Kennedy Madison. Real white trash name. I could hear her scraping her cheap furniture above me, in all likelihood permanently damaging the herringbone hardwood: “Try to lift, not push, Ken-Ken!”
Because you know, of course the landlord would blame me for it. A familiar migraine was brewing. I decided to make myself a cup of something non-caffeinated– settle in on the couch (it may be the last time I’d be able to sit on the couch comfortably now that I had a roommate)– and get some work done. First round of job applications post-disaster. And the poems. Oh, I’d always have my poetry.
It’s sort of funny because we were kids together.
Most of my friends didn’t know that I went to a pretty crappy public school during the recession. My parents are the type of boomers that valued their own personal finance over their childrens’ opportunities: so when the ultimatum of taking out a second mortgage or pulling me out of Baldwin came, I lost my cute little plaid uniform. I survived. It was character building. But I did encounter many Kennedy Madisons around that time, including the Kennedy Madison that responded to my roommate advertisement. Clearly I had undervalued how much a room should sublet for.
This Kennedy Madison– my Kennedy Madison– was very quiet in high school. Reserved. Barely talked. Somehow a whore–rumored late term abortion in the junior year– but oh so quiet, like a little mouse in the back of that loud, overcrowded classroom environment. So we were friendly then. I felt bad for her. Chronically overweight, stupid. We were in many of the same classes.
I took a sip of tea and turned to a crisp new page in my moleskine:
love springs hope
hope springs love
mistaken not but hidden carefully
yes: in the center of everything is nothing
a hurricane of futures, you sit in the eyeThe scraping noise subsided and I put down my pen. I had the dark thought (intrusive) that maybe Kennedy had suffered a heart attack and died from all the physical labor. Or, maybe she was taking a break: which would annoy me greatly, as she still had to move the uhaul from the driveway. I got up from my comfy spot (poor comfy spot, how I’d miss you!) and hurried upstairs.
Her bedroom– my old office– door was ajar. Kennedy, box bleach blonde, still fat, and in her pajamas, was sprawled out on her mattress, doing something on her phone. There were plastic tubs of junk everywhere. Rolled up posters. Hot-Topic. Five Below. I had mentioned not to hang anything with command strips or nails when she applied for the sublet. Clearly she was planning not to respect my authority.
“You really have a lot of knick-knacks, that’s so fun.” I said.
Kennedy perked up a bit, smiling self-consciously.
“I’m a big collector.” She said. She gestured to a plastic bin, balanced on-top of the radiator. “That’s all my fandom stuff.”
“Right on. Nerds unite.” Nonchalantly I added: “Ugh, sometimes I just want to like, get rid of everything and start over, though! Do you know Marie Kondo? She’s great. Um, on Netflix. Now if she was here, she could just like, take a trash bag and get rid of half of all this stuff!”
Kennedy nodded. I don’t think she understood what I meant. Typical. I was sure our roommate relationship would be colored by a lack of understanding. I was very subtle. I couldn’t help it, it was how I communicated. Subtlety was a sign of intelligence. I walked over towards my old office window and looked out. How I’d miss this view, typing. My dreamy little writer’s nook.
Kennedy rollie-pollied up and plugged in her phone. I clicked my tongue. “Well, I’ll let you get back to unpacking.” I said, “I was thinking of trying the viral New York Times saucy cannellini bean recipe tonight. It’ll probably be a big portion since the beans are canned. Enough for two. If you want any. In fact, I could even open up a bottle of wine. The recipe… they said half a cup of cooking wine, so I don’t see why I couldn’t just use a regular white. Ever since I’ve been laid off I’ve been trying not to drink alone, so I’ll only open the bottle if you want some too.”
If Kennedy Madison ate dinner with me even once a week, she’d probably drop ten, fifteen pounds.
“I don’t drink but I’ll try some of the beans… they’re viral?”
“Yes. Everything on New York Times Cooking goes viral. A lot of it is just super simple but elevated girl-coded food. I have a subscription so if you ever want to try something let me know and I’ll screenshot the recipe for you.” I took one last look at my old office view. The little garden. The old willow tree. The wrap-around porch. The nice thing about this part of Philly was all the old victorians. Reasonable rent, high heating bill. It all evened out. I spun around and headed back downstairs to my tea, now lukewarm.
