The Graduate

Isla Vista, California [Summer 1990]

It was the straw that would break the proverbial camel’s back, as the saying goes. The last straw, but it would not be the final one.

It was the morning of day three, his new living arrangement. He graduated from college mere weeks before and had not yet won employment. Not from lack of effort, he just had not yet cobbled together success. He had awakened with the intent to skateboard to the university’s on-campus Career Center and continue searching for post-college employment. A two-mile skate from the apartment, an exhilarating way to start the day. But first, a sandwich to sustain himself for his journey, expected to be a few hours. Lunch supplies, purchased the day before, however, were not in the refrigerator where they’d been placed, but on the kitchen floor along with every shelf rack that had been in the fridge. In their place was one thing, a keg of beer in a state of partial consumption. A remnant from the prior evening’s debauching.

A keg of beer. At 23 years old he understood the esteem enjoyed by the precious carbonated barley drink and was, by this age, well acquainted. It was entirely natural, of course, if the keg has contents you do what can be done to preserve it. But the cold cuts, cheese and bread. What, there wasn’t room in the fridge for it to cohabitate with the keg? Answer was, yes, there was room. The fact was, his roommates were buttholes.

He moved in to this apartment unit at the last minute with dudes unknown. The prior lease expired and he needed another hovel to call temporary home. Last minute because he’d been hoping to secure a job cleanly coinciding with his graduation date, it didn’t happen. The night before moving in he’d been at a party, a friend introduced him to another friend. This friend, once removed, had a room to sublet for the summer. There’d be four people in the two-bedroom apartment unit, he’d be one of those four, and he wouldn’t meet them until the next day. There was no time for continued looking. He accepted the sublet. 

On the morning of that first day the four strangers sat in the living room talking. This was their first acquainting. It was proposed they get a keg and get to know each other. Seemed possibly excessive, a whole keg, but determined to give them an honest effort, he consented. That evening they imbibed.

The next morning, day two, one of the roommates, wanting to build on yesterday’s momentum, proposed, “Today, let’s get another keg . . . and let’s have a band.” It was this exchange that crystallized the dynamics of this apartment unit. Sure, I know, only two days, but clearly this incipient routine would not foster a productive summer. He would need to step up his game in the job hunt to extricate himself from the mess to which he had willfully submitted.

We return to day three, the occurrence from the opening sequence. He stood with skateboard in hand and backpack, prepared to make his sandwich. Opening the refrigerator he saw only the keg. The buttholes were scattered about the apartment in varying degrees of sleepful decrepitude. His sandwich fixings on the floor trampled by innumerable drunken feet.

He exited the apartment with resolve. His mind had been made up with a crisply defined mental line of demarcation between himself and these people with whom he shared an address. That was the last straw, day three. Sadly for our waif, additional straws would yet follow.

[1] There was the laxative-prank incident. Tainted tacos were issued to him, under the guise of a peace offering, and naively consumed. They would take effect while on a bowling outing with a chum. The belly cramps were uncomfortable, not nearly as bad as he’d expect from a belly defiled by an overdose of laxatives, but undeniably crummy. He’d heard of ex-lax pranks, this was his first experience.

[2] There was the incident where police burst into the apartment at 2:00 am looking for one of the roommates. While bundled up asleep in bed, two police officers came into his room, turned on the light and started asking questions about said roommate. The degenerate had apparently gotten into a physical altercation with a neighbor and made threats. It was this moment he realized how little he knew about these people.

“Do you know your roommate’s name,” asked one of the officers.

“Is it Levy,” he replied by way of question.

“We’re asking you,” came the volley.

“I think it’s Levy,” he said without confidence.

“We have reason to believe it’s not Levy. Don’t you know who your roommates are,” the officer said before leaving.

No, he didn’t know who his roommates were, at least not beyond their well-earned sordid character. He lay there in bed thinking, the lights having been left on. 

[3] There was the regrettable ‘wet the bed’ episode. His roommate got drunk, passed out, and the remaining conscious roommates put him in the wrong bed. The bed wetter had a rickety bunk configuration with a desk underneath. Too much effort to lift or toss the drunkard into his own bed, so he was laid down unto his roommate’s, our narrator’s bed. Drunkard wet the bed, later awoke and made no reference to having made water. There was no fess up, apology or wash the bedding as act of conciliation.

