No Encore

After the last song of the set, the bass guitarist raised his beer bottle to salute the fans and Ra Ra Rasputin left the stage. The crowd at the Black Cat applauded wildly.

"Encore!" someone yelled after a while, urging the local band to return.

Since the dawn of rock 'n' roll the formula has gone as follows:

1) Band leaves.

2) Audience goes crazy.

3) Band comes back.

This ritual apparently makes the band feel loved and appreciated. I like feeling these too, so who am I to argue? We make a lot of noise and they return. Our roles are scripted and ridiculous. Predictable. The songs are a surprise, the encore is not. If something enjoyable becomes predictable, does it lose its appeal? The cookies at every office meeting. The guy who buys his girlfriend a single red rose every Friday evening. Like fans cheering in the dark, the girlfriend acts surprised when she is given what she has come to expect.

"Oh come on," I told Eric after several minutes of solid clapping. My palms were starting to hurt. "This is just silly."

Then something entirely unexpected happened. The house lights came on. The show was over. We discussed it on the way to the U Street Metro. There had been no encore. Eric thought it was sort of a refreshing change. After all, shouldn’t it be special? Maybe…Except when you expect something which is taken away, you mostly feel frustrated. Open the fridge to discover someone drank the last of the orange juice. Your friend bails on your coffee date when you’ve got good news to share. When it happens to me I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

In April, I started a co-op group house in Petworth, in Northwest D.C. I’d lived in three shared houses in a year and had gone to over two dozen housing interviews. There’s nothing like being judged by a group of strangers who warn they’ll steal your food, explain they like their TV on as "background noise" or ask how you feel about "loud sex".

My cunning plan was to bypass the whole system by creating my own friendly, shared house. I found a four-bedroom rental off Craigslist and attempted to root out the most interesting, fun housemates the internet had to offer. Food was to be communal with housemates taking turns cooking. I wanted to live with progressive, environmentally conscious folks who were looking for a home and not just a place to crash. I wanted potential friends. And no TV.

The four of us and a dog moved in after the cherry blossoms had blown off the trees around the Jefferson Memorial. In the spring, we had house dinners and friends over. My housemates played music. We went out for drinks. I had helped start something new and was feeling pretty good about myself. So good in fact, I decided to start dating again, which incidentally is another interview process, but with more alcohol.

With the oppressive, swampy summer, our house started to get grimy. Mice appeared. Dog fur piled up in clumps on the hardwood floor. Frustrated by the mess, I started nagging the dog owner. A superb cook, he was frequently too busy to clean up after himself. Our friendship devolved into clipped, functional conversation. I changed tacks and tried to make peace with the dirty kitchen. We bought fancy electric mouse traps. The rodent situation improved, but the dog owner seemed to still expect my rants even after I learned to hold my tongue. Towards the end of September, he announced he was moving out.

Fall and a fresh start. In Rock Creek Park the leaves started changing color and we had a new opportunity to shape the culture of our house. We scrubbed and swept. Up went the ad on Craigslist. In came a flurry of emails from prospective housemates. This time we wanted "clean and responsible," not just "fun and interesting". The result was Nancy, our young but poised, thoughtful new housemate.

The other night, Eric and I came into the kitchen to make ourselves sandwiches. It was late and we were too hungry to cook. We were surprised to find steaming brown rice with a delicious tomato okra stew. Nancy had cooked and made enough for everyone.

"I could get used to this co-op thing," Eric said, taking a bite. So could I, I thought. So could I.