My biggest concern with living in Florida was that I would have roommates. 

Our apartment in Vista Way held three rooms, each with two beds. That meant I would be living with five guys. This was not ideal, but the apartments with fewer roommates cost significantly more. To be honest, I always thought this was kind of scummy on Disney’s part. Vista Way was long since paid for and while it was a decent apartment, it wasn’t anywhere near as nice as the two newer apartment complexes that housed Disney College Program participants. 

College Program students, or CP’s as we were called, barely made minimum wage. I’m fine with making the students pay rent, but with six roommates they could have gone lower than sixty-seven dollars a week. Especially since we were in the antiquated apartments. Our first week, we had ants crawling out of our kitchen sink. I wasn’t freaked out by it, but it was still kind of gross.

Don’t get me wrong, Vista Way was fine. I didn’t mind living there. Some of the other CP’s we hung around bitched about how ghetto they were, but in my experience, this was nowhere near the threshold of shitty apartments. I just didn’t like having to live with so many guys.  

Up until then, I'd never had a roommate besides my younger brother and I wasn't quite sure how to handle the living arrangements. For one thing, I'm a slob. When I'm at work, I try to be organized and professional, but when I get home, I tend to leave shit everywhere. Also, I like to walk around in my underwear. Clothes are for the public.

Suddenly I was living with strangers and I didn’t know what their boundaries were. Clearly I couldn't just do what I want with other guys around and especially if girls were going to come over. But really I was less concerned about their opinions of me than how I would feel about them. These were men in their earliest twenties. What if all they did was drink beer and fart? What if all they listened to was rap and metal?

When we were in line, my first impressions of these guys were not favorable. And I will admit that I was being callously judgmental, but they weren't exactly giving me much to work with either.  

By the end of the first day, I decided they were pretty cool... most of them anyway. I had been a judgmental prick, but I quickly came to enjoy their company. 

David was not who I expected him to be. He came off like a bit of a thug when I met him, but clearly I was way off on that assumption. He was given the nickname Tapeworm by his roommate Dan. "Dude, you eat like you have a tapeworm up your ass!"  It was both appropriate and kind of gross.

David really is a phenomenon. I’ve achieved a level of obesity that science has labeled morbid. And yet skinny-ass David can eat me under the table. Which… probably isn’t something I should say out loud. Ever again.   

The two loudest among us shared a room; those being Dan and David. This seemed to work pretty well. Dan was funny and affable. He introduced himself in a very sing-song voice. "What's up?! I'm Dan, I'm from Buffalo! I'm your favorite New Kid, call me Danny!"

That was it. That was his pickup line. A dated reference to Donnie Wahlberg and the New Kids on the Block. And this wasn't a spur of the moment introduction. This was his Gold material. He used it on everybody and seemed to think it was a great line for picking up women. I'm completely socially inept and even I thought it was a bizarre choice.

I took this standard line and shortened it, so instead of being from Buffalo, he simply was Buffalo. Marvel and bow at my irrepressible wit! Later I started calling him Goat-Fucker because… actually, I have no idea why I called him that. 

Buffalo had this baseball cap that he wore, which supposedly sported a Fighting Squirrel. To me though, the thing always resembled a Boxing Beaver. He wore that hat all day, everyday. He didn’t take it off for a full week. I’m pretty sure he slept with it. He may have even showered in it. We became used to the Boxing Beaver on his head, like it was part of his face. Then one day, while no one was looking in his general direction, he removed the cap. 

I jumped back like he’d pulled a knife. The sight of his gleaming bald head took us all by surprise. It wasn't that I thought it looked hideous. I have notoriously thin hair and had to start shaving my head bald about a year after this happened. But here’s a pro-tip from an experienced baldie. If you’re going bald at a young age, don’t try to cover it up for weeks and then one day reveal that your head is a solar power generator. It's confusing. Also, change the blades regularly if you have to shave. It can get messy.

The front bedroom of our apartment was taken up by James and Tom. They were in the housing line like the rest of us, but they weren’t drawing attention to themselves.