But back to evening two, “Today, let’s get another keg . . . and let’s have a band.” The keg and band were in full force as the sun went down. Before long the police arrived due to the excessive noise. Trying to be responsible, our guy put his cup of beer on the sidewalk to receive the police officers. [He knew this much of the law. Don’t walk in the street with an open beer. Approach with at least that much respect.] Advising them that he lived there, the officers said it was too loud and too late. These points were inarguable, so he took a different approach. Don’t fight a futile effort, make an ask. 

“Officers, is it OK if the band plays one more song?”

“OK, one more,” relented one of the officers hoping for a peaceful end.

Walking back to the party, he retrieved his beer and said, “We’re OK for one more song. Play one more.” Predictably, the bevy of buttholes knew no restraint.

“Hey, they said one more song. Don’t end it, keep the song going,” said one. And so went the incantation.

There were no social graces with these ones. With defeat assured, he dumped his beer on the front lawn and skated away. He didn’t need to witness the befouling of the night to know how it would end.

Extraction

He finally managed to attain post-college employment. A major relief on multiple fronts. It was an absolute victory advancing into this stage of life, on the cusp of self-sufficiency. His life was finally to move forward after five college years building the bridge to a paycheck. But the most immediate triumph was moving out of his filth-laden hovel and leaving the degenerates behind.

First order of events was the departure from this place. For an added degree of fun he wanted to leave with no warning to the roommates. Simply that he would abruptly cease to live there.

He had been planning his get away for more than a week. Knowing he’d eventually get a job he’d been incrementally stashing possessions at the apartments of local friends. He would return for his gear when he could, expected to be shortly.

The day had finally arrived. After a number of stashing trips  his on-site possessions were minimal and he was well honed for a quick get-away. He’d run the sequence over in his head so many times that his movements would be well practiced. Then, as crisp as that, the moment arrived.

“Hey, you guys want to watch the Baseball All-Star Game today? It starts in 20 minutes,” asked one of the roommates excluding the waif, who by this time was understood to be not included without the need to state as much. 

“That sounds cool. Let’s get some sandwiches and beers,” said a second.

With no further deliberation they all arose, including the waif. The three roommates walked out the front door to get their game-watching grub. Our guy went directly to his room, grabbed his backpack, valise, an armload of remaining clothes and the skateboard, his trusty transport throughout college. Deposited into his car and returned for the 2^nd of three loads, as played out in his head. He dropped his two shirts from the closet onto his mattress, pulled off all the bedding in one swift unkempt move, folded it in half, then rolled the whole thing up and dropped that bundle into the front passenger seat. Last thing. The TV. 

This was 1990, there were no flat screen TVs. This aspect of his mental play-through had not been well conceived. This was a cathode tube boob tube. He couldn’t lift the thing alone without risking collapse or a hernia. He still had time before the roommates, but seeing them again would spoil the occasion. And just like that, his savior appeared in the form of his pal, an acquaintance really, Oz.

“Hey, how’s it going,” opened Oz with his typical grand smile.

“Oz, it’s great to see you, but I can’t talk now and I need your help. My roommates are buttholes and I’m moving out. I need to get my TV out before they return. Will you help me,” he asked.

His face transformed from happiness to determination as if accepting lead on a black ops mission.

“Let’s go,” he said, practically leading the way.

They entered the apartment, unhooked and unplugged, then lifted and deposited into the car. They exchanged brief, though sincere, good byes.

Our guy enjoyed that the roommates would return to a blank wall with no TV on which to watch the game. They’d then wake up the next day to find no electricity. 

Waif drove away with three stops on the itinerary. First was to pickup one of two possession stashes and cancel the electricity at his former apartment. Second, retrieve possession stash two of two and say good-bye to a few pals. The third and final stop was 103 miles to the south. He was going home, his parents’ home. A few days to gather himself before starting the next phase of life. Self-sufficiency awaited.

[This was my life 30 years ago this summer. Things have vastly improved since then. -klem]