It wasn’t supposed to be a doubleheader of Dean, but here we go again…
After I’d finished writing the previous entry, I needed to poop. Can’t reach the bathroom from the bedroom without crossing the kitchen, and can’t cross the kitchen without a booming “Good morning!” from Dean, and all the unwelcome words that would follow.
Dean was in the kitchen. This I knew because I could hear him through the door, talking with Robert about the Seahawks. ‘With’ isn’t quite right — it had been five minutes since I’d heard Robert’s voice, but Dean doesn’t ramble on so long when he’s talking to himself, so Robert must’ve still been there.
Staying in my room is usually an option, even for pooping, because I have a poop bucket for exactly these situations. This morning, though, the poop bucket had poop in it, because Dean and Robert had also been in the kitchen talking about the Seahawks for an hour the previous morning, and I’d pooped in the bucket to avoid Dean.
They talk in the kitchen about football, a lot, and I avoid it, a lot, but I hadn’t yet tied off the plastic bag and tossed it in the dumpster as a gift to future archaeologists.
Dang it. The poop bucket is airtight when the lid’s on, so it’s sometimes days or weeks before it gets emptied, but opening the lid for a second use would stinkify my room for an hour, even with windows open on a cold November morning.
So instead I turned the knob, stepped out of my bedroom and into the kitchen, on my way to the john, and—
“Good morning, Douglas!” Dean boomed. Robert probably said good morning too, but it was lost under Dean’s shout.
Dean and Robert were seated at the kitchen table, and to my surprise, the mysterious ‘L’ was seated between them. He’s our rarely-seen fourth flatmate. Hadn’t heard his voice through the door, but he’s hardly ever around, so I wouldn’t have recognized his voice.
Having ‘L’ in the kitchen made passing through a little less hellish and more fun. Since our night of loud shouts ten months ago, ‘L’ has spoken to me only once, a brief scolding for taking a piece of fruit he’d left on the table for flatmates. Other than that it’s the silent treatment when we see each other. He imagines there’s two-way hate between us, but to me ‘L’ is comic relief, so I shouted almost as loud as Dean had shouted: “Good morning, Dean, and good morning, Robert, and an especially good morning to you, ‘Sir L’!”
Then I closed the bathroom door, and lost two or three pounds in two or three minutes, while Dean talked about the Seahawks. Cooking, and football, and sometimes his childhood — that’s all Dean talks about, and he never stops talking.
When I emerged from the smallest room in the house, he continued talking as I beelined toward safe harbor and closed my door, but after the door had latched, Dean interrupted his lecture on quarterback ratings and instead hollered my name, again: “Oh, Doug! Doug!”
It’s the perpetual obligation of Dean. He must talk to prove he’s alive, and I must listen, mustn’t I? Couldn’t very well pretend I wasn’t home, so through the door I said, “Yes, Dean?” I didn’t say, What the fuck it is?
“I’m going to be cooking for Thanksgiving, the full spread, and everyone in the house is invited!”
Oh, what a joy, what an honor, to be invited to eat Dean’s special dry turkey and listen to him talk about football, and his job as a chef, and his childhood in Port Townsend, and then back to football…
“I have family plans,” I shouted back, and the matter was settled after a few more awkward sentences through the door.
My family and I have never been very close, but I’m so very happy to be seeing them on Thanksgiving, instead of having turkey and rutabaga soup with Dean, Robert, and ‘L’.
♦ ♦ ♦
Yes, Dean determines when and where I poop.
He’s why there are pee bottles stacked on my desk — I’d rather pee in my room that go to the bathroom and have him talk at me coming and going.
His presence also determines when and what I eat. If he’s in the kitchen cooking, as he often is, he’ll be there for hours, and I’d rather delay lunch than walk into Dean’s kitchen to make soup or a sandwich, and be talked at. I’ll put off eating for up to two hours, and if he’s still in the kitchen after that, I’ll dart through and out the door, catch a bus and buy a burger at a diner.
Dean is a little bit in charge of my life, obviously, at least when I’m home. Jeez, I hate that about him… and about me.
I should be more of a man, stand up to Dean, tell him to shut up? Well, I have told him to shut up, about a dozen times over three years, but he never shuts up. And telling that harmless old fool to shut up makes me feel lousier than listening to him babble.
Yeah, I’m a wimp. I don’t mind confrontation with strangers — sometimes I relish it — but not with someone I know I’ll see later the same day, and tomorrow, and the day after. Analyze that.
11/19/2024
Leave a Reply