by Jeff Strand
“What’s that smell?” his father demanded, rolling down the window.
His mother took a big whiff. “You’d think there was spoiled chicken in here.”
In an incredible coincidence, my mom had thrown away a spoiled chicken the night before. Most likely, it had been placed in a garbage bag of the same brand I’d used to pack my stuff. We made a brief detour at the next dumpster then took off toward our college adventure.
Four hours and six hundred eighty-one bottles of beer on the wall later, we arrived in Trade Point. Five minutes later we arrived on campus. Forty-five minutes later we arrived in front of Tanglewood Hall, which we would have located much earlier had the name not worn off the building years ago.
Mr. Darrow wasn’t keen on leaving the car parked in front of Tanglewood, which he figured to be a high-crime district, but he relented and we all entered the building, holding each other’s hands for protection. I felt an overwhelming desire to chant “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” as we slowly moved into the lobby.
“Welcome to Tanglewood Hall,” said a cheery-looking guy in a Tanglewood Hall T-shirt. “You must be Farley Abrahams and Tim Lloyd.”
“Um, no,” I said. “Seth Trexler and Travis Darrow.”
“Ah.” The guy flipped through a notebook, found our names, and put a checkmark next to them. “Each person I check off increases the odds that I’ll guess the next name right.”
“It certainly does,” Travis agreed.
“Okay, let’s take care of business,” the guy said, handing us each a rust-encrusted key. “If you lose these, there will be a five dollar replacement fee, so you’ll want to be careful.”
“Do we have to pay if they decompose?” I asked.
The guy ignored that and gave us a piece of paper. “The first thing you should do after you get your gear stowed is fill out this checklist about what’s wrong with your room, so at the end of the year we’ll be able to tally the new damages.”
Mr. Darrow had been glancing all around the lobby, calculating whether or not he was getting his money’s worth in housing fees. “I don’t mean to complain,” he said, “but isn’t this place a bit run-down?”
The guy grinned. “Tanglewood Hall was the first dormitory on this campus. There’s a lot of history here. It was built right after World War I.”
“They could have at least cleaned up the shrapnel,” I said.
“It may not look like much, but once you’ve been here a while, you’ll never want to leave,” the guy said, giving us a reassuring smile.
“Or we’ll never be able to leave,” I remarked, envisioning the entire place crashing down upon us.
Now I think we were starting to get on the guy’s nerves. He sighed. “There’s a floor meeting at eight tonight. You’ll get to meet all your neighbors, and we’ll put a little of the ol’ Tanglewood joy into you.”
“Sounds kinky,” said Travis.
“You’re at the end of the hall and just around the corner,” said the guy, gesturing to the left. “Room 126. Once again, welcome to Tanglewood Hall.”
We walked down the corridor, trying to avoid the cobwebs. I thought I heard a bat, but it may have been my imagination. We turned the corner and stopped outside of a room labeled as “Room 1 6” that was probably just missing the 2. With some effort, I managed to wrestle the key into the lock.
“I feel like I’m about to open the gates of Hell,” I remarked, placing my hand on the doorknob.
I opened the door, which let out a creak like something in a horror film. And there, lying in a pool of blood in the center of the room, were the fifteen dismembered corpses of previous residents. The withered old man at the gas station had been telling the truth about the Tanglewood curse. Why hadn’t I listened?
Okay, there were no dead bodies. But there was half of a dead roach lying on one of the beds. There was a small desk for each of us, and chairs that looked like they’d be fine as long as we made sure our legs supported most of our weight. The beds contained mattresses that probably didn’t even look comfortable to the dead roach. The walls were the least appealing yellow color I’d ever seen, and the custodians hadn’t quite been able to remove the words “This Place Sucks!” that were spray-painted on the ceiling. For some reason that I’m thankful remains a mystery to this day, there was a pubic hair taped to the dresser.
“Sort of lacks that welcoming feeling, doesn’t it?” I commented.
