See Part 1 of the Worst Roommate saga here.

There were four of us to begin with, but when one of us moved away, we needed a subletter. The room in question was one of the small ones, which only cost $120 per month plus utilities. We cleaned the house to the best of our ability. We had no cleaning supplies or vacuum, but the floor was so filthy that it responded positively to being swept with a broom. We placed an ad in the paper and scheduled an evening to interview prospective tenants.

The first applicant was a manic teenager with greasy hair, pallid skin, and a complete inability to stop talking. From the moment he crossed the threshold, he began a one sided monologue, pausing only to gasp for air. He was full of bravado and fabulous tales. He said he was a renown recording artist for many famous bands. He also claimed to have dated Alanis Morissette. “Why keep looking?” I asked. Listening to his absurd diatribes had been the most entertaining thing I had experienced in weeks.

The others did not share my enthusiasm. Next.

The second applicant was the most put together of them all, and her timing couldn’t have been worse. In order to secure his place as our next roommate, Mr. Conversation had shared a bottle of liquor with us, which we drank quickly. So when a middle-aged woman wearing a pert business suit, sensible shoes, and pantyhose arrived at the door, we were in no condition to interview her. I saw the look of horror on her face as she surveyed the area. She covered her nose with her hand. She only stayed a few minutes. During that time, she explained that she owned several show dogs, which she intended to board in the six by six room. Next.

Then came a Marxist with a hemp fanny pack. He was looking for a commune, and he wasn’t impressed with the house. None of us blamed him. Next.

Finally, there was Chuck. Chuck was easily forty five years old, but he claimed to be twenty one, or nineteen, or twenty five; the number changed every time we asked. He was a short, penguin-like person who had no discernible personality. The reason we chose him is that he (unlike the other applicants) had a job. Being employed, he would have no problems coming up with his share of rent and bills.

He moved into the room, bringing with him only a nice wool blanket and a bunch of Social Distortion tapes. I was rarely home, so I didn’t see him often. He seemed to fit into the culture of our house well enough, and everything was going well. Until we discovered that he was an alcoholic.

He must have been clean when we met, but perhaps the constant partying at our house was too enticing. No sooner had he started to drink again than he would disappear for days at a time. We never knew when he would show up or in what condition. Usually he was drunk – pants peed, blacking out, and stumbling around barfing on things. He kept irregular hours, so we often came across his comatose body in various locations on the premises. I found him on the floor of my room with his head buried in a pile of laundry. I found him on the porch on one cold fall night, shoeless and covered with frost. I found him slumped against the refrigerator with his pants soiled. I began to think he was extremely creepy.

The worst Chuck moment was the night I came home after working a bar rush at my restaurant to find him sprawled in the living room with his penis in one hand and a bar of cream cheese in the other. Not knowing how to act in this situation, I greeted him cheerfully and tried to ignore everything that was going on from his neck down. He didn’t respond. He just looked at me with glazed eyes and took another bite of cream cheese. I ran upstairs to my room without further comment.

Even more disturbing, another side of Chuck began to emerge. He was prone to savage displays of anger, screaming at us for eating his food or listening to his tapes. When he drank, his passive facade would dissolve into a monstrous rage. Then he would sober up and become easygoing again, usually not recalling the way he had acted under the influence. After just one of these episodes, I feared him.

It also became clear that whatever job he had was gone, and that we would never see so much as a dime from him for his share of the rent.

Thankfully, he disappeared again. This absence was longer than any of the others. We couldn’t get in touch with him at any of his contact numbers. We ended up speaking to his dad, who had no knowledge of Chuck’s whereabouts. He claimed that Chuck had never moved out of his house or even mentioned leasing a room, which was puzzling. Since the only possessions that he left behind were the blanket and the tapes, we thought he had simply ditched them and moved on. We had the vacant room on our hands, so we often allowed guests to crash there.

The last time he came to the house, we had long given up on ever seeing him again. He showed up unannounced in the middle of the night and explained that he had been in jail. He went to his room, found a guest sleeping on his blanket, and flew into a rage. He beat up the guest and passed out. A few days later, he was gone again, never to return.

The last time I saw him, he was begging for change on a street corner. I still have his blanket.

Sadly, Chuck was the better of our two worst roommates.

Continue to Part 3.