Charles
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.
Steve Himmer's stories have appeared in Pindeldyboz, Juked, Brevity & Echo, Monkeybicycle #4, and elsewhere. A video based on "Charles" won the Contagious Media 60 Second Story Competition.