Mrs. Darrow had turned a disturbing white color. She looked at Travis and clenched her hands into tight little fists. “Sweetheart, are you absolutely positive you need a college education? I’m sure you could get a good job at the factory.”
“We just need to clean up a bit,” said Travis, though I noticed that his voice had developed a minor tremor. “Once we get some posters up, and vacuum the floor, and wash the walls, and disinfect the dresser, and exorcise the evil spirits everything will be great.”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Darrow said.
“Did you bring another spoiled chicken?” asked Mr. Darrow, sniffing the air.
I shook my head. “I think this smell lives here. This is its home.”
We were mostly silent as we carried everything into the room. The original plan was for Travis’ parents to help him unpack, but his mother’s color wasn’t getting any better so they left early.
Then we were alone. On our own at last. Adults.
Nah, not adults. But on our own at last.
Okay, to improve my chances of selling the movie rights for big heaping gobs of money, I’m going to make this book more cinematic by adding a music video sequence. What you need to do is find a stereo and play a rock-and-roll hit single at top volume. If you’re reading this on a plane or in a corporate board meeting, play the song anyway, but try to select one that doesn’t contain lyrics like “Gonna bone your momma all night long.”
Now envision a montage of quick-cutting images as Travis and I straighten up our dorm room, including but not limited to the following:
—Travis and myself washing the walls with industrial strength cleaner and a scouring pad. Add gas masks and/or decontamination suits for additional wackiness.
—Hanging posters of such celebrities as “Weird Al” Yankovic, some half-nekkid fashion models, and a hairy plumber with his butt crack showing.
—Running around in speeded-up motion trying to catch the pair of hairless rats that want us off their turf.
* * *
I guess those three images aren’t enough to fill a music video, so just repeat them in a cycle until the song ends, concluding with:
—The entire ceiling collapsing, dumping the contents of the room above onto us. It didn’t really happen, but it makes a nice ending to the montage.
* * *
By early evening, Travis and I pretty much had the room in livable shape. However, nothing we could do would eliminate The Smell, which I almost believed was a sentient presence. Though I wouldn’t swear to it, I’m pretty sure that The Smell intensified whenever we mentioned it...almost as if it were mocking us.
At eight o’clock we went into the study room for the floor meeting. About twenty other guys were already there, all of them blatant examples of freshman scum. Since all the seats were taken, Travis and I sat on the questionable floor, figuring that we could always buy new pants.
A tall, muscular guy with close-cropped brown hair stood in front of us, holding a clipboard. “Thanks for showing up,” he said. “My name is Rex, and I’ll be your resident advisor for the year. And I’m gay.”
He looked around the room, gauging the reaction. “Sorry to be so blunt, but I just thought I’d get that out into the open. I’m not in the closet, haven’t been since I was twelve, and I’m happy to be who I am, no matter what others think. I don’t have a boyfriend, I don’t believe in public displays of affection, and I think we can all get along fine if we accord each other the proper respect. I hope nobody’s going to have a problem with that.”
Everyone excha
nged glances to see if anybody was going to have a problem with that. Rex made sure everyone was paying attention, then began to read from his clipboard.
“Homo, faggot, queer, limp-wrister, fairy, fruit, flamer, poofter, weak-fisted Nancy boy—I’ve heard them all, and I’m immune. They’re just words. They don’t mean anything.” He gestured to a black guy seated on the couch. “Isn’t that right, nigger?”
The black guy leaned forward. “Oh no, I did not just hear you say that!”
“What’s the matter?” He pointed to a Hispanic guy. “Excuse me, Mr. Spic, but did you find anything wrong with my comment?”
The Hispanic guy shrugged and returned to staring at some movement under the carpet.
Rex gave a look of mock surprise. “But...but those were only words! How could they hurt?” He turned serious. “Words do hurt, and I don’t want to hear any kind of slurs that put down another person on my floor. Are there any questions?”
