Living alone for the majority of my adult life, I began racking up the roomie stories later in life. Tallying three roommates rotating through the extra room in my house in under twelve months, I was off to a good start. All were solicited from Craigslist, and contrary to concerns of everyone I knew, none of them turned out to be Craigslist Killers.
First was Justine – a young female undergrad from Cincinnati, traveling to Saint Louis for a summer internship on the Boeing campus. Justine was cool, she emailed me about the room, gave me a virtual handshake, and showed up in her Camry two days later. Funny and busy working most of the time, she painted my kitchen for me because I HATE PAINTING.
Next up was Kevin - a ginger doctoral student from Berkeley, in town finishing research for his theological dissertation. I saw him the day he moved in to the spare bedroom and never again. This is no exaggeration. A rent check appeared on the kitchen counter once per month and was often the only confirmation I had that he was still alive. After a bizarre incident involving a phone call from his parents via the local police, he vanished in the middle of the night, leaving the last rent check with a note thanking me “for everything.” Hmm.
Third was Sarah – a traveling nurse in her 50’s who came around sporadically. She loved my dog, picked up and drove cross country for jobs at the drop of a dime, and had one regret – leaving her first love behind in Arkansas decades ago. She spoke of him often, whenever she was at the house, which was few and far between.
Roommates provide a rare glimpse into someone else’s life, and extra cash. Recommended.
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