Slumming It - IV
"Why don't you put the pull-up bar in the empty room's doorway, that way you can keep your room locked? How did you even have that room open, anyway?"
Carl (as it turns out my roommate is named) hesitates. Then: "Are you a cop?"
I look over at my bong and then back at him. "Yes."
He sighs. "I learned lockpicking when I was in the Navy."
"Teach me?"
With a torsion wrench and a rake pick, I managed to break a padlock, then the bedroom lock. I hope to progress to a half-diamond pick soon, as raking pins doesn't require much finesse.
After I was satisfied that I had made enough progress, I asked him to show me how to make DMT. Like a druggie Martha Stewart, he had a batch of the crystals at every stage of their synthesis to show me. Here's the powder. Here's the goop jar. Here's the goop jar with acid. Here's the goop jar with flammable liquid added. Here's a tray of the final product. This tiny flake is all it takes to "rip my soul of my body and shoot it beyond the stars."
I thought we'd be able to enjoy it being just us, at least the first month, but my hopes were dashed a couple weeks into the lease. I was showering and someone started banging on the bathroom door, shouting "Yo! Yo!"
"Give me a second, I'm in the shower."
He continues hollering inaudibly. I yell that I can't hear him with the water running and to just wait. He persists.
I mutter a curse under my breath and shut off the water. I step towards the door and ask what he wants.
"I gotta go to work and they want me to fill out this move-in report and I don't know what to--"
"Give me one second, I'll be right out." He continues talking and pacing outside instead of waiting patiently.
I step out in a towel and ask him what's the emergency. He looks strikingly like a dirtier and less-charming version of Turtle from Entourage. Caucasian, with a ghetto swagger and constipated-looking face. "Yo nigga, name's Matt and I'mma live in this room next to ya, 'cept I gotta go to work and they want me to fill out this shit I don't even know what to put what the fuck is a lavatory this shit is gay what the fuck is you spose'ta--"
"You're supposed to put the condition next to each item."
He looks around. "Nawww, this place is tight. Everything look nice."
I point to a spot on the sink where the metal has been stabbed through. "If you don't write that down, the pricks are going to blame you and charge you for a new sink."
"Sheeet, for serious? That's gay as hell, dawg. I don't got no time for this, like I said I gotta be at work and I don't got time to write a fucking book about this place, they said I gotta do it in 48 hours and after work I'm running with my homeboys and I'm not going to have time to--"
"All right, all right, I've already filled mine out, I'll just fill yours out with the same information. Sound good?"
"Aww yeeeeh that'd be tight. Say you gotta car? Cuz I need a ride to work. No? What about this guy, this guy have a car? Awww, I don't want to be late." He continues this way, talking unceasingly while complaining that he's going to be late. He says if he could afford a car then he'd be a bigshot delivery guy for Domino's instead of just a cashier. He is clearly way too old to not be able to afford a beater.
Somehow "ground rules" come up. I tell him that Carl and I have agreed to turn a blind eye to anything but murder.
"What about rapin'?" Matt asks.
"Uhhh, I genuinely had not given it that much consideration. I guess don't do murders or rapes."
"You do rapes?"
"No, I hadn't planned to do any raping. I usually don't have difficulty finding women willing to sleep with me."
"What about Carl? He do rapes?"
"He seems like a pretty nice guy, so I'm guessing no. He was in the Navy and never even slept with a prostitute. His friends actually set him up with a threesome--two Thai girls willing to do anything he wanted--and he was too much of a gentleman to even be able to perform."
"Word? I'da been like WHAM WHAM WHAM and WHACK WHACK WHACK..." he went on, pantomiming without leaving much to the imagination. I got the impression subtlety wasn't his strong suit.
Finally moving on, he asked about drugs. "Nobody's going to care. The guy across the hall is a drug dealer."
"I don't know what he's selling but fuck, I gotta homeboy with the hookup, ya heard? You want me to call him?"
"Carl's got a picture on his phone he took there of a pretzel jar full of good, so... it's kind of convenient for me to just go next door."
"Well what the fuck are we doing here? We should be over there robbin' them niggas."
"The dude lets you sit on his couch and smoke hydro with him and never charges, why would I fuck him like that."
"Shit, that's cool. Still though, if I catch him slipping... I'm not saying, I'm just saying."
"I really think you should just let him slip. Really. It's okay, there's nothing wrong with slipping."
"Well, okay."
An awkward silence ensues, after which it finally seems to sink in that I'm standing there in a towel and can't get dressed until he gets the fuck out of my room. He leaves, trailing off: "Well, all right, later. I'll hit you up this weekend, maybe you can buy some product from my boy..."
He's only come back once since then. It was quarter past midnight, my room light was off, and I was (what I thought was) quite obviously having rough sex. (Even if I weren't, what's important enough to wake up someone in the middle of the night for?) He rapped loudly and shouted something muffled by the door. I yelled "Go away!" and kept on frigging. I figured he'd catch on, what with the loud moaning and the female head slamming against the headboard, but I could hear his pacing and talking for a couple minutes before he finally gave up.