Travis raised his hand. “Is the word ‘poofter’ really slang for homosexual? I’ve never heard that one before.”
There were some murmurs of agreement through the crowd.
“It’s a British word,” Rex explained.
“Ah, that would explain it.”
Rex glared at him. “I hope my message is clear. Respect. That’s the name of the game. By the year 2050, it’s predicted that at least half of the world population will be gay, so let the respect begin now before you’re all outnumbered.”
He gave us a moment to let this informational tidbit sink in, then returned his attention to the clipboard. “Okay, here are the rules. No loud music before ten a.m. and after nine p.m., except on weekends, when it’s no loud music before noon and none after ten p.m. None of you are of the legal drinking age, so keep the alcohol out of my sight. You may have noticed a problem getting the toilets to flush, and all I can say for now is to just be persistent. Are there any other questions?”
The black guy raised his hand. “What’s up with the smell in this place?”
Rex bit his lip. “That’s a good question. There does seem to be something of an aroma. I’ll be honest with you—I can’t pinpoint it. Have any of you had any luck?”
There was another general murmur as everyone expressed their lack of success in determining the source of The Smell.
“I don’t know what to tell you right now,” Rex admitted. “I’ll see what I can find out. Okay, now we’re going to go around in a circle and tell everyone your name, hometown, and something interesting about yourself. Let’s start with you.” He pointed at me. I always get picked first for these damn things.
“My name is Seth Trexler, I’m from Sharpview, and I’ve never purposely caused a camel to spit on somebody for reasons of revenge.”
Rex raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”
“And I have a story coming out in the magazine Gleefully Disturbed, available in November. It’s a very homosexual-friendly publication, so we can all enjoy it.”
Rex glared at me, then pointed to Travis. “And you are...?”
“Travis Darrow, I’m also from Sharpview, and I once wrestled a grizzly to the ground with my bare lips. I think ‘poofter’ is a vile, vile word, and will never use it in casual conversation. Thank you.”
We went through the rest of the people, who shared such exciting details as their ages (all of them eighteen or nineteen, except for one guy who was thirty-six). Once everyone had introduced themselves and we all felt like a happy family, Rex passed out a list of useful information, including library and cafeteria hours, and all of the words he never wanted to hear used on his floor.
“I guess that’s about it,” Rex said. “If you ever have any problems, or just want to talk about what it means to be gay, I’m always available.”
That night, Travis and I lay in our beds, marveling at how the milk we’d purchased went sour before it even made it to our portable refrigerator. Freshman orientation was to begin promptly at eight in the morning, so I was in a state of behoovement to get some sleep.
There was a knock at the door. “Rex probably thought of some more words to add to his list,” said Travis, getting out of bed.
He opened the door. It was Mick, a football-player type who lived across the hall. “Get dressed,” he said. “We’re all heading over to a party at Kappa Omega Kappa.”
“Fraternity or sorority?” Travis asked.
“Sorority. We’re all gonna get lucky. You guys probably haven’t had much of an opportunity to make any friends yet, so this’ll give you a chance to get drunk enough to forget all about that. C’mon, let’s go!”
Chapter Twelve
“Party Animal Seth”
A group of about ten of us walked through campus, led by Mick, whose libido was a few steps ahead of him, running in circles and barking loudly. You’d think my stomach would have felt like it was wringing itself out, but really, I wasn’t all that nervous. Because, let’s face it, despite what Mick said, I knew I wasn’t heading for some two-drink-minimum orgy. That kind of stuff just didn’t happen.
The sorority was on the opposite end of campus, and as we got closer, the music got louder. It was clearly a live band, which seemed to be doing a heavy metal rendition of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” that included a line about being bitch-slapped.
