At 21 I had seen too much of the world. Well, maybe I had just experienced its nasty underbelly and it seemed like too much. Regardless, I packed my car, moved 2,000 miles away, and set up an entirely new and different life. I tried really hard to forget the place from which I came.
When moving across the country, I had a carful of belongings and $161 to my name. That number is forever seared into memory. Arriving in the ATL, I had no apartment. It honestly never occurred to me that I needed to find one. I had a friend that offered up his couch, so I took it. Plus, I’d already been homeless, moved a gazillion times, and never controlled any of it. My existence was an afterthought to all who should have cared for me. But this was my life, and I was in the driver’s seat. I would make it work. I was free.
After about a month on a back breaking sofa, which says a lot because 21-year olds can sleep on a cement slab, I was ready for something that was mine. A place where I wasn’t in someone else’s. Not knowing anyone but my new co-workers, I looked in the classified advertisements section of the Atlanta Journal Constitution for roommate situations. Nested halfway down the page was a listing that seemed straight from Jennifer Jason Leigh’s Single White Female. It was short, direct, and seemed like what I needed. Roommate wanted, 3-story townhome, fully furnished except the private bedroom, shared bathroom, close to downtown and Buckhead. $350. Serious inquiries only.
I placed the call and met my very first person, on my own, in Atlanta. I did it. Not someone from work, someone that would be a cornerstone to my new existence. I visited the place, it was decidedly clean and stylishly decorated, and the owner / landlord would be my roommate. I instantly named her Roomlord. At 25, she was 4 years my senior and she drove a Volvo station wagon. What 25-year old drives that kind of car? I’ll tell ya who does, a rich girl from Massachusetts who had nothing but money in the bank and a Rolodex of sorority sisters on her desk.
This was foreign territory to me. But, what the hell. I needed a place to live and Roomlord seemed stable. She volunteered with the Junior League, played tennis, and wore Jackie O sunglasses. Everyone in this new verdant city was remarkably calm and seemingly normal. Plus, the townhome was a mile from the grocery store and there was a giant tree outside my bedroom window. I paid a nominal security deposit and could move in whenever. I asked for a week so I could “get my things together.” Translation: I needed to buy a bed. I had no place to sleep, needed bedding, and towels.
Once moved in, the first three months were spent navigating my new city and getting lost all the time. Google Maps didn’t exist in the early 1990s. This southern city did not operate on a grid system and street names changed for no apparent reason. I ate an enormous amount of ramen noodles and lost weekends wondering why life was so calm. It was all rather mundane and blissful. Well, until the day Roomlord told me that one of her sorority sisters was moving to Atlanta and would be the third in our townhome trifecta of girls.
Fuck. Really? Another sorority girl? That life might be wonderful and the source of many fond memories for millions of women, but for me, it was an unattainable luxury. I was the person these women looked down upon and had to spend months getting used to Roomlord’s entitled behaviors, quirks, and hang ups. The last fucking thing I wanted was to put on a veneered smile for another rando chick. Sweet hell, this one was from Connecticut, which is one level worse than old Massachusetts money. I was already up to my ears in rules: shoes go here not there, silver must go in the dishwasher this way not that, and don’t use Aveda shampoo. Oh, and if Tuesday happens to fall on a full moon, then you’ll need to stand on your hands with freshly painted nails until the blood rushes to your head. But before you pass out, please put a towel down…nobody wants to clean up your dead body. When you die, please do it on the cheap towels, not Egyptian cotton.
I looked forward to the day my new roommate was supposed to move in like a person awaiting a lobotomy. With dread. I was informed that I had to clean the bathroom, make sure I was tidy and do better with the kitchen, and be helpful to the woman that would pee on the same toilet as me. So, like any lower-class renter, I summarily did what the Roomlord asked and waited for her arrival.
Our parking spots were directly beyond our front door and I saw her pull in as I hid along the side of a forward-facing glass window. A cherry red Volkswagen hatchback. Small, compact, and shiny. New. My stomach lurched when I saw her get out of the car.
Sweet hell, she was gorgeous. Tall as shit and legs as long as string beans. Blonde hair, bobbed, perfectly styled, and black sunglasses. Denim mini skirt, cream colored tee, and flats. She oozed sophistication in a way Roomlord never could. It was effortless, breezy. She graced the doorway and my life was forever changed.
She smiled, stuck her hand out, and introduced herself. Hi, I’m Mills, you must be Stuart. Her hands were smooth, nails perfectly French manicured, and she had a signet ring on one hand. Nice watch, gold bracelet, necklace, small hoop earrings. Understated class. I was instantly captivated by her and determined to watch her every mannerism and predilection. And she didn’t seem like an entitled twat like the Roomlord. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
Mills moved her belongings in and settled rather quickly. She had a job and before long, life morphed into a new normal. Weekdays were spent hustling to work in the mornings and doing girly, twenty-something things in the evenings. Sports bras and power walks or girlfriends over for salad and to watch Friends. Mills loved Chandler Bing. I was into Joey Tribbiani.
