Marc lights a menthol cigarette, and says, “I’m telling you, Sam, it was the Kennedys!” His arm’s bent up, resting on his shoulder, folded. He licks his lips. “This stuff…”
“I hear you brother,” I sigh, rubbing my eyes.
“This stuff is…”
“Is?”
“Is good.”
Marc was doing his thesis on The Grateful Dead. At first he had been trying to space the shots out so he wouldn’t get hooked, but it was sort of too late for that. I’d been scoring for him since September, and he had been slacking off on his payments. He had kept telling me that after “the Garcia interview” he would have some cash. But Garcia hadn’t been to New Hampshire in a long time and I was losing my patience.
“Marc, you owe me five hundred bucks,” I tell him. “I want it before you leave.”
“God, we use to have … wild times at this place….” (This is the part where I always start getting up.) “It’s so … different now…” (Blah Blah) “Those times are gone … those places are gone…” he says.
I stare at a piece of broken mirror next to the computer and the eyedropper and now Marc’s talking about chucking it all and heading for Europe. I look down at him, his breath reeks, he hasn’t showered in days, his hair is greasy and pulled back in a ponytail, stained dirty tie-dyed shirt. “… When I was in Europe, man…” He picks his nose.
“I gotta go to class tomorrow,” I tell him. “What about the cash?”
“Europe … What? Class? Who teaches that?” he asks.
“David Lee Roth. Listen, can I get the cash or what?”
“I dig it, I can dig it, sshhh, you’ll wake up Resin,” he whispers.
“I don’t care. Resin has a Porsche. Resin can pay me,” I tell him.
“Resin’s broke,” he says. “I’m good for it, I’m good for it.”
“Marc, you owe me five hundred bucks. Five hundred,” I tell the pathetic junkie.
“Resin thinks Indira Gandhi lives in Welling House,” Marc smiles. “Says he followed her from the dining hall to Welling.” He pauses. “Can you dig … that?”
He gets up, barely makes it to the bed and falls on it, rolling his sleeves down. He looks around the room, smoking the filter now. “Um,” he says, head rolling back.
“You’ve got money, come on,” I say. “Can’t you lend me a couple bucks?”
He looks around the room, flips open an empty pizza box, then squints at me. “No.”
“I’m a Financial Aid student man, I need some money,” I plead. “Just five bucks.”
He closes his eyes and laughs. “I’m good for it,” is all he says.
Resin wakes up and starts talking to the ashtray. Marc warns me that I’m fucking up his karma. I leave. Junkies are pathetic enough but rich junkies are even worse. Even worse than girls.
PAUL My damn radio went off accidentally at seven o’clock this morning and I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I stumbled out of bed, immediately lit a cigarette and closed the windows since it was freezing in the room. Even though I could barely open my eyes (if I did I was positive my skull would split open) I could see that I was still wearing my tie, my underwear, and my socks. I couldn’t figure out why I was only wearing these three articles of clothing so I stood for a long time staring into the mirror trying to remember last night, but couldn’t. I stumbled into the bathroom and took a shower, grateful that there was some warm water left. I dressed hurriedly and braced myself for breakfast.
Actually it was quite nice out. It was that time of October just when the trees were about to lose their fall foliage and the morning was cold and crisp and the air smelled clean and the sun, obscured by graying clouds, wasn’t too high yet. I was still feeling awful though, and the five Anacin I popped weren’t anywhere near doing their job. Bleary-eyed, I almost put a twenty in the change machine. I passed the post office but there was nothing in my box since it was too early for mail. I got cigarettes and went up to the dining hall.
There was no one in line. That cute blond-haired Freshman boy was behind the counter not saying a word, only wearing the biggest pair of black sunglasses I’ve ever seen, serving the wettest looking scrambled eggs and these little brown toothpicks which I suspected were sausages. The thought of eating nauseated me to no end and I looked at the boy who just stood there, holding a spatula. My initial horniness gave way to irritation and I muttered, “You’re so pretentious,” cigarette still in mouth, and got a cup of coffee.
