The Roommate Chronicles: Benjamin

Benjamin Verdure was my favorite roommate. He only lived with me throughout the month of October 2003, but he will always be special to me. For starters, he was a champagne salesman. Not just any champagne, mind you, but Vranken, a Belgian-owned company featuring Demoiselle, a queen among the many brands they offered.

He was 25, quite short, lithe, and witty in both French and heavily-accented English. He could always make me laugh, even when he was down. His mother had been a black woman from Martinique, sadly deceased. His father was a stocky white French entrepreneur with no discernible grace or sense of humor. Watching the father and son walk down the street together, you'd wonder what in the world these two could find to talk about.

Benjamin knew how to dress and talk when he was on the job. He'd usually arrive home still looking spiffy around 5:00 with a slightly opened bottle of Demoiselle.

"It won't keep, you know," he'd deadpan.

And I'd always reply, "No. It's a shame to waste it."

That was the cue for him to sprint to the Garden of Eden (a specialty grocery across the street, owned by Turkish Kurds), to buy a baguette and a perfect Camembert, "juste à point". For the next 2 to 4 hours we'd indulge, blissfully tasting every morsel.

Then at 9:00 he'd take off for his tour of the NYC club scene (doing "research" and making sales), and I'd lapse into a happy coma. Naturally, I lowered the rent for him.

His love-life was a complete mess. On the one hand, he was mad about a gorgeous, talented brunette, with whom he'd had a clandestine affair for a long time. On the other, he had pretty, blonde Caroline, who faithfully put up with his transgressions and really accepted him for who he was, in spite of the pain it caused her.

Naturally, I sided with Caroline.

In November of 2003, therefore, I planned a big Thanksgiving dinner. Caroline would from Paris come for a week, so I bought a new bedstead, as I was sure the old one wouldn't survive the athletics.

At the end of October, Benjamin's father came to buy jeans and T-shirts for his jeans store in Paris. (He also rented yachts to rich people in Nice in the summer, I believe). He left several boxes of clothing for B. to ship back to him.

Simultaneously (and unfortunately), the Son of Vranken was running the NYC operation, and he was jealous of Benjamin's success. In a moment of insanity, he tried to fire and then re-hire him. Benjamin was furious and refused to play the game. Instead, he quit. Then he twice returned to France with all the clothes in suitcases (except for one bag of T-shirts), and departed for home.

I missed him terribly, but had to move on (more on this later).

Much later, in January or February of 2004, Benjamin showed up on my doorstep again, with Caroline in tow. He'd come to show her me, the apartment, and—above all—the Benjamin Memorial Bed I'd purchased for them in the fall.

I gave him the bag of T-shirts he'd forgotten under the bed, and that was that. I hope to see him again, some day . . .