This Is My Gene Pool (or why I don't plan on having kids)

My older sister’s favorite lament is that we inherited the worst traits from each of our parents. While she tends to be a bit dramatic in most regards, here is an assertion on which I whole-heartedly agree with her. Don’t get me wrong, both my mother and father possess plenty of advantages attributes; however, Genetics, bitch that she is, bestowed upon me only those most defective of idiosyncrasies. As the physical characteristics are most noticeable, I shall begin there. I have my father’s eyes: deep-set sockets housing round, frog-like, popping out eyeballs; framed by dark circles and heavy eyelids and oh so many wrinkles. My mother kept her large, fully-lashed, almond eyes for my pretty sisters. In addition to his eyes, I also inherited my father’s body-type: a chicken’s legs and a football player’s back. I wouldn’t call my father a handsome man (sorry Freud) but he does have really nice skin. I look much more like my father than my mother, however, when it comes to skin cells, mine are molded from my mother’s large pores and oily, break-out prone epidermis. Personality inheritance pattern takes a little longer to realize, but it follows the set paradigm. I get my neurotic anxiety from my mother. She herself is quite calm and friendly; her father however, is “easily perturbed” and “doesn’t like crowds.” I’ve also inherited her passive, submissive nature and reserve. My father kindly passed on his financial ineptitude (spend it before you lose it), and terrible sense of direction (I get lost in my hometown while using a navigation system). Thus, being a long-time admirer of Darwin, I feel it my duty to affirm myself in favor of the eradication of these ghastly nucleic acids.

In The Heights

My decision to stay in New York following the end of my term of service wasn’t finalized until the beginning of November; coincidentally the last month of our apartment lease.  At this time I knew that one of my roommates had already made plans to move to another apartment upon the expiration of our lease.  I was under the impression that my other roommate would be renewing the lease, and so I planned to remain there with him.  However, a couple weeks later he informed me that he too had decided to seek residence elsewhere.   Still, I had nearly a month to figure something out.  This was plenty of time.  Too much time apparently, as I did nothing about it.

Finally, on the 30^th of November, the night before my lease ended, I decided to get my shit together and began scouring Craigslist for shelter.  I set up a couple of appointments to look at rooms the next day, the day by which I was supposed to be out of the apartment. 

I had one day and four possibilities and was feeling pretty optimistic as I headed out for my 10am appointment.  It was also in Washington Heights, just a couple of blocks away from my current apartment, but on the “good” side of Broadway.  I walked up to the fourth floor and hesitantly knocked on the door of apartment 4. It was ornamented with stickers announcing the resident’s love for Jesus and proudly proclaiming that “This is a Catholic Home.”  A grandmotherly Hispanic woman opened the door and greeted me happily in Spanish.  I apologetically informed her that despite my Mexican heritage I am quite ignorant on the language of my people and followed her into the apartment.  She walked me through a tour of the place emphasizing her affinity for cleanliness as we entered each room. 

“This is the bathroom. I like to keep it clean.” She announced as she opened the first door on the left.  “See, wipe the sink when you’re finished with it” she grabbed a nearby towel and demonstrated. We continued down the hall to the next doorway. “This is the kitchen. I like to keep it clean. You can eat at that table, but you can’t cook in here.” I was astounded and probably looked it, because she went on to explain, “It’s too messy. You can use the microwave if you need to, but that’s all.”

Finally we reached my possible room.  “See how clean it is?” She asked. “There’s not a closet, but see the dresser, to keep your clothes neatly put away.” I nodded. “And there’s no eating allowed in here. It’s dirty and attracts bugs and mice.” She further instructed.

We exited back into the perfectly kept living room. “What do you think?” She asked me.

“Well, it’s a good size room. And the apartment is nice and clean.”

“Good.” She gave a satisfied smile. “If you decide to live here, I have only three rules. No cooking in the kitchen, and no eating in the bedroom,” she reminded me. Then continued to the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard, “Also, there’s no drinking.  You don’t drink right?”  She peered at me threateningly. 

I had been working at a wine shop in Midtown, and drinking was about all I did. “Uh…well…s-s-sometimes I li-li-like to drink wine…?” I stammered. 

“Well, that’s your business!” she retorted “but there’s no drinking here!” 