The main dining room was the only one open so I went in and sat down with Raymond, Donald, and Harry, this little Freshman who Donald and Raymond befriended, a cute boy who was concerned with typical Freshman questions, like Is there life after Wham!? They had been up all night doing crystal meth, and they had invited me, but I had followed … Mitchell, who was sitting at another table across the dining hall, to that stupid party instead. I tried not to look over at him and that awful fucked-out slut he was sitting with, but I couldn’t help it and I cursed myself for not jerking off when I woke up this morning. The three fags were huddled around a sheet of paper composing a student blacklist and even though their mouths were moving a mile a minute, they noticed me, nodded, and I sat down.
“Students who go to London and come back with accents,” Raymond said, writing furiously.
“Can I bum a cig?” Donald asked me absently.
“Can you?” I asked back. The coffee tasted atrocious. Mitchell, that bastard.
“Oh, do be real, Paul,” he muttered as I handed him one.
“Why don’t you just buy some?” I asked as politely as someone who’s hungover and at breakfast possibly could.
“Anybody who rides a motorcycle, and all Deadheads,” Harry said.
“And anyone who comes to breakfast who hasn’t stayed up all night,” Donald shot a glance over at me.
I made a face at him and crossed my legs.
“Those two dykes who live in McCullough,” Raymond said, writing.
“How about all of McCullough?” suggested Donald.
“Even better.” Raymond scribbled something down.
“What about that slut with Mitchell?” I offered.
“Now, now, Paul. Calm down,” Raymond said, sarcastically.
Donald laughed and wrote her name down anyway.
“What about that mean fat trendy girl?” Harry asked.
“She lives in McCullough. She’s taken care of.”
I couldn’t stand this twisted faggy banter so early in the morning and I was going to get up and get more coffee but I was too tired to even do that and I sat back and didn’t look at Mitchell and soon all the voices became indistinguishable from one another, including mine.
“Anyone with beards or facial hair of any kind.”
“Oh that’s good.”
“How about that boy from L.A.?”
“But not really.”
“You’re right, but put him down anyway.”
“Anyone who goes for seconds at the salad bar.”
“Are you auditioning for that Shepard thing, Paul?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“That part. The Shepard play. Auditions today.”
“Anybody who waits to get braces after high school.”
“No, I’m not.”
“People who consider themselves born again.”
“That rules out the entire administration.”
“Quelle horreur!”
“Rich people with cheap stereos.”
“Boys who can’t hold their liquor.”
“What about boys who can hold their liquor?”
“True, true.”
“Put down girls who can’t.”
“I’ll just put down Lightweights.”
“What about David Van Pelt?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Well, I slept with him.”
“You didn’t go to bed with David Van Pelt.”
“Yes I did.”
“How?�
�
“He’s a Lightweight. I told him I like his sculptures.”
“But they’re awful!”
“I know that.”
“He’s got a harelip.”
“I know that also. I think it’s … sexy.”
“You would.”
“Anybody with a harelip. Put that down.”
“What about The Handsome Dunce?”
I vaguely wanted to know who The Handsome Dunce was for some reason but couldn’t bring myself to muster the interest to ask. I felt like shit. I don’t know these people, I was thinking. I hated being a Drama major. I started to sweat. I pushed the coffee away and reached for a cigarette. I had switched majors so many times now that I didn’t even care. Drama major was simply the last roll of the dice. David Van Pelt was disgusting, or at least I used to think so. But now, this morning, his name had an erotic tinge to it, and I whispered the name to myself, but Mitchell’s came instead.
Then suddenly they all cackled, still huddled around the paper, reminding me of the three witches from Macbeth except infinitely better looking and wearing Giorgio Armani. “How about anybody whose parents are still married?” They laughed and congratulated each other and wrote it down, satisfied.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “But my parents are still married.”
They all looked up, their smiles fading quickly to deep concern. “What did you say?” one of them asked.