I learned about cool things like notecards and flower boxes from Mills. Always send a hand-written thank you, and flower boxes look best outside a window. She taught me about the horrors of wearing linen clothing and why you should never trust anyone to cut bangs in your hair. Linen pants looked lovely once you put them on but you have to stand around like a stick figure so they don’t wrinkle. In her mind, they were classic and timeless, and an epic pain in the ass. Because of Mills, I only have 1 linen shirt in my entire closet. An oversized boyfriend shirt that can be wadded up and thrown in my beach bag (another thing I learned from her…the beach bag) and worn over a wet swimsuit. In regards to having bangs, just don’t do it. You sit in the chair, have a fabulous hairstylist artificially boost your ego and infuse you with bravery. Then, you inevitably end up leaving the salon looking like Spock and regretting your decision for the next 16 weeks. Not good.
I was completely captivated by her rituals. Bizarre fucking rituals. The first time I saw her get ready for a shower I fell out. Shower caddy, perfectly organized, shower shoes (WTAF?!? I don’t have staph…), towel robe, and a terry cloth headband dryer thingy. She would scoot her way from her bedroom door to our shared bathroom, about 10 feet, with quick foot shuffles because of the fucking shower shoes. She couldn’t walk like a normal human because of the things on her feet. I believe I actually peed myself the first time I saw this. She eventually stopped wearing them, likely because I was deemed to be physically healthy. It kind of saddened me because watching Mills shift her feet to the bathroom made my day. Always a great laugh.
Mills doesn’t know this but she became an anchor in my life fast and hard. When I thought of fleeing my situation and parents, it never occurred to me that I’d be lonely. Crazily enough, I thought I wanted to be alone. Nobody to hurt me. Right? Wrong. I needed someone to do life with, to teach me how to adult. This new life had to have a sidekick and mine was Mills. She became my friend, my confidante, my role model. The older sister I never had but so desperately wanted and needed.
After about 6 months together, we realized that grocery shopping was way more fun together than solo. We would go on Sundays, usually nursing a hangover from the night before, and after breakfast. Mills ate frozen waffles like her life depended upon it. My car didn’t have air conditioning (I’m from the mountains), so we’d hop in her cranberry on wheels after she slammed a few Eggos and be off. Publix was our weekly destination. Each of us got a cart, perused the aisles, and budgeted our groceries. Mills had a little notebook planner thing and she used it religiously. Oddly enough, we never coordinated meals together. Reflecting on this, it feels very bizarre. Maybe it’s because I’m a parent now and everything requires planning.
The supermarket also became the place we scoped out cute boys. There was a gym nearby and bachelors of all kinds would do their shopping after hitting the dumbbells. Mills and I would spend hours at the market acting like schoolgirls with crushes. She’d hang by the CheezIts like she’d never seen processed American food before. She loved the little square cheese crunchy and our time lollygagging in the snack isle was fantastic.
Because of my upbringing, I never had anyone to teach me about life as a normal human. Mills had two parents, and a seemingly normal childhood, so I made mental notes of our time together and cataloged all of her words as life lessons. She will learn of her significance in my life only upon reading this entry.
It was during one of our shopping trips that she casually noted a girl as being her, “museum friend.” Wait. What? Mills told me that she had a buddy that would go to the museum with her. Together they’d admire art or the installation du jour after lunch. This museum friend was only good for museums, but in a good way. I was gobsmacked.
The idea that I could pick and choose people in my life based upon what we had in common was earth shattering. This meant that I didn’t have to hang on to one person for everything. In my tortured mind, the strategy translated to less risk, lower exposure. I could spread myself out across people, never investing too much of me into any one person. Incidentally, this approach also meant that I could only be hurt by the people in my life to the extent I let them cross pollinate. Museum friends do not secret-keepers make. Confidantes are not wingwomen, and so forth. This was my new mantra. Mills did this because she was prudent and judicious with her relationship capital. I did it because I had big secrets and so much at stake. My dignity and embarrassment being the top two.
Mills eventually made her first trip home to see her parents. She was planned, packed, and ready to go. The day she left I curled up in bed, balling my eyes out on my shitty low thread count sheets. I was a fledgling and Mills was taking flight. I actually worried she wouldn’t come back to our nest. It felt like someone stole my puppy. Completely illogical. When Roomlord saw me crying, I lied and said I had a fight with Mick. That excuse always worked. That was probably the first time I ever missed anyone in my life for the right reasons. It was also the longest 4 days on record. Sure, I had endured endless days of hell before. But with Mills, I felt like I had something to lose. She was my first friend based upon mutual respect and interests. The fact that she happened to be my roommate was a fortuitous and added benefit. She never hurt me.