James was a sandy-haired guy from Wyoming who didn’t use curse words. Not at first anyway. We all thought he was kind of a goody-goody in the beginning. Later, we found out that he had a mischievous side as well.

While we were talking, I couldn’t help but notice the cross around his neck. I was curious, so I asked him about it. James admitted that he was a devout Christian, which included being celibate, but he had no desire to convert us out of our vile, disgusting, sinning ways. 

"So you're Amish?"

"No, I'm a Christian."

"Hey guys! This kid's Amish!"

"I'm not Amish!"

"Wait you're fuckin' Amish?"

"He is! He's like a fucking Mormon! He doesn't even curse!"

"I'm not a Mormon! Those aren’t even the same thing."

"No way! What do you mean he doesn't curse? Bullshit! Do you curse, Amish?"

"I'm NOT AMISH!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Whatever, Jedediah. You're a fuckin’ Mormon. You churn butter and build barns. You have eight wives you call Sister Sarah. You're a fuckin’ Mormon. You love Jesus. Mormons love Jesus. Ergo you're a fuckin’ Mormon!"

As I recall, he cried that night.

No, only kidding. He didn’t cry. But he also didn’t appreciate that we continued to call him The Mormon. Eventually he got used to it, or at least accepted that the nickname was permanent. And it really was. We called him Amish and Jedediah on occasion, but twenty years on, I am barely aware that he has a real name. He is THE MORMON.

He was also a really good guy. I liked him a lot. And for the first few weeks, when we were all still friends and hung out together, we found out he was useful as well. 

The Mormon was one of those guys with boyish good looks, and women were seemingly drawn to him. So we… and by we, I mean the three people in our group who were good at talking to the opposite sex… used him as bait to meet women. And yes, that seems sleazy, but you know what? That shit worked like a charm. The funny thing is, it never benefited him. He planned to be celibate until marriage. I truly felt sorry for him.

Celibacy was easy for me, because… you know… I’m fat and I like talking about why Naruto is infinitely better than Dragonball Z. But for Mormon it must have been hell. Girls were throwing vagina at him like he was the Mickey Mantle of dick. 

And yet that young Mormon stud stuck to his convictions. He remained devout throughout our term. It was at that moment that I completely denounced religion. 

You know… jokes aside, I don’t actually know if he stuck to his convictions. It isn’t like we did a weekly check-in or hooked his balls up to an electric shock collar. (I have weird hobbies. Leave me alone.) I think he had a girlfriend or something later on. Who knows? Not my business.

His roommate Tom seemed nice at first. He was a large fellow with a deep Texas drawl, whom I called Sling Blade, because he sounded like Billy Bob Thornton’s character in that movie. Tom was, in fact, a dick. But we didn’t that find out for a while.

The middle room was shared by Ronnie and I. We were the only guys in the apartment who weren’t white. It was just a coincidence that we chose the same room though. It’s not like they took a vote.

Thankfully, Ronnie was cool. He was definitely into rap, but he was pretty chill, for the most part. Ronnie was an artist and he was really bright as well. We had quite a few late night discussions about art, music and race relations. I know that sounds horribly cheesy, like something out of a scripted reality show, but it all kind of happened organically. We were there to meet people with different life experiences.

Ronnie was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky …which I was informed is pronounced Luh-i-ville. Or something. I never quite got it. For the most part he was a fine roommate. Clean, intelligent, kind. But for the entire time he lived in that apartment, I slept on the sofa. It was impossible to sleep next to him. Ronnie snored like a jet turbine. 

The crazy part was that he never exhaled; it was just a constant, bone- rattling, sucking sound. I would’ve had an easier time sleeping through a spinal tap.

Almost everyone had a nickname, except Ronnie. I don’t know why. David’s name never quite stuck though. And yes, I had a nickname as well. Buffalo gave me two, actually. Those stories each merit their own chapters.

For a while, we all got along famously. We explored Disney and went on adventures as the best of friends. Many of the other rooms that we were familiar with weren’t friendly, so we felt lucky to get such a fun group of guys in the same place. 

A few months later some of us were trying to murder each other. But as usual, I’m getting ahead of myself.