People, Animals, and Hell Knows What…
It all happened in my junior year of college, a year before the gas company turned off the cooking gas in the apartment I was sharing with my best friend. I might add that the gas company must have had absolutely no compassion and a pair of brass balls to go forth with such an injustice. Either that or it was rather presumptions to assume that we would voluntarily send them money in an absence of any bill and given the fact that the gas was in the name of the former resident.
But this has nothing to do with the gas company. The gas company was mistaken to think that inability to cook anything on the stove top would affect our daily lives.
My junior year of college, however, the cooking gas was plentiful and I had a different roommate. We will call him Jack since it is perfectly clear that his name was not at all Jack.
Jack and I had become roommates not due to any common interests, political views or even an affinity for each other, but out of pure need. The girl I was supposed to room with backed out at the last minute due to her boyfriend being a prick, moving to another state, and taking her with him. Jack was her friend and she introduced us. Jack did not look like Jack the Ripper, did not have a weird body odor, and I needed a place where I could sleep through classes while maintaining my GPA. Jack would have to do.
For a year Jack and I shared our living space. But if you were to mention Jack to me a couple of weeks ago I would be likely to shake my head in dismay and reply politely “who the fuck is Jack?” Time has dragged Jack’s image through its rat-infested tunnels and left it looking more like a piece of Swiss cheese.
However, time has got nothing on Detective Bill (if I tell you his last name I will have to kill you), a proud employee of the Threat Management Unit of the great City of Angels. Detective Bill came into my life like a swift tornado comes upon a sleepy Iowa town, like a first day of a school comes upon on vacationing student, like a piece of bird shit comes upon a head of a… You got my point.
One April afternoon, while the lazy sun was still trying to dodge out of work, my phone rang, I picked it up and Detective Bill’s stern and masculine voice, like a swift kick from behind, shoved me back into the past.
“I am doing a background check on Jack so-and-so,” said Detective Bill. His voice was polite, but clearly it was a voice used to giving orders.
“Jack who?” I asked. My own voice was confused and suspicious of everything that related to the law, the enforcement of it, and the people responsible for this enforcement.
“Jack so-and-so”, Detective Bill repeated patiently, “you ex-roommate, didn’t you share an apartment with him such-and-such address?”
Holy shit, I thought. I did live at such-and-such address.
“Did Jack so-and-so used to be your roommate?”
Holy shit, I kept thinking. “Yes, he did,” I said.
Detective Bill was not planning on keeping me in the dark. He explained that he was doing a background check since Jack had applied for a job as a Police Officer at his Threat Management Unit, taking a step on the path of community service. Question was, according to Detective Bill, would Jack be fit to serve this community? What did I think of Jack’s character? Could Jack be counted on to serve and protect or would he be better of staying in the private sector, with the other nut cases?
What did I think of Jack and his character?
The truth is, I didn’t think of it. I completely forgot he existed. I tried telling Detective Bill that I was not the best person to ask since I knew Jack’s character as superficially as I knew Chinese grammar. Detective Bill was not used to taking “no” for an answer, perhaps a necessary quality in a law enforcement officer.
“Jack told me,” he said “you had some issues while you were roommates. Would you mind telling me about those?”
I would not mind, Detective Bill. In fact, these issues constitute my one clear memory of Jack.
To be honest, Detective Bill, even on my death bed, right before my last brain cell spared by prior alcohol consumption will go out, I will still remember the note Jack left on our refrigerator. This note defined the climax of our issues and only my outrageous behavior in the months prior drove Jack to pick up a pen and paper and to put down his woes.
As I explained to Detective Bill, it was a matter of priorities. Jack had them and I did not. Jack double majored in history and philosophy. He spent most of his time dragging heavy, dusty volumes with worn-out corners from the library to our place and back. All this exercise left Jack exhausted and at night he wanted to sleep. I was a communication major with a minor in business. Thus, I spent most of my time communicating with my best friend on the business of strategically avoiding our boyfriends. This could only be practiced in the late hours of the evening.
It was not only a matter of priority, but one of scheduling. Unfortunately, at the time Jack liked to schedule his sleep, around 3 am, we liked to schedule our return home, drunken giggling, tripping over furniture and each other. Needless to say, I could not ask my intoxicated best friend to go back to her home in the suburbs at 3 am. I am not a heartless monster. And since I held her happiness dear to my heart, I could not refuse her the chance to use our living room couch for various activities with a certain companion.