I cleared my throat, paused dramatically and said, “My parents aren’t divorced.”
There was a long silence and then they all screamed, a mixture of disappointment and disbelief and they threw their heads on the table, howling.
“No way!” Raymond said, amazed, alarmed, looking up as if I had just admitted a devastating secret.
Donald was gaping. “You are kidding, Paul.” He looked horrified and actually backed away as if I were a leper.
Harry was too stunned to speak.
“I’m not kidding, Donald,” I said. “My parents are too boring to get a divorce.”
I liked the fact that my parents were still married. Whether the marriage was any good was anyone’s guess, but just the fact that most, or all, of my friends’ parents were either divorced or separated, and my parents weren’t, made me feel safe rather than feeling like a casualty. It almost made up for Mitchell and I was pleased with this notoriety. I relished it and I stared back at the three of them, feeling slightly better.
They were still staring, dumbfounded.
“Go back to your stupid list,” I said, sipping my coffee, waving them away. “Stop staring at me.”
They slowly looked back at the list and got back into it after that short, stunned silence, but they resumed their game with less enthusiasm than before.
“How about people with tapestries in their rooms?” Harry suggested.
“We already have that,” Raymond sighed.
“Is there any more speed left?” Harry sighed.
“No,” Donald sighed also.
“How about anyone who writes poetry about Womanhood?”
“Bolsheviks from Canada?”
“Anyone who smokes clove cigarettes?”
“Speaking of cigarettes, Paul, can I bum another one?” Donald asked.
Mitchell reached across the table and touched her hand. She laughed.
I looked back at Donald, incredulous. “No. You cannot,” I said, my hysteria building. “Absolutely not. That infuriates me. You are always ‘bumming’ cigarettes and I won’t stand for it anymore.”
“Come on,” Donald said as if I was only joking. “I’ll buy some later. I’m broke.”
“No! It also infuriates me that your father owns something like half of Gulf and Western and you always pretend to be broke,” I said, glaring.
“Is it such a big crisis?” he asked.
“Yeah, Paul, stop having a grand mal,” Raymond said.
“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Harry asked.
“I know why,” Raymond said slyly.
“Wedding bells?” Donald giggled, looking over at Mitchell’s table.
“It is such a crisis.” I was adamant, ignoring them. I’m going to kill that slut.
“Just give me one. Don’t be bitchy.”
“Okay, I’ll give you one if you tell me what won best costume design at the Tonys last year.”
There was a silence that followed that I found humiliating. I sighed and looked down. The three of them didn’t say anything until Donald finally spoke up.
“That is the most meaningless question I have ever heard.”
I looked over at Mitchell again, then slid the cigarettes across the table. “Just take them. I’m getting more coffee.” I got up and headed out of the dining hall. But then I had to stop and duck into the salad bar room because there was the Swedish girl I was with last night, showing her I.D. to the food service checker. I waited there until she walked into the serving area. Then I ran quickly downstairs and headed for class. I thought about trying out for that Shepard play, but then thought why bother, when I’m already stuck in one: my life.
I sat at a desk not listening to the drone of the professor, glancing over at Mitchell, who looked happy (yeah, he got laid last night) and who was taking notes. He looked around the room, disgusted, at the people smoking (he quit when he came back—how irritating). They probably looked like machines to him, I imagined. Like chimneys, spurts of smoke rising from that hole in their heads. He looked at the ugly girl in the red dress trying to look cool. I looked at the graffiti on the desk: “You Lose.” “There Is No Gravity. The Earth Sucks.” “The Brady Bunch Slept Here.” “What Ever Happened to Hippie Love?” “Love Stinks.” “Most Cab Drivers Have Liberal Arts Degrees.” And I sat there feeling like the hapless lover. But then I remembered, of course, that now I’m only hapless.
