We decided to drive over to Brooklyn Heights together.
The business district of Brooklyn Heights is particularly busy and downright inhospitable when it comes to parking a car, so the benefits of having her drive me there outweighed my antisocial leanings towards independence.
The plan had her driving around the block while I went in to the Keyspan office and filled out the paperwork, when that was finished I�d just jump into her waiting car and we�d speed back to our industrial wasteland of a home.
Despite my general distaste for her personality, I pride myself on a certain sense of southern cordiality. At this point, I was realizing that I wouldn't ever want to spend any significant portion of time with the Ruemate, but I wouldn�t allow myself to view the interactions between us as arduous.
I don't think people take as much responsibility for their opinions as they should. Somehow we've adopted this idea that a negative opinion requires expression even when the friction it generates is neither warranted, nor advantageous. Perhaps this need for judgment and ridicule comes from some ingrained social virus from our puritanical past, but I've long since abandoned any sense of moral righteousness.
I find that the more effort we expend attempting to re-shape the world around us, the less energy we can afford to relish upon ourselves. Friction signifies a loss of energy at a point of opposition, thus the more we seek to oppose, the more energy we will waste.
I'm pretty sure that I could have a pleasant dinner with Charles Manson if it were required of me, and while my Ruemate was quite unlike Manson in actions and behavior, their personalities and mental faculties were not entirely dissimilar.
On the morning of our excursion, the Ruemate was wearing her chipper fa�ade. She was bubbly, smothering, and relentless, bearing a striking similarity to a festering tarpit.
Utilities are generally prickly when it comes to their regulations, and since I had no lease or document to prove my habitation, I expected there to be a few complications in opening a new account. But as per my expectations, the Ruemate had already devised a scheme to circumvent the expected hurdles.
The Ruemate�s problem solving skills were apparently drawn from 80's sitcoms, with a particular affinity for half-baked cockamamie scams. She was prone to humorously devised plans with particularly malicious or fraudulent outcomes.
Illustrating a flair for ill-considered decisions, her solution to our dilemma was to have me write a letter stating that I was a current resident in the apartment. She then intended to establish a false aura of credibility by getting the letter notarized.
Now, I�m not sure how much people understand about the job of a Notary Public, but what they do is act as an official objective witness to the fact that a person is who he or she claims to be, and that the person, in the presence of the notary, has voluntarily signed a document on a given date.
A Notary seal on a document only states that the signature is authentic, nothing more.
So we left the bank that morning with a letter stating that I was a resident of the apartment, and in case there was any doubt...the signature was now authenticated.
I held my tongue for the entire ride over, knowing all the way that we�d be coming back empty handed. It was obvious that this wasn�t going to work, but as the Ruemate�s head was composed primarily of cheap wood, she needed proof that her plan was ridiculous.
I left the Keyspan building minutes after entering, with laughter and ridicule close at the heels of my notarized letter. The Ruemate�s surprise was apparently genuine, as she never even imagined that she was a complete and total idiot. They informed me that I could only open an account with a current lease or a letter from the landlord, but after my last encounter with him, I wasn�t quite ready to call on his services. Lacking better options, the Ruemate agreed to spearhead the attack and acquire a letter officially placing me in the apartment.
One week later I headed back over to the Keyspan building, this time making the journey alone. The landlord had begrudgingly supplied a letter attesting to my residency, and there were no more foreseeable obstacles blocking us from a winter of relentless warmth.
I marched up to the little window with my form and my letter in hand. I presented all my paperwork to a friendly Keyspan representative who proceeded to embark on a polyrhythmic hunt-and-peck composition on his computer terminal
Keystroke, pause. Keystroke, pause. �hmm.�
In my experience �hmm�s are never good.
He looked at my landlord�s letter several times, checking it against something on his computer monitor before eventually asking for a supervisor. It was apparent that something was amiss, but I was unsure exactly what the problem seemed to be.
A few moments later, a slightly portly guy ambled over to assist, his supervisor status signified by the tie that accompanied his short-sleeve shirt. The two conferred for a few moments while the supervisor looked over my paperwork. Finally, the supervisor turned his attention to me.
�There�s a past due balance of over $900 on this account, under the name [Ruemate�s last name]. Are you a new resident at this apartment?�
�Uh...yeah.�
The supervisor looked the paperwork over one more time, then checked something on the computer monitor to extend the already dramatic pause.
�Okay, just close out this account, refer it to legal and open a new one for the same address.�
The supervisor meandered away towards some kind of doughnut while my Keyspan representative began to pound on his keyboard again.
The Ruemate�s angle had suddenly become clear. She�d amassed nearly a thousand dollars in debt and she was now using me in an attempt to wipe that debt away. I was well aware of her penchant for lies and deception, but this revelation had just added criminal fraud to her lexicon.
In the course of two minutes I�d opened a new gas account while being unwittingly coerced to commit fraud.
If the gas wasn�t going to heat us this winter, the friction would surely compensate.
