The Orphan Jacob Moniz

My roommate tells me he’s the nearest thing to an orphan I’ll ever meet.

I can’t help myself and respond: “Except for an actual orphan.” He’s quiet. He adjusts his glasses and smiles too widely, betraying a glint of panic. Or maybe shame? “Right, right.” This descriptor is his crutch, his way of easing people towards the admission of an uncomfortable truth.

I know this, but his use of the word “orphan” has inspired something cruel in me. It feels unearned and disrespectful. I lift my glass as a distraction while I think of what to say. It’s nearly empty. My roommate eyes the glass, watches me struggle for its meager offerings of gin, the gin he poured, still smiling. I’m irritated with myself for draining it so quickly. I set the glass back down and ask: “What makes you like an orphan?”

He senses an opportunity, a way to redirect our course of conversation. “My grandparents raised me. That’s why my taste in stuff is sort of... dated.”

He’s mentioned this before. My roommate’s tastes reflect an older generation, with a preference for writers like Frank Herbert, Ray Bradbury, William Gibson, and Phillip K. Dick. Reverberating through the house, I’ve heard the voices of Frank Sinatra, Nina Simone, Bessie Smith, and Big Bill Broonzy singing through the walls.

I ask him: “Are you close?”

“Yeah. They’re like my parents.” This fails to answer my question to a satisfying conclusion. I allow my eyes to wander to keep them from rolling and take notice of the abnormal way the lamp ensconced above the table casts light against our salmon-colored walls. The room takes on a flesh-like quality, bare and uncomfortably warm. I wish we’d done more to decorate the walls and conceal a bit of said flesh, but that always felt like too great an effort for a place that doesn’t feel like home.

My roommate pulls a cigarette from a pack left on the table. “Want a smoke?” He extends the pack my way, but I say “No” and shake my head.

I expect him to excuse himself to smoke outside, but he doesn’t. It’s flattering at first. It makes me feel interesting, his desire to continue our conversation. Then, a cloud of smoke surrounds us, the smell of nicotine catches in my nostrils, and I consider his behavior rude.

“My dad smokes,” I say. His eyebrows raise on an inhale. “My not smoking is kind of an act of rebellion.”

My roommate doesn’t laugh, but smirks and says on the exhale: “Good for you.”

“Thanks.” I pause, weighing my words, mapping the possible routes our conversation might go. “My dad and I, we don’t speak.”

I wait for comments or queries, an attempt to find some common ground—they don’t come. When I’ve made that comment in the past, it’s invited a playful, sometimes cruel curiosity into the conflict with my family. I thought that he might recognize the set-up, that he might investigate further, but he moves on to other topics.

My roommate tells me about his job as a political journalist and how the practicality of his work conflicts with his passion for writing fiction. I think of asking if I can read his writing, particularly his sci-fi. Except, I’ve told him about my writing and he’s never asked to read it, so I show disinterest instead.

My roommate and I have lived together for nine months. We’ve shared niceties over cigarettes and gin, both belonging to him, but I still regard him as a stranger. I hold my breath a moment as he exhales more smoke in my direction. When the air has cleared, I blurt out: “Being an orphan’s not so bad.”

My roommate doesn’t probe. He smirks, raises his eyebrows again, and says: “I guess I wouldn’t know.”

When he’s finished smoking, my roommate stands and opens a window to air out the room, signaling the end of our social interaction. I take our glasses and deposit them in the sink. As I do, my roommate follows and turns in the direction of his room. He doesn’t say goodnight, he doesn’t say anything, so I stay silent too. Later, I play music in our living room. Something modern, with an irregular rhythm and indecipherable lyrics. My roommate enters to retrieve his reading glasses from the table and I ask him: “Was I too loud?”

“No,” he tells me. “I didn’t hear you at all.”