Dishes that have been on the counter for weeks, rank laundry, food stuck to the floor, peanut butter on your computer, missing food, broken dishes, used-up bathroom products, missing clothing, and worst of all- your beer is gone. I've seen it all in the realm of bad roommates. But the one I bet
you haven't seen is rotting chicken in your toilet.
Before I explain this long and arduous story, I'd like to preface this entry by giving thanks to the awesome roommates I've had throughout the years (because they do exist). My current roommate and best friend since sixth grade is simply amazing! I'd also like to give a shout out to my old running buddy who is moving to Cali and I can't forget "Saliston."
But I'll never forget my worst roommate of all: Dom Dedumdum. I mean Dwayne Dwops. I mean Harry Azole (Sorry. I couldn't decide what to change his name to. There were too many great stupid names when I searched google for options). Let's just call him Chester. I of course changed his name to reflect the idiotic nature of this poor human being, although I have no reason to take the high road and protect his privacy.
It was the summer before my senior year in college and I was excited to live with my best friend Saliston and the rest of our college friends. There were to be five girls in one house - or a year-long estrogen overdose.
But we had a plan. Saliston had found this old, cute, charming (okay it was run down, decrepit, and haunted-looking) house on Humboldt Street. The current tenants needed someone to sublet a bedroom for the summer, which worked out because my lease ended a month sooner than the other gals'. I was to move in for a month and at the end of that month, the other gals would move in and we would all sign a new, year lease. And we'd live happily ever after, right?
But first, I had to get through a month with the current tenant.
My new roommate was Chester. He looked like an All-American Boy: blonde hair, blue eyes, polo shirt, smooth-talker. Although he worked with the needy, he had the air of a future country-club goer, or a Republican candidate. It was as though he felt he was doing society a favor and that he should be thanked each and every day for simply existing. Weasel was written all over him and I missed it in all of my twenty-one year-old naivety. FML.
I agreed to the arrangement only after first meeting with Chester and the landlord. At the end of the brief, 30-minute introduction, which was mostly used to discuss terms of the lease rather than meet the new tenant, I felt like the arrangement would work just fine. It was only 30 days, right?
The first day or two went by without any problem. It was awkward with just Chester and I in this old house. Luckily, my boyfriend would be moving in for a few weeks before he moved to be closer to his new job down south. I wouldn't have to live with just Chester the entire month.
"Do you like running?" he asked me one day.
"Yeah! I like running at Lake Padden. It's so pretty there," I said.
"Yeah, I like running at Lake Padden too, except I like running the course backwards so that I can stare at ladies boobs when they're running towards me. Hey wanna go run Lake Padden sometime?" he was not joking.
"Uh, I think not," I said, suddenly becoming aware of my chest.
I gathered my things and spent the rest of the evening upstairs. What a creep!
My boyfriend moved in, and also took note of Chester's creep aura. "I think if I weren't here, he'd try to pull something funny on you," he warned.
"Ugh don't even say that. I don't want to think about that."
Chester began bringing home random girls from the bar and proceeded to have loud sex just on the other side of my bedroom wall. I was not impressed. All of the girls looked kicked. True knuckle-draggers. Oh they were hideous. I didn't even want to ask where he was picking them up.
One weekend, my boyfriend and I decided to throw a party at the house. I told Chester about it and he seemed to have no qualms. We threw a good one. Beer pong was constant, people were shot-gunning beers in the kitchen and by morning, everything was covered in a sticky mess. I had to go to work, so I didn't plan to clean up until after my shift ended. Chester neglected to mention that the landlord was coming by that morning.
The landlord was pissed. The place was trashed, and he found a cup that someone had been spitting chew into all night. The landlord cleaned the mess up and I found him sitting on the couch when I came home. "ABSOLUTELY NO TOBACCO PRODUCTS ON MY PROPERTY!"
"Sorry, I had no idea anyone was even doing that. I would have cleaned up this place, but I didn't know you were coming by." I tried.
"I would appreciate it if you didn't throw parties like this at all in my house," he said.
"Sure thing," I said. This was not looking good.
I was going to kill Chester. He totally set me up.
My guard was officially up with this douche bag.
Unfortunately, the day came when my boyfriend had to move. In addition to being sad that we would now be constrained to a long-distance relationship, I was also dreading the time I had left with Chester in the house. I still had to live with him for two weeks, and I was more uncertain how I was going to get through them than I was when I first moved in.
One night, Chester decided to have a house party. I didn't want any part in this. Not after he screwed me over with my party. So I left and stayed with a friend over night. What I came back to the next morning was on a whole different level than the mess I left for my landlord. It looked like the apocalypse had happened on Humboldt Street.
There were broken dishes on the roof of the house, garbage and cans littering the yard, the stench of alcohol permeating even the air outside, and the door was ajar. I saw Chester mopping in the kitchen.
I walked in.
"Hey! You missed a rager last night!" said Chester.
"Yeah, dude. It was awwwwwesome." said his ugly friend that was missing half of his ear.
"Bummer," I said walking up the stairs.
No nook or cranny was left untouched, except for my room, thank god. I had a dead-bolt lock on my bedroom door and for a damn good reason. That's when I looked out to the backyard.
Someone had burnt the shape of a penis into the grass, alongside the f-word. And Chester was leaving in week. I'll be damned if he blames this shit on me. I was furious! The neighbor later told me that the cops had been called which was the only reason more obscenities weren't burnt into the lawn, I suppose. I called the landlord just to ensure that this would not be taken out of my deposit, and he all but told me Chester couldn't have done it. Chester was the landlords golden child. He could do no wrong by Mr. Landlord. I didn't hang up until I had his word that this would not affect my deposit.
