I'm trying out a new feature called You Show Me Yours, which I reserve the right to completely abandon if nobody plays along.
Here's how it works: I'll start you off with an anecdote in a subject rich with material. Then you chime in with your tale, via comments. Today we'll start with crazy roommates -- college stories, group house stories, crazy craigslist stories, you name it.
I'll go first.
For the last four months of 2001, I sublet a room in a quiet neighborhood on the Durham-Chapel Hill border. This decision was questionable from the start. But they wanted $400 per month and I was poor and desperate – two things you shouldn’t be when looking for housing.
On my initial tour of the premises, my future landlord greeted me with a flashlight. “Before you see the inside,” he said without introducing himself, “I want to show you the mangos.” So he walked me out to a makeshift garden and showed me the mangos. I was not impressed but faked it.
“The next thing you need to see is the workout room.” The workout room consisted of a punching bag in an otherwise-empty screened-in porch. He proceeded to demonstrate, kicking it furiously. I now knew never to be late with rent. He offered me a turn but I declined.
This man’s name was Hector. He called himself the homeowner, though I had my doubts. He rivaled me in age (22) and showed no signs of employment. His back windshield alleged an affiliation with Durham County Technical College, I school whose existence I could never verify. On various occasions, he said he was on the cusp of “joining the CIA,” “heading to law school” and “opening a salon, for men.“ His cousin, Joy, was a fellow roommate. A month after I moved in, they started sleeping together. We all handled the Anthrax scare differently.
He was filled with intrigue, as was his house.