“Okay. Thanks for showing me the place. I’ve got a couple more rooms to look at, but I’ll call you and let you know.” We shook hands and I hurried out of the apartment as quickly as I could, all the while having no intention of speaking with her again.

The next apartment that I looked at was perfect and I fell in love with it quickly.  It was also in the Heights and on the right side of Broadway; across the street from a swanky park nonetheless.  This place also had a decent size bedroom. In addition there was a closet. And rather than an overbearing, germ-phobic, grandma for a roommate, this one came with a nerdy Columbia grad student, who I was sure wouldn’t be much of a bother.  Despite its perfect location, size, and personnel, I had to pass on this apartment also. The rent he was asking was a little pricey, and due to an accounting error on my part, my bank account was in worse condition than I had thought. Sufficiently worse condition. 

Upon discovering my error I came to the conclusion that not only could I not afford this apartment, but I couldn’t afford any apartment.  I still had two places I was scheduled to look at, but I had lost all hope.  Defeated, I sent a rather pathetic email to some friends begging they let me sleep on their couch for a couple weeks while I figured out plans to return to California.  In exchange for their kindness I would cook meals and provide them with booze.  As I awaited their reply, I telephoned my mother to discuss the situation, who convinced me to at least look at the last two apartments.  Both were only a block away from my current location and at least I could say I tried.  So that evening, not expecting much I strolled over to my first appointment. 

I was greeted at the door by a tall middle-aged Asian man. He had a thick accent and spoke with broken English. From what I gathered, there were 2 bedrooms. One was currently being rented, the second I was looking at, and the proprietor of the apartment, the man with whom I was speaking, slept in the living room. He led me to a closet-sized room with chipped white paint. I looked inside from where I stood, just inside the front door, having no desire to enter. From our same spot, he pulled open the dark blue curtain that hung on the opposite wall, revealing his make shift room. Two steps forward, was the bathroom, followed by a door to the second bedroom, which I’m sure was just as small as the first. Across from that was the tiniest of kitchens crammed with a fridge and beat-up old stove. This place was an overpriced piece of shit that I couldn’t afford even if I had liked it. I ran out of there quicker than I had left the first place.

It was now 7 o’clock and I was missing Jeopardy! to view my last prospect.  It was on the corner of my current block.  Yes, a shady neighborhood, but one that I was familiar with.  I was kindly granted access to the building by the drug dealer standing on the stoop. I walked into the dingy, tiled entryway found my way to the correct apartment door and reluctantly knocked. I was greeted by the lady of the house, a thin, white woman in her late-twenties.

“Jessica?”

I nodded.

“Hi! I’m Melissa.” She led me into the hallway and down toward the living room. “Babe, she’s here!”

            A tall, Dominican man of the same age emerged from the room and introduced himself as Victor. Then they proceeded to show me around. The kitchen and living room seemed to be surprisingly large (for a New York City apartment) but the bathroom was absolutely tiny. However, all seemed well kept. There were three bedrooms in the apartment: my prospective room, the couple’s room, and Victor’s mother’s room.  They explained that she lived in the Dominican Republic but came back to visit every once in a while and occasionally Victor’s brother would stay in the room.  I calculated this to mean two and a half roommates. Overall, it seemed like a pretty decent place. And most importantly they were willing to be paid weekly, requiring just $300 to move in the next day.  Out of options and desperate I took it. 

            I returned later that evening to begin moving my things in. Victor and Melissa were in the room painting white over the bright green walls.

            “It looks so much better white huh?” Victor greeted me.

            “Yeah, it looks good. Thanks for painting.”
            “Sure.” They smiled.

            I pulled my check book from the top of the box I had just placed on the floor. “So who should I make the check out to?”

            Victor shifted his eyes to Melissa, then back to me, “uh…a check?”

            “Oh, would you rather have cash?”

            “Yeah. Cash or cashier’s check.” He responded.

“Only because someone doesn’t have a checking account,” his girlfriend gave him a playful glance. 

“Oh, ok I’ll go to the bank tomorrow” I said trying to figure out how or why 28 year-old would be without a checking account.  

