(Editors note: To clear up a bit of recent confusion, everything encompassed in the �How to Become Homeless� series has already transpired, and thus these entries are little more then a historical recollection. These events occurred over the course of last year, and thus are complete and inalterable. All the advice and helpful hints from readers regarding my Roommate are in vain as I cannot change the things that have already happened.)
In our discussions about the apartment, long before I�d accepted her offer to move in, she expressed a sincere desire to build a functional kitchen. Before we�d learned anything about one another, our common bond was in the goal of a functioning (if perhaps quirky) apartment centered around two well designed lofts and a kitchen.
Every other loft in the building seemed to be following the same trend of Bar Fridge/Hotplate cuisine, but my intense interest in cooking demanded more. While the Ruemate had always aspired to lofty culinary accoutrements, her desire alone was not enough to accomplish the task. What she needed was a cooking carpenter, and that�s where I entered the picture.
The Landlord would install lines into the apartment for a gas oven or range for a set fee, but the lingering issues between us and the rental office were far from alleviated. Based on the Ruemate�s acidic and hostile behavior, we couldn�t exactly expect the Landlord to extend any generosity towards our apartment. Even if he would do the work for us, the Ruemate�s paranoia had endless fears of espionage and surreptitious maneuvering.
The Landlord was banned from entering our apartment for any reason out of an overwhelming fear that some random spot-check would reveal enough building code violations to warrant eviction. I tried to point out how the entire building was not up to code, how every apartment was effectively an illegal loft conversion, and how our tiny little apartment was no more dangerous then any other in the building, but her overriding paranoia dismissed my points as inconsequential.
�You don�t know Zev. He�s evil. Every word out of his mouth is a lie!�
While the reasons were obviously ludicrous, the gas option had been effectively eliminated by her stubborn behavior. The only option remaining was to buy an electric oven and have it installed by an outside contractor. The Ruemate said she discussed it already with the upstate Electrician/Part-time John that helped her build her loft, and he�d assured her there would be no problem installing an oven for us in return for the obligatory sexual payment.
With illusions of grandeur, I began to investigate the design of a rather Spartan kitchen, researching everything from affordable countertops to diamond-plate metal work.
We discovered an unused, yet second-hand electric efficiency stove at our local home depot for $150. While small and lean on features, it was clean and light enough for me to lift by myself. It seemed to be the perfect solution to our problems, and it was affordable enough to drastically reduce our costs.
After limited deliberation, we decided to go stock up on supplies, rent a truck and buy the stove. The apartment was in need of drywall, studs, paint and various other assorted items in order to continue our conversion.
My room was still in need of a set of stairs and a few extra walls, while hers was short some minor alterations and finish work. We decided to go during the week, as I was planning a trip back home for the weekend, so we piled in a car and headed out to Long Island City.
We strolled the vast aisles of constructive effluvia, collecting all the various items on two hulking carts until we were loaded to maximum capacity. Hers held the stove, various building materials and other items she�d picked up along the way, while mine was more deliberate in selection.
I was carefully choosing only the items that I needed for my loft, avoiding anything that could be confused as an accessory or supply for the entire space.
We�d already selected a color of paint for our living room that could be best described as a deep velvety red. I argued for economy, pointing out many affordable latex bases that could easily hold our color choice, but the ruemate opted for Ralph Lauren at thirty bucks per can.
�You think two�s enough?�
As we stood in line, I reminded her that she would have to prime the drywall before painting. The exterior of sheetrock is untreated paper, so you�ve got to apply at least one coat of white primer before you even think of applying a color. Her stubborn eyes surveyed our laden carts and she decided that �she�d come back later� for the primer.
I knew that meant she would not be coming back for the primer, having decided to do things her way. I could have pointed out the obvious waste, spending outrageous amounts on paint while sparing even the cheapest primer coat, but she would be able to see the results herself.
As we approached the help-desk to inquire about renting a truck, I sensed that she was preparing to implement another ploy.
�Oh hey. Do you think you can put this stuff on your card? I don�t get paid until next week.�
Beyond expecting her to try and wiggle out of the bill, I�d already planned on it. She�d skillfully avoided any discussion about payment while proposing this trip, as she�d done with the Ikea journey before, and so I knew she was avoiding the topic for a reason. Being dreadfully predictable, I knew I�d have to be ready with a return of fire when the time came.
I informed her that I simply had no way to pay for all this stuff. My Check card wouldn�t cover the cost, and I had no cash in my back account to cover anything beyond the small selection of items I�d already picked up. The three pieces of wood, various brackets and sheets of drywall on my cart would all be going directly into my loft. I�d avoided picking out anything that could be considered �communal property�, assuming financial responsibility only for the items I truly needed.
All the things she�d selected would be purchased only under her prerogative.
Ever resourceful, she suggested that I apply for a Home Depot credit card, adding that it would be advantageous for one of us to have it over our many expected trips. Circumventing the expected return volley, she stated that she had too many credit cards already, and it would be good for my credit to be making such large purchases.
Without knowledge of my absent credit history, she�d effectively placed an ace up my sleeve. I gleefully agreed to apply, and she breathed a sigh of relief, believing that she�d safely shunted the burden onto me.
Of course, I only agreed to apply because I was fully aware that I�d be declined in short order. Rather then argue with her attempts, I assisted her in exhausting my options until only hers remained.
The helpful representative began to enter my information into the computer and handed me a rejection notice only a few short minutes later.
The Ruemates disappointment was obvious. There was no clear way to screw me any longer, and now the ball was firmly in her court. The truth was that she had no job and she had no money. There was not a paycheck coming next week or even next month, so any sense of financial participation was an illusion. Her game plan called upon the endless withdrawals of my good faith until she could declare bankruptcy and excise herself from the whole ordeal, but I�d played my hand and skunked her before she could cheat again.
The cashier suggested that we could write a check for the items, and the Ruemate reluctantly agreed, saying something to the effect of �Yeah, I think I have enough to cover this�.
Anyone with foreknowledge would have immediately spotted this lie, even without knowing that her bank account was bare.
I couldn�t care less either way. She signed the check knowing that there was nothing to cover the funds she was promising, committing another act of fraud. We walked out of there with a new stove and another black mark on her credit report.
She tried to play another game, putting me between the rock and the hard-on, but in the end, she was the only one to be squeezed.
