“Oh,” they’d say, and trail off. “Beth…You mean Crazy Beth?” I’d nod and they would try to sympathize, but I knew deep down they were thankful it was me and not them who had deal with it. Eventually they’d say, “I’m so sorry,” and I’d agree with them that yes, these were indeed tough times, and thank them for their support.

What I found out was apparently Beth wasn’t even supposed to be my roommate. Initially she’d been assigned to another floor, but she came across as so crazy she scared the crap out of her soon to be roommates. I imagined her having the first conversation with her new BFFs. But instead of the normal getting to know yous like, “College is going to rule. Ohmigod I have posters too! Eddie Vedder? The only thing better would be if he like, played a ukulele!” it was probably more like, “I can hear bees speak.”

So Beth was outted as the Crazy Girl on the Floor, and her original roommates requested that she be relocated. Which she was. To my room. Without me knowing.

My freshman year, my dad dropped me off at college and Beth was moving in the same day. Instantly we both could tell her eyes were a little too buggy to equate to sanity. We sensed that her heightened perkiness was a little off, possibly medicated. It was–she informed us within the first hour meeting her: Prozac and Ritalin—Her friendliness was genuine, but unstable. Her spine seemed caffeinated and she walked on tiptoes. Just to walk around on tiptoes, like there was a chance she could burst out of her skin at any moment like the librarian in the opening scenes of Ghostbusters.

Beth had the kind of blank stare that would make you think she was trying to ignite things with her mind and just washed her hair free of pig’s blood.

She wasn’t my only roommate. Roommate number two was Sondra. She was a butch black woman majoring in radio with a minor in complaining about living in the dorms. She was twenty-six, but according to her daily mantra she was “too old for this shit.”

If it were up to Sondra, the floor would have been carpeted in cotton balls, and people would be properly corked before going to bed. A popular game for the college students in the dorm was to pull the fire alarm at four in the morning, leading Sondra to go on a tirade. She’d parade around in her bathrobe muttering under her breath, “I ain’t going downstairs at three in the morning. I’ll put the fire out myself and go back to bed. It’s too damn late for there to be a fire. Tell that fire to come talk to me, and it will put itself out. Motherfucking fire is too goddamn loud. I’m too old for this shit.”

I think if there actually had been a fire, Sondra would have scared it out.

If Beth as your roommate was like telling people your family member had cancer, the additional fact that Sondra was the other roommate was like saying your dying family member had also been diddled in the ass with a rusty eggbeater. “Oh my God,” they’d say. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through…How does a person deal with something like that?”

Our room remained a three piece for a few months until eventually we got a fourth roommate named Dana. She was a sweet girl from Ohio that had a strange and noticeable addiction to Betty Boop paraphernalia. Other than that, she was normal and down to earth.

Before Dana moved in, Beth had managed to snag a boyfriend named Jeff after inviting numerous gentlemen into our room to sign her “autograph sheet.” The autograph sheet was a large white sheet she’d tacked onto the wall and requested that people sign like a yearbook. We took it down when she realized the marker had been bleeding through onto the white walls. That, and we had a problem with her inviting strange men she’d met on the internet into our apartment to sign a sheet on the wall.

Beth’s boyfriend, Jeff, was a sweet guy. He probably had never had a girlfriend, and honestly might have been a little slow. But they were a good couple, like a Harold and Maude sort, and spent a lot of time together, which we were thankful for.

The first night Dana arrived, she was busy hanging her Betty Boop posters, setting out her Betty Boop towels, making her bed with her Betty Boop comforter, when Beth popped in for an introduction.

I was in the other room, I heard Sondra screaming, “Oh my God! That’s nasty!” as Dana cackled with confused laughter. Beth decided to let Dana know the real her, really fucking quick.

I came out of the room and saw all three of my roommates gathered at the front table looking at pictures. Call me a prude, but I’d prefer a handshake rather than sharing sexually explicit polaroids on the first greeting. Not Beth. Images of her scrawny boyfriend’s boner seemed to be the perfect way to let Dana know where she was coming from. In order to explain that she was studying art and painting, she showed the picture of herself with a paintbrush inserted into her very own pink palette. But really, how can you not be best friends with someone if they haven’t seen the picture of your hairy asshole?

Dana impressed me. I don’t know if I could let something that shocking roll right off me like she did. Apparently Betty Boop was more like Betty Buddhist and she just laughed at this nutty bird.

“Oh my…” she said as Beth’s pale breasts caressed a semi-hard dick. “Whoa, and here’s this one!” she laughed as Jeff’s awkward cum face was captured on film, one hand around his penis, the other hand chained to the closet door.

I left and fled to my boyfriend’s dorm room.

The year went on. And I had the typical freshman year experience. I ate Ramen noodles, I got drunk on Rolling Rock, Sondra brushed the toilet with Beth’s toothbrush, I tried pot for the first time, Beth decided that she’d like to go off the Ritalin and only do Prozac for a while, Beth imitated the fire alarm and beeped around the house in her underwear, and our dorm room housed about fifteen giant “Rugrats” dolls, which complimented Beth’s “sketches” that decorated our walls.

