LATER IN THE DAY
Guess what—I’ve got a roommate! She calls herself Sandy. (Ever notice how in other languages you introduce yourself by saying “I call myself … ,” like “Me llamo Lupita”? I am bringing that into the English language. I call myself “Bored Person.”) Sandy is from Joliet (the city on the South Side with both a casino and a jail!). She’s teeny but has huge, blond, fried hair. Already she has plastered twenty-six pictures of her buff boyfriend up around her desk. She hasn’t said much, but it doesn’t strike me as bitchiness as much as sadness and confusion.
“I don’t know. I guess it’s ’cause I don’t get along with my parents,” she tried to explain to me how she got here. “I ran away to live with my grandparents, my parents didn’t like it, came to get me, and now I’m here.”
It seems more and more evident that parents don’t know what to do with their kids, so they just pawn them off on morons who don’t know anything about their kids and get paid a lot of money to enforce lame rules like no pillow dropping. I wonder if my parents checked this place out before they brought me, or if they just trusted that this place would “fix” me and they could feel OK about themselves because I’m being “taken care of,” when really they should feel like shit for abandoning me.
Sandy was smart enough not to tell the staff that she was contemplating suicide, so she’s wearing her own clothes. Unfortunately, she seems to be stuck in some sort of small-town ’90s time warp of big hair, stone-washed overalls, and white leather Keds. At least she hasn’t given me the finger.
After briefing Sandy on the rules, I went down to dinner. Sandy is only a Level I; therefore she ate in our room.
I am starting to look forward to the elevator rides. There’s something very forbidden about touching someone’s arm “by accident” when there’s no touching allowed. Unfortunately, I am always next to Eugene on one side and Victor on the other. So far no Justin contact, but I’ll be sure to keep you up to date on any pertinent arm-touching occurrences in the future.
Dinner was once again kind of fun, in the “I’m-still-trapped-ina-mental-hospital-and-eating-shitty-food-with-a-bunch-of-guys-I-barely-know” kind of way.
Justin complimented my Ramones shirt in the food line. “You like the Ramones?” I asked, too eagerly.
“Well, I used to.” It was his turn to order food and then my turn, and by the time we got to the table that conversation was gone, and the buzz was all about Sandy.
“Is she hot?” drooled Phil/Shaggy. He’s sick. He looks like a hyena, all desperate and greedy. He even laughs like a hyena! I can picture him doing that little prancy pacing that hyenas do while they wait to feed off of someone else’s kill. I told him that Sandy was cute and that she has a very large boyfriend back home.
“Well, he ain’t here.”
“As if that would make your chances any better,” I retorted. I wish I could have thought of something spunkier, but I’ve never been one for classic comeback lines. Still, I got some laughs. Even my not-so-funny lines are funny here in Bummerville.
I noticed that Justin was eating with his left hand. Another lefty? I must have died and gone to beautiful left-handed boy heaven (if that heaven has fluorescent lighting and smells like burnt mac and cheese).