Chapter 4
The Transition
Later that evening
Ipulled the last corner of the fitted sheet snugly over the mattress before shoving my face into the warm, freshly laundered bedding.
The overpowering floral scent of fabric softener might have been too much for my sensitive nose, but it was a welcome improvement over Roscoe’s stink.
Tonight, I’d put my foot down about the bed and bathing situation, and to make my point, I set up an inflatable mattress on the floor near the television.
I stopped by the bar to give everyone the bad news, with Rob being especially upset.
He offered me more money on top of my last paycheck, but I nervously refused.
Even though I could have used it, I wasn’t the only one struggling, and my problems shouldn’t fall on anyone else’s shoulders.
Legally, he couldn’t continue employing me anyway, so thus ended my somewhat steady stream of income.
Being jobless wasn’t all bad, and I got some grocery shopping done for Roscoe’s ‘better than sex’ baked ziti while also getting a head start on packing.
Rent was coming due soon, and it wouldn’t be long before the eviction letters followed.
Even though I was worried to the point of breaking, there wasn’t anything I could do but let it happen.
The locked doorknob rattled moments before Roscoe rapped out a playful rhythm.
“Little piggy, let me in,” he called out, his voice muffled.
“Oh. what plague have you brought upon me now,” I muttered under my breath while twisting the deadbolt lock.
When the door opened, Roscoe greeted me from inside of an old mattress with holes cut out for his legs and arms. He’d hidden his claws inside a pair of mismatched flannel oven mitts while black, heavy duty trash bags covered his feet.
To add to the chaos, a grease-covered towel turban wrapped around a partially deflated volleyball, which was attached to the top of the mattress by what looked like Velcro. “God damn it.”
“What?” He turned sideways and hobbled through the door. I glanced both ways to see if he’d drawn any attention to himself before shutting it.
“What the hell is this?”
“Ain’t it obvious?” he asked, letting the oven mitts fall to the floor before struggling to point up at the turban. “I’m the Sultan of Serta.”
I bit down hard on my lower lip and stared at him for a few moments, my vision turning red again.
“Get this nasty shit out of the apartment.”
“It ain’t that bad.” Though I couldn’t see his face, I could hear him inhale through his nose.
“Smells a little like when I was helping one of my friends shoot a porno. We had an old mattress like this on the floor.” He struggled a little, pulling both arms inside so he could unzip the bottom.
Enough of the innards had been removed so he could fit while somehow keeping just enough stuffing to maintain its shape.
Like a dog in an oversized E-collar, he struggled to slip out of the mattress, getting stuck halfway. “Uh… gonna need some help.”
With a groan, I grabbed the top, which was slightly damp, and gave it a yank. “This is so disgusting.” With one final pull, he slipped free—and then farted.
“Ahh, much better,” he said, fanning the air behind him.
“You’re a pig,” I said, pointing to the back door leading to the balcony. “Put all this crap out there. It smells worse than you, if you can believe it.”
He let out a laugh before dragging the nasty, mostly empty mattress to the door, shoving it outside. He rubbed his hands together, nudging me aside while sliding his dirty feet across the clean kitchen floor toward the fridge.
“I was thinking… maybe we should wait to do the piercings until next week. It’s not a good time right now,” I said, spraying air freshener around the living room.
“I told you, my buddy said we gotta get them in before you start healing too fast.” The air mattress finally caught his eye. “You gonna sleep on that now?”
“No.”
Roscoe cracked open a beer and let out a whine. “Aw, come on, Cody!”
“You’re my roommate, not my boyfriend.” I grabbed a bottle of werewolf shampoo sitting on the counter. “See this? Use it. You smell like Waffle House dumpster juice.”
He snatched the bottle away and scowled. “You don’t deserve my baked ziti.” Roscoe gave me one more disgruntled growl before disappearing into the bathroom.
“Then I’ll make it myself.”
Roscoe popped his head out from around the corner, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s not like it’s that hard. Any idiot can dump noodles into sauce and bake it.”
He slowly backed out of the bathroom, his expression growing concerned. “You really don’t know how to cook, do you?”
I opened the pantry, grabbing a box of penne pasta and a couple jars of tomato sauce before laying them out on the counter.
“It’s not organic chemistry.” I picked up the box, pointing to the instructions. “If you can read, you can cook. It’s why I’m surprised you can cook.”