I spent the rest of my days locked in my room trying to avoid Chester until he moved out.
Then, one of my friends who was moving into the house called the landlord to see if she could start moving some things in early. The landlord agreed. The day she came by, I had to work, but I knew Chester would be there. So I just told her to go on in.
Chester was furious. He told my friend that she in fact could not move her stuff in because if she damaged anything, it would come out of his deposit. He told her the landlord made a mistake. I couldn't believe this asshole. My friend, not knowing any better, turned around and didn't move a thing in, even though she had driven two hours to get there with her car stuffed to the brim.
When I got off work, I called her to see if she'd be there, and she told me the entire story. I went home, fed up, and ready to rip Chester a new one, "Who do you think you are? The landlord said she could move all of her stuff in TODAY. And last I checked, you are not the landlord."
"Excuse me, but her lease doesn't start until next week. Not today. I am still responsible for any damages," he rebuked.
"She drove up for TWO hours! You couldn't even let her put stuff in the garage? What is wrong with you?!" I stormed off and called the landlord again.
The landlord had a few words with Chester and the next day, my friend was able to come back and move stuff into the garage. Chester left for the day because he was mad that I had actually gotten the landlord to tell him no on something.
On the day she moved in, my friend went to go use the bathroom downstairs and the toilet overflowed. And it smelled horrible.
"I'm so sorry! I didn't know what to do!" she said when she came out.
"God, did you take a crap in here or what?" I said making my way towards the bathroom.
"No! I promise I didn't."
I didn't want to embarrass her any further, but clearly something more than piss was permeating the air.
That's when I opened the back of the toilet up. "OH. MY. GOD! I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!" I screamed.
"What?!"
My friend came over to see a bunch of raw chicken that had been put in the back of the toilet.
"That's why the toilet overflowed. This chicken was blocking the flusher." I said.
It had smelled like it had been there over a week. Its rotting stench permeated the house. I put on rubber gloves and took the chicken out to the alley, where it sat and stank for another week. You could smell it in the front yard, it was that horrible.
Chester was sooo dead.
He avoided me for the rest of the week, certain that I had discovered the chicken. He was conveniently gone every time I came home, and I saw that he would park a block away and hang out at the neighbors while he waited for me to go to work. This way, he could pack up his stuff and move out without incident. Except on his last day in the house. I got off work early.
I came home, and caught him by surprise on the stairs. I was ready.
"Hey," he said like nothing happened.
"What the fuck," I greeted him.
"Um why are you so pissed?"
"Are you kidding me? Why the fuck would you put chicken in the toilet?!" I screamed.
"You really think I did that? It was probably one of your little friends at your party."
"No. I KNOW it was not one of my friends because I know the kind of company I keep. I don't party with a bunch of assholes!"
"Oh what- and I do?!" he yelled, feeling like he had the right to get defensive.
"Of course you do. Why else would there be a fucking penis burned into the lawn out back?!"
He was obviously defeated. I saw it in his eyes. "Fuck off," he said making his way past me on the stairs.
"Fuck you Chester. Get the hell out of
my house!"
His lease was officially over. He was gone. Or so I thought.
I felt so good. I promise I am not inherently evil, but cussing someone out when it is more than deserved is the best feeling in the world. I was on cloud 9. Until I awoke to a bang at 2am.
I looked at the deadbolt and felt better that it was in the locked position. Maybe I was dreaming. I was drifting off again, when BANG! There it goes again. I suddenly became terrified. I couldn't move. I couldn't even fathom reaching to grab my- BANG!- phone. Maybe the boogie man would reach out and grab my arm. Or worse- Chester.
I knew it had to be him, but I was too scared to look. BANG BANG BANG! I couldn't figure out what was happening, but it sounded like someone was ransacking the living room, or trying to get in the front door. I stayed awake until it stopped around 4am, and then I sat there awake until I had to get up the next morning. I wish I would have called the cops.
I fearfully walked down the stairs, expecting to see the place had been robbed. Tip toe, tip toe. I peered down stairs before I actually forced my feet to make the journey. So far nothing looked off. I decided to go down.
"Hello?" I called out.
Nothing. Not a single thing was out of place. What was going on?
I looked out on the porch. Nothing. I couldn't believe it. I was certain of what I had heard. I felt like I was dropped into the Twilight Zone or some other creepy suspenseful drama. I had had enough.
I called my girlfriends and said that this house just wasn't going to work out. I was sick of the landlords crap. I was sick of dealing with Chester, who I had realized had not given me back his key. I just didn't trust anything or anyone.
The landlord agreed to give me back my deposit in full since it was appearing like our relationship was "just not going to work out." My friend who had tried moving in helped me look for a new home. We found a beautiful, 5 bedroom craftsman on Northwest Ave that would become the backdrop for some of my best college memories. The new landlord was awesome, and Chester wouldn't know where I lived anymore.
My parents came up to help me move out. We packed up everything and moved in a single day. I was out of there. When we were walking over the front porch of the Humboldt house, I kept smelling something awfully familiar to the rotting chicken.
"Man, it smells right here," my dad said as he was hoisting my couch up.
"Yeah it does." That's when I noticed the floor boards were loose. The banging! Chester must have put rotting chicken under the porch as a goodbye present. Well screw him. This wasn't my problem anymore. I was moving out. The landlord could deal with that one.
Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but don't move in with someone you don't know. Ending up with a Chester is worse than broken bones.