When we reached the sorority house, there was a huge crowd of people outside, drinking and smoking and, I assume, having serious academic discussions (this was college, after all). The live band consisted of three scary-looking guys with their instruments set up on the grass. The lead singer finished the song with an aesthetically pleasing screech, then grabbed his crotch and gave it a hearty tug. It stayed in its new location, which I found a bit discomforting.
Mick flapped his arms and rushed into the fray, screaming “PARTY ‘TILL YOU’RE PUTRID!” The rest of us made a less hyperactive entry into the crowd. There were no unconscious bodies to step over, so the party clearly was just beginning.
As we navigated the perimeter, I noticed that very few of the partiers looked like our caste of loser freshmen. “You think we’re crashing this?” I asked Travis. Actually, to compete with the music it came out more like “YOU THINK WE’RE CRASHING THIS?!?”
“PROBABLY!!!” he replied.
“COOL!!!” I said.
We made it to the front of the sorority house, where a guy in Mickey Mouse ears and a chef’s apron was standing in front of an immense cooler. “You!” he said, pointing at me. “I see no beer in your hand! That is bad!”
I didn’t think it was all that bad, because I absolutely loathe the taste of alcohol. I’ve never been drunk. It’s not hangovers, or memory blackouts, or the fear that I might end up like this guy I knew in high school who got amazingly intoxicated one winter and tried to eat an entire snowman—it’s the taste. I hate it. Despise it. Gag me with a spoon.
(Yes, I actually put “gag me with a spoon” into this book. No, I have no shame.)
The guy thrust a beer into my hand. “You!” he said to Travis. “I see no beer in your hand! That is bad!” He rectified the foul situation, then repeated the procedure with each of the seven other members of our group. I don’t know my beers very well, but I figured that this was not a top-notch brand, since the can was blank save for the word “beer.” And “beer” was mostly worn off.
A few of the other Tanglewood inmates began to mingle, while Travis, myself, and a couple of other freshmen moved to an area where we could lean against the building. Travis pulled the tab off his beer.
“There doesn’t seem to be any fizz,” he said. He tilted the can a bit. “And it’s thick.”
The rest of us opened our beers, and yes, they all had a syrup-like consistency.
“Oh well, it’s free,” said one of the inmates, Dominick, taking a big swig. We all watched for his reaction. “Oh, God,” he moaned, after the coughing fit subsided. “That’s worse than the time I got my nose stuck to the rubber cement tube!”
“I think I’ll teetotal for the ni
ght,” Travis said.
“I’ll join you,” said another inmate, Robert, taking a whiff of the liquid. “Whoa! That’ll clear your sinuses out like battery acid!”
We stood there for a few minutes, just leaning against the building, trying to look cool with our beers. I wanted to look even cooler by swaying to the musical beat, but with what was playing I would have appeared to be having an epileptic fit.
After the few minutes were up, there was a general consensus that we probably didn’t look all that cool. Travis and the other inmates made their way into the main flow of the partiers. I would have followed had I not promptly collided with the most gorgeous hunk of femininity I’d ever seen.
Even the slimy beer I spilled all over her blouse didn’t detract from her beauty. I had a moment of sheer terror, thinking that maybe the beer was going to eat right through her skin like the creature’s acid blood in Alien. My instinct was to rip off her blouse to save her life, but a little bird told me that my action would be taken the wrong way.
“You stupid jerk!” shouted the woman of my dreams.
She was truly a sight to behold. She had black hair that spilled over her shoulders as her tiger eyes shone with a beautiful fury. Her slender fingers were curled into the most attractive fists I had ever seen. Those lips, pressed together in a glorious pissed-off expression, made my heart race.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” she exclaimed. Her voice was like heavenly music.
I pried my eyes away from her long enough to check for Travis, but he was gone. Though the bonds of loyalty may be strong between two best friends, they don’t include sticking around to share in the shame when one of you has made a complete jackass out of himself.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, lamely.
“Good. I’m glad you’re sorry. You standing there being sorry is much more productive than getting me something to clean this up with.”
