Cereal Party

I was walking around the park, which is basically a dirt path. The weather was humid and summery – gross. Suddenly an armadillo crawled out of some bushes and was like, "Yo."

At first I was kind of freaked out. I keep pretty much to myself, and I'm not accustomed to being talked to. Plus armadillos are fucking freaky looking. Anyway, it took a few beats for me to shake my surprise. After that I just shrugged and figured, "Whatever."

"Yo, armadillo," I said. "What's up?"

"Nothing. Just hanging around the park."

We talked about baseball for a while. It was pretty close to the playoffs, so I was happy for an excuse to talk baseball. The armadillo was a Brewers fan. Then, somehow, we were talking about the hotel where the armadillo used to work – some joint in Gloucester. Apparently he got laid off last week.

From that point on, the armadillo bounced from topic to topic, expertly, like a monkey. Music, dry cleaning, hurricanes, paper towels (the armadillo only used Bounty brand paper towels) – I couldn't find a way out of this fucked up conversation. It never seemed to end, and I wasn't sure how to steer my way out of it without acting like a dickhead.

So it just went on and on. The armadillo started ranting about red rope licorice. Meanwhile my mouth was dry and my knees hurt. I could hardly even talk – I sputtered like a kazoo. I looked at my phone – three hours had passed. Three hours! I was fucking horrified. I mean, no, I didn't have shit to do, but talking to an armadillo about red rope licorice seemed like an unforgivable waste of time, so I picked the first reasonable escape that came to mind.

"Well, dude," I said. "I'm fucking starved – better head to the store and grab some chow. It was good talking with ya. I'll see ya around."

But the armadillo didn't get it. He just nodded, like, agreeing with me, you know?

"Yeah," said the armadillo. He scratched his chin thoughtfully and cut a real math professor pose. I did my best not to double over in pain, realizing what was about to come next. "Good call. I could use some chow. Where you headed?"

So me and the armadillo went to a convenience store. I'm not sure why – because it was close, I guess. What I really wanted was a burrito, but I didn't wanna get a burrito with the armadillo. He fucked up my rhythm. I don't know how to explain it.

I bought a blueberry pie. The armadillo bought a bag of Swedish Fish and an orange soda. We sat in an alley behind the store and ate in the humid summery weather. The alley smelled like sour garbage and exhaust. I kind of enjoyed it. That stuff is nice – reminds me of being a kid, going to punk shows, and wandering around Boston. I expected the armadillo to complain, but he didn't, and I appreciated that. If he had, I never would have forgiven him.

I inhaled my pie in about two bites. Then I watched the armadillo eat a bag of Swedish Fish, one by one. He sort of flicked the fish into his mouth and chased them with gulps of orange soda. It was actually pretty entertaining stuff.

After we ate, we sat in the alley. It was awkward. Big fucking awkward. I mean, I zoned out, in a trance, staring at a brick wall. This went on for a while. I'm not sure what the armadillo did. Then a garbage truck rolled backwards down the alley to pick up a dumpster. We really had to scramble to avoid being run over. It's funny how easy it is to get squashed by a fucking truck.

Tired, and with nowhere else to go, I walked back to my apartment, a tiny, one-room studio. I took the longest most circuitous route I possibly could and stretched a 15 minute walk into an hour. But the armadillo followed me. It was ridiculous. I couldn't shake him. He was like a lost fucking puppy.

When we got back to my place, we sat on the couch and watched television for a few hours. It was awful, pathetic stuff. I hate television. Seriously. With a passion. It's fucking exasperating. But I didn't know what to do with the armadillo. I sort of hoped the television would bore the dude to tears, you know? Get him to leave. But he didn't seem to care.

I got exasperated and decided I'd get to the bottom of it. Really straightforward, you know? So I poured us a couple big bowls of Raisin Bran.

Actually I only had one bowl, so I ate mine out of an oversized coffee mug I got for Christmas. It's green and has a fucking snowflake on it. On the inside lip of the mug, it says, "Don't be a scrooge!" I didn't have enough milk for two bowls of cereal, so I just watered mine down a bit.

So me and the armadillo sat on the couch eating Raisin Bran. On the television some dude in pajamas was trying to run through an obstacle course. He did a pretty good job until he had to climb some stupid wall. Then he tumbled off and fell into a pool of mud.

"So armadillo," I said, "what's going on man?"

"Huh?"

