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5
CARLEIGH
There’s a bit of an adjustment period.Bryson turns out to be a morning person, which wouldn’t be bad, but he also turns out to be the kind of person who sings in the shower - and in the kitchen, the living room, and when he’s getting dressed for work.Trinity was an early morning cyclist, so I invested in various sets of disposable earplugs, but Bryson’s voice still permeates through.Sometimes, I find myself wanting to strangle him, but I resist.I’ll have to buy a more reliable set, at least for nights when I don’t have a morning class the next day.
His voice is also not the only thing that’s loud.Everything about my new roommate is loud.His feet fall heavily on our vinyl flooring.He has a tendency to kind of lumber around, occasionally knocking into things.His laugh is boisterous, raised, the kind that I usually only hear from people in a large group, when other people’s personalities turn up to eleven.Bryson only has one level.
Generally, though, it goes okay.Bryson’s friendly, surprisingly organized, and has a pretty happening social life, so not home that much.
I work four evenings a week as a server at a low-key, hole-in-the-wall pub in the Financial District, and on those nights when I’m not getting home until after midnight, I usually have work to do on my grad school thesis – a thorough analysis of the role of food and cooking scenes in mid-century American Literature – or a baking project that I want to tackle.
After the first week of Bryson living with me, he solves my freezer problem.
It starts with a gentle knock on my bedroom door and a hesitant, “um, Carleigh?”
I look up from my annotated copy ofCannery Row, which I’m rereading in my favorite reading spot - the side of my bed that’s pushed up against the window, reading pillow behind my back, cross-legged.“Yeah?”
Bryson nudges the door open.“I was - oh hey, turntable!Cool!”He steps into the space easily, taking only one long stride to reach my dresser, where my father’s old record player sits.“What do you have on the go?Let me see - whoa Carleigh, Nebraska!Didn’t peg you for being a fan of the Boss!”
It’s about nine, on one of the rare evenings so far where we are both home, but I didn’t plan on being social tonight because it’s an aggressive redo-this-section schedule.But he lives here now and I’ve never really been social, which isn’t really conducive to a positive cohabitation relationship.Even if we obviously have little in common and will never be best friends.
Still, we both like Springsteen, so that’s something.I nod and smile.“I’ve got a lot of his albums.Most are my dad’s originally, the others I went hunting for in used record stores.You’re a fan, I presume?”
“Of course, he’s a Jersey boy!”Bryson gestures to the record player.“Can we turn it on?I haven’t heard this bad boy in a good long while!”
The combination of his enthusiasm and somewhat odd manner of speaking makes me smile.“Sure, Bryson.Do you know how, or did you want me to?”
He waves me off.“Do I know how to use a record player, she asks.I’m not an animal!Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”He takes a minute, but soon enough the opening harmonica rings throughout the bedroom, and he turns to me with a wide grin.
“You look a little happy for how bleak this song is,” I observe.
Bryson shrugs good-naturedly.“I’m just excited!I knew you had some surprises up your sleeve, Murphy.Not all Ivy League after all.”He sits down on the floor, crosses his ankles, and hangs his wrists over his knees as he leans back, listening to the song.Five seconds after the lyrics begin, Bryson suddenly sits up and peers at me.“Nothing wrong with Ivy League, of course!Obviously.Just you know.Bruce is the working man’s man, so I figured - not that you’re not a working man, or lady, but -”
“It’s okay,” I cut in, smiling.I get it; I’m a fairly easy stereotype.Harvard undergrad, then Columbia, summer house in Cape Cod.“Whatever you assumed about me, it’s probably mostly right.”
Bryson shakes his head vigorously and holds his hands up, palms facing toward me.“I didn’t assume anything!Morocco said you were cool, that’s the only assumption I made.I promise.”He tilts his head and averts his eyes to my shelf, where my stack of records sit.“I did kind of figure you might be into opera or something, though.”
“Opera!”I laugh.“I’m stuffy and uncool, but not that bad.”
Bryson furrows his brow.“You aren’t either of those things.I don’t know you that well yet, but I know that much already.Being a hard worker doesn’t make you either of those things.”
I bite my lip.“Oh, well - thanks.”I clear my throat, the weight ofCannery Rowon my lap reminding me of tonight’s to-do list.“Anyway, um, did you need something?”
“Oh, right!”Bryson claps his hands on his knees and springs to his feet.“I was wondering what the deal was with the freezer.It’s kind of full.”
“Oh.”I make a face.“I’m taking more than my half.I’m kind of a stress baker, but I’m also sort of training for a marathon and can’t eat it all myself, and you said you didn’t really like dessert, so - I’m sorry, I promise I’ll try harder to find it all a home.”
“Oh, is that all you need?Just some people to eat it all?”Bryson snaps his fingers and points at me with one of them.“I got just the thing.I guarantee you if I bring it to the job site tomorrow, it’ll all be gone by lunchtime.”
That could work.I smile at him.“That actually sounds perfect.I’ll package it up tonight, so it’s easy to take with you tomorrow morning.”
“Cool!”Bryson swings a foot backward, almost kicking over a pile of books.“Then there’ll be room for pizza rolls!”
I wrinkle my nose.“Oh, Bryson, no.Don’t buy those.I’ll make you some homemade ones.”
His eyes light up.“Homemade pizza rolls?You make those?”
“I haven’t before, but it’ll be a fun challenge.”I’m always up for making new things, and love to take requests.
Bryson grins.“You make me pizza rolls, babe, I’ll nominate you for roommate of the year.”
I pick up my book again.“It’s a deal,” I say, smiling at the pages.