LAUREN Wake up. Hair needs to be washed. I don’t want to miss lunch. I go to Commons. I look disgusting. No mail today. No mail today from Victor. Just a reminder that the AA meeting is going to be in Stokes instead of Bingham next Saturday. Dawn of the Dead tonight in Tishman. I have four overdue art books from the library. Bump into weird-looking girl with pink party dress on and glasses who looks like a victim of shock treatment searching for someone’s box. Another minor irritation. Walk upstairs. Forgot my I.D. They let me in anyway. Cute guy wearing Wayfarer sunglasses serves cheeseburgers. Ask for a plate of fries. Start to flirt. Ask him how his flute tutorial’s going. Realize I look disgusting and turn away. Get a Diet Coke. Sit down. Roxanne’s here for some reason sitting with Judy. Judy’s picking at tofu lettuce celery rice French fry salad. I break the silence: “I’m sick of this place. Everyone reeks of cigarettes, is pretentious, and has terrible posture. I’m getting out before the Freshmen take over.” I forgot ketchup. I push the plate of fries away. Light a cigarette. Neither one of them smile. O … K … I pick at a spot of dried blue paint on my pant leg. “So … what’s wrong?” I look around and spot Square out of the corner of my eye at the beverage center. Turn back to Judy. “Where’s Sara?”
“Sara’s pregnant,” Judy says.
“Oh shit, you’re kidding,” I say, pulling the chair up. “Tell me about it.”
“What’s to tell?” Judy asks. “Roxanne’s been talking to her all morning.”
“I gave her some Darvon,” Roxanne rolls her eyes up. Chain-smoking. “Told her to go to Psychological Counseling.”
“Oh shit, no,” I say. “What’s she doing about it? I mean, when?”
“She’s having it done next week,” Roxanne says. “Wednesday.”
I put the cigarette out. Pick at the fries. Borrow Judy’s ketchup. “Then she’s going to Spain, I guess,” Roxanne says, rolling her eyes up again.
“Spain? Why?”
“Because she’s crazy,” Judy says, getting up. “Does anyone want anything?”
Victor. “No,” I say, still looking at Roxanne. She leaves.
“She was really upset, Lauren,” Roxanne’s bored, plays with her sc
arf, eats fries.
“I can imagine. I have to talk with her,” I say. “This is terrible.”
“Terrible? The worst,” Roxanne says.
“The worst,” I agree.
“I hate it when this happens,” she says. “I hate it.”
We finish the fries, which are pretty good today. “It’s awful, I know,” I nod.
“Awful,” she says. More agreement. “I’m beginning to think romance is a foreign concept.”
Ralph Larson. Philosophy teacher walks by with tray looking for a place to sit followed by my printmaking teacher. He looks at Roxanne and says, “Hey baby,” and winks. Roxanne smiles big—“Hi, Ralph”—and she’s looking now at me, eyes saucers, still smiling big. I notice she’s gained weight. She grabs my wrist. “He’s so handsome, Lauren,” she breathes, pants, at me.
“Never invite a teacher to your room,” I tell her.
“He can come by anytime,” she says, still squeezing.
“Let go,” I’m telling her. “Roxanne, he’s married.”
“I don’t care, so what?” She rolls her eyes up. “Everyone knows he slept with Brigid McCauley.”
“He’ll never leave his wife for you. It would screw up his tenure review.”
I laugh. She doesn’t. And I slept with that guy Tim who got Sara pregnant and what if it was me who was getting an abortion next Wednesday? What if … Ketchup on the plate, smeared, make unavoidable connection. I wouldn’t let it happen. Judy comes back. Next table: sad-looking boy is making a sandwich and wrapping it in a napkin for hippie girlfriend who isn’t on the food plan. Then it’s the Square walking toward the table. Whirl around and tell Judy to tell me a joke, anything.
“What? Huh?” she says.
“Talk to me, pretend you’re talking to me. Tell me a joke. Hurry. Anything.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Just do it! There’s someone I don’t want to talk to.” Point with my eyes.
“Oh yeah,” she starts, we’ve played this before, warming up, “that’s why, it all, you know, happened….”
The Rules of Attraction Page 3