When Mills returned, she was off. Distant. My upbringing translates to razor-like attention to small changes in how a person acts. Survival depended upon it. Mills was not scattered but definitely not put together. She was agitated, and something seemed wrong. I was absolutely terrified and convinced it was me. It would be a couple days before she talked about the strained relationship with her perfectionist mother. The trip home had worn her down. After a while, I came to learn that Mills struggled, too. She had definite doubts about herself and they were rooted in the relationship with her narcissistic mom. Her father was a saint and buffered Mills from a lot, but that protection only goes so far.
Mills soon returned to herself and we were back to our usual routine. Most predominantly, we had to cope with the constant antics of Roomlord. For being a wealthy snoot, she was terrible at taking care of the townhome. Everything was in various stages of disrepair, as it is with any home. The thing is, Roomlord wanted to look the part but not play the part. Things were breaking all the time and would go completely ignored. She probably could have fallen on a broken stair and blamed a gust of wind in Yemen. You’d literally have to shove her face in the issue and even then, she’d still look at you like Al Bundy. To get Roomlord to address basic issues required off-color psychological acrobatics. Mills and I were constantly needing door locks, light bulbs, and drippy faucets fixed. I thought I’d be solo in my subversiveness, and wow was I wrong. Mills was all in. My perfect friend was game for guerrilla-style roommate taunting. Awesome.
The first real incident that required Mills and I to engage in coordinated yet subversive tactics involved mushrooms. And not the portabella kind that goes good in pasta with wine. The type I speak of grows from between the tiles on the bathroom floor. 4” tall brownish fungi popped up all over. They started slowly. Mills grabbed the first one and put it on a perfectly-folded napkin with a note and sat it on the kitchen counter for the Roomlord to see. Her penmanship was perfect. Didn’t work. Pretty soon, our bathroom was checkered with various sized mushrooms, all growing from between tiles on the floor. Nowhere near a water source.
Mills pulled out the shower shoes because Roomlord never even acknowledged the fucking fungi. It was time for action. I decided that I would use her off-limits shower during the morning rush to work and also to tinkle at night. Who the hell wants to circumnavigate phallic-looking fungi to pee at 3am? Not me. Inconvenience the Roomlord as a means of agitation. It worked. In doing so, she revealed her cards; while she could masterfully avoid confrontation, she was terrible with passive aggressiveness. It was her kryptonite. Climb under her skin while looking like you’re not trying to. Don’t stop agitating until the lights are fixed and there was absolute certainty the bathroom and our risotto had no mushrooms in it.
Palmetto bugs were the next unwelcome visitor from the outside. And by bugs, I don’t mean 3 or 4. Imagine looking up at night from your bed and the streetlights reveal dozens of them overhead, on the ceiling holding a meeting. I have never been so skeeved out in my entire life. The roaches here have their own zip code, huge and flying, and they are absolutely disgusting. Again, Roomlord ignored the creepy crawlies like she ignored the food growing from the bathroom floor.
Roomlord once told me to leave a dead roach on the floor and if it wasn’t gone the next morning, there was no infestation. No worries. Well, we left the dead ones out and the carcasses always welcomed us at sunrise. Mills lost her mind whenever she saw one. She suffered palmetto paralysis. After sleeping a few nights at the neighbors house because I was convinced they crawled on my skin and in my ears, I decided it was time for more interesting tactics. I purchased aerosol hairspray and a lighter and left them on the kitchen table. The exterminator showed up two days later.
We engaged in all kinds of tomfoolery together. Like the time Roomlord refused to fix the air conditioning in the middle of August in Atlanta. That was fun. We resorted to opening our bedroom doors at night and singing loudly to each other, down the hall, any song that had the word, “hot” in it. It went over like a lead brick. There was the time we stayed together for Thanksgiving and I practically vomited from gagging while preparing a raw turkey for roasting. I had rubber gloves on, tears in my eyes, and my hand stuck up the turkey carcass. Mills stood in the corner crossing her legs so she didn’t pee herself while laughing. Life was grand.
Mills’ mom eventually came to visit, and it was during this time that I realized the significance she carried in my life. When chauffeuring her mom about town and hosting her as a guest, Mills was off. It seemed bizarre to me that her mom stayed in a hotel. Who has that kind of money? In retrospect, Mills was protecting her sanity and setting boundaries. I learned so much from her. Her mom invited our group of friends out for dinner and I didn’t know whether or not to go. I had literally never had anyone ask me to dinner like that. Money was tight, but I was in awe of how it felt to be living a different experience. I went and ordered salad.
