Gold Medal Roommate

We screwed up raising this kid — the Boy likes people and has no sense of shame or social awkwardness.

A few months ago, he tells a 20-something friend that he is welcome to live in “my man cave” in Tucson.

“It might be a couple weeks, it might be longer. You can talk to him about rent,” the Boy said.

Ok… so this is going to be the new odd couple. I’m a fat AARP-eligible married man rooming with some random douchebag millennial.

By the following Monday, I had already forgotten about it. I drive down to Tucson, and there’s some 6’3″ swimmer sitting on my coach. Apparently “Kevin” had moved in over the weekend. How did he get a key?

Fucking Boy. This is probably the 6th or 7th douchebag he has given a key. None of the keys ever come back. I should just stop locking the door.

Kevin jumped off the coach like I caught him stealing it. We sort of introduced ourselves through an uncomfortable set of grunts. I’ll never be a Walmart greeter, but Kevin makes me look like Bill Clinton.

I unpack in 5 min and head for work. Kevin has disappeared from the living room. I thought he had to take a shit or something.

While I’m at work, the Boy texts me: “What’s the Wifi password?”

Fuck, I don’t know. I set it up 7 years ago. But why is the Boy asking me? He can give Kevin a key to my house but not my phone number? These damn douchebags can’t think their way out of a paper bag.

I get home that night, and Kevin is at the little table where I put my ginormous tennis bag. He moved my tennis bag to the floor. (Just breathe, no need to go all Lewis Black on his ass.)

After 5 attempts, I type the right wifi password into his laptop and phone. He says thanks. He was taking an on-line class and had to have internet. Apparently I was plan A and there was no plan B. Then he gets up and leaves.

This fucking kid must have diarrhea or something.

All my TV remote channels have been switched from the news stations to the sports stations. OK, “Kevin like sports.” I can do that.

I watch more than half of Monday Night Football, and he is still gone. Bathroom door is open. The bedroom door is closed and there’s no signs of life.

Tuesday, he heated up a meal and sat at the little table, where I “used to keep” my fucking tennis bag. (Just breathe, no need to go all Lewis Black on his ass.)

I ask him some questions. He was a swimmer at University of Arizona, won a lot of Pac-12 and NCAA meets. Breast stroke. He spent the last two years in Singapore and Alabama being a “pro” swimmer with his favorite coach. He’s back at UA to get his degree. He’s still a “pro” swimmer.

He says nothing about Beijing. But I know he won a gold medal by swimming the semi-final for one of the relays with Michael Phelps.

I was interested in all his experiences, but he didn’t seem to be. And I grew tired of playing the FBI agent trying to pry info out of a suspect.

Kevin finished eating, left and closed the door.

For the next 10 days, we would sort of pass each other and grunt. He would come home early, grunt and head straight for the the other bedroom (don’t call it Kevin’s room, he’s not fucking paying for it).

No partying, no late nights. I told him he could have the Boy’s left over whiskey or any of my wine or beer in the house. Nothing. Just class and workouts and going to bed early. That’s different from the Boy and the rest of his friends. Maybe that’s how you win a gold medal?

After the second weekend, I get back to Tucson on Monday morning, and all Kevin’s shit is gone.

I text the Boy: “Did your friend move out.” No answer.

“Tell Kevin when Shannon borrowed the condo, she baked cookies.” No answer.

“Where are my fucking cookies?”

“You are not getting any cookies, Dad.”

For 10 days, Kevin “hid” in his room. I never did get to ask him about any “rent.” I don’t know if this kid is an urban hermit or just a cheap bastard?

You know what Kevin did leave? Dirty sheets, dirty towels and a ton of used coffee cups where he had mixed his Whole Foods powders and supplements. Ok, that’s more like the douchebags I know.

That supplement shit might be good for you, but it sucks for the dishes. Crusty brown stains that cannot be removed from anything it touches, including the spoons, cups and counter.

A couple months later, the Bear came down to Tucson, and let me know what a pain in the ass it was to clean all that shit up (I’ve graduated from douchebag to asshole myself — I never clean anything in Tucson).

“What’s that orange stain in my new fridge,” she said. “Did you know it was making the door stick? I couldn’t get it off.”

“Kevin,” I said. “He must have spilled some of that orange goop he was drinking.”

I’m not sure if she bought it, but she didn’t ask again.

And that my friends, makes Kevin a gold medal roommate.