But my goodwill and kindness was not appreciated by everyone. And one morning my friend and I awoke to find a note on the refrigerator door. The only reason Jack used sticky tape to attach the note, I am sure, was because our kitchen knifes were too cheap to pierce the metal.
In the note Jack stated that my behavior was unacceptable, that I had turned our decent and demure home into a brothel, and that I should immediately cease bringing home “people, animals and hell knows what.”
The next hour was spent cataloguing our friend and acquaintances between “people,” “animals” and “hell knows what.” As each category grew and intertwined with the other ones, we gave up and made our way to the campus. There we demonstrated the note to many members of the three categories to their outmost amusement.
Jack never spoke to me again. Not even on the day we both moved out.
I briefly explained the priorities issue to Detective Bill. I emphasized Jack interest in his studies and the fact that it was all a lo-o-ng time ago.
Detective Bill thought about this for a second. “Did you know Jack to do drugs or use alcohol excessively?”
“No, I can honestly say, he did not,” I said. Honestly. And that was the problem.
But Detective Bill, college is not a wine tasting party. What is the point of “using” alcohol if you do not do so excessively? A moderate consumption of alcohol would surely allow you to spend a productive day at the library preparing for your history exam, but not to crawl up on all fours to your apartment door at 3am while performing a rendition of Tainted Love on top of your lungs.
Which of the two makes a better memory? It is never what you should have done; it is always what you should not have. The people who took part in the “should not” and were there the next morning to help you clean up the mess are likely to get a manila folder in file cabinet of your memory, not the members of your study group.
“So was Jack anti-social?” Detective Bill asked.
But Detective Bill, what does anti-social really mean? In our first week of cohabitating, Jack and I even went out to get a cup of coffee once at the local cafe. We talked about school, our mutual friend, the one who dumped me as roommate for a chance to regularly hump her boyfriend, and Sartre. Believe it or not, Detective Bill, we both had recently discovered Sartre and the fact that “hell is other people”.
A week later Jack was robbed getting money out of an ATM. Some kid stuck something into his back, stated it was a knife, and demanded all of Jack’s money. All of $350 Jack had in his account. Jack came home and told me all about it, including his trip to the police station and the process of filing a police report. Jack was the only person I knew who got robbed. It was all rather exciting.
Could this trip to the police station have left a lasting impact on Jack? Could this be the reason why, so many years later, a history and philosophy double major would trade academics for law enforcement? Could time have played a trick on him enhancing this incident over the years so that Jack became a Superman in the ultimate fight between good and evil?
I imagined Jack walking into a police station and giving Detective Bill a firm, law-abiding handshake. I imagined long tables covered with files and numerous detectives of the Threat Management Unit scrutinizing these files in search of the most adamant threats. I imagined one detective getting up abruptly, screaming “I got it!” and sending his big coffee-filled mug flying across the table. I imagined coffee, or was it blood, dripping slowly onto the tiled floor. I imagined the set of “Law and Order” with a District Attorney Jack McKoy walking briskly through the doors with his coat across his arm and his briefcase… Would Jack, my ex-roommate Jack, fit into this atmosphere?
And I told Detective Bill that from where I sat Jack would be an asset to the police force of the great City of Angels.
He would not only keep them honest and sober, work hard not turn the police station into a brothel, but he could also use Sartre to counteract the whole defense of blaming one’s actions on circumstances. In reality, our police force could do worse.
But as I hung up the phone I could not shake off a hint of doubt. How would I feel about Jack protecting me from threats even if it is all the way on the West Coast?
After Jack and I had moved out of the apartment, still not on speaking terms, I moved in with my best friend. We turned out new home into a brothel, despite the lack of cooking gas. Apparently, all you need for an operational brothel is a microwave. We brought home people, animals and hell knows what. We trashed our kitchen. We had the time of our lives.
In retrospect, neither my friend nor I were fit for a career in law enforcement.