I opened up my bottle of wine anyway. A day filling out job applications, summarizing my resume into little text-boxes, and writing cover letters required an end of the day libation. I was reminded of my own poem:
potential.
how it brews
like coffee in the french press
serve it with creamI pushed the expectedly-saucy beans around in the pan. Crème fraîche. Freshly cracked pepper. I did love the order involved in a good recipe. This, that, and the other thing. Kennedy Madison was already seated at the dining room table, sipping a can of Fanta. I tried to keep up conversation, even though I had very little to say to her.
“So, Ken-Ken, are we going to end up talking about highschool all the time?” I added a little shaving of parmesan: my own special touch.
“Damn. Shit, I haven’t even thought about that.”
“Might be triggering. We were both so lame.”
“Haha, no, everyone liked you, Angela.”
I laughed. “Teachers? Yes. The opposite sex? No.”
“No, you were pretty and smart and cool.”
I plated our beans and finished my glass of wine. Poured myself a refill and brought both plates over at once, like a waitress. “People liked you too, Ken-Ken. I think some kids were just afraid you’d kill the whole graduating class like Carrie. Stephen King, if you don’t know the reference. There’s a movie too.”
Kennedy blushed. “Did people really think that?” She said.
“People project their most terrible fantasies on the sweetest people.”
“See, you’re very smart.”
“Thank you.”
I tried the beans. They were perfection, of course. Kennedy took a big forkful. Shoved it in her mouth. “These are good!”
“Thank you.”
There was a certain level of femininity to Kennedy’s face. In all honesty, certain things were beginning to work in her favor, now that she was in her early 30s. The roundedness to her cheeks made her look young. And she had incredibly bright eyes. Little gems. I was very angular. It aged me. And my hair was brown and flat and reasonable. Her bleach-blonde hair had a curl to it that reminded me of some broke-down version of Marilyn Monroe. Or maybe more of a degenerate, bodacious Fellini-vixen. I wondered if she got laid. I cringed to think of the men that might be tip-toeing through my house in the middle of the night to call on her.
“So, are you seeing anyone?” I asked.
She stopped chewing, then looked away from me, unable all the sudden to make eye contact.
“Um… no. I just left my husband, actually.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Or maybe it's ‘congratulations’?”
“It is what it is…” She trailed off. “How about you?”
“Me!?” I laughed outrageously. “No, dear. No. I swear I haven’t met a single interesting worthy prospect since UPenn. Seriously, I’m nearly asexual. That was a joke.” I used to cheat on my boyfriends as soon as they annoyed me. I simply had a very low tolerance for people I did not like. It was a personal boundary of mine. I finished the second glass of wine and poured another. “Are you sure you don’t want to drink, Ken-Ken?” She declined.
A few weeks into Kennedy Madison’s tenure as my roommate, I had still not landed a new job. Instead I had become a proper alcoholic, but I was a good girl and got in the habit of reading more nonfiction, about social issues and compassion. I filled in my Toni Morrison blind spot. And my poetry did not suffer from my unemployment, or my alcoholism, starting around 1pm or so each day– similar to my behavior during quarantine.
Kennedy was pleasantly anti-social. She worked as a waitress late into the night, so in the day she was typically sleeping. Sometimes I’d hear her playing video games in her room, or laughing on the phone with her mother. I bet her mother was only fifteen years older than her.
I had trouble sleeping. I’d wander around the old victorian, the cracking wallpaper, the misplaced nails, the splintering banisters– sometimes dance, in my nightgown, or pick flowers in the night. I’d wander into Kennedy’s room and read her diary. I lacked a lot of context, and she didn’t write about me, so it was mainly boring, and my compulsion to read it was only born out of the most passive sense of curiosity. Sometimes, as a joke, I’d rearrange her collections. It would be funny if she thought the house was haunted.
In her diary she’d write about her ex-husband. Lowlife scumbag drug dealer. Sex-addict. I could picture him, all tattooed and withdrawn.
pretty-ugly
ugly-cute
who picks the flower with the broken stem?
the gardener?
or
the florist?Two months in, I expanded my job search to non-work-from-home options. It felt like a defeat. I knew I had more value than that. The first day of applying to office jobs was spirit crushing. I put in a large Doordash order and got terribly drunk. Carrie– Kennedy, Ken-ken– was very quiet in my old office. She was afraid of my antics because I was trashing the stupid house. It was a Citizen Kane-esq breakdown. Books, vases, furniture, all thrown about. Whatever. It was good Kennedy was being so quiet; I probably would have taken it out on her.
