(no subject)
Think Outside the Box
Before moving into the dorms my freshman year, I was really apprehensive about having a roommate. In such close quarters, especially for an obsessive-compulsive like me, living with someone in a dorm can easily become a torture one might find in the seventh ring of hell. But since the UCLA roommate survey boasted of its high success rate in making pairs, I subjected myself to the whimsy of chance and filled out the questionnaire.
Clearly, I failed it. Or at the very least, mis-bubbled, because there was no reasonable explanation why I, the extroverted gay guy, was paired with the recalcitrant orthodox Jew. His name was Jason, and when he moved in, he sort of burbled hello, and unpacked the totality of his belongings - a set of sheets, five outfits, a few toiletries, a laptop computer that literally must have predated the Internet, and a plastic Dilbert doll, which he placed with reverence atop his otherwise bare shelf.
And boy, was he orthodox. Even Oren, the other orthodox Jew on the floor, thought Jason was kinda “crazy into the Jew thing.” As it turns out, Jason wasn’t even officially Jewish -- his parents were Catholic, and he grew up in Orange County. He just up and decided one day to become Jewish, and I guess he really threw himself into the deep-end of that pool.
He asked me, the third day there, if I didn’t mind him not shutting our door on the weekend, since he couldn’t use electricity on Fridays and the door was operated by keycards. I laughed nervously and said no, I didn’t think that was a good idea. He looked distressed by my answer, but then asked if I could at least turn on the lights for him if he needed to do work. I said yes, I guess - as a roommate, I figured, I’d have to make some compromises.
Jason never really said much, and when he spoke he mumbled gruffly, as if he were speaking with a mouth full of dry crackers. He always wore this piece of sacred cloth - at least, I think it was sacred - under his clothes, and he never washed it. Jason was a particularly sweaty individual, so he always had this stink around him, which I generally attributed to the cloth, and partially to the array of smelly kosher foodstuffs he kept in the refrigerator. Hot dogs, sauerkraut, pickles - every smelly food, he ate, and he ate often since he couldn’t eat much in the dining halls. Our room would stink of deli meats and mustards.
Jason always thought I’d eaten his foods, too. Once he asked me if I had stolen a hot dog, and I told him I wasn’t fond of animal parts I couldn’t identify. I don’t think he found my response funny, though, and he said, “Well, I think I’m missing a hot dog. I only had one so far, you know.” I glanced down, and said, “Well… there are five in there. Don’t they come in packages of six?” He looked down, realized I was right, and sort of grumbled an apology - but he still thought I was eating his food. He’d frequently look up from his VCR-sized laptop, which would occasionally sputter and cough with age, and make sure I wasn’t rifling through and scooping up handfuls of preserved fish.
As we eked our way awkwardly into the third week of school, the homework load picked up, and I would often have to spend some nights, typing up some my assignments. One night, as Jason prepared for bed, he kept looking up uneasily at me. I saw he was trying to sleep, so I turned off the lights in the room out of consideration. Ten minutes later, he shifted over and said, “Hey Chris. I have a question.”
I looked up. “Do you think that, um, maybe we could both go to bed by midnight?”
I was sort of dumbstruck. I hadn’t really had a bedtime since I was seven, and I wasn’t about to adopt one now that I was college-aged.
“It’s just that, well, you type sort of loud, and I think it’d be better if maybe we just both went to bed at the same time so we don’t have any problems.”
“Jason,” I explained as calmly as I could, “I have to do homework, and the computer lab isn’t open. I can try to work more quietly, I guess, but I am not going to go to bed at midnight. I’m sorry.” The air was sort of tense, and I waited for his response.
But, he only grunted and turned angrily toward the wall, and fell asleep not long after. The next day, though, when he got back from class, he was in a much more chipper mood.
“Hey Chris! I think I found a solution to our problem about the computer, and the bedtimes. What if, maybe, after twelve, you could put a box over your head, and your computer screen, and work that way? I think it might help.”
