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Fiction Issue 8

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Roommate #2 Callie by Susan Weiman

Callie returned to New York after a 3-year stint in the Peace Corps. The 24-year-old had become the Assistant Director of Volunteers at Planned Parenthood and my new roommate. On Mondays she attended NARAL meetings, Tuesday she baked bread for the Women’s Prison Association, and Wednesdays she organized a knitting circle in the living room. Callie and her do-gooder peers sat in a circle, drank wine, and listened to Joni Mitchell. They talked about politics, work, and their relationships with their mothers. The apartment became an international youth hostel. Women of all ages, from Algeria, Spain, Belgium, Libya, and a half-dozen other countries stayed for a week or a weekend. The night of the “Blackout 2003,” I zigzagged from the east side of Manhattan across town to West 63rd and ended up walking across the 59th Street Bridge with two women from Queens. Despite a foot injury, and the unbearable heat, I made it to Queensboro Plaza, then parted. Having inherited “the no sense of direction” gene from my father, I had no idea where I was or where I was going. At an Italian ice cart, I met a young woman, and followed her to Broadway and 31st Street. At the corner, I was greeted by my noisy upstairs neighbors, who redeemed themselves by escorting me home by candlelight. In total darkness, I entered the apartment thirsty, exhausted, and dripping with sweat. There sat Callie and a friend at the kitchen table, drinking wine and eating pizza. I scrambled to find candles and ranted and raved while reviving myself with water and food. They sat as still as ice cubes while I proceeded to melt down. Callie’s friend Joyce had a car and had driven them home unscathed in daylight. Joyce, afraid to be alone in the dark, stayed overnight and slept in Callie’s bed. She insisted they keep the door open, and I listened to them sing “Kumbaya” and camp songs the entire evening. A week later, I asked Callie to move out.

Roommate #10 Betsy by Susan Weiman

Two days before their arrival, my roommate Betsy informed me that she had invited two young men from Germany to stay in the apartment for a week. "They’ll sleep in my room, and I'll go to Jake's." “I don’t want two strange men here without you. Tell them they can’t come.” “They’re good friends. I travelled with Stefan and Eric in Europe.” “You’ll have to stay in the living room." The night after they arrived, Betsy went to Jake's. Stefan and Eric returned that evening and presented me with flowers and a box of German chocolates. Like the chocolates and unlike Betsy, they were sweet and easy to talk to. I thanked them and invited the handsome young men into the living room for a beer. "So how did you meet Betsy?" I asked. "We met last year in the gardens outside the Louvre," said Eric. "We chatted for thirty minutes and exchanged email addresses. Betsy is very nice. She invited us to visit New York numerous times and asked us to stay with her." "Oh, Betsy told me you were close friends and that you traveled together!" “I’m so sorry. We thought she had her own apartment. We really didn’t know.” “Don’t worry. I’m happy to have you as guests. It’s Betsy I’m going to kill. By the way, where are you from?"

"I'm from Frankfurt and Eric is from Dresden. We are doctoral students at university in Hamburg." said Stefan. "We are roommates."

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Roommate #13 Shira by Susan Weiman

Rather than Craigslist or Roomi, I met Shira at Ed's going-away party. Israeli-born Shira came to New York at age sixteen with her father. Grateful that she didn't have to serve in the Israeli army, she volunteered to help U.S. veterans find housing. After graduating from NYU, she worked in real estate, finance, and later became the Executive Vice President of marketing at Edelman.

After she lost her job as a marketing guru, she moved in with me and took part-time work as a florist. She filled the apartment with lilacs, peonies, and tulips. There were plants on every window sill. On my birthday, she baked a huge carrot cake, decorated it with a bunch of organic carrots and invited everyone in the building to celebrate. To top it off, she bought me two tickets to Hamilton!

Shira loved to answer the phone. The entire time we lived together, I never spoke with a telemarketer or received messages from credit card scammers or Medical Alert. She cleaned the bathroom, emptied the trash, removed the crumbs from the toaster...I never had to ask her to do anything.

Without my knowledge, she wrote and posted a profile of me on OK Cupid. I received hundreds of messages and she screened each one. Although I should have been furious at her, that's how I met Neil.

"My mother's dying. I have to go home," she told me the day after our six-month anniversary. As the only daughter, she had to take care of her. I told her that I understood, but her words hit me like a thunderbolt.

Shira told me to keep the security deposit and gave me an extra month's rent. I felt bad for her and insisted she keep her money. She wouldn't hear of it. She left for Israel the following day.

A week later, I posted an ad on “Roomi.” That evening I had three women lined up to see the apartment -- a waitress, a nurse, and a flight attendant. I couldn't do it. Neil, who still lived in his own apartment, told me to take my time.

Could I live with another roommate? Financially, I had no choice. Neil and I were intimate, but not ready to live together.

What could I do? The parade of roommates flashed before my eyes. Emma… Kim… Lili… Callie… Betsy… Melissa… Melanie… Angela… Yuki… Leila… Veronika… Akari….Bess… So, I did what any New Yorker would do. I played Lotto and won.

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