"What the hell are you doing? You've been following me around all day. It's fucking bugging the shit out of me. Explain yourself."

So that was nice. I finally got it out of my system. But I didn't have any time to feel pleased with myself because the armadillo launched immediately into this big old-fashioned sob story like, "Oh, man, I lost my job and jeep and all my shit. I lost my apartment and my cool dog."

And I said, "You had a dog?" Dogs are cool.

"Yeah, I had a really cool dog. Bagels. Bagels was her name, I mean. She was, like, a lab. Or she is. I gave her away to a couple of chicks. I found them on Craigslist. One was pretty hot. A blonde. But Bagels, I couldn't keep her, you know? She was a puppy, and after I lost my place I couldn't keep her, you know? Do you have a dog?"

I laughed. "Fuck no," I said. I'm irresponsible, and I make no bones about it. I have no business owning a dog. Besides, if anything is going to shit on the floor of my apartment, it's going to be me.

Anyway, long story short, I let the armadillo crash on my fucking floor for a month or so.

It took a couple days for me to adjust to having someone else around. I'm not really used to that sort of thing. I hadn't had a roommate in years.

So at first it was kind of nice. It was like living with my brothers again. The only things missing were the bunk beds and the Sega Genesis. Sure, I didn't have much time to myself, and my apartment was way too small for two people, but I had someone to talk to and do shit with. We drank, smoked, and talked shit. Good stuff.

Some nights we got drunk and hung out in the park. One time we filled up empty beer bottles with lighter fluid, lit them on fire, and smashed them. It was funny. The bottles didn't always break, so sometimes the crazy fucking armadillo picked up the burning bottles and smashed them on the ground, and we cheered like assholes.

But it got old.

The armadillo followed me everywhere. Even when I went out, he tagged along. It sucked. I couldn't even go out to bars and shit – the armadillo had no ID and no cash. And women – what the fuck am I going to do with a woman? I've got a smelly armadillo sleeping on my floor. So we just sat around at home, watching television and playing Mario Brothers like a pair of douche bags. After a while, not even smashing flaming bottles was fun anymore.

Like an idiot, I tolerated it even though it irritated me. "No big deal," I thought. I figured the armadillo would eventually split, and it was cool having a bit of company for a change. Anyway, what did I care? The dude was down on his luck. I worked during the day, and if the armadillo wanted to fuck around my place I could put up with it for a while.

I didn't know what the armadillo did all day. I didn't really care. Sometimes, purely by accident, I'd stumble into clues. Like one day I found a new bookmark in one of my books. Then, a few days later, I found a crayon drawing in my sketchpad. Then, a while after that, I stumbled upon a résumé saved in my computer.

So although I picked up on shit from time to time, I wasn't sure what the dude was doing all day. But what I saw looked to be on the level. And the smashing flaming bottles and so on? Sure, it was pretty sketchy, but it was harmless stuff. I didn't care about that. I mean, I was doing it too, right? Then, one day, I got a call from my landlord. She was bullshit.

"What's this shit about an armadillo?" she said.

I explained that he was a buddy of mine, down on his luck, who was crashing on the floor for a little while.

"Only for a few days," I said. "Why, what's the problem?"

Well, apparently the armadillo was messing with my neighbors – acting like a real dickhead: stealing shit, swearing, chain-smoking in non-smoking places, and intimidating everyone with aggressive behavior. They got fed up with his bullshit and pissed in my landlord's ear. She got all bent out of shape and said, "If I get anymore complaints, I'm throwing you out."

I was shocked, you know? I mean, the armadillo was sketchy, but this was a fucking surprise. I just did my best to apologize and told her I'd take care of it. Later that day, I even went and apologized to my neighbors. I mean, I didn't even know these people. And I didn't really care what the armadillo did. But my landlord seemed seriously pissed. So I just apologized and said the armadillo would probably be gone soon.

So I wasn't very happy with the armadillo. But now I was used to having someone around, you know? And yeah, I guess I sort of knew the dude was a thief. Like when the charger for my cell phone broke, a new one miraculously appeared. And one day when we ran out of food, he grabbed a stack of pizzas from a delivery car that was idling in a nearby alley. It was cool. Funny.

But I couldn't get thrown out of my apartment. I had nowhere to go. So I told the armadillo what was up.

"Dude," I said, "my landlord called. She's pissed. You can't fuck with my neighbors anymore."