When it neared her shift she tried her best to sneak out the front door– but I was posted on the couch, seething, half-delirious. I caught her right before she left:
“And the worst thing is, I’m doing just as bad as you.” I said.
Madison-Kennedy-Kennedy-Madison hesitated by the door. “What do you mean?” She said.
“Why am I thirty with a roommate? That’s what I mean.” I kicked off my shoe and threw it at her– she ducked and just barely missed the hit. “I’m sorry Ken-Ken, I’m just completely fucking triggered!”
She peeled out the door. Again, whatever.
And the night rolled in. And I calmed down in the quiet. It was a big beautiful full moon that I could observe from my old office. So bright, It burned pinholes in my irises. It neared midnight very quickly. The doorbell rang. I was in my nightgown. It was sheer. I walked downstairs and opened the front door.
In front of me stood a very tall, dark, man. He had well groomed facial hair. Clearly expensive streetwear. Chiseled, thin. I had to crane my head to look up at him. “Hello, Heathcliff.” I said. It occurred to me that I might be about to be robbed.
His expression dropped a bit, and then he looked past me, biting his lip: “Does Kennedy live here?”
“Oh, you’re the ex-husband.” I paused, looked him up and down again, “Come inside.”
“If you want her to come home to you, I’m sorry to say this, but she’s not interested at all.” I lied, kicking away ripped up books and broken glasses as I led Heathcliff (his name was Juan) to the parlor room.
“She told me to come over earlier today, but I was at work.”
I leaned my body against my decorative grand piano and let the strap of my nightgown fall. “Can I ask you a question– do you want a drink? That’s not the question.” I gestured over to my little bar cart. I didn’t drink hard liquor, only wine, but I kept the vodka and gin and whiskey for show. Juan poured himself a little bit of vodka. I felt a bit like I was on a great stage. “Here’s my question, Juan… Kennedy Madison is a pretty crummy roommate. I mean, look at the mess. Was she a good housekeeper for you?”
“I mean… I don’t know, lady.”
“Angela.” I corrected.
“Okay.”
“No, repeat it. Angela.”
“Angela.”
“I always thought Kennedy Madison was a pretty white-trash name.”
“Well, she goes by Maddi.”
“Even worse. And look at you, you can’t even deny it.” I creeped up towards him. “One more question.” I said. “What’s your ideal end of the night? Since she’s not home.”
Of course we slept together. I had never slept with a Latin man before. We did it in the parlor, over the railing, then the kitchen, the stairway, against the old broken dumbwaiter, and of course, finished off in the old office. For the view. Against the window for part of it. I had to push away all of Kennedy Madison’s crap. She stored things on her bed like an animal– electronics, old pieces of mail, unfolded laundry. I would never do that. As I fell asleep, barely fitting next to Juan on the full-size mattress, I was lulled to sleep by the memory of my poem:
limitless unknown
beauty in the quiet
blessed by friendship
daylight
and warm breadKennedy Madison returned from her shift in the early morning, before even the birds began to chirp. She was very tired and a little cold– in her rush from leaving the abuse from her roommate, she had forgotten to take a good jacket. The front door was unlocked, to her surprise, and half of her hoped that her roommate might have ran off in the night. Hopefully she could get some decent sleep in that little converted office. Very slowly, terrified, she made her way up the servant’s stairway– a feature of many of these old houses, that was thankfully free of broken glass from the insanity of yesterday. She caught her reflection in the mirror and felt good about it. Somehow, her makeup had held up in the night.
The door to her bedroom was ajar. She was used to that by now. There was an evil draft in the old house, something ghostly, that rearranged things, pushed things open, and stood in the garden, naked, late at night. But through the door opening, she could see a thin pale leg hanging off the side of the bed. Her heart dropped. She pushed the door open.
Me and her ex-lover. My eyes fluttered open. I yawned. Kennedy’s expression was priceless. Her entire face was pursed. I didn’t intend to sleep so long, but here we were. My naughtiness was exposed. The fight that ensued would be a welcomed change in the day to day, writing beautiful poems, applying to meaningless jobs, making delicious dinners. I laughed. “Hello, Carrie!”
But to my utter shock, she exploded me with her mind!