At dinner, a nice restaurant, Mills was off and there was definite tension between her and her mother. It was so obvious to me, but everyone else at the table was completely clueless. Morons. The incessant jabs about what Mills ordered to eat, to brush her hair out of her eyes, to sit up straight, criticizing her outfit…my God. The list went on forever. Her mother wouldn’t shut the hell up. I felt bad, but I also felt protective. Just because nobody ever stood up for me doesn’t mean I didn’t do it for others.
After one particularly snitty comment, Mills excused herself to the ladies room, clearly upset. Her mother commented on the general moodiness of her daughter, now and always [insert maternal eye roll], and apologized on her behalf to us. Apologized? Are you fucking kidding? Suddenly, all the tense long-distance phone calls home, behind closed doors, to her mom made sense. I channeled my inner Pearl without even trying, gratuitously telling her that taming the constant criticism of her offspring would result in a far more enjoyable evening for the entire group. That her attitude towards Mills was reprehensible and to separate the check, I’d be leaving. I got up and left to check on Mills; the tab was paid when we returned. Roomlord later told me that I was out of line and I told her to go fuck herself.
The thing is, Mills was my first friend. My first adult, safe-from-harm, new me friend. She showed me what normal was, if there is such a thing. She gave me a glimpse of what my life could have been like with just a little love and attention. I was deeply embarrassed of who I was around her, and I hid it at all costs. I craved her approval. Where Mills was confident, I was an imposter. Where she was poised, I was slouchy. Where she was educated, I was not. She was tall and graceful like a gazelle, I was a short, stocky pit bull terrier. She had beautiful, sun-kissed golden hair, and I had a mop of deep chocolate. We couldn’t have been more different.
After one night early in our relationship, she asked me where I went to college. Without so much as a thought, I lied. I didn’t want her to know about me…the real me. I didn’t want to be the poor kid, the kid with a fucked up family, the person that never made it past 8th grade because of her mentally ill mom. I was undeserving of her friendship; social status dictated different worlds for us. She was a have and I was a have-not. I told Mills I went to college. And then I panicked, almost instantly. My first friend here, someone with whom I trusted to sleep without lights on in the room adjacent to mine, to drive my car home sober, to see me cry or puke. I lied to her. I had everything to lose if she ever found out. In my world, you own your shit, and I always did. Never lie. Seems I wanted to be accepted and loved more than tell the truth. If I’m honest, it felt wonderful being loved.
We would live together for nearly 3 years. About halfway through, I began secretly studying for my GED without her knowledge. Why? Because she inspired me without ever knowing she did. I wanted an education so desperately and lived vicariously through her tales of college. Mills frequently asked what I was off doing or where I’d been, and, again, I lied. I couldn’t let her know. The real bummer is that when I passed in the 99th percentile, I was so fucking proud of myself but I couldn’t tell her. I had to keep a secret from my first friend, not telling her all the ways she saved me. At the time, it was embarrassing to be proud of my accomplishment of a GED when she went to an elite northeastern college. But it was mine, this new existence, and Mills breathed life into my dream. I just couldn’t share it with her. Until now. When she reads this post.
As roommate situations do, ours ended. I couldn’t stand Roomlord any longer and Mills had a new job and wanted a different location. I got my own place, and she got a new roommate. Time passed, we each met guys, got married, and moved. She to another state, me to the recesses of my mind.
About 12 years ago, I was in my car, my kids were screaming in the back. 22 by Taylor Swift came on. The song opened the floodgates in my eyes. In an instant I was transported back in time. I cried the cry of gratitude and memories and long summers with roaches on the ceiling. The lyrics to that song feel like they were written just for our friendship and all the antics we engaged in. The laughs, the tears, the telling her mom off, the boys, the drama of dating, raw turkeys, Roomlord, and simpler times. But mostly how she changed me, forever. We have stayed connected since, but more so now that our kids are older. She was my first friend and my longest. 30 years.
When I got sick and my mind started waging war on me, thoughts of Mills frequently ran between my ears. We were in touch but life has a way of getting in the way. It occurs to me now that I thought of her because she was my first feeling of home. She was my very first feeling of safety and acceptance. Without her I would have no idea of the concept. She was my my peace, anchoring me to a less troubled life. Mills was a quirky guardian angel that witnessed the birth of me. Without her example, stupid laugh, bad haircuts with bangs (never, ever do bangs), and effusive warmth, I would have never seen my future, or much less dared to chase it. People like me don’t plan for tomorrow, we just exist on a day-to-day basis.
What a gift it was to be 22 and friends with the best blonde girl on the planet.
