Prince Yi

Its incredible to me still, how poorly this came out. I’m fully ashamed.

He had been absolutely unbearable from the first day. Every word that he mumbled grated my nerves and clenched my fists in agony. I dreaded returning home, and found myself walking quickly through the spacious living room, ignoring the gorgeous shoreline view through the window that dominated one wall of that comfy room. It was such a beautiful condo, the walls painted in warm earth tones, the carpet soft and loving on the feet. Track lighting had been set into the ceiling and arranged in such a way that the whole place glowed with a gentle softness that invited, begged for the overstuffed leather sofa or the extravagant Lazy Boy to be sprawled upon, lounged in.

The whole room was so perfect, it could only make me hate him more—he was always in there, you see, slouched in the lazy boy, the television blaring some obnoxious Asian soap opera, a steaming bowl of something funny smelling steaming on the glass topped table that rests in the center of the room. He ate with his mouth open, smacking , showing, sometimes spraying whatever it was he was eating. I could never be sure what he had cooking on the stove, but there were usually eyeballs or stomachs or other strange organ meat floating in his mysterious stews.

He smelled funny, emanating scents deep and strong. It might have been his diet, or some aspect of his hygiene. Its hard to say. All I really knew for sure was that he liked to stand close when he spoke. I’m talking about inches. I could count his pores when he trapped me in conversation.

I know I seem like an unfriendly person, but try to imagine standing that close to this guy. He doesn’t actually talk; his words were like shouts, or barks, sharp and nasal, piercing the quiet with dispassionate volume. He expects to be heard, expects to be listened to, and from what I have been able to gather in our broken exchanges, his father is a wealthy businessman in china, sending him to school here in the states. This condominium had been purchased in full, and the rent I paid went into his pocket. Yi was his name—Prince Yi, I called him, because he was the embodiment of what one of my friends has called “entitled”.

“Maybe its just cultural differences,” she said to me once, as I was complaining about him.

That might be so, but it doesn’t make his strut okay.

In the end, I could cope with his snottiness. It wasn’t a big deal, and my rent was so incredibly low, I would be a fool to leave. The problem, the real problem was the fact that he was a born again Christian, with bible always at hand and holy self-righteousness at his command. I try my very best to avoid these people, because to them, my life is worthless, unless I follow them to this Jesus guy. I don’t need to be told how to live my life, especially not by a book and its cow-eyed readers.

I tried every now and again to sit in that living room. The evenings were so lovely, the setting sun tinting the sky pink, the soft glow of the lighting relaxing me, and every once in a while, it would be empty, inviting me. Every time I gave in, Yi would walk out, his steps loud and uncaring, dragging and sliding across the carpet. He would sit himself next to me and set that well turned book on the glass top table, lace his fingers together, and look at me. He would take a breath, preparing himself for his own mind blowing profundity, and attempt to save my soul. What could I do, but bear it, and pretend at least to follow along? As much as I dislike him, I am not rude, and I am not bold.

Needless to say, such sessions were torture, punishment enough that I would hurry through the living room to my own more sparsely decorated room, close the door, and leave again only to eat, work, and head to school.

As much as I hated him, I was not the one that left. One might believe that I would have lost my mind, packed up, and moved out. It really wasn’t that bad, though. Almost nothing for rent! No, he kicked me out. I came home one night, drunk, stumbling, laughing loudly, with a girl around my neck. It was two in the morning. I hushed her at the door, and quietly tried and failed to slide my key into the door. I grew frustrated, and turned the handle. It had been unlocked. When I entered, the lights were on. It was a lovely room. Except Yi was sitting, facing the door, glasses perched on his nose, bible in his lap. He assumed a self-righteous disapproval, and pointed at the girl. I knew what was coming, but could hardly believe he would do it.

“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I said. I could hear that I was slurring my words.

“You’re drunk! You brought that girl home to sin in my house! I hope you like hell. She’s not coming in.”

I think I told him to fuck himself, or to shove something up his ass. I’m not really sure. I tugged the girl along behind me and slammed my door shut behind me. We were loud that night, me and whats-her-name. Mostly out of spite, because I really was too drunk to enjoy it.

The next morning, there was a strange woman in my bed, not embarrassingly unattractive, but nothing to brag about either. There was also a notice of lease cancellation posted on my door.


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