There comes a point in the relationship of a gaggle of roommates when everyone has each other more or less figured out, so the whole gang can stop getting to know each other and just hang out and enjoy each other’s company. (Obvious exception: those explosives pairings where more acquaintance prompts additional murderous musings [ have only ever been on the receiving end of this {and Lori was totally justified in wanting to kill me after the third time I forgot that “adults living with other adults do not put their gym socks on the dining room table”)]}.
Around the Casa de Loche, it’s been good and great. We been doing a lot of sharing. Going so far as to share a single hula hoop so that no one felt left out.
And we all know now that hula hoops lead to late night jam sessions with Steve playing the meanest harmonica anyones heard in a long time.
Still, there is tension. Ominous notes about thievery have been appearing on the fridge. The first note was in all caps and it said, “IF YOU DIDN’T BUY IT, DON’T EAT IT.”
A few days later–apparently no one got the message the first time around–a new note appeared: “WHO DRANK MY MILK?”
This note was particularly confusing as it was unsigned. How can anyone answer this if they don’t even know who you are?
The problem has gotten so large, someone can no longer keep silent about it. I’ve decided that the person stealing food must come forward and post an apology note on the fridge. If no one comes forward, and investigation must be launched. We must find out who is flagrantly doing this. And that’s the problem. With five of us living here, who knows who is taking the food?
And this is what troubles me. Given the cast of characters, I’ve decided that I am the most likely suspect. I tell you pure in true, I have plenty of my own food and I am jacking the food of no man or woman. But if I had to pick out a food thief in a line-up of the other roommates, and I saw myself in that lineup, I would totally point to me and say, “I think we found our food bandit. . .”
Loche, with his stoic, careful ways does not seem like the type of guy who would eat anyone’s food. Since I suspect Steve wrote the notes, he’s off the hook. Frenchie, with is endless supply of Dominoes Pizza being delivered to the door has no reason to jack food. (You don’t jack a a few dry tortillas when you have half a personal pan pizza tempting from the fridge).
Full disclosure: I wasn’t entirely honest earlier. I did bandit food. Once. It was day after the Mariachi pub-crawl, which crap, I still need to write about (it may take a lifetime to digest and make wonderful sense of). I took a slice of Frenchie’s awesomely supreme personal pan Dominoes Pizza. I’m not proud of it, but I stand by it. I had just gone shopping and had plenty of food. But those who have heard the tequila gods whisper turn into a ranting shout know that the next day the only thing that could possibly make things better is a slice of day-old pizza.
Since I spend my days freelance writing from the house and everyone goes out to their real jobs, I am pretty sure they suspect me in this recent bout of food banditry.
When I first arrived in this house, I came with an 16 oz. can of salmon. You can trade salmon for anything, even more salmon. You can trade salmon for a tortilla to eat it on, but you cannot trade a tortilla for salmon. I traded the shit out of that salmon and still had 8 oz left over for a righteous salmon sandwich with all the fixings.
I’m not sure what my point is, other than, always roll into a new living situation with a can of salmon if you want to start things off smoothly. And don’t steal food.
Four nights ago, two of my roommates, who will remain anonymous (Loche and Ada), and an unidentified woman’s voice (Irma’s) were having a conversation in the kitchen that went something like this:
“You can steal food, if… you are drunk . . . “
“Yes, you have to replace the food if you are sober, but if you are drunk . . . NO REPLACEMENT!”
(Laughter)
(Chewing)
(More laughter)
“You can steal food, as long as you don’t take it all.”
“Leave them something to eat!”
(The sound of dishes clattering)
(Chewing and laughter)
(More chewing)
These people, I postulate, spawned the first note. But did they dare after that, to drink his/her milk? With the first note still shouting from the fridge, a person would have to be pretty desperate, if not brazen and reckless, to do such a thing.
I plan to leave a note of my own on the fridge. First, I must find something to hold ransom. My initial plan was to hold everyone’s underwear hostage, but my next immediate thought was just how imposing, and disgusting, and awkward that would be. My next initial plan was to hold hostage something everyone loved: like olive oil and salt. Where would cooking in the kitchen be without the two heaviest hitters of the necessary condiment category?
However, I suspect that tomorrow I will think this idea is dumb, so I am open to suggestions for both note content and item held ransom.
