked as an electrician; my mother is a fairly able carpenter and decorator. I can sew, and my brother... well, he can bring the supplies. We never submit to the idiocy of planned obsolescence, and we never buy something that we don't expect to last forever.
This is because both of my parents were raised in low-income households only a generation removed from the depression. One of the most vivid memories I have of my grandfather is of him patrolling his home, turning off the lights in any rooms that were unoccupied. Things simply did not go to waste. His wife, the mother of five children, kept a fully stocked refrigerator. Any meal that was made was wrapped in tinfoil and piled on top of everything else. Mold was not an immediate qualification for disposal. Milk would be thrown out, but only if every member of the family had smelled it first.
It still boggles my mind how she buys us clothing, every Christmas. Whenever I receive socks, or underwear, I remember that this is what she most likely found under her lack of a tree, and am grateful.
Not Bryan's family. They are upper middle, stretching for lower upper. Every year they fixate on a new sport, outfitting the whole clan of Christian soldiers in high-quality gear. Their hobbies clutter the garage, next to the red sports sedan his father bought "as a present for himself." Every time I see it, I feel an icy current of shame run through my capillaries. If something breaks, they have it fixed, or replace it.
A discussion of this very same subject came about when he found me trying to fix his toaster. He immediately became angry, telling me that it was "his trash" and I should "leave it alone". It was at this point, that I felt the greatest need to begin hitting him, without ever stopping. But the sad thing was, I was used to it.
We moved into the apartment, and during the first week we quarreled. I, ever cost conscious, wanted to turn the thermostat up. He refused to discuss it, said he couldn't sleep at a temperature above seventy degrees fahrenheit. I told him I "wasn't a god-damned penguin" and I couldn't sleep at a temperature lower than eighty. He told me to buy a blanket. That became the tone for our arguments: he would make an irrational request, refuse to compromise, and ignore me until I had acquiesced.
Then, came the big one. "No sex in the apartment." At first I laughed, much as people in films do before they realize that they are dealing with a psychopath. I got an image of me moaning and screaming in my room, him wearing earplugs and watering his dorky plants in the next. "I didn't mean while you're here." I said, rolling my eyes. Because then you might get jealous that someone would concede to touch me, in sharp contrast to the repulsive loser voodoo you work on women. Possibly they sense that someone knows a bit too much about gardening? (P.S.: Your ex-roommate told me about blaming your gay computer porn on me. Smooth, real smooth.)
"Neither was I. I don't want you having sex in the apartment."
To clarify his rules:
- No sex in the apartment.
- Having sex in my room, with a towel under the door to keep in "smells", did not make sex in the apartment acceptable.
- Sex does not "just happen". Random sex didn't occur in his ordered, color-coded universe.
- Sex would defile his sanctuary, and he would feel uncomfortable if he knew it had taken place in the general vicinity. He would also prefer it if I didn't refer to this phenomenon as "contagious celibacy".
- Not even if the guy was really, really, hot and really, really, asking for it.
I tried to respect his wishes, but after three months of psychological neglect and mind games from someone I considered a close friend, I had had it. He had spent a week ignoring me, taken everything of his and moved it into his room, and locked it when he left the apartment.
Occasionally he would pause to insult or degrade me. So the next time he told me that he was "looking for a new place to live in the fall" I called my lover over. The conversation went a bit like this:
Me - "I'd really like to see you."
Him - "Then come over."
Me - "No, you come over."
Him - "I thought your roommate had a no sex rule."
Me - "Fuck him."
He arrived supernaturally fast, and we proceeded to defile the apartment with our baser impulses. So, in the end, I had the last laugh. I had great sex in the apartment, got my passive-aggressive revenge, and moved on to a better, kinder roommate.
That, and I washed my balls with his toothbrush.
I, for one, love a happy ending.
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