After a few weeks, I began the process of settling into my new room. I’d met most of the inhabitants, though matching a name to a face remains a work in progress (unless that name is Sal, Big Earl, or Davy, of course).
The very first lesson I learned in this hallowed institution: bring your own toilet paper, soap, and towel—and guard them with your life. Forget any one item, and it magically achieves escape velocity. I’m sixty years old, yet I was forced to buy a shower caddy to lug my necessary supplies to and from the shower every morning. I didn’t have to do this when I lived in college dorms as a teenager, but here, in the retirement phase of my life, it’s truly every man for himself.
I set up my room to make it feel like home, which apparently makes me a revolutionary. When I put up real shades and curtains, the other guys were stunned. Most rooms in this building rely on a pathetic pillowcase pinned up over the window for privacy. I put up pictures and even installed an old kitchen clock to tell time. These guys were amazed. Some, like Davy, don't even bother with sheets on their beds. And Harold sleeps on a camping mat on the floor because, he claims, a bed "didn’t fit" in his room. I guess that explains the permanent cold he has.
I’m currently running a dry sink against the front wall—my TV is on top, silverware is in the drawer, and all my pots, pans, and storage dishes are tucked underneath. Cooking here is an expedition: I have to drag everything I need either down the hall to the Downstairs Kitchen, or up the stairs to the large, less-used kitchen. Since Big Earl seems to cook 24/7, I opt for the uphill journey. On the bright side, the upstairs kitchen has more counter space. I quickly became a connoisseur of paper plates and coffee cups to minimize dishwashing, buying sleeves of cheap 12-ounce cups from the restaurant supply place for a fraction of the supermarket price. This is my life now: strategic paper product sourcing.
I live by the philosophy of buying everyday items on sale and storing them anywhere I can, whether that's under the bed or in carefully stacked towers in the corner.
Now, for the fridge drama. The main kitchen downstairs has one refrigerator, and there’s a second one conveniently located just outside my room. I noticed the main one was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and the second one was nearly empty. Naturally, I used the empty one.
One by one, the other residents warned me: "That’s Big Earl’s refrigerator. Nobody else dares use it." I reminded them that the landlord said it was communal. So, I kept my food limited to half of one shelf, meticulously avoiding any territorial dispute with Earl’s massive tubs of leftovers.
Then, the inevitable occurred. I came home from work, and Big Earl was waiting. Because I was trying to optimize space, I had laid a carton of milk on its side. Now, someone needs to explain the physics here: you can lay a bucket of paint or a can of soup on its side, and it's fine. But milk? Milk will always leak.
Earl was furious. He made me clean out the refrigerator immediately!
By the end of that week, I marched out and bought my own mini-fridge. I know if the landlord ever finds out about unauthorized appliances, my rent will probably shoot up, but so far, silence. I didn't enjoy having to kneel on the floor to get things out, so I grabbed some scrap wood from a neighbor's garbage and built a small table to elevate the fridge eighteen inches. Sal was utterly amazed, praising my handiwork for days.
Sometimes, when I'm dealing with the absurdities of this cookoos nest, I wonder: If I'm the scatterbrain with A.D.D., then how do you explain everyone else living here? God, I need a cup of coffee!
WTF: WHAT THE FIASCO!
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