A few weeks earlier
There is a definite possibility that my roommate is trying to kill me. Why do I have a potentially homicidal roommate? It’s pretty simple:
Fact #1: I work at County Hospital, located in a prime real estate venue in Manhattan.
Fact #2: As an intern, I earn a salary that only barely covers the cost of my medical school loans.
For these reasons, County Hospital has been kind enough to subsidize affordable dormitory-style housing for us medical residents. And this housing comes supplied with a random stranger to occupy the small apartment space with me.
I’m certainly in no position to refuse the dorm housing. The only alternative for me within my budget would have been renting out a cardboard box by the entrance to the hospital. And it would have had to be a very plain, no-frills cardboard box—nothing too nice.
The apartment rented to me is a step up from a cardboard box. Probably. It’s slightly larger than a box, although it seems entirely possible there might be a box somewhere that’s bigger than the room I’m sleeping in. The apartment, optimistically called “a two-bedroom suite,” contains two adjacent bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, and a kitchen so small that I have to suck in my gut to get inside. The refrigerator only opens about 45 degrees before it bashes into the sink.
When I first moved in a few days ago, I was informed by the housing office that I’d be sharing the suite with a randomly selected female.
“What’s her name?” I asked them. “That’s confidential,” I was told. Yes, they really said that.
So in summary, I have no idea who I’ve been living with the last several days, other than the fact that she is of the female persuasion. I’d love to officially introduce myself, but I’ve only caught brief glimpses of her. I hear a door slam and rush out to introduce myself, and poof, she’s gone.
So all I know for sure is that she’s evasive. And not particularly eager for me to know who she is.
I figure if I camp out in front of the bathroom, I’ll eventually find her, but I’m too busy stressing out about starting my medicine internship in another day. I know I’ve got to organize my room because once I start my 3O-hour shifts, I’ll be too exhausted to move.
Most of what I’ve got in my room is books. Like, a million of them. I’m not a hoarder, but it would be accurate to say I’ve saved pretty much every medical book I’ve ever bought. Even the ones in fields I didn’t go into like OB/GYN or Surgery. Because they’re books. How can you get rid of a book? That’s like throwing away knowledge.
Nearly everything else in the room is just furnishings provided by the dorm—a creaky desk, a wooden chair with one short leg, a single bed (including plastic-wrapped mattress), and a large bookcase now stuffed to the brim.
Aside from my clothes, the only other thing that’s mine is Jack. He’s my skeleton. Because you definitely can’t be a doctor without a three- foot-tall skeleton in your room. Also, right now, Jack is the closest thing I’ve got to a boyfriend. If it gets any more serious, I may have to introduce him to my mother.
In any case, I have all my books unloaded and I’m starting on my meager wardrobe when I hear the pounding on my bedroom door.
I leap to open the door and I see her. My roommate. She’s about my height and bone-thin with jet-black hair pulled back into the tightest ponytail I’ve ever seen. I can almost hear her hair follicles screaming in pain.
Also, she’s holding a fork.
“Hi,” I say. I was trying for enthusiasm, but I have to confess, the fork threw me off. “I’m Jane.”
This is when a mentally-balanced person might have introduced herself to me. Instead, the girl says, “Did you use my fork?”
Oh crap.
Okay, yes, I absolutely did use her fork. Here’s the deal: I brought ten thousand books, but I forgot utensils. Clearly, I’ve got my priorities well-organized.
I have every intention of buying some forks in the near future, but last night, I had two options: eat spaghetti with my hands or borrow a fork from the dish rack next to mine. I would have asked, but I couldn’t find my unnamed roommate anywhere. So I took the fork. I swear, I washed it after I used it. And I put it right back where I found it. But
apparently, I was supposed to put it back facing North or some weird thing like that. I have no idea.
“Did you use my fork?” she asks again with a slight accent I can’t quite identify. She shakes the fork in my face this time and I take a step back.
“Yes,” I confess. “I did and… I’m so sorry. I forgot to buy forks.” “Okay,” she says. She takes a deep breath, clearly trying to control
her rage. “It was just weird because I knew the fork was moved, and I was like, that’s weird, who would have moved my fork?”
“Yep, that was me,” I say. “Sorry. My bad.”
She points to the white handle on the fork. “See this white handle?
That means it’s mine.”
“Got it,” I reply. “Again, I’m really sorry.”
She nods and says, “Just remember, the white handle means it’s mine.”
“Okay,” I respond. She turns on her heel and strides down the hall toward her room.
“Nice meeting you,” I call after her, but she’s already slammed the door behind her.
Damn. I still don’t know her name.
