Ryan's bloody torso

It was the last advert for a room mate in the Austin Chronicle. Many had been crossed out as too far out in one way or another. The remainder had words like “arse” and “pervert” written in big letters over them, after the numbers had revealed strange voices on the owners answerphones. You can tell a great deal about people from their answerphone messages. That’s why I always lie on mine.

Ryan’s answerphone message seemed efficient and polite. His voice seemed reasonable, and he didn’t sound like he was strangling poultry as he recorded it. I left a message, and presently got a call back. That was quick, I thought, perhaps he is desperate for a room mate.

I explained my Englishness and particular housing needs, and received unconditional approval over the phone. Far too desperate, I thought. I went to see the apartment.

Ryan opened the door, and ushered me into the lounge. He had just graduated, and was wearing what can best be described as on the too smart side of smart-casual. The last ten issues of the Economist were carefully fanned out on the coffee table. Great care had been taken to make them look casually placed, to no effect. While I scanned the place, Ryan asked me some questions which I answered with the minimal amount of information. France. England. Since Sunday. Canada.

At each answer, Ryan would start a dull short story about a “friend” he had in each of the countries I mentioned. I asked him what he did. He told me what he did, and he replied with a long-winded answer about his plans to move to DC to work for the government, and his present job with the map department of the university as he adjusted his glasses. I resisted the urge to ask him if he did much photocopying and stapling.

He showed me the bathroom with two sinks. Very useful if two people want to shave at the same time or something, he told me.

I made to leave. He asked me if I was serious about the place, in a tone that tried to hide his desperation and made him sound like a real-estate agent.

I turned to him, and looked at him. I told him that I can’t believe he managed to get this far in life without someone beating some of his pretentiousness out of him. I told him that he would never get a room mate, and that he didn’t have any friends. I told him to live a little, have some fun, not to try so hard to impress. I turned to leave, but then stopped. I was feeling kind. I thought I would do the guy a favour. I turned back to him and beat seven shades of preppy pretentiousness out of him with the the vacuum cleaner. He might get a room mate now, I thought to myself as I stepped over his twitching body.

Actually, I said that I still had a few more places to see, and that I’d call him.

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