There are reasons to be awakened at 12:30 a.m. Among them are:
1. Your apartment being on fire.
2. The love of your life calling you on the phone, crying insensibly, waiting for you to listen to her.
3. A family member being suddenly ill.
4. Ed McMahon calling to tell you that the letter wasn’t a joke: you have indeed won a million dollars. Now, get out there on the front porch in the morning, preferably in a bathrobe, and smile for the cameras. Remember: look surprised!
But no, this isn’t why I’m awake.
No, I’m awake because my lovely, darling roommate [I’m trying to cut back on vulgarity, though it’s hard right now] called because, well, he doesn’t remember his PIN number on his new ATM card, and could I look it up for him?
I was awakened by the house phone ringing. At this time of night, I’ve learned to ignore that–it’s never for me. If it’s Jared, he’ll call my cell phone, usually because he’s too drunk to remember where he left his key, or something similarly banal. But no, this time he called–four times–on my cell. I had the ringer off [but the vibrating battery was still ringing], and only when the house phone rang did I awaken enough to ring it.
Seeing “3 missed calls” on the phone, I waited to see if a fourth came. I figured, “Hey, the apartment might be on fire, or ol’ Ed may have called Jared out for a brewski or two–ooops, it’s Sunday. Scratch that.” At the point that I closed my eyes, it rang again. Having almost passed into sleepyland yet again, I wasn’t really wakeful, and I was asked to look hither and yon for this.
I’ll be glad when mid-July comes. I’ll be rid of this inconsiderate rube who leaves cigarette butts–many of them–in glasses; wet towels on the bathroom floor; beer cans in the bathtub; cigarette butts in the toilet; the toilet unflushed, routinely; trash in the sink; dirty and clean clothes in front of the washer and dryer. The only part of the apartment that doesn’t positively reek of cigarette smoke and unwashed dishes is my bedroom. I “lucked” into this guy as a roommate a little more than a year ago, and he thinks he’s the best roommate since sliced bread. I think he’s got a few more things coming.
That, and he still owes me $40.
Ugh. Now to see if I can go back to sleep. If he comes in here to apologize, I think I’ll ask him why he didn’t get his lazy sack of skin home to look for it himself, rather than calling me four times. I mean, dang, how hard can it be to realize you’ve forgotten your blasted PIN and decide, “Well, rather than waking up my roommate, why don’t I go home and look for it myself?” But no, he’d rather not trouble himself.
Screw hiim. I know his girlfriend does often enough…