Rommates

Original Date: September 20, 2006

I wasn't supposed to go to summer school. I was supposed to be down the shore with the rest of my graduating class. I was supposed to have one final directionless summer before I shipped off to the sea of higher learning and adulthood.

“I’m sorry, John. Your SATs are just too low.” This phrase echoed through my mind from about October of senior year through this very moment. Because of my inability to perform on less-than-objective standardized tests, I was forced to start college a few months early. Ok, maybe I’m being over-dramatic. Three guys from my class and a few girls I knew were doing it too, but none were what I’d call friends.

I said a less-than-easy goodbye to my parents and bunkered in with Dale Uminski from “outside Pittsburgh.” When I trudged back in from the farewell curb, Dale was straightening the edges of his WWE Divas poster. Out of 3,999 potential roommates, I landed the one who still watches wrestling. No, he didn’t watch. He kneeled at the altar of John Cena, among other fictional bravados.

“I got some hot sauce if you want some later,” said Dale. He hurled the 32oz tub on the top shelf and began a frantic search for his hammer and nails; items he was “sure mum had put in the stuff box.”

“So where you from anyway?” he asked.

“Philly,” I responded, not looking up from my MacBook.

“Awww Eagles fan eh? Yea whatchu know about a Super Bowl?”
NFL football meant nothing to me, as did most professional sports. Rather, I thrived off the energy and passion of collegiate athletics and was a fiend for March Madness.

“Not really,” I replied.

“Well good ‘cause they suck anyway. You got a girl?”

“Ehhh…” I replied. We had said an emotional goodbye two nights before. That was a wound I would’ve preferred not to open up. Much less dump his hot sauce into.

“How ‘bout you?” I asked.

“Yeaaa buddy. Goin’ on two years. She’ll be up to visit a lot, don’t you worry.”

Just what I needed, to be a fly on the wall of their redneck sex. I could see her now, all dolled up in cheap velour and K-Swiss running shoes.

“Got it!” he yelled, raising the lost hammer in triumph. He nailed five hunting hats to the wall. Maybe now’s not the best time to tell him I’m a vegan.