That was my first indication that something wasn’t quite right.  When I had first met them Melissa said that she was in fashion in midtown and Victor was “in real estate on Long Island.”  I remember this because I worked at primarily in the evenings and on weekends and was excited that we had opposite schedules.  Being somewhat of an antisocial recluse I refused to leave my room when others were home so this gave me complete freedom to use the kitchen and restroom as I pleased during the day.  However, to my great dismay Victor was always home.  He was supposedly in real estate on Long Island, yet he had no checking account and was home during the day…things weren’t adding up. 

About a week after I had moved in I returned home from doing laundry and saw Victor standing out on the stoop. He was wearing a heavy jacket with the hood on and seemed to just be aimlessly hanging out. This raised my suspicions. It was common knowledge that in Washington Heights drug dealers stood out on various building stoops all day. In addition, it seemed to me that as drug dealers get paid cash they would have no need for a checking account. I became convinced that I was living with drug dealers, perhaps even members of the Dominican Mafia. Now most people would probably be a little put off by the prospect of their roommate being a drug dealer (my friends had urged me to move out ASAP when I informed them of my suspicions) but I had been watching a lot of Weeds at the time and was somewhat intrigued by the idea. I actually considered asking if I could get in on their business, but as this required actually leaving my room and starting a conversation, I never got around to it. Plus, there was the fact that I was a little scared for my life. 

       Aside from lying to me about their occupations on our first meeting, my new roommates had also lied about how many people were dwelling in the apartment.  I still don’t how many people I was living with. They had told me only that there would be occasional visits from a mother and a brother. They failed to mention, the uncle, sister, cousin, friend, second brother, and God knows who else. I ran into so many random people in the hall of that place; each time I left my room (which was rarely) it was a surprise who I would meet next.  Had the couple from whom I was renting been around when I ran into these “guests” that would have been one thing, but the majority of these encounters took place when no one else was home. I met the older brother when I went into the kitchen to grab my Champagne from the fridge before heading out on New Years Eve.  He and a friend were drunk and taking shots of Patron. 

“Hey, I’m Willy,” he introduced himself. “I live upstairs,” he looked at the ceiling, “but I also kinda live here.”

I had no idea what exactly that meant. “Oh, cool. Er…nice to meet you.” I grabbed my bottle from the freezer and turned to go.

“Where you going with that Champagne? You’re just gonna leave us?”

I smiled, unsure how to respond and took a step toward the doorway.

“So none for us then?”

I gave an awkward obligatory laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were gonna be here.” I glanced at my watch, it was just after 11. “I gotta get to my friend’s place before midnight.”

“That’s cool. Take a shot with us before you leave.” He picked up the half-full tequila bottle.

“Oh…uh…”

“Come on, join us for a round,” his friend insisted.

In an attempt to make the situation less awkward I obliged.  We toasted to the New Year, I thanked them for the drink and headed out. To be honest I don’t know if I ever saw them again.

I met the uncle in a similar fashion. One afternoon as I exited my room in pursuit of the bathroom I was startled by the sight of a middle-aged disheveled man in the hall way carrying a bunch of bananas.

“Hola” he greeted me with a huge smile displaying decaying teeth and offered me a piece of fruit.

“Uh…hi…”

“Hablas Espanol?”

“Oh, no, sorry.”

“Me Victor’s uncle,” he explained in broken English. “I stay here.”

“Oh, okay. Nice to meet you.”

He extended his arm and gave me an enthusiastic handshake, then continued down the hall to the living room. I definitely ran into him again, each encounter just as frightening and awkward as the first.

            For three months I lived in fear, of both the possibilities of awkward social interactions and that my roommates would find out that I was on to their little business and would off me at any moment. Finally I could take it anymore; I had to get out of there. I handed Victor my last rent payment, $150 in cash, on Monday morning, told him I’d be moving out by the end of the week and was gone by Friday. Two weeks later my friend sent me a link to a Times article; there had been a major drug-gang bust in Washington Heights between W 170 St. and W 174 St. I’m sure the complex I had been living in on W 171 St. had been involved.

10 Things I Should Have Learned In College, But Didn't

10. How to tap a keg
9. How to chug/shot-gun a beer
8. How to surf
7. How to primp myself for a night out
6. How to get free drinks (probably correlated w/ the above)
5. How to roll a joint
4. How to make a bong out of lab equipment
3. How to calibrate a microscope
2. How to drink copious amounts of coffee without getting cracked out
1. What the hell I wanna do with my life