I chuckled, and was glad, if not only to see that Jason had gotten over the tension of the night before and could make light of it, that he also actually possessed a sense of humor. But nothing could have prepared me for the stark sense of nonplus about to strike. Confidently, he stepped outside the room, and said, “Look! I even got you a box.” He then proceeded to show me a box, of about adequate head-cover size.
He was serious? My jaw dropped, and all I could think to say was, “Jason, I am not going to wear a box on my head for you.” He looked sort of fiery, like he was being more than reasonable and, by dismissing him, I had squelched his last viable option. He put the box in one of the overhead shelves and stormed out of the room.
For the next two weeks, Jason didn’t speak to me. He’d just grunt occasionally as he came in, and that was it. Then, as mysteriously as he appeared the first day, he was gone, even the Dilbert. Oren told me that he had left the dorms because the food in the dining halls wasn’t kosher enough for him, but I know that he left because I wouldn’t wear a fucking box on my head.
My new roommate, who moved in about a week later, was great. His name was Jake, and though he was also my polar opposite, he was extremely genial and we became fast friends. I told him about my saga with Jason, and he laughed - but he didn’t get to meet him at first. However, since I kept the microfridge in the room, Jason wanted Jake to reimburse him for half the cost, and eventually Jake finally had to meet him when he came over to talk about the money.
Jason came over one last time, after talking to Jake and agreeing on a price of $45. When Jason asked for the money, Jake said, “$20, right? Here you go.” Jason stammered, completely unaware of how to act, and looked ready to cry. He tried to rebut, but couldn’t find the words.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Jake said, giving me a knowing look, “I was only kidding. Here’s the money. But, you seem to have left a box up in one of the shelves - did you want me to chuck it, or did you want to wear it back home?”
Jason glanced irately in my direction, but he did actually ask for the box back. He closed the door behind him (since it was only a Thursday), and skulked back to his new home, empty box in hand, at the UCLA Hillel House, where presumably he ate all the sauerkraut he could ask for. I see him around, and he grunts in my direction when we pass.
Sometimes, I grunt back a little.
Before moving into the dorms my freshman year, I was really apprehensive about having a roommate. In such close quarters, especially for an obsessive-compulsive like me, living with someone in a dorm can easily become a torture one might find in the seventh ring of hell. But since the UCLA roommate survey boasted of its high success rate in making pairs, I subjected myself to the whimsy of chance and filled out the questionnaire.
Clearly, I failed it. Or at the very least, mis-bubbled, because there was no reasonable explanation why I, the extroverted gay guy, was paired with the recalcitrant orthodox Jew. His name was Jason, and when he moved in, he sort of burbled hello, and unpacked the totality of his belongings - a set of sheets, five outfits, a few toiletries, a laptop computer that literally must have predated the Internet, and a plastic Dilbert doll, which he placed with reverence atop his otherwise bare shelf.
And boy, was he orthodox. Even Oren, the other orthodox Jew on the floor, thought Jason was kinda “crazy into the Jew thing.” As it turns out, Jason wasn’t even officially Jewish -- his parents were Catholic, and he grew up in Orange County. He just up and decided one day to become Jewish, and I guess he really threw himself into the deep-end of that pool.
He asked me, the third day there, if I didn’t mind him not shutting our door on the weekend, since he couldn’t use electricity on Fridays and the door was operated by keycards. I laughed nervously and said no, I didn’t think that was a good idea. He looked distressed by my answer, but then asked if I could at least turn on the lights for him if he needed to do work. I said yes, I guess - as a roommate, I figured, I’d have to make some compromises.
Jason never really said much, and when he spoke he mumbled gruffly, as if he were speaking with a mouth full of dry crackers. He always wore this piece of sacred cloth - at least, I think it was sacred - under his clothes, and he never washed it. Jason was a particularly sweaty individual, so he always had this stink around him, which I generally attributed to the cloth, and partially to the array of smelly kosher foodstuffs he kept in the refrigerator. Hot dogs, sauerkraut, pickles - every smelly food, he ate, and he ate often since he couldn’t eat much in the dining halls. Our room would stink of deli meats and mustards.
