Death Becomes Him: the College Roommate

Saturday morning. No class, no reason to set an alarm clock. However, I was jolted awake by the sight of my college roommate, Francois, stark naked – pouring a bowl of cereal in front of the window. The penetrating sunshine outlined his hulking frame. Seconds later, he strutted across the room, sat in a chair and attacked his cereal.

That’s okay, I thought, trying to endure the sound of whole grain being mashed and forced down his esophagus. He’ll get dressed soon. Afraid that his breakfast pose would permanently be burned into my brain, I rolled over and faced the wall next to the bed – the only sight line available that did not include his morning glory.

When the crunching, slurping and belching finally subsided, I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see him stroll across the room – still unclothed – and sit down in the other chair.

“Do you THINK you could put some clothes on?” I said, disgusted that both chairs were now tainted.

“Why? This is the way God made me.” The smile on his face begged to be wiped off.

Several days later, I opened the dorm room door and was greeted – once again – by the narcissist. He sat in a chair, in the buff, poking his thigh with a needle.

“WHAT are you doing?” I demanded, quickly closing the door before anyone in the hallway got an eye full.

“Oh, nothing. I just have a little ingrown hair.”

“This has got to stop … NOW!”

He chuckled and grabbed a drumstick from his Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket. After taking a bite, he licked his fingers, said, “Umm, umm, finger-licking good,” then went back to poking himself.

It was “the defining moment.” The line was drawn: death became him. I had the motive, but lacked the means ... for a while.

A few days later, time and chance dealt me the hand of a lifetime. Francois had just finished his evening shower and stood in front of the mirror – naked again, not even a towel covering his strapping loins and flanks – closely examining his complexion. He leaned forward, scanning every pore. His face was no more than 2 inches from the mirror.

The steam from his shower traveled through the open door as I sat at my desk, taking a study break, munching on peanut butter crackers.

“Niiiiiice,” I said, after a sideways glance at his latest pose.

It reminded me of Rodin's "The Thinker." Rodin probably never had to live with it, though, like I did. Too much humanity is a bad thing, I decided.

That's when the light bulb went off. And, when it did, it looked like I had been struck by Parkinson’s: I could hardly keep my hand steady as I caked Peter Pan on that ominous Saltine. Somehow, I spread extra creamy on both sides of the cracker and sneaked up behind him – undetected – as he continued his facial exam.

In the blink of an eye, I slipped the Saltine up his butt crack, violently swatted both of his cheeks, threw open the door and bolted out of the dormitory.

Thus ended Francois’ Nudist Phase.

Every Holiday Season, when "The Nutcracker" rolls into town, I wax nostalgic about that magic Saltine with a chuckle, then scratch my chin. I’m no ballet fan, but I hope to live to see the day that the Broadway marquee lights up with “Taylor & Francois present: The Buttcracker.” No dolls. No toy soldiers. No mouse king. Just a modern-day tale about how David defeated Goliath with nothing more than a Saltine, gobs of peanut butter and a twisted mind.



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