Ahhh, summer in Eugene.
The sun shines, the birds chirp and the mud dries up on the hiking trails. The “who’s who” of hippies prepare for the Oregon Country Fair, and the under-workings of the whole “Emerald City” operation hang out on their porches.
It’s the difference between night and day; that’s Eugene in the summertime. Only the truly dedicated stick around.
And the truly crazy.
When the dusk of my freshman year at the University came around, I made it a priority to score the coolest, hippest house possible. I searched tirelessly until I found a backwoods type of place right near the Laurelwood Golf Course. Between waking up next to Giant Conifers, neighboring families outfitted in tie-dye and a porch to relax in the sunshine any morning, I imagined it would be heaven.
Until I had to find some roommates for the summer.
I had roommates lined up for the fall, but to live at my palace of choice last summer, I had to fill the rooms for June, July and August. Sounds simple, but take it from me: When the college kids leave for the summer, it’s nearly impossible to sublet rooms in your house.
Unless you use good ol’ Craigslist.
Craigslist is great for many different types of community-building. Between selling an old bike, finding free furniture and even finding a new band member, it can be a great resource. But when it comes to roommates, avoid it at all costs.
I lucked out once or twice last summer. I had one roommate who paid the rent (until the rave) on time all summer. I had another who was far from frugal and always had a great story to tell.
But I had two roommates who scarred me for life.
Roommate One. We’ll call him Rick.
Rick worked at the downtown call center making cold calls for market research. Rick was a rapper. Rick was pretty funny sometimes, and was never on the quiet side.
Rick James liked to get drunk. Really drunk. So drunk that he’d come back at 5 a.m., almost daily, and freestyle rap on the porch. To keep the beat, he’d jump up and down on the hardwood. BOOM. Let me tell ya ’bout BOOM. A lil’ story ’bout BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Every day. Boomin’ all night long.
Rick James scrapped me on all the bills. He even decided to bounce halfway through the month. But that wasn’t the half of my troubles.
Roommate Two. We’ll call him George.
George. How I wish you were here. Not.
George liked to hand in the rent late. Eight days late in June. Eleven days late in July. And — well — never in August. Yeah, he never got me the rent in August. The other two months I had to cover for him so I wouldn’t get evicted and screw my soon-to-be fall roommates over. But in August he decided to flake out completely.
George never had a job. He worked at Safeway for a year or so, collected unemployment until he couldn’t and then I guess he sort of fell into the “discouraged worker” category. He’d go fill out an application at Wendy’s or Costco every other week or so, but he decided his time was better spent partying. Hey, I like to party, but not so much like George.
George liked raves. George liked giant, dub-stepping, glow-stick-sporting, pacifier-sucking raves. And he decided to throw a rave at the house one week.
It was 2 p.m. on a Tuesday and I was about to leave the house to head to work. I was carrying my bike up the staircase when George asked, “Yo, Costi Dawg!” George was also a “rapper.”
“Yeah, man.”
“You think it’d be straight up in here if I had a few heads over on Friday? Would that be cool?”
“Yeah man, cool with me.”
I knew he had a few screws loose. But I made a serious misjudgment of character when I told him he could have a party.
George advertised Friday night as a pre-party to the biggest rave in the state. I came home from work at the restaurant at around 12:30 a.m.; I worked the dinner shift and always got off around then. When I started to walk up the hill toward my house, I could hear the thumping bass from even four blocks down. I was a little worried until I saw a group of underage kids also walking up the hill dressed as what looked like fairies.
My heart started racing.
When I got to the top of the hill, I could barely make it to my own driveway. Four hundred ravers surrounded me, glow sticks shoved in my face. “Is she over 18?” I thought on each glance. When I finally made it inside, the activities going on far breached the implications of obscene. They were downright atrocious.
Once I made it to the basement, I saw the full DJ setup, complete with a lineup of five techno-making wannabes ready to get down until the break of dawn. I have nothing against the rave scene. But I got the hell out of there. When I came back at 6 a.m., the cops had just showed up.
“Everyone get the HELL OUT OF HERE before we arrest ALL OF YOU!” the officer yelled.
Ravers scrambled in all directions. My neighbors brought dogs out to scare them out of their yards. Suddenly, a baby’s scream caught my attention.
One of the ravers had left her newborn child on the top of the staircase.
Now, once again, I have nothing against ravers. I’m sure they’re nice, decent people who do a lot of good for society. But the raver who left her baby on my staircase really ruined it for me.
To make a long story short, the party got cleared, my roommate couldn’t make the rent because he probably spent his money throwing the party, and I had to have my fall roommates split his rent at the last second.
Lesson to be learned? Craigslist is great — but be prepared for the worst.
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