Roommate Wanted (Sharing Space #1) (2 page)

I was allowed to find my own replacement as long as he was able to meet them and check their references. If you were over twenty-one, had a job, and weren’t wanted for any crimes, you were basically in. I placed an ad in a few papers and on Craig’s List, hoping for quick responses. It had only been a few days since the ad first ran, but I was getting a little discouraged; I hadn’t received any inquiries.

Once I’d established that hiding in the bed wouldn’t provide a solution, I dragged myself to the bathroom. After a long shower I threw on shorts and a tee and went down to the small lobby to grab one of the newspapers provided each day, compliments of Mr. Tucci. Over a cup of tea, with my feet propped on the coffee table, I thumbed through the pages. During the week when I was preparing to go out and face the big bad city I needed a cup of coffee to start my day. I took it black and strong, which was how I liked to think I carried myself. The weekends were an entirely different story. They provided an opportunity for me to relax, unwind, and put things in perspective.

This morning, however, the warmth of the mug in my hands and the minty aroma coming off the steam did little to help, and sitting around waiting for the phone to ring was only driving me crazy. If someone did call, the odds were great they’d want to see the apartment and not just take my word for what it looked like. Between my long work hours and Grace’s complete lack of housekeeping skills, our place had seen better days. I plugged my iPod into the docking station in the living room, put my playlist reserved for workouts on shuffle, and went to work.

The living room required the least effort, so I began there. I kept it simply decorated with artwork I found at flea markets or art galleries in SoHo. Grace had taken what little furniture she had with her. The remaining living room set, coffee table, and bookshelf were mine, and they served as another reminder that I needed to pay my VISA bill—I’d charged them all on my credit card, too.  

The dining room was nothing more than an extension of the living room, and the only thing keeping the dining room from also being the kitchen was a slightly-taller-than-waist-high bar upon which sat a vase I could never remember to keep filled with flowers.

With the latest and best in kitchen appliances lining the countertops, one would assume I spent more time in the kitchen than I actually did. I could throw down, but time rarely allowed for home-cooked meals. In fact, the most cooking I’d done lately had been for Lawrence when we’d been too tired to go out. As I scrubbed the kitchen floor, I let my mind drift back to the nights when I’d tantalized Lawrence in the dining room as well as the bedroom. I'm a nurturer, and taking care of him made me feel good. I found pleasure in preparing a delicious meal for Lawrence, giving him a backrub, and listening as he talked about his day. We’d then retire to my bedroom where I could satisfy his other needs, and when we fell asleep in each other's arms I was content because I felt not only wanted, I felt needed. Those days were over, though, and I didn’t want to look back.

I was cleaning the bathroom when the phone rang. I wasn’t going to answer it in case it was Lawrence, but I needed a roommate more than I wanted to avoid his sorry excuses. I dropped the spray bottle of cleaner in the tub and bolted for my cell phone in the living room.

"Hello.” I answered in a voice that I hoped conveyed, "If you're the no-good bastard who cheated on me, drop dead. However, if you're interested in the apartment, don't I sound nice, normal, and well-adjusted?" A lot to expect out of one word, I know.

"Hello, I'm calling in reference to the ad in the paper. Roommate wanted?” said the female voice.

"Yes."

"Is it still available?"

I wanted to squeal. Instead I answered, "Yes it is.  Are you available to come see it tomorrow?"

And so it went. By Saturday night I had arranged for four women to stop by the next day at separate times and view the apartment. I spaced out the appointments so that I could spend a few minutes getting a feel for each of them. I had no desire to recreate the movie
Single White Female
with an all-black cast. 

"What if they're white?” asked Myra.

We were sitting in my living room sharing a carton of Moo Goo Gai Pan and sipping white wine. I placed my glass on the coffee table, gave her a stink look, and replied, "So what if they are? Anyway, one is named LaKeera and she sounds black on the phone."

It was written all over Myra’s face that she was about to say something I wouldn’t like. I’d seen that look all too often. "Just like
you
sound white over the phone?"

I’d lost count of the times I'd arranged meetings over the phone only to meet the person and have them do a classic double take. My whole life I had been told I "sounded white" - whatever that meant. It was annoying to say the least, and downright insulting at best. How was I supposed to sound? As much as I hated it done to me, I had to admit I'd just done the same thing: assumed the women were black. Myra had me cold.

"Well, whatever.  It doesn't matter if they’re white or not."

"You wouldn't mind living with a white girl?” Myra raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. 

I sensed a trick question. If I said no, that would be a lie. It's not like I have anything against white girls, but I grew up in a Brooklyn neighborhood where my exposure to white people was limited. It might be kind of weird to live with a white girl, but at this point as long as she could pay the rent and not get in my way, I'd live with a green girl. I tried to relay that to Myra.

"Well, I couldn't do it. At all.” she said. "We put up with enough of their nasty-ass attitudes at work without having to come home to one."

"Most of the drama at work comes from those chicks feeling threatened. I don’t think it’s about me being black. It’s just that I’m doing well and I just happen to be black. I’m this close to getting something they want.” I held up my hand, the tips of my thumb and index finger just an inch apart.

"And what happens when you come home with a fine-ass chocolate brother and she wants
that
?"

"Myra please, I'd have to hurt that girl."

"I know that's right!” We slapped hands in a high five.

