CHARLES

By

Steve Himmer

My new roommate is a fire-breathing atomic monster. He’s also a graduate student in literature from Japan. He’s only been in the country a couple of weeks -- his semester hasn’t even begun – but I’m not sure how much he’s enjoying himself. Last night he confessed to being frustrated by the social scene here.

“Charles,” I said, “This is Boston. It frustrates us all. I think we like it that way.”

He must have thought I was joking because he forced a polite little laugh, and let out a burst of atomic fire I don’t think was on purpose but still left a nasty black mark on the coffee table I bought at IKEA.

Charles apologized and tried to wipe off the burn with the tip of his tail, but that didn’t work very well.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, because I could tell he’d had a rough day. “It’s only a table.”

What I didn’t say was, it’s the first piece of furniture I’ve ever bought new and now it’s going to have that scorch on it forever because you can’t control your own fire. I wasn’t proud of myself for thinking that way, and Charles didn’t need to hear it because he’s only just come to the country and moved into my apartment. I’m trying to make a good impression on behalf of the city of Boston -- we’re a little self-conscious about that sort of thing. It’s hard, because I don’t have much experience with fire-breathing atomic monsters and their customs. Maybe burning your host’s furniture is a tradition or something, some old-fashioned show of respect.

“We go out every night,” Charles said, “and the same thing happens.”

“Hey,” I said, “we’ll try new bars. I’ll call up Sully tonight – he knows lots of places.”

“It isn’t the bars,” Charles answered. “I appreciate you taking me out and showing me around. But I try talking to people... like Julie, last night.”

“She’s pretty cool, huh? You like her?”
“She was nice. But she asked me about myself and when I started to tell her it was the same as with everyone else.”

I knew what he meant. Whenever Charles tells someone he’s a fire- breathing atomic monster from Japan, they scrunch up their faces as if he looks familiar and ask, “Is your name… Godzilla?” My new roommate’s name isn’t Godzilla, it’s Charles. He says he’s used to it, getting mixed up with Godzilla -- “All of us fire-breathing atomic monsters are,” he told me last week -- but even so, I think it upsets him.

I hadn’t considered before that there might be other fire-breathing atomic monsters from Japan stuck in Godzilla’s shadow. I feel guilty about it now, for not knowing, but the possibility never once crossed my mind until Charles answered my ad on Craigslist.

I’m not sure what I can do about his problem other than introduce him to as many people as possible. It seems rude to say, “This is my new roommate, Charles. He isn’t Godzilla, they aren’t even related,” and I could tell them right off that not all fire-breathing atomic monsters from Japan like to smash buildings and kill people, but that might be awkward for him. Besides, it seems like people should already know that without being told.

But I don’t have any other ideas. I mean, I fulfilled my multiculturalism course requirement in college, but it didn’t prepare me for this. We spent more time on the potato famine and Pancho Villa than the social lives of fire-breathing atomic monsters.