15

I lived on the top floor of a fourth story building with no elevator.

There was a note on my door.

I grabbed the note, unlocked the door and opened it.

Chinese pop music blared from inside.

I looked at the note:

Dear Mr Oliver,
You now have room-mates. As per our rental agreement, your rent has been adjusted accordingly to $500 per month.
– The Management

My bedroom was as I had left it, but the living room and kitchen were a mess of dirty dishes, rice and empty cups stained by coffee and Coca Cola.

My study was now a second bedroom, with two beds.

A short, broad-shouldered Chinese guy in glasses was sitting at a desk, playing a futuristic RTS.

A taller and much thinner black man with dreads and a bandanna was reading a book about Marxism.

“Hello,” I said.

The Chinese guy glanced up. “Yo.”

“Good evening,” said the black guy. “I’m Ryan. This is Vince.”

Vaguely, I remembered the room-mate clause. Somehow, I didn’t expect them to appear so suddenly.

“Yo, I used one of your pots to cook dinner.”