Dean is one of my flatmates, and he wants to talk to me — not “now,” not “today,” and not “about something”; he simply wants to talk to me, always, end of sentence.
He’s extroverted almost beyond belief, and I’m exactly as introverted. I don’t think there’s ever been a time when I wanted to talk to Dean, about anything. Nor has there ever been a time Dean didn’t want to talk to me, about everything.
Four men live in our shared house, and Dean’s door opens directly into the kitchen. My door also opens into the kitchen. When I need to go to the bathroom, or make myself lunch, or leave the house, I must pass through the kitchen.
But the kitchen is Dean’s territory. He’s there right now, waiting to talk to me, or to anyone who comes in. Dean is a chef, and loves to cook, and he always eats at the kitchen table. When he has hours-long conversations with another flatmate, Robert, they’re sitting at the kitchen table. The kitchen table is also where Dean watches movies or football games on his laptop. He reads books at the kitchen table.
I don’t know why Dean never hangs out in the living room, and believe me, I’ve asked. There’s a comfy sofa in the living room, but I’m the only one who’s ever sat on it. “I like the kitchen better,” he says.
So, Dean lives in the kitchen, almost as much as he lives in his bedroom. Time doesn’t matter; he could be in the kitchen at midnight or 3 in the morning. There is no time when one can safely expect a Dean-free kitchen, unless he’s at work, but I don’t know his schedule.
Quantifying this, without exaggeration: If Dean is at home, there’s about a one-in-three chance he’s in the kitchen at any given moment, either cooking or seated at the table.
And remember, I cannot leave my bedroom without stepping into the kitchen, so every damned opening of my door is a gamble.
My door sticks, so it makes a slight whomping sound when it’s first opened. I can’t open it a crack to peek, without the whomp, and often I hear Dean’s “Hello, Doug!” before the door is open wide enough to see that he’s there. Any time I come into the kitchen and he’s there, Dean will cheerfully shout, “Hello, Doug!” and start talking to me.
If he’s not in the kitchen, I will proceed as quietly as possible — soft footsteps, and avoiding the areas of the floor that creak. If I’m leaving the house, I carefully gather everything I need before opening my door, and then beeline through the kitchen and onto the porch in four seconds flat. If I’m using the john, I skip flushing after peeing, and if I’ve pooped and flushed, I dart directly to my room exceeding the speed limit, to get my door closed before Dean comes out of his room to talk to me.
The most difficult mission is prepping a meal. If Dean’s in the kitchen he will talk to me, usually asking or commenting about what I’m making, trying to build a longer conversation from anything I say in response.
“Oh, you’re having a spam sandwich?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Do you know spam comes in about a dozen different flavors and styles, from turkey spam to low-sodium spam to Korean barbecue spam…”
I’ve stopped even saying, “Yes.” Instead I say, “I’m not taking questions today,” but even that leads to follow-up questions from Dean, so now I’m most likely to say nothing, or hold an index finger over my lips in the “Shhh” position.
If I’m making a meal and Dean’s not in the kitchen, I become a cat burglar, trying to be very, very quiet as I open a jar or very gently slide a plate onto the counter. If I make any noise at all, he might come out of his room to talk to me.
This is truth, again without exaggeration: If I’ve made a noise while I’m alone in the kitchen, at least 30% of the time Dean emerges from his room and starts talking at me. A spoon slips out of my hand, and lands on the floor? Dean will be there ten seconds after the clatter, talking.
If I don’t make a noise, almost always I can get back to my room without hearing his voice, so I make the quietest sandwiches you’ve never heard.
Most of the above I’ve written before, but here’s the current ripple. Being a superslob, my room is tremendously messy. Walking around has become borderline dangerous, so I’m trying to clean this dump. An hour daily is devoted to the clean-up, and I’m proud of me, watching the level of rubble be reduced. Frequently, though, I need to take out trash and recycling, one load after another, and I gotta pass through the kitchen each time. Then I come back, and emerge again with another bag of trash or two.
If Dean is in the kitchen, with each passage he wants to talk to me. “Oh, you’re taking out the trash?” “Another bag of trash?” “Oh, it must be spring cleaning!” “Gosh, how much trash do you have in there?” … etc.
I have not yet found an answer to such stupidly obvious and intrusive questions, except answers that lead to more questions. And while Dean has never, to my knowledge, gone into my room, that last question, “Gosh, how much trash do you have in there?” makes me uncomfortable leaving him alone with my door unlocked while I walk to the dumpster, toss a bag of trash into it, and return. And I shouldn’t have to lock my damned door to take out trash!
In practice, this means that if Dean is in the kitchen, the trash doesn’t go out. Instead, bags of trash and recycling get tossed in a corner of my room. Bag after bag gets tossed in the corner, and it angers me, because it means that Dean has control over whether and when I can take out the trash. But that doesn’t anger me as much as hearing him say, “Oh, you’re taking out the trash?”
Yes, I have spoken to Dean about this, and told him that I don’t want a conversation every time we see each other inside the house. In almost four years living here, I’ve explained the concept of PRIVACY to Dean perhaps twenty times. I have explained it tactfully, impatiently, softly, loudly, and angrily. There is no way to explain it that I haven’t explained it. The very best result has been Dean telling me he’s sorry, and promising he’ll talk at me less frequently, but him saying that has happened only twice, and him doing that has happened never.
Our former flatmate ‘L’ croaked a couple of months ago, and I keep thinking the wrong flatmate died. At least ‘L’, crazy as he was, could be avoided most of the time.
There’s no avoiding Dean. He vexes me, perplexes me, but I no longer suspect he’s mentally ill. He simply is mentally ill, and I know it. And I’m mentally ill, too, and I know it, but Dean wants to talk to me always, and I want to talk to him never.
Yes, I could ignore him and say nothing. I have, for weeks at a time. It doesn’t shut him up.
Yes, I could simply say, “Shut up, Dean.” I have, and he asks why I’m in a bad mood.
Yes, I could punch him, but I’m a wimp and he’s in good physical shape.
And as I write this, 17 bags of trash are stacked in the corner of my room, waiting for a day when Dean isn’t in the kitchen.
1/4/2026
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