And I could have lived for just as many years and never think of Jack if not for the Detective Bill’s tenacity. Now I can resurrect the image of Jack in the archives of memory. An image of Jack’s back, walking away from me, weighted down by his backpack. Time makes its own decisions on what to keep and what to throw out…
Time - one; me - zero. Might be difficult to define hell as only other people, while time is so ready to throw in animals and hell knows what…
But this has nothing to do with the gas company. The gas company was mistaken to think that inability to cook anything on the stove top would affect our daily lives.
My junior year of college, however, the cooking gas was plentiful and I had a different roommate. We will call him Jack since it is perfectly clear that his name was not at all Jack.
Jack and I had become roommates not due to any common interests, political views or even an affinity for each other, but out of pure need. The girl I was supposed to room with backed out at the last minute due to her boyfriend being a prick, moving to another state, and taking her with him. Jack was her friend and she introduced us. Jack did not look like Jack the Ripper, did not have a weird body odor, and I needed a place where I could sleep through classes while maintaining my GPA. Jack would have to do.
For a year Jack and I shared our living space. But if you were to mention Jack to me a couple of weeks ago I would be likely to shake my head in dismay and reply politely “who the fuck is Jack?” Time has dragged Jack’s image through its rat-infested tunnels and left it looking more like a piece of Swiss cheese.
However, time has got nothing on Detective Bill (if I tell you his last name I will have to kill you), a proud employee of the Threat Management Unit of the great City of Angels. Detective Bill came into my life like a swift tornado comes upon a sleepy Iowa town, like a first day of a school comes upon on vacationing student, like a piece of bird shit comes upon a head of a… You got my point.
One April afternoon, while the lazy sun was still trying to dodge out of work, my phone rang, I picked it up and Detective Bill’s stern and masculine voice, like a swift kick from behind, shoved me back into the past.
“I am doing a background check on Jack so-and-so,” said Detective Bill. His voice was polite, but clearly it was a voice used to giving orders.
“Jack who?” I asked. My own voice was confused and suspicious of everything that related to the law, the enforcement of it, and the people responsible for this enforcement.
“Jack so-and-so”, Detective Bill repeated patiently, “you ex-roommate, didn’t you share an apartment with him such-and-such address?”
Holy shit, I thought. I did live at such-and-such address.
“Did Jack so-and-so used to be your roommate?”
Holy shit, I kept thinking. “Yes, he did,” I said.
Detective Bill was not planning on keeping me in the dark. He explained that he was doing a background check since Jack had applied for a job as a Police Officer at his Threat Management Unit, taking a step on the path of community service. Question was, according to Detective Bill, would Jack be fit to serve this community? What did I think of Jack’s character? Could Jack be counted on to serve and protect or would he be better of staying in the private sector, with the other nut cases?
What did I think of Jack and his character?
The truth is, I didn’t think of it. I completely forgot he existed. I tried telling Detective Bill that I was not the best person to ask since I knew Jack’s character as superficially as I knew Chinese grammar. Detective Bill was not used to taking “no” for an answer, perhaps a necessary quality in a law enforcement officer.
“Jack told me,” he said “you had some issues while you were roommates. Would you mind telling me about those?”
I would not mind, Detective Bill. In fact, these issues constitute my one clear memory of Jack.
To be honest, Detective Bill, even on my death bed, right before my last brain cell spared by prior alcohol consumption will go out, I will still remember the note Jack left on our refrigerator. This note defined the climax of our issues and only my outrageous behavior in the months prior drove Jack to pick up a pen and paper and to put down his woes.
As I explained to Detective Bill, it was a matter of priorities. Jack had them and I did not. Jack double majored in history and philosophy. He spent most of his time dragging heavy, dusty volumes with worn-out corners from the library to our place and back. All this exercise left Jack exhausted and at night he wanted to sleep. I was a communication major with a minor in business. Thus, I spent most of my time communicating with my best friend on the business of strategically avoiding our boyfriends. This could only be practiced in the late hours of the evening.
It was not only a matter of priority, but one of scheduling. Unfortunately, at the time Jack liked to schedule his sleep, around 3 am, we liked to schedule our return home, drunken giggling, tripping over furniture and each other. Needless to say, I could not ask my intoxicated best friend to go back to her home in the suburbs at 3 am. I am not a heartless monster. And since I held her happiness dear to my heart, I could not refuse her the chance to use our living room couch for various activities with a certain companion.