The armadillo gave me this "Who, me?" look. "Fuck with your neighbors?" he said. "I didn't fuck with your neighbors."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever, dude. I don't care what you did or didn't do. They complained. They said you swore at them and stole shit."

"That's crap."

"Okay. But if they complain again, I'm gonna get kicked out. Then we'll both be fucked. So do me a favor and cut it out, okay?"

"Yeah, man, but I didn't fuck with your neighbors. I don't know why they'd fuck with me like that. That's not cool."

"Whatever, dude. Just stay away from them then."

The exchange was awkward as fuck. I mean, here's me chewing out this dude who is a thief and has the run of my apartment all day, you know? Sketchy. So I was suspicious. Then, the next day, the armadillo stole my digital camera. Or… I think he did. I couldn't prove it. But the camera just vanished. Shit doesn't just vanish. I'm pretty sure that asshole stole my digital camera. It was stupid.

But he denied it. The dude acted all, "Shit, man, I've never seen any digital camera." Like, what – I invented the notion of owning a digital camera? I imagined the whole thing? The photos, the carrying case, the battery charger – everything? I mean, it was cool when he was stealing shit from other people, but I couldn't have this dude crashing on my floor if he was gonna steal from me.

After that, I was suspicious everyday. When I left for work in the morning, I tried to burn a mental list of where my shit was into my brain. I wanted that dude outta my joint in the worst fucking way. But I wasn't sure how to handle it. I didn't want to kick him out. I felt bad for the dude. And it was kind of nice to have a roommate, even a thief fucking armadillo.

The internal conflict wore me down. I got depressed – stopped caring about shit. From that point on, the condition of my apartment and my person deteriorated rapidly. I didn't buy food. Didn't clean. When the light bulb in my bathroom died, I didn't change it. I pissed in the dark, you know? By the orange glow of the street lights. And when the toilet paper ran out, I used public bathrooms. This went on for about a week. I kind of harbored a secret hope that the squalorous conditions would drive the armadillo out. But they didn't.

Then one of my shirts disappeared. A really cool one. I got it at the 2003 World Beard and Mustache Championships in Reno. For some reason, I decided that the armadillo had used my shirt as toilet paper. I mean, I was dead fucking certain. Of course, I had absolutely nothing to substantiate this – no evidence whatsoever. But that's just the sort of state my mind I was in. I couldn't find my shirt, so the thieving bastard armadillo used it for toilet paper.

When I snapped, the armadillo was sitting in my green beach chair. He'd mixed up some Kraft Singles and rigatoni in a dirty sauce pan. The combo was a gross orange mess that he ate with a wooden spoon.

"Where is my fucking shirt?" I said. The armadillo was stunned. He looked at me like I was a fucking lunatic, then he spooned a blob of cheesed-up rigatoni into his mouth. "What?"

"My fucking shirt. Where is it?"

"What shirt?"

"My white Beard and Mustache Championship shirt. I can't fucking find it."

"How the hell should I know where your shirt is?"

"I know exactly where I left it, but it's not there. Isn't that strange? Maybe it's with my digital camera. Or maybe you took my fucking shirt and you wiped your shit-smeared ass with it, you fucking piece of garbage."

"You're nuts."

I hesitated for a minute. But I was all done. I clenched my fists so hard that they popped and cracked like bacon cooking. My right eye began to twitch.

"Dude, you're all done. Get a job. Do whatever. Just go away. Get the fuck out of here. Leave."

And that was that.

As a show of good faith, the armadillo bought a roll of toilet paper, using loose change he found in the couch – a pretty fucked-up peace offering. But I had no interest. Wiping my ass was the furthest thing from my mind. I was mentally cashed.

The next day, the armadillo split. He left town. He bought a bus ticket and headed to Oregon. He claimed he had a job lined up. Truth is, I never saw any ticket. But at the time, I believed him. I was excited – thrilled – to get my place back. I would have believed anything – I was desperate.

But after the armadillo left, I was bummed out in this awkward, hopeless way. Honestly I was stoked to get my apartment back, but at the same time, the armadillo was a fun guy to chill with. I'd sort of gotten used to having someone around.

Oh well.

Anyway, I pulled myself together after a few days, and it was business as usual. I got a fresh light bulb for the bathroom, and I ate a delicious bean and cheese burrito.

A few weeks after the armadillo left, the cops showed up looking for him. I didn't tell the cops shit.

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