Monday, August 16, 2010

The Roommate

Back when I was younger, I had a roommate named Kim. He was Korean guy who seemed nice at first, but one night changed everything. I want to tell you about what happened.

Kim couldn't afford the next month's rent, so he rented out his half of the apartment. He gave my new roommate a discount because Kim was a motivated seller. Everything went well with the new roommate for two weeks. Then, I get a call from Kim, who wanted to come up to show a prospective buyer his unwanted couch. I said sure.

In those days I was working hard. I taught summer school in the mornings and tutored in the afternoons and Saturday mornings. Every time I came home from work, I was exhausted and drained, but it felt noble, so I figured it was worth it. When I came home from a tutoring session at 8pm that night, a Friday, I found Kim still there. I had thought he would leave after showing the couch.

Kim was there smoking weed and drinking with some crack head white girl. I was surprised to see him there since he had rented the room away. I later learned that Kim had been planning on sleeping in my room for the weekend. I went home most weekends, but usually after my Saturday morning tutoring sessions. Kim later left to party with the crack head girl but his stuff remained in the apartment. Seeing as he didn't have a key because he no longer lived there, I sensed this could be an issue.

I reached him in order to let him know I had work early in the morning and I was going to keep the door locked. He said he would return immediately. It was 1am by the time he left with his stuff. I had to wake up at 8am and wasn't happy. But Kim's self-absorption was just beginning to magnify. He called me at 4 and 5 am, calls that I ignored, but which woke me up. For the next two hours, I stewed in a pot of anger. I soon began to hear knocking on the door. I flew into a frenzy.

At 7 am, after hearing knocking, I yelled, "Who the fuck is it?" "It's Kim." "Go home, Kim." "I'm trying to. I just need to get my stuff." I opened the door and lost it. "Why did you fucking call me at 4 in the fucking morning?" Silence, "You better fucking answer me!" I screamed, shirtless, following him as he collected his stuff, my mouth still motoring louder than a 1983 Mercedes Benz. I yelled exactly what I felt about the situation and what I thought of Kim on the whole. He had relinquished his right to the place when he rented the room; it didn't matter that he still paid for some of it. I continuously let him hear about the early morning call when he knew I had work.
Kim didn't have much to say back. He left and went home to his mother with his tail between his legs. He was an unemployed pothead kid without much going on. He had a ton of time to relive the tongue-lashing I gave him. It never left him. He soon decided to take over his father's business and run it with a ruthless ironfist and total lack of sensitivity or compassion. His motivation was to avoid being cut down to size as he had been that morning and it fueled him into a maniacal state with hellish consequences for anyone who had to deal with him.

I never spoke to my roommate of that summer again. Probably because it's very difficult to reach Kim Jong-Il these days.

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