But my goodwill and kindness was not appreciated by everyone. And one morning my friend and I awoke to find a note on the refrigerator door. The only reason Jack used sticky tape to attach the note, I am sure, was because our kitchen knifes were too cheap to pierce the metal.
In the note Jack stated that my behavior was unacceptable, that I had turned our decent and demure home into a brothel, and that I should immediately cease bringing home “people, animals and hell knows what.”
The next hour was spent cataloguing our friend and acquaintances between “people,” “animals” and “hell knows what.” As each category grew and intertwined with the other ones, we gave up and made our way to the campus. There we demonstrated the note to many members of the three categories to their outmost amusement.
Jack never spoke to me again. Not even on the day we both moved out.
I briefly explained the priorities issue to Detective Bill. I emphasized Jack interest in his studies and the fact that it was all a lo-o-ng time ago.
Detective Bill thought about this for a second. “Did you know Jack to do drugs or use alcohol excessively?”
“No, I can honestly say, he did not,” I said. Honestly. And that was the problem.
But Detective Bill, college is not a wine tasting party. What is the point of “using” alcohol if you do not do so excessively? A moderate consumption of alcohol would surely allow you to spend a productive day at the library preparing for your history exam, but not to crawl up on all fours to your apartment door at 3am while performing a rendition of Tainted Love on top of your lungs.
Which of the two makes a better memory? It is never what you should have done; it is always what you should not have. The people who took part in the “should not” and were there the next morning to help you clean up the mess are likely to get a manila folder in file cabinet of your memory, not the members of your study group.
“So was Jack anti-social?” Detective Bill asked.
But Detective Bill, what does anti-social really mean? In our first week of cohabitating, Jack and I even went out to get a cup of coffee once at the local cafe. We talked about school, our mutual friend, the one who dumped me as roommate for a chance to regularly hump her boyfriend, and Sartre. Believe it or not, Detective Bill, we both had recently discovered Sartre and the fact that “hell is other people”.
A week later Jack was robbed getting money out of an ATM. Some kid stuck something into his back, stated it was a knife, and demanded all of Jack’s money. All of $350 Jack had in his account. Jack came home and told me all about it, including his trip to the police station and the process of filing a police report. Jack was the only person I knew who got robbed. It was all rather exciting.
Could this trip to the police station have left a lasting impact on Jack? Could this be the reason why, so many years later, a history and philosophy double major would trade academics for law enforcement? Could time have played a trick on him enhancing this incident over the years so that Jack became a Superman in the ultimate fight between good and evil?
I imagined Jack walking into a police station and giving Detective Bill a firm, law-abiding handshake. I imagined long tables covered with files and numerous detectives of the Threat Management Unit scrutinizing these files in search of the most adamant threats. I imagined one detective getting up abruptly, screaming “I got it!” and sending his big coffee-filled mug flying across the table. I imagined coffee, or was it blood, dripping slowly onto the tiled floor. I imagined the set of “Law and Order” with a District Attorney Jack McKoy walking briskly through the doors with his coat across his arm and his briefcase… Would Jack, my ex-roommate Jack, fit into this atmosphere?
And I told Detective Bill that from where I sat Jack would be an asset to the police force of the great City of Angels.
He would not only keep them honest and sober, work hard not turn the police station into a brothel, but he could also use Sartre to counteract the whole defense of blaming one’s actions on circumstances. In reality, our police force could do worse.
But as I hung up the phone I could not shake off a hint of doubt. How would I feel about Jack protecting me from threats even if it is all the way on the West Coast?
After Jack and I had moved out of the apartment, still not on speaking terms, I moved in with my best friend. We turned out new home into a brothel, despite the lack of cooking gas. Apparently, all you need for an operational brothel is a microwave. We brought home people, animals and hell knows what. We trashed our kitchen. We had the time of our lives.
In retrospect, neither my friend nor I were fit for a career in law enforcement.
And I could have lived for just as many years and never think of Jack if not for the Detective Bill’s tenacity. Now I can resurrect the image of Jack in the archives of memory. An image of Jack’s back, walking away from me, weighted down by his backpack. Time makes its own decisions on what to keep and what to throw out…
Time - one; me - zero. Might be difficult to define hell as only other people, while time is so ready to throw in animals and hell knows what…