The Best Roommate I Ever Had

The Best Roommate I Ever Had

I’m a slob. It comes up with every woman who has shared space with me for more than a few days. Some things, the socks on the floor, for instance, or the damp towel on the chair, I can will myself into catching. Other things, the toothpaste on the faucet or the hair that clings to the edges of the drain, I swear to you, I don’t see. I’m officially mess-blind, a condition that makes scraping the hair as hard for me as picking the green dress off a rack would be for someone colorblind. For this reason, I’ve avoided rooming with anyone who was not in love with me. With one exception: Mark Williams.

I intended to sublet my room in our Park Slope apartment for three weeks. I stayed a year. Because it was cheap, furnished and near the park. And because Mark was such a good roommate. “You really don’t see the water you tracked all down the hallway?” he asked, smiling. Then he mopped it. He just mopped it. He cooked for me too. Whenever he’d cook for himself, he’d offer. I couldn’t reciprocate, because I lived in fear of the kitchen, since I knew anything I’d do in there would require cleaning. Does that mean Mark cooked and did the dishes, too? Is it horrible if I say I don’t remember?

He was about forty. He worked as a manager at a restaurant. And he was handsome, indie rocker style. Could be a model, I thought. He contemplated modeling, or I contemplated it for him, and I persuaded him to do a photo shoot with me. I figured a few shots would be enough to see if he had it. We meandered down our street and stopped when the light was just right. I put the pictures on Facebook before he made me take them down. He was embarrassed.

That’s how it was with Mark’s career, always a feeling of it-could-be, which for him meant it-could-have-been. Could be a chef, I thought. He thought it was too late. Could be a guitarist, if not a paid one, at least for a local band. Too late again. The only ambition he hung onto was opening a guitar store one day, if he could get the money together. He was always broke. Talented and broke. Generous and broke. Beautiful and broke.

Why the gloom? Hopelessness hung there, over his shiny face. Why? There were girl reasons and childhood reasons and money reasons, but still. Here was a guy with charm and integrity and a passion for food and music in a city bursting with both, willing and able to serve. Why no success? Why no trying?

The last time I saw Mark was a year ago, after I moved out. He was a bellman at the Nomad on 28th and Broadway. I stood outside with him for a half hour, shooting the shit. He was curious how my girlfriend was, how my career was, how I was. Genuinely, lovingly curious. I was curious about him too. He said he liked being a bellman, because any idiot could do it. When a guest walked through, though, he welcomed them with what seemed like a pretty rare combination of poise and love. When it got too busy, I bid Mark goodbye.

Two days ago, I got an email from the woman who’d been subletting the apartment to us. Mark fell back into addiction. He died last week. I had the dumb thought that if I had reached out, I could have stopped him. But he wouldn’t have listened to me. He didn’t listen to me about anything, really. Nobody I’m guessing could’ve lifted that gloom. Nobody had.

I’m sad about Mark. He was a good guy. You would have liked him. And, well, he’s gone.