"But you know what? I could just as easily get a trifling sistah for a roommate. Let us not forget that it was a brown woman I busted Lawrence with yesterday."

"True.  But I just couldn't live with a white girl.  Anyway, has he called?"

"Thankfully, no. I'm so not ready to deal with that."

"Well, he'll call as soon as he thinks of a lie he believes you're stupid enough to fall for."

"There's no such lie so hopefully he'll just save his breath.”

My laptop was sitting on the coffee table and I reached over to press the power button. I mentally crossed my fingers and toes as the MacBook hummed to life. "What are you doing?” Myra asked as she poured herself another glass of wine. 

"Checking my e-mail. When I spoke to one of the girls on the phone she mentioned that she sent an e-mail first before calling. I didn't bother to check and I could possibly have more applicants.”

"So, did you get any?"

I scanned my inbox and sure enough one e-mail’s subject read, ”
RE: Roommate Wanted.
” I did a fist pump in the air. I was on a roll! Quickly I opened it and started to read. "Girl, listen to this. She says that the phone number in my ad was blurred on their copy of the paper, but she was really interested, so she e-mailed."

"Cool. You gonna call her now?  It's still early."

"I would, but there's no number here. I guess I can just reply to the e-mail. I'll tell her she can come at four tomorrow.”

Unable to believe my luck, I typed a reply complete with directions by car and train. The email didn't specify what borough she was coming from, so I covered all bases and included my phone number in case there were any problems. The return email address was [email protected]. A few keystrokes and clicks later, and it was sent. I went to bed that night with a renewed sense of optimism and excitement. Out of five responses, I was sure I’d find one suitable roommate... right?

Chapter Two

Mixed Bag

Chloe

With the previous week turning out to be such a shit show, I didn't think my next week could be any worse. I was wrong, and it all started with my shower.  Whereas the morning before I had to talk myself into getting out of bed, like a kid at Christmas I hopped out of bed on Sunday.

My usual Sunday attire consisted of PJ bottoms and tank tops. Since I wasn't going for the sloth look when meeting my future roommate, I decided on a pair of khaki capris and a white short-sleeved shirt. I spent a little longer than usual under the spray of the shower, allowing myself to fantasize about my new roommate. She'd have a great job and could afford her half of the rent. She wouldn't be a fast-ass, because I couldn't stand how Grace would bring dudes in and out of the apartment like there was a turnstile at the front door. Of course my new roommate would be smart and funny, and we’d stay up late chatting about men, life, and clothes. She wouldn't use all the hot water, she'd clean up after herself, and she'd keep the ketchup in the cabinet and not in the fridge—I hated when people did that.
Ah, she'd be perfect!
I turned off the water and prepared to get dressed.

Correction: I turned the knob, but the water didn't stop spraying. I turned and turned the knob and round and round it went, but the water kept coming. I briefly scanned my memory for anything I’d have done recently to piss off the universe. Not coming up with anything, I settled for slapping the knob with my loofah. My first applicant was due in half an hour. This would not do. Mumbling curses under my breath, I threw on a robe and grabbed the phone. Mr. Tucci answered on the second ring and I quickly explained the situation.

"Ah, don't worry, Chloe. I'll have someone up there this afternoon."

"This afternoon?” I shrieked. "That's not good enough. Mr. Tucci, I have five people coming to view the apartment today; one of them will be here soon. How is this going to look? Can't you get Mario here, like, now?"

"That's the thing. Mario is out of town this weekend. He's not coming back till tonight, so you can either wait till he gets in at who knows what time, or I can get my cousin Lou up there this afternoon. Lou lives on Long Island and I know for a fact that he ain’t gonna be able to get over here till later this afternoon.”

"Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive.”

Mr. Tucci looks like something right out of
The Sopranos
. One time he had some of his family over and they were entering the building at the same time Myra and I were leaving. They really looked like “family,” if you know what I mean. Whatever it was that had Cousin Lou otherwise occupied that Sunday morning, I didn't want to know. I doubted it was church.

"Well, can you call a plumber or something?"

"You think we're gonna get a plumber in here on a Sunday without spending an arm and a leg? As long as the drain isn’t plugged up you're fine."

"Can't you look at it?  Please?” I was desperate.

"Chloe, what happened last time I tried to fix something in your apartment?"

"We had to sleep in our coats and hats for three days until the radiator could get fixed?"

"Exactly. I'm the landlord, the lord of the land. As the lord, I have people do that stuff for me."

"But what am I supposed to tell the people coming to look at the apartment?"

"This is New York City. These things happen. I'm sure they'll understand."

I didn't have time to argue. I still had to get dressed. He was right. As long as the tub didn't fill up, I'd be fine. I hoped.

"Okay, but please, Mr. Tucci, tell your cousin it'd be great if he could get here sooner than later?"

"Will do.  And Chloe?"

"Yes?"

"No freaks."

"Do I look like the type to live with freaks?"

"Well..."

"Goodbye, Mr. Tucci."

I was pretty sure he’d been kidding. He had to realize, in all the time that I'd been his tenant, that I had my head on straight and made good decisions. Well, if you didn’t count Lawrence, but he had no way of knowing about
that.
As I got dressed I began to feel at ease, despite my running shower. Things would work out fine. Today was the day I'd meet my new roommate. I was sure of it.

And I did. But first, I met a prophet, a chatterbox, a ghetto queen, and a woman in the early stages of menopause.

***