This is part 9 in a series about my time working for the Combined Insurance Company. If you want to catch up, please check out Part 1: PMA Day, Part 2: Johnny B, Part 3: Ross, Part 4: The Preacher, Part 5: Misfits Guy, Part 6: ICP Guy, Part 7: Diabetes Guy, and Part 8: Pizza Delivery Guy.

If you follow my Substack, you’ll know I’ve talked about Cocaine Guy before.

Shawn was a young military vet from Boston, living just outside Raleigh with his girlfriend. We were assigned as roommates during the first week of training school. I wasn’t thrilled about sharing a room, but I’ve never forgotten my time with him.

I arrived at the hotel in Raleigh after dark on a Sunday night. After checking in and carrying my bags up to the room, I suddenly became nervous about how I would like this person and conversely what they’d think of me. I scanned my card and slowly twisted the door handle, opening to find a young, very friendly guy sitting on the couch with a case of beer on the floor near his feet and a whole pizza waiting on the table nearby.

He introduced himself, handed me a beer and a slice, and we watched football while getting to know each other.

It was a pretty stereotypical bro moment, which is usually not my style, but I was relieved at how laid-back and simple this interaction was.

Then he made it weird.

Within a few moments of conversation, Shawn let me know that not only did he have a longtime girlfriend waiting for him back home, but he’d also spied two young hotties sharing a room down the hall who were also there to attend Combined Insurance school. He informed me clearly and confidently that he intended to sleep with both of them.

Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the urge to see if Combined could make an exception and just let me have a room of my own – this was setting up to be a very long three weeks.

Despite his disgusting, pig-like attitude toward women, I found his welcoming gesture both kind and encouraging. And then we went to bed …

Shawn insisted on keeping the TV on all night and snored louder than anyone I’d ever met. I barely slept. I was much meeker in those days, so I decided to keep the peace and just got very little sleep. When I woke up, I noticed Shawn was already up and the comforter of his bed had been wadded up and thrown to the opposite side of the room.

That day in school, I learned more about him by watching him interact with an audience. He thought he was hilarious and made every possible effort to make the “hotties down the hall” laugh. Back at the room that night, he informed me that it was a good day and that both of the women were as good as naked because, “they think [he’s] hysterical!”

He also readily – and unnecessarily – told me his enormous chest was overcompensation for having a small penis. I didn’t need to know this, but I kinda admired the fact that he just owned it.

Another night went by with the television on and the constant loud snoring. In the morning, however, Shawn and I hit the hotel’s continental breakfast together and shared a few laughs before heading back to the room and getting dressed while watching music videos on MTV. The Britney Spears song “Womanizer” had just been released and we were very big fans of the music video.

The day at school was more of the same: bad jokes to make the girls laugh, loud outbursts, machismo. It was his brand and I was beginning to accept it.

The next 24 hours, however, were hell for Shawn.

We made it back to the hotel that night and I was walking back in after having my nightly White Castle dinner and I noticed he was dressed as if he were about to go back out. He said he was meeting a friend down at the mall and asked if I wanted to go. I politely declined.

Turns out his friend at the mall was his coke dealer and he returned with a small baggie of the stuff. He asked if I would like to partake, then after I said no thanks, if it would be okay if he did.

Seconds later, I watched him crease a newspaper page, neatly line the powder in the crease, then use a rolled-up dollar bill to make it disappear.

Somehow, he still went to sleep that night, though I did sneak and turn the TV off this time.

When I woke up, Shawn was gone. This time, his sheets and fitted sheet had been wadded up and thrown to the side of the room along with his comforter (he’d insisted earlier in the week to keep the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door to prevent housekeeping from ever coming in).

An enormous red stain was splattered on his mattress and the TV was blaring again. It was like waking up to a disorienting murder scene. Turns out, Shawn had gone out for a slushie in the middle of the night and spilled it in his bed.

He then informed me that his PTSD from his time in the military was crippling him. It caused him to develop a drug habit, he had nightmares every night that made him sweat so much his bedding gets ruined, and the only way he can relax enough to sleep is to leave the TV on all night.

Our room was a mess, his drug habit was concerning, and the television was beyond annoying … but suddenly I understood and was sympathetic.

I’d spent all week silently hating him — the snoring, the TV, the posturing — but hearing him open up about his PTSD made it all click. Suddenly, the chaos in our room made sense.

Those sympathies quickly dissipated as we put on our ties for school that day and I had to hear him announce that that night would be the night both our young, female classmates had the night of their lives.

That day in school, Shawn was kicked out of class after making an offensive joke about Polish people in earshot of our very Polish teacher. He tried to plead his case, but prof wasn’t having it.

Later that night, Shawn did go to the girls’ room, but he came back having participated in no action.

Maybe he should’ve asked ICP Guy for tips.

We broke early on Friday so we could all drive home for the weekend. Morganton was a whole four hours or more away from Raleigh, which is quite a haul to make by yourself after a day in school. I went home and told lots of stories about Shawn, ICP Guy, Pizza Delivery Guy and some of the other minor characters.

And while I looked forward to seeing what other shenanigans my new friend and roommate would get into over the course of the next two weeks, it wasn’t meant to be.

I arrived back at the same room on Sunday night to find it empty, though now clean. I’d thought about getting a case of beer and a pizza to get Shawn back for the first week, but I decided to not, and I’m glad.

He never came back.

We learned the company performed thorough background checks on everyone while they were in insurance/sales school. They found out that while he had been honorably discharged from the military, he was a convicted felon, which disqualified him from working for Combined.

Hated it for him, but I was relieved. That meant I’d get a room to myself for the next two weeks.

But I wasn’t as relieved as the women down the hall. As big of a game as Shawn talked, it seems as though they weren’t impressed with his poor attempts at humor, or his unnecessarily huge chest.

And even though I’m mostly talking shit, military-induced PTSD is no joke, and I think Shawn was a good guy underneath his quick-fixes and tough-guy facade. 

Wherever he is now, I hope he’s doing okay — and that his girlfriend found someone who deserves her.

More tomorrow.

-jtf

This is post 14 of 30 in my most recent attempt at tackling NaBloPoMo. Funsies and such.