Permanent Roommates Quotes

First impressions were like words penned with permanent ink. Once etched on paper, there was little one could do to change them.

Why are manhole covers round? It was an easy question, and easy to answer, but when he'd returned to Hood and had repeated Dr. Li's question to his roommates, they were silent. And then finally JB had begun, in the dreamy tones of a wandering storyteller, "Once, very long ago, mammoths roamed the earth, and their footprints left permanent circular indentations in the ground," and they had all laughed. He smiled, remembering it; he sometimes wished he had a mind like JB's, one that could create stories that would delight others, instead of the mind he did have, which was always searching for an explanation, an explanation that, while perhaps correct, was empty of romance, of fancy, of wit.

I laughed from the doorway as I watched them struggle.  She would wrap her arms around his neck to buckle the collar, and he would duck or shift to avoid her but he never got up and walked away.  I caught a twinkle of amusement in his canine eyes. I knew Rachel wouldn’t give up getting a real collar on him.  He needed proof of license.  Yet, he appeared very determined to avoid the collar.  It served him right.  He was the one who chose to be a dog. Rachel mumbled again, and I decided to take pity on her.  I knew how to reason with him.  If Clay ever wanted to leave the house with me, he had to have a collar.  I just needed to point that out. “Here.”  I held out my hand.  “I’ll try.” “Good luck,” she said with a laugh as she got off her knees and handed me the collar.  She took my position in the doorway. “It was the biggest collar they had.  I don’t even know if it fits, he won’t let me get close enough.” With a half-smile on my face, I knelt in front of Clay.  I liked that he had a sense of humor when he interacted with Rachel.  It made having him in the house tolerable...almost. I looked him in the eye. “Clay, if you want to be able to go anywhere with us, you need a collar we can clip a leash on.  Not just the twine you have holding your tag around your neck.” He didn’t move so I leaned forward and reached for the string that held his current joke of a tag.  He held still for me while I removed the twine and replaced it with the real collar. “At least it’s not pink,” I said and patted him before I realized what I was doing. I’d forgotten myself again and treated him like a dog. I quickly stood and avoided Clay’s direct gaze. Rachel laughed.  “Hey, I wouldn’t do that to him. No pink for our man.  I don’t know why he sat still for you and not me.” I’d forgotten about Rachel.  She moved to pet and praise him for his good behavior.  If I wanted a chance of having a friend as a roommate, I knew I needed to deal with Clay as a pet.  But, I needed to watch myself.  The direction of my thoughts—his assumed permanent residency in the house—troubled me.  Making him comfortable and buying him a license wouldn’t help me get rid of him. Rachel gave him a kiss, and he sighed.  Maybe, he’d grow tired of her affection and run back to Canada.  I held onto that happy thought. “He’s moody,” I said, looking into his eyes.  Moody and stubborn with a quirky sense of humor.  Not a good combination.

Based on the parts of this... this scene that are not covered in refuse, and the drawings you have done for me, I know you are an artist with talent. Maybe I have old-fashioned views, but I simply don't understand why you would spend your time creating something like this." He shrugged his shoulders. "The sort of art I am used to seeing is more..." I raised an eyebrow. "More what?" He bit his lip, as though searching for the right words. "Pleasant to look at, I suppose." He shrugged again. "Scenes from nature. Little girls wearing filly white dresses and playing beside riverbanks. Bowls of fruit." "This piece shows a beach and a lake," I pointed out. "It's a scene from nature." "But it's covered in refuse." I nodded. "My art combines objects I find with images I paint. Sometimes what I find and incorporate is literal trash. But I also feel that my art is more than just trash. It's meaningful. These pieces aren't just flat, lifeless images on canvas. They say something." "Oh." He came even closer to the landscapes, kneeling so he could peer at them up close. "And what does your art... say?" His nose was just a few inches from an old McDonald's Quarter Pounder wrapper I'd laminated to the canvas so it looked like it was rising out of Lake Michigan. I'd meant for it to represent capitalism's crushing stranglehold on the natural world. Also, it just sort of looked cool. But I decided to give him a broader explanation. "I want to create something memorable with my art. Something lasting. I want to give people who see my works an experience that won't fade away. Something that will stay with them long after they see it." He frowned skeptically. "And you accomplish that by displaying ephemera others throw away?" I was about to counter by telling him that even the prettiest painting in the fanciest museum faded from memory once the patrons went home. That by using things other people throw away, I took the ephemeral and make it permanent in a way no pretty watercolor ever could.

Ouch,” Rufina said. Maria poked Rufina again, and Rufina said, “Quit it or I’m reporting you for roommate abuse.” Then she laughed loudly, with her mouth open. The intensity of the laugh so exceeded the exchange that had prompted it that I realized that Rufina must be happy. I had never thought of her as happy before, and I wasn’t sure when it had happened, whether her mood was temporary or permanent.