Jason always thought I’d eaten his foods, too. Once he asked me if I had stolen a hot dog, and I told him I wasn’t fond of animal parts I couldn’t identify. I don’t think he found my response funny, though, and he said, “Well, I think I’m missing a hot dog. I only had one so far, you know.” I glanced down, and said, “Well… there are five in there. Don’t they come in packages of six?” He looked down, realized I was right, and sort of grumbled an apology - but he still thought I was eating his food. He’d frequently look up from his VCR-sized laptop, which would occasionally sputter and cough with age, and make sure I wasn’t rifling through and scooping up handfuls of preserved fish.
As we eked our way awkwardly into the third week of school, the homework load picked up, and I would often have to spend some nights, typing up some my assignments. One night, as Jason prepared for bed, he kept looking up uneasily at me. I saw he was trying to sleep, so I turned off the lights in the room out of consideration. Ten minutes later, he shifted over and said, “Hey Chris. I have a question.”
I looked up. “Do you think that, um, maybe we could both go to bed by midnight?”
I was sort of dumbstruck. I hadn’t really had a bedtime since I was seven, and I wasn’t about to adopt one now that I was college-aged.
“It’s just that, well, you type sort of loud, and I think it’d be better if maybe we just both went to bed at the same time so we don’t have any problems.”
“Jason,” I explained as calmly as I could, “I have to do homework, and the computer lab isn’t open. I can try to work more quietly, I guess, but I am not going to go to bed at midnight. I’m sorry.” The air was sort of tense, and I waited for his response.
But, he only grunted and turned angrily toward the wall, and fell asleep not long after. The next day, though, when he got back from class, he was in a much more chipper mood.
“Hey Chris! I think I found a solution to our problem about the computer, and the bedtimes. What if, maybe, after twelve, you could put a box over your head, and your computer screen, and work that way? I think it might help.”
I chuckled, and was glad, if not only to see that Jason had gotten over the tension of the night before and could make light of it, that he also actually possessed a sense of humor. But nothing could have prepared me for the stark sense of nonplus about to strike. Confidently, he stepped outside the room, and said, “Look! I even got you a box.” He then proceeded to show me a box, of about adequate head-cover size.
He was serious? My jaw dropped, and all I could think to say was, “Jason, I am not going to wear a box on my head for you.” He looked sort of fiery, like he was being more than reasonable and, by dismissing him, I had squelched his last viable option. He put the box in one of the overhead shelves and stormed out of the room.
For the next two weeks, Jason didn’t speak to me. He’d just grunt occasionally as he came in, and that was it. Then, as mysteriously as he appeared the first day, he was gone, even the Dilbert. Oren told me that he had left the dorms because the food in the dining halls wasn’t kosher enough for him, but I know that he left because I wouldn’t wear a fucking box on my head.
My new roommate, who moved in about a week later, was great. His name was Jake, and though he was also my polar opposite, he was extremely genial and we became fast friends. I told him about my saga with Jason, and he laughed - but he didn’t get to meet him at first. However, since I kept the microfridge in the room, Jason wanted Jake to reimburse him for half the cost, and eventually Jake finally had to meet him when he came over to talk about the money.
Jason came over one last time, after talking to Jake and agreeing on a price of $45. When Jason asked for the money, Jake said, “$20, right? Here you go.” Jason stammered, completely unaware of how to act, and looked ready to cry. He tried to rebut, but couldn’t find the words.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Jake said, giving me a knowing look, “I was only kidding. Here’s the money. But, you seem to have left a box up in one of the shelves - did you want me to chuck it, or did you want to wear it back home?”
Jason glanced irately in my direction, but he did actually ask for the box back. He closed the door behind him (since it was only a Thursday), and skulked back to his new home, empty box in hand, at the UCLA Hillel House, where presumably he ate all the sauerkraut he could ask for. I see him around, and he grunts in my direction when we pass.
Sometimes, I grunt back a little.