Ypsilanti, Michigan 2006
Ted Miller
I didn't leave my apartment today. I didn't go outside
yesterday either. Instead, I stayed in bed most of the time, going downstairs
every few hours to watch television, look at the internet, and steal John's
food.
I had a brief vision at one point—a memory of a cable hook-up
behind my dresser. It's there, but it doesn't work. That's too bad. It's spring
break, and cable t.v. in my room would've allowed me to stay in bed all week.
I went out for a while on Friday. I was in the shower when
John asked if I wanted to go to a party. I spent all day collecting coins around
the house and had plans to spend my five dollars on a pint of vodka, get drunk,
and watch television. Lately, getting drunk around other people—or any form of
communication (I was going to disconnect the internet and hide my cell
phone)—has been bad news. But I went out anyways, against better judgment.
A few minutes after I got out of the shower, I received a
call from Alec. He wanted to know if I had anything fun on my agenda and, if so,
if he and his wife Shijing could "latch onto [my] plans."
I told Alec that I was going to a party, but I'd have to ask
John if it was okay. These weren't my friends, and if it was going to be a quiet
get-together, I didn't want to add to any awkwardness with more strangers.
John said it was a birthday party, so we'd better wait and
see what the turn-out was like before I invited any more people.
We left the apartment at ten forty-five and walked to the
liquor store on the corner of Hamilton and Cross Street. When I showed the clerk
my I.D., he laughed. I have thick, wavy hair, and for a period of fourteen
unfortunate months, during which I renewed my driver's license, I flat-ironed it
into a cumbersome, bulbous mushroom cut. When the clerk was done joking, I paid
for my liquor with fifty pennies, eleven dimes, eighteen nickels and ten
quarters.
Next, John and I stopped at the apartment of the boyfriend of
one of John's former roommates.
Last year, John lived in a house on Olive Street with five
roommates whom he loved. They played charades, cooked together, laughed, fake
wrestled and got along famously. In the spring some of them graduated and moved
to different cities. John, in turn, moved into an apartment with me. Needless to
say, as someone who prefers to watch television and get drunk by himself, I fail
to live up to the standards set by the former residents of 410 Olive Street. I
sat on a fake leather sofa and stared at the living room's only wall
decoration—a seemingly arbitrarily framed Captain & Tennille LP—while John and
Shayna, one of his old housemates, reminisced and discussed a 410 Reunion
Potluck.
John sincerely misses these people, and I don't blame him.
They were good company, easy to get along with, likeable. They engaged in
thoughtful discourse. They didn't wake-up at four p.m. everyday and pass out on
the living room floor watching "Roseanne" re-runs every night.
I remember one night last April, I went over to their house.
I was drunk and carrying on about how a girl I was dating fucked some other
guy—a guy with dreadlocks and a septum piercing, a guy in a ska band. I
sat on one of their tall dining room chairs and recounted the details to John
and Kayleigh. They made me feel better—tearing apart a guy they'd never met,
telling me how nice I was and how I deserved better. I listened, agreed with
them, and drank until I passed out.
So, anyway. John used to lived with kind-hearted, interesting
people. Now he lives with me.
Eventually we left for the party. It was in a rented house
behind the Domino's Pizza on Washtenaw, a house adorned with just about every
college-life cliché: a mini-van bench in lieu of a sofa, scores from
childhood-era video games displayed on the wall, probably a poster about beer. I
don't remember everything so well.
John ran into some people he knew outside, so I went in by
myself and started to drink. There were only thirty or so people there, so I
hesitated before calling Alec and telling him it was okay to come over. I
figured I might as well have someone to talk to. And besides, I hadn't seen Alec
in a few months.
Alec and I were born on the same day in nineteen eighty-three. I met him in high
school, and we've been friends for seven years. Despite the fact that we don't
have anything in common—he's married, owns a home in Ann Arbor, and works as an
engineer for Ford—we've stayed pretty good friends.
Shortly after I got off the phone with Alec, a stocky fellow
in khaki pants and a shiny, black, button-up shirt announced that there would be
a "clam bake" in the bedroom behind the kitchen.
Although I've only smoked pot a few times and am by no means
an expert, I always thought a "clam bake" was something that took place in a
small, confined space like a car, not a spacious bedroom. But I didn't argue.
I ended up in a room with three people: the short, fat guy; a
tall, athletic-type with a backwards baseball hat, and me. While we smoked, the
two guys talked about computer classes—how the U of M's program isn't as good as
the one at Washtenaw Community College. That didn't sound right, but I didn't
say anything.
By the time Alec and Shijing showed up, I had finished the
last of my liquor and moved onto the keg. I remember a few things—talking to
Alec in the kitchen, a brief discussion with John and some of his friends about
how our landlord's homosexual son think that John and I are live-in lovers—but I
was pretty out of it.
I finished my fourth beer and decided to perform my "spitting
beer out of my mouth in an upward mist as dance move" routine. As soon as I did
this, someone (probably one of the tenants) grabbed me by the collar and dragged
me out of the house. Feeling like an asshole, I asked the guy if he could get my
coat for me. "It's brown and has fur."
Alec and Shijing drove me back to my apartment. They sat in
my living room and listened to me moan about God knows what while I drank John's
beer. I don't remember their leaving, but I have a vague memory of trying to
open my bedroom window before I went to sleep. It gets hot in there.
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