Unwanted Roommate
Dear Vishous,
I feel like you might have gotten a letter like this some time ago.
I dunno. But I’m hoping that you’ll choose mine to address anyway, because I’m at the end of my rope.
I’m a guy, twenty-nine years old, and I live in a medium-sized city.
I’m not dating anyone seriously, and I basically like my job. Neither of these is the problem.
Three of my buddies and I moved into this apartment four years ago.
It’s a four-bedroom, and two of the originals left after they got with their (future) wives.
Because my remaining roommate and I were making okay money, we decided to convert one of the bedrooms into an office for him (he telecommutes) and leave the other one open.
It was a great arrangement. Until his little brother graduated from college and needed a place to crash. I was fine letting the brother in here in the beginning—because it was supposed to only be for a month or so until he found his own place. That was almost a year ago.
The little brother is a pain in the ass.
For one, he doesn’t have a job. He livestreams on Twitch, makes YouTube reaction videos, and plays video games for days (and nights) at a time.
(As a side note, I should have seen trouble coming when he showed up on our front door with an office chair that looked like the driver’s seat of a Formula 1 car, and a computer screen the size of a bay window. But I digress.)
Aside from the noise of the games, the shouting, and the relentless narcissism involved with filming himself constantly, he is a slob.
He has never cleaned a dish or a bowl in his life—nor can he seem to understand how to put them in our dishwasher.
He never does his laundry, which grosses me the hell out.
And all he wants to talk about is his gaming and how he’s an influencer.
If there is one good piece of news, he does not use the refrigerator or the stove.
Of course, the bad news is that he lives off of delivery services and there is trash from takeout all over his room.
He needs to go. And yes, I’ve expressed my frustration to my roommate.
His response is that his brother “can’t really function” in the real world and wouldn’t do well independently.
The kid’s parents have started to pay his share of rent and utilities, but this makes the situation worse for me because, in my view, it signifies that this supposedly temporary solution to the housing situation of an otherwise fully functioning adult is now permanent.
Look, the kid is smart enough to make a living with his Patreon account and his livestreams. He graduated from college.
He’s good at gaming. Yet his brother and his parents are treating him like he’s fifteen and fragile.
It’s ridiculous, and I know that my roommate handles the inconveniences because it’s his fricking brother—whereas to me, the kid is taking advantage of things in a huge way.
What the hell do I do? I like where I live.
I can bike to work in the good weather, and I have a parking space in the back (which, thankfully, the brother doesn’t use because he doesn’t even have a damn driver’s license).
The price is right, and the building’s quiet.
More than all that, though, and I hate to sound like a dick, but I was here first. This is my gig.
I don’t want to be forced out by this kid and my roommate who’s being manipulated like he is.
That’s all I got. What do I do? I hate coming home. I’ve lost respect for my roommate, and I can’t stand this kid.
Thanks,
Bob (not my real name, but whatever, I can’t think up a tagline name)
Mary: Bob, thank you for writing, and let me say that challenges with roommates are not uncommon—
Vishous: My guy, oh, my God, this is fucking awful. This is just the worst. I am so fucking sorry—what?
Mary: *blinks* I just…I haven’t seen you so compassionate. Maybe ever.
V: Well, how can you not feel for Bob? To work hard during the day and come home to someone who is disrespectful of the physical space you share, taking advantage of the hospitality, and totally annoying to be around?
I mean, your home is your sanctuary. You go there to recharge.
And Bob’s stuck with this kid. Seriously. My heart goes out to him.
Mary: Well, this is a nice surprise. I’m glad you’re being so empathetic. It’s a refreshing change. Now, Bob, I think that you—
V: Can you imagine? My guy has to wake up knowing the kid’s right next door. And he has to go to sleep with the dumbass down the hall. Everywhere he goes when he’s at home, the scourge is there. Breathing. Eating. Existing. It’s enough to drive a person insane—
Mary: Yes, I think that part of the issue is pretty clear. And I’m glad you’re sympathizing with Bob. But let’s now look at possible solutions—
V: *lights up* Always there. The kid is always there. Twenty-four hours a day. So that even if you’re outside in the field, doing your job, you know—you know—that you’re coming back and getting trapped indoors with him. There’s no escape. Wherever you are, he’s looming—
Mary: *narrows her eyes* We’re not on Bob’s letter anymore, are we?
V: Of course, we are. *exhales* It’s all Bob, all the time. I’m just opening myself up to other people. Haven’t you wanted me to do that?
Mary: Yes, but I’m not sure that’s what’s happening here.
V: Fine, let’s go on to solutions.
Mary: Excellent idea. Bob, I see that you state you’ve spoken to your roommate about his brother. I’m going to suggest that, before you do anything rash like move out, you sit down with your roommate and his brother and clarify some—
V: How big’s your trunk, Bob?
Mary: Excuse me?
V: *shrugs* I’m just throwing it out there. You mention you have a parking space, so you must have a car. Does it have adequate trunk space? And if not, do you have a trusted friend with a truck or a sedan?
Mary: Um, where are we going with this?
V: *taps hand-rolled over ashtray* Now, Bob, here’s my advice. I want you to go get a shovel, a hammer, some plastic tarping, and a big box of commercial-grade trash bags—
Mary: V!
V: —a hacksaw and a good butcher knife.
Mary: No! No, no, no—
V: Look, I’m just telling him what I would do—
Mary: That is a murder kit! You just told Bob to go get a murder kit—
V: Not at all. A murder kit has duct tape. I didn’t mention any duct tape. Although, Bob, that’s not a bad idea—
Mary: No! And I’m stopping this right here. Bob, I—we—*glares at V* do not condone murder as a solution to interpersonal conflict—
V: It’s not murder. It’s self-defense. The kid is terminally offending Bob.
Mary: This is not an episode of The Sopranos!
V: Of course, it isn’t. I’m not suggesting he go to the mob and find himself a freelance enforcer. I’m advocating for him to take care of this himself, true.
Mary: *puts head in hands* Oh, my God.
V: So, here’s what you do, Bob. Wait until he’s into a game, sneak up behind him, and—
Mary: No! Just no!
V: *curses* Fine, you want to be so critical—
Mary: Not condoning murder is not being critical!
V: *tilts head to the side* Boy, Mary, you’re really worked up. You want some water? Maybe a cold compress on the back of your neck?
Mary: *rubs temples* Look, can we just finish this? Properly.
V: Fine, so what’s your solution? *eases back in chair* You think you’re so smart, what’s your advice?
Mary: *takes a minute to calm down* I think the three should sit down together like reasonable people and discuss expectations and a timeline. Jeez.
V: Okay, I can get on board with that.
Mary: *stunned* Really?
V: Sure. If the kid isn’t out of the apartment in ten days, plan Get That Shovel goes into action.
Mary: I give up. *grabs bottle of Motrin* Bob, sit down with the two of them and talk about your expectations for the brother’s behavior.
Provide them with a reasonable timeline of about thirty days, and explain that if the behavior doesn’t change, the brother will have to move out.
Then wait the thirty days. If the brother is still being difficult, then he has to go.
V: Get ready with that shovel, Bob. The kid’s not going to change.
Mary: *glares at V again* This is not about Lassiter.
V: *looks shocked* Who said it was?
Mary: *takes two Motrin* Let us know how it goes, Bob. And do not buy any shovels. Until next month, I’m taking a spa day.
V: Prime can get you a 47-inch D-handle digging shovel for $42.88. Order it now, it’ll be to the front door of that apartment in forty-eight hours.