By the time I finished up my business he'd already disappeared. I secretly pray he can never bum a car ride back.
Carl (as it turns out my roommate is named) hesitates. Then: "Are you a cop?"
I look over at my bong and then back at him. "Yes."
He sighs. "I learned lockpicking when I was in the Navy."
"Teach me?"
With a torsion wrench and a rake pick, I managed to break a padlock, then the bedroom lock. I hope to progress to a half-diamond pick soon, as raking pins doesn't require much finesse.
After I was satisfied that I had made enough progress, I asked him to show me how to make DMT. Like a druggie Martha Stewart, he had a batch of the crystals at every stage of their synthesis to show me. Here's the powder. Here's the goop jar. Here's the goop jar with acid. Here's the goop jar with flammable liquid added. Here's a tray of the final product. This tiny flake is all it takes to "rip my soul of my body and shoot it beyond the stars."
I thought we'd be able to enjoy it being just us, at least the first month, but my hopes were dashed a couple weeks into the lease. I was showering and someone started banging on the bathroom door, shouting "Yo! Yo!"
"Give me a second, I'm in the shower."
He continues hollering inaudibly. I yell that I can't hear him with the water running and to just wait. He persists.
I mutter a curse under my breath and shut off the water. I step towards the door and ask what he wants.
"I gotta go to work and they want me to fill out this move-in report and I don't know what to--"
"Give me one second, I'll be right out." He continues talking and pacing outside instead of waiting patiently.
I step out in a towel and ask him what's the emergency. He looks strikingly like a dirtier and less-charming version of Turtle from Entourage. Caucasian, with a ghetto swagger and constipated-looking face. "Yo nigga, name's Matt and I'mma live in this room next to ya, 'cept I gotta go to work and they want me to fill out this shit I don't even know what to put what the fuck is a lavatory this shit is gay what the fuck is you spose'ta--"
"You're supposed to put the condition next to each item."
He looks around. "Nawww, this place is tight. Everything look nice."
I point to a spot on the sink where the metal has been stabbed through. "If you don't write that down, the pricks are going to blame you and charge you for a new sink."
"Sheeet, for serious? That's gay as hell, dawg. I don't got no time for this, like I said I gotta be at work and I don't got time to write a fucking book about this place, they said I gotta do it in 48 hours and after work I'm running with my homeboys and I'm not going to have time to--"
"All right, all right, I've already filled mine out, I'll just fill yours out with the same information. Sound good?"
"Aww yeeeeh that'd be tight. Say you gotta car? Cuz I need a ride to work. No? What about this guy, this guy have a car? Awww, I don't want to be late." He continues this way, talking unceasingly while complaining that he's going to be late. He says if he could afford a car then he'd be a bigshot delivery guy for Domino's instead of just a cashier. He is clearly way too old to not be able to afford a beater.
Somehow "ground rules" come up. I tell him that Carl and I have agreed to turn a blind eye to anything but murder.
"What about rapin'?" Matt asks.
"Uhhh, I genuinely had not given it that much consideration. I guess don't do murders or rapes."
"You do rapes?"
"No, I hadn't planned to do any raping. I usually don't have difficulty finding women willing to sleep with me."
"What about Carl? He do rapes?"
"He seems like a pretty nice guy, so I'm guessing no. He was in the Navy and never even slept with a prostitute. His friends actually set him up with a threesome--two Thai girls willing to do anything he wanted--and he was too much of a gentleman to even be able to perform."
"Word? I'da been like WHAM WHAM WHAM and WHACK WHACK WHACK..." he went on, pantomiming without leaving much to the imagination. I got the impression subtlety wasn't his strong suit.
Finally moving on, he asked about drugs. "Nobody's going to care. The guy across the hall is a drug dealer."
"I don't know what he's selling but fuck, I gotta homeboy with the hookup, ya heard? You want me to call him?"
"Carl's got a picture on his phone he took there of a pretzel jar full of good, so... it's kind of convenient for me to just go next door."
"Well what the fuck are we doing here? We should be over there robbin' them niggas."
"The dude lets you sit on his couch and smoke hydro with him and never charges, why would I fuck him like that."
"Shit, that's cool. Still though, if I catch him slipping... I'm not saying, I'm just saying."
"I really think you should just let him slip. Really. It's okay, there's nothing wrong with slipping."
"Well, okay."
An awkward silence ensues, after which it finally seems to sink in that I'm standing there in a towel and can't get dressed until he gets the fuck out of my room. He leaves, trailing off: "Well, all right, later. I'll hit you up this weekend, maybe you can buy some product from my boy..."
He's only come back once since then. It was quarter past midnight, my room light was off, and I was (what I thought was) quite obviously having rough sex. (Even if I weren't, what's important enough to wake up someone in the middle of the night for?) He rapped loudly and shouted something muffled by the door. I yelled "Go away!" and kept on frigging. I figured he'd catch on, what with the loud moaning and the female head slamming against the headboard, but I could hear his pacing and talking for a couple minutes before he finally gave up.
By the time I finished up my business he'd already disappeared. I secretly pray he can never bum a car ride back.