"Who's Caravaggio?" I say, "he's an artist, right?" The asker of the question (who is Caravaggio) is my roomate and a person of deep and awkward silences, often punctuated by a question. The above, for example. In keeping with his silent nature, he does not answer my question. He is not privy to the battles with my immediate supervisor. I believe, and this is a belief that I feel is shared by my roomate, that we should keep a distance, in order to function in our roomate roles, at an optimum. I have thought of asking him this question directly, but to ask him would test my supposition, perhaps in unacceptable ways.
My roomate is tall and has fine, balding-at-the-crown-and-front, sandy hair. He looks perpetually nervous. He is in t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms: he has a late class to attend and will soon shower, as is his custom at this hour of this day of the week. A round soft belly, like a pudding, falls over his waistband. It is difficult not to notice such details about a person with which you share a residence.
My mother is deeply unhappy that I am sharing a residence with a male, however platonic and sister-brotherly the sharing. She complains of my life choices. I try to involve her with my work life, explaining the sheer injustice of my lowly role, my lack of power, my helplessness in the face of a banal but deadly bureaucracy that strangles everything. She says, simply, "go back to school."