My last roommate's name was John. For a year I rented a room in his townhouse in the northern suburbs of Denver. John was a gay man from Texas -- a walking culture collision. He liked big red pickup trucks, shotguns, Michelob beer, hunting, fishing, Ricky Martin, beige leather furniture, miniature pinschers, and ferns.

He wasn't smart. One day I went into my room and discovered that his little dog Remington had shit all over my floor. I went downstairs. "John," I said, "your dog shit in my room."

"Oh no," said John. "He's been down here all day."

"John," I said patiently, "I didn't shit on the floor. Did you shit on the floor?"

"No!"

"Well, then, that leaves Remington, doesn't it?"

Another time, John fired up the grill and started cleaning shrimp. "Going to barbecue some shrimp?" I asked.

"No, I'm barbecuing chicken," said John. "I've tried grilling shrimp, but they're too small, and they fall through the grill."

I stared at him. "Why don't you put them on skewers?" I asked.

His face lit up. "That's a great idea!" he said.

We didn't get along well. John complained about his "filthy" kitchen when I left clean dishes out on a drying rack, then held noisy dinner parties and left dirty dishes stacked in the sink and crusty pans on the stove. He bitched when I prepared dinner after he had gone to bed, even though I had told him before moving in that I kept late hours. And once he got drunk and groped my testicles.

We had a month-to-month lease, and one day he left me written notice to move out by the end of the month. That was fine with me. What wasn't fine was John's determination to drive me mad within those last thirty days. He started criticizing me more often and more loudly and more profanely. He lost his temper if I failed to hang a kitchen towel correctly. A friend of his, Dave, moved in with Braxton, his yellow Lab, apparently meaning to move into my room after I left.

One day I arrived home from work and found that my garage door opener no longer worked. I went inside to find John and Dave eating dinner. "My garage door opener doesn't work," I said.

"Oh, I locked the door," said John. "Braxton hurt his paw, so we put him out in the garage in your space."

I looked in the garage. Sure enough, there was Braxton lying on a dog bed in what had been my half of the garage, wearing one of those comical hoods to keep him from chewing his hurt paw. I fumed, but there was nothing I could do -- the parking space hadn't been written into the lease.

The next evening, I was in my room reading when I heard a ruckus in the alley outside. I looked out my window to see John and Dave unloading Dave's furniture from John's truck. Shaking with anger, I stomped into the garage and called John a "motherfucker" and a "piece of shit" and every other name I had wanted to call him for the past year. John responded that he was not my "nigger maid." We yelled at each other for a while. Screaming filthy insults at people is unusual behavior for me, although maybe it shouldn't be -- it feels pretty good. After I ran out of nasty things to say, I went back to my room, drained but relieved. I never threatened John with violence or tried to intimidate him physically.

The next day I couldn't find my keys, which I customarily left on the kitchen table. I looked everywhere for an hour before giving up. Luckily, I had spare car keys, so I was able to get to work. That evening, I confessed to John that I had lost my keys to the townhouse and mailbox, and to my surprise he was very understanding and lent me a spare house key.

The next morning, I was about to leave for work when I noticed John had left his bedroom door ajar -- usually he locked it. I had suspected that John had stolen my keys, although I couldn't imagine why. So I sneaked into his room and poked around a bit. No luck. On my way out the door, I glanced back and noticed a small jewelry box on the dresser. You know, I thought, if I stole someone's keys, I would keep them in a box just like that one.

I went to the dresser, opened the box, and goddammit! -- there were my keys. I fumed and swore and considered calling the police, but decided against it. I couldn't prove he had taken the keys, and for chrissake this was just a simple problem between a couple of guys. I would be moving out in four days. No need to involve the cops.

I confronted him that evening. Amazingly, he denied everything. My keys? In his room? He had no idea what I was talking about.

"John," I said, "I didn't put the keys in your room, so if you didn't take them, then who did? Dave? Braxton?"

"I don't know."

"You're a thief," I said.

He didn't like that. He stood up and we got in each other's faces. Fingers were pointed. Voices were raised. Then John suddenly stepped back and spoke to Dave. "Serve him," he said.

Huh? Serve me?

Dave handed me a sheaf of papers -- a restraining order.

Most of you have never seen me in person. Let me assure you that few men -- and not many women -- with four functioning limbs between the ages of 15 and 70 consider me a physical threat. I stand six feet tall and weigh 155 pounds. Both John and Dave were bigger than me, and besides, there were two of them. I haven't been in a fight since sixth grade. Yet John had taken a day off work and paid a $50 filing fee to have a Jefferson County judge order me to stay ten feet away from him at all times and to refrain from "using abusive language."

I called Morocco Man in Chicago. "Go get a ten-foot pole and walk around poking him with it," he suggested.

I called G-Dog. "You need to get out of there," he said, "or they'll find a way to put you in jail. Come stay here tonight and we'll move you tomorrow."

So that's what I did.

+posted by Lawrence @ 7/29/2004 11:55:00 PM