I fled and moved to another dorm room halfway through the year.

Oddly enough, Beth and Sondra stayed roommates for the remaining of the year. Dana eventually transferred schools, but I don’t think they ever filled that fourth roommate space again.

The following year I did not return to the dorms because I did not want to taint all the precious, wonderful memories I had of the previous year. Then, over winter break I heard some startling news about Crazy Beth.

I was told that Crazy Beth died in a car accident while she was in upstate New York. Crazy Beth was dead.

What the fuck? What. The. Fuck.

I never liked the girl but I didn’t wish death on her. When I heard she wasn’t going to be around anymore to mimic the fire alarm, sure there was a feeling a loss of another human being but Crazy Beth was a broken individual. I wondered if people like Beth were better off dead because their crazy actions would probably get them killed anyway. Then I felt bad for feeling that, then I just said “What the fuck?” again. A lot.

All of us who had known her that year were completely confused with how to react. Because now we had all these wild stories about Crazy Beth but the end wasn’t, “Oh man, I wonder what that girl is up to now. She sure was crazy.” We had this abrupt and jarring ending to all the stories, “And when she’d get pissed at me, I’d hear her repeating my name over and over when she took a bath…And now she’s dead.”

“There was this one time that she put all the hot dog buns in the Kool Aid pitcher…And now she’s dead.”

How did she not die sooner?Her parents shaped her into a functioning adult as best they could; they kept her safe, taught her right from wrong. She went on to make choices, some innocent, some questionable. She was a mentally unstable individual that would misfire a synapse and get into a dangerous situation. And she left this earth in a non-crazy way. Black ice on a highway. That’s crazy to me.

“She played ‘Stairway to Heaven’ on a loop for like, a half an hour, and was always walking around in her underwear–Can you believe it? What kooky times…She’s dead now, so, uh, yeah, she probably doesn’t do that now…Since she’s dead…fuck.”

I only lived with her for six months and she passed way about 15 months after I met her.She made a really big impression on me. Because she was bat shit crazy.

Crazy Beth, may you rest in peace.

I still wonder what happened to those Polaroids.

He smoothed the wrinkles out of his tee-shirt that read “I ❤ CEILINGS” in bold letters and started dressing for the office party.

Just then Moose wandered into Deer’s office decked out in a fake beard and a medieval vest. Vinyl flaps attached loosely with elastic covered his hooves and gave the illusion of buckled boots. He looked slightly haggard, pieced together, as if the costume had been waiting for him all year folded up in his closet. It had been, actually. Moose had been “Moose the Viking” at the office Halloween party for six consecutive years. Deer looked up and sighed.

“It’s like you’re not even trying anymore,” he said, sizing up his companion’s mangled blond facial hair.

“What? I dressed up!” Moose said defensively.

“In the same outfit you always wear.”

Moose inspected his costume. He wasn’t much of a partygoer, so he never really felt much of a need to drop half his paycheck on a new getup every year. Why did Deer even care? He didn’t look bad; he was a team player and wore a costume. It wasn’t like he was being a wet blanket like Badger in accounting, not even bothering to dress up.

Moose didn’t particularly love Halloween. He was allergic to pumpkin seeds and he found it embarrassing to try to bob for apples in front of friends. His antlers made it nearly impossible to dip his head fully into any shallow bucket. Make-up caused his skin to break out in hives and he was easily startled, which made haunted hayrides considerably less fun. He found a happy medium with the Viking costume. It complimented his antlers and the beard wasn’t too itchy. He’d hang back by the punch bowl, sipping on the “Witches Brew” (orange soda and sherbet), eating candy corns until he had a stomachache while co-workers tried to figure out what moves constituted the Monster Mash.

“You went as a mantle piece last year,” said Moose quietly, unsure of how to respond to his friend’s attacks.

“Yes. One time. That was my costume last year. I’m not dressed as mantle piece again, am I?”

“No…It wasn’t even ironic,” said Moose.

“I never said it was ironic. I was going for ‘Dead Celebrity.’ Don’t you remember John Deer? He got hit by a car–”

“If you have to explain the joke, it’s not funny.”

“That argument doesn’t apply in this context.”

“Well then, you were just being mean.”

Deer tossed up his hooves in frustration.

“C’mon, there were like, five other John Deer costumes that night, so I wasn’t the only jerk…Maybe it wasn’t the most original idea I’ve ever come up with, but I’m just saying, you need to try something new. Do a costume that requires thought.”

Moose caught a reflection of himself in the window. He straightened his posture. He liked the way he looked. He adjusted his beard defiantly.

“I don’t think you should have to have a masters degree in order to understand a dumb costume,” he said more confidently.

“Do you get my costume?” Deer asked.

Moose stared at Deer.

“Do you get my costume?” he repeated.

“Yes, I get your costume, stop–”

“I’m a Ceiling Fan,” said Deer. He went to his duffel bag and got out a pendant and a noisemaker. “See? I’m a fan of ceilings.”

“I get your costume,” said Moose, though he kept it to himself that actually hadn’t understood Deer’s outfit originally. Maybe it was the props that helped.

