Page 8 of The Mayor and the Mystery Man

I had made a schedule for cleaning, which had gone ignored.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” said Roommate One, greasy hair shoved under a beanie. I refused to call them by their names. “But like, uh, yeah, I have an audition today. So I gotta focus on that.”

“So you can’t clean today?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then why did you say yeah, sure?”

He shrugged and scratched his nuts. I shifted my vision to Roommate Two.

“I have a shift today,” he said of his waitstaff job. Considering how little he listened to me, I wouldn’t want to be one of his tables.

They turned back to the TV and resumed their game. Roommate Three rooted through the fridge. I doubt he’d washed his hands.

I took the bold move of stepping in front of the TV. Roommate One considered trying to play around me for a second.

“Guys, this is not a way to live.” I tried to sound cool and diplomatic. I used to be one of them, the chill guy who thought it was cool not to care about things. But part of being an adult was admitting that youdidcare abouta lotof things. “We have a nice apartment. We should treat it well.”

“The place is fine,” Roommate Two said. “We’ll pick up later.”

“The thing is, you always say that, and yet when I come back from work, nothing’s been picked up.” I pointed to a beer can on the coffee table. “I know for a fact this empty can has been on the coffee table for five days.”

“Then why haven’t you picked it up?” Roommate One asked with a shit-eating gotcha grin. He hi-fived Roommate Two.

“Things have to change.” I shakily put my foot down.

Roommate Two readjusted himself, which made me wonder if he had gotten crabs from Roommate One. “If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to move. You’re on a month-to-month.”

His eyes narrowed at me in victory. It was his name on the lease. His name, and his dad’s.

“This is a nice place. You have a view of the damn ocean. It wouldn’t hurt to keep things clean. And maybe respect each other’s stuff more.” I snatched my box of Cheerios out of Roommate Three’s post-jerkoff hand. “I’m not opposed to sharing, but it’s a two-way street. And right now, it feels like a one-way street.”

“We wanted to get a cleaning service, but you said no,” Roommate One said.

“You’re all home most of the day. You can take an hour a day to clean yourself.”

“Maybe you didn’t want to spend the money on a cleaning service.”

“Or you couldn’t,” Roommate Two said, fiddling with the controller in his hand. Cruelty came so easily to rich kids. “I mean, how does a fifty-year-old wind up renting a room?”

“I’m forty-two.”

He patted down his wildly curly hair. “Same difference.”

“I told you.”

“Right, right. Business venture gone south or something.” Roommate Two stood up. I had a few inches on him but felt like the smaller one. “We want to get a cleaning lady to come in. We can afford it. You were the one who said no, and now you’re complaining about a messy apartment. Typical boomer.”

“I’m not a boomer.”

“All those in favor of hiring a cleaning service?”

The guys all raised their hands. I should’ve let it be. I would benefit from a cleaning service, too, even though I was tight on money. But my pride refused to give in. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I’d been working my ass off since I was sixteen; their parents paid their rent. Now I had to pay extra money because they were too lazy to clean? It made my blood rage.

“You know what, I’m exercising that month-to-month flexibility. Nice knowing you guys. I’m sure if I come back in ten years, you’ll be in this same spot.”

I charged out of the apartment, doing my best to let their snickers roll off my back.

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