“I can fuckin’ read!” His mouth hung open as he let out an overexaggerated gasp. Then he pointed at the counter. “What the hell is this? Jarred sauce? Did you seriously bring that shit into this house? The dumpster mattress was more appetizing.”
“Then go chew on that.” I said, flipping the jar to get a glimpse of the ingredients. “What the hell does it matter? Italian food is all just tomato sauce with different shaped noodles.”
Roscoe wrinkled his nose but didn’t respond.
“You know I’m right.”
He grabbed his chest and looked up, muttering “porca miseria” in a surprisingly good Italian accent.
“What does that mean?”
He said nothing, his tail hanging between his legs as he slowly dragged himself to the bathroom and shut the door.
“You’re such a drama queen.”
I stared in amazement at a blackened red and brown mass that was somehow overcooked and undercooked at the same time.
Squeaky shower handles silenced the running water in the bathroom, and I started to panic.
Roscoe had been in there for over an hour, and I’d hoped the residual smoke billowing around the fluorescent lighting would have dissipated by now.
My attempt at baking a simple meal was a complete disaster, and I could practically hear Roscoe belching my words back into my face.
The blow dryer clicked on which meant I had a little more time. Perhaps I could let the ziti bake at a higher temperature to finish cooking the middle. After setting the oven to four hundred, I slid the pan back onto the center rack and waited.
Fifteen minutes later, the hair dryer cut off, and the bathroom door cracked open, Roscoe slithering out and sniffing the air.
“Smells like you’ve sure got things under control.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, opening the oven door for a moment to peek inside. Another puff of gray smoke rushed out. “It’s almost done, I think.”
“I think it was done before you even cooked it,” he muttered, stepping into the living area. The werewolf eyed the air mattress with disdain before opting to sit on the beanbag chair. “When we move, I should bring my furniture.”
“You have actual stuff?”
He nodded. “Well, yeah. It’s in storage.”
We both went quiet as he flipped through the channels. I turned back to the oven and opened the door again, this time letting out a puff of black smoke. The smoke alarm that I had taken off the wall earlier began to beep, so I threw it into a bottom cabinet.
“Oh boy. Sounds like dinner’s ready,” Roscoe said, running up to the counter.
“It’s a little overdone, but I followed the instructions.”
Roscoe scrutinized the pan, his expression darkening. “You need to be arrested for this.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever made baked ziti. It’s not that bad.”
“You can’t take a crispy dump in a pan, sprinkle it with cheese and call it baked ziti.”
“Do you want to eat this or not?”
Roscoe scratched his head. “That’s probably the toughest question I’ve ever been asked.”
“Fine. Don’t eat,” I said, grabbing a metal spatula from the drawer. I stabbed at the overcooked meal from the edge, but the utinsil was rather difficult to push all the way through. This was going to require a knife and some elbow grease.
Roscoe stood patiently and watched.
“You smell good,” I said, grabbing a butcher’s knife.
“Does that mean I can sleep on the bed?”
“No.” I sliced the rest of the way into the hard pasta, working toward the softer section.
I’d never had this dish before, and in the pictures, they were able to spoon it onto a plate.
Still, it couldn’t be that bad, right? I lifted a hardened square with the spatula and tried to gently place it onto Roscoe’s plate.
However, it slid off and hit the ceramic with a loud clink.
The werewolf gave it another sniff, picking at it with his fork. “I think I’m gonna call the ASPCA. This is abuse.”
“Just eat the damn shit!” I grabbed another plate and cut myself a piece. “It looks rough, but I’m sure it tastes fine.”
“Is this… yer first time cooking anything?”
“It’s not! It’s just my first time ever using an oven.”
“Christ almighty,” he muttered, stabbing the pasta again, which had clumped together in a brown-colored mass instead of the usual red. He shoveled a forkful into his mouth and gagged. Leaning over the sink, he let the food fall from his long tongue and into the garbage disposal.
“Wow.” I stuck my fork into the ziti and held it to my mouth. “You didn’t even chew it.”
“And break my precious teeth?” Roscoe heaved again, his ears pressing against the sides of his head.
“Stop being so dramatic.” I took a bite and immediately regretted it. How in the hell did I manage to completely change the flavor profile of premade tomato sauce? The more I chewed, the more my body rejected it. There was no way I’d be able to swallow this along with my pride.
I ran over to the sink and spat everything out before rinsing my mouth with water.
The werewolf opened the refrigerator to grab another bottle of beer, remaining smugly quiet.
“What? You’re not going to take a few more jabs? Kick me when I’m down?”