“What about Jane Doe over there?” asked Moose.  “Are you going to make fun of her costume? She’s just dressed provocatively. That’s not creative. Like, put “sexy” in front of any noun and that’s been her costume every year. Sexy Little Red Riding Hood. Sexy Witch. Sexy Copy Machine. Sexy Dart Board…”

“Moose, Jane’s a doe. Yes, a deer, but a female deer. We forgive the unoriginal because we enjoy seeing that tail.”

“Listen. First, that was a cheap Sound of Music reference. Second, I just don’t dig Halloween like you do, all right? I don’t want to wear fake vampire teeth, they hurt my gums. I don’t want to shell out an arm and a leg for mustaches and spearmint gum–”

“Spirit gum. Not spearmint gum.”

“Whatever!” Moose was becoming angry. The only time Deer ever seemed to pay attention to him was when he was criticizing something: His winter beard resembling a soul patch, his failed attempt at home brewing, his accidental reply-all email to the company organizing a WoW game.

“It’s not important to me! It’s important to you,” Moose said.

“So? So what if I care about something fun! Sorry for having fun, Moose.”

“You have nothing else going on in your life! You have no hobbies. You just work and go home and watch TV and then come back to work and reference the TV show you watched to your co-workers!”

Deer paused. That wasn’t completely true. He took a tennis class over the summer. But he worked hard to afford his new plasma TV. And there are some really quality shows on nowadays.

“Hey, buddy. I don’t make fun of your rock garden.”

“Rock tumbler! It’s a rock tumbler. Quartz, granite, ever heard of it? They can be found in nature. Outside of your comfy living room. Why do I bother? You don’t even listen to what I say!”

“Because everything you say makes you sound like an idiot!” Deer lashed out. There was stunned silence as he realized crossed the line. Where did that come from, Deer wondered? Did I just snap at someone because he insulted my television?

“Hey bud, sorry, I didn’t really–” Deer started to say.

“THAT WAS REALLY MEAN!” Moose yelled angrily as he charged full force at Deer.

Startled, Deer dropped his pendant and prepared for the impact as the two crashed head-first into each other. Moose was twice the size of Deer and the sheer force nearly knocked Deer off his feet. Their antlers became entwined as they pummeled each other, wrestling back and forth, knocking over a mug. It spilled coffee all over Deer’s keyboard and then rolled off the desk, shattering upon hitting the ground. Deer broke free.

“Be cool! BE COOL, MOOSE. Geez!” said Deer out of breath. He noticed the spill. “Shit, man. All over the keyboard. Hand me some paper towels over there.”

Moose backed off and grabbed some paper towels in a huff. Deer massaged his bruised shoulder and started cleaning up the mess. Moose handed him the towels when he noticed his costume.

“YOU RIPPED MY VEST!

“You charged at me!”

“Dammit…What am I going to do now?” said Moose, looking at the buttons dangling from the torn pleather fabric.

“It’s just a small tear, you’ll be fine!”

“No, it’s a big tear. I can’t fix this in time for the party! I can’t believe you ripped my vest.”

Moose sometimes had a hard time controlling his emotions. He wasn’t one for confrontation and was just as likely to weep openly in public as he was to raise his voice out of anger. No one needed to see a moose cry. He started pacing to distract himself from the tears welling up in his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, seriously,” Deer said, genuinely feeling bad now. Also, the office manager was going to kill him for ruining this keyboard.

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?” Moose panicked. As much as he said he hated Halloween he felt his freaking out was justified. He still wanted to be a team player with a costume.

“It will be fine, Moose. Just calm down!”

“Calm down? Calm down?!” He took a breath. “Jerk,” he finished curtly as he exited Deer’s office.

He went back to his desk and slumped into his chair trying to put things into perspective. This wasn’t the end of the world; it was just an office party. Vikings were a rough breed of folk. Their vests could have tears in them. He could probably bleed on it and it would be more authentic. He eyed a letter opener but decided stabbing himself for historical accuracy wasn’t quite worth it.

His phone buzzed. Deer had texted him a picture from last year’s party in an attempt to cheer him up. The image was of Jane Doe, Moose, and Deer standing together in costume smiling, all wearing sunglasses and smoking cigars at the after party. Moose smiled at the picture. This gave him an idea.

The party was bustling. It was amazing how a little change of pace equipped with orange Christmas lights and caramel apples boosted morale in the office. Co-workers began submitting their ballots for the costume party as Moose walked in the room. His broad shoulders housed two printed images of his own face attached to his back like a three-headed Cerberus. Like the photo, he too wore sunglasses. He made his way over to Deer carrying a thin dowel rod.

Deer stared at him and squinted at Moose’s outfit. A smile slowly crept over his face as he rea.

“Three Blind Moose!” Moose said proudly.

Deer nodded in approval. “You’re going to beat me this year in the contest, you know that right?”

Moose knew he was right to some extent. He picked up a ballot and scanned the room.

“I’m glad you finally like my costume,” said Moose. “But I’m still voting for Ziggy Stardust.”