Andy Stevenson vs. The Lord of the Loins

by Kage Alan

  Ryan, Kim and I sat down and started the normal bit of chitchat that went on in a small group. What did you get for Christmas? What instructors do you have again this semester? How did you spend the last night of 1989 and did you remember the name of the person you woke up next to? Yeah, it was bullshit, but it was bullshit that was expected of you.

  "Is that idiot on your floor still trying to get you to work out?” Ryan asked while taking a bite of whatever it was he ordered. It looked like chicken, but who knew? One thing was for certain, even if it looked like chicken, it didn't taste like chicken.

  "Unfortunately, yes.” I picked up a limp fry and dipped it into some ketchup. Oddly enough, that tasted like chicken. “Ever since he became one of their official trainers at the Field House, he makes a point to single me out in front of everybody. ‘Come on, Andy. No pain, no gain. You're looking a little flabby there!'” I waited for the others to respond, but they only stared back at me. “What?"

  "Well...” Kim looked me over. “...your cheeks are getting a bit puffy."

  "They are not.” I involuntarily reached up to feel them.

  "Not those cheeks, baby.” She chuckled.

  "Oh, be quiet. I'm not getting fat. I don't think I've put any weight on since eleventh grade ... baby."

  "Baby got back?” Ryan chimed in.

  "I do not have back.” I was starting to sound defensive. “I'm not heavy and I'm not going to get a complex just because the two of you enjoy playing with somebody's mind.” I hoped that was convincing because I didn't think I'd gained any weight. My pants still fit, my shirts weren't shrinking. For crying out loud! They were just screwing with me.

  "She tried to frisk me again.” Ryan complained, picking up a new tangent in the conversation.

  "She did not.” I rolled my eyes.

  "Who tried to frisk you, hon?” Kim was suddenly interested now that the topic of uninvited physical contact had been brought up.

  "Ryan thinks that the woman at the door who checks student IDs is constantly trying to feel him up."

  "I'm telling you,” he insisted, “she made a play for my ass!"

  "You mean Miss Bluehair-I've-got-cobwebs-between-my-legs at the front there?” Kim certainly did have a way with words. She opened her mouth to say something else...

  ...and that's when it happened for the second time in my life. Eerie silence. I stared at her, saw her mouth moving but heard absolutely nothing. What was going on here? It almost felt like a myocardinal reflection—or whatever that thing is with the heart. While chemistry hadn't exactly been my best class, I didn't fare much better in health, either.

  All the light and noise in the room suddenly just dimmed. There was a disturbance here much like I'd felt around certain cousins at the anniversary party in California. No, it was different this time. This was singular and very focused, yet I didn't quite know how I knew it, only that I did know it. A little radar blip pinged back and forth between my ears, but was I detecting someone or was someone detecting me? And to what end? And was I talking to myself?

  I nonchalantly looked around the room and attempted to identify the source. The usual number of premed students were around us as were a few overly-impressed-with-them-selves athletic types looking to score with anything that ovulated, some fraternity brothers admiring their reflections in the silverware, sorority sisters discussing the advantages of spritzing over mousse, a few couples thinking about where they'd rather be, who they'd rather be with and what position they'd be in if they were there ... and one lone guy sitting three tables away.

  There was a small group between us, but he had strategically positioned himself in order to get a clear view of our table. I guessed he was around my age, maybe a year older, and he was pretty easy to spot because his hair was so blond it was almost white, much like my own ... before it turned darker after puberty. He also had very smooth, attractive facial features that gave him an air of innocence. I imagined that I must have looked exactly the same way in California, only different.

  What was he looking at? More important, who was he looking at? Ryan had his back to him, but Kim and I could see him just fine.

  That explained it.

  "You aren't going to believe this,” I whispered. “Don't look now, Miss Kim, but there's a guy sitting over there staring at you. I believe you have an admirer.” I nudged her, playfully rubbing in the implications. “He's really being obvious about it, too."

  "Where?” Ryan turned around and proceeded to stare at everyone.

  "The blond one.” I sighed and tried to be less obvious about it than he was.

  "Oh, him?” Kim rolled her eyes. “Actually, I think he's looking at you."

  "What the hell is he looking at me for?” Ryan demanded.

  "Maybe he saw your bumperstickers.” I couldn't help it, and it was a valid observation.

  "No, not you. You can barely see over the table.” Kim pointed to me. “You.” Something occurred to her. “What bumperstickers?"

  "Me?” My pulse quickened, and I felt myself blush. Why would he be staring at me? “Why me?” I should be so lucky!

  "Maybe he read your last music review,” Ryan responded just loud enough for me to hear, payment in full for my crack about his bumperstickers.

  "Hey, I like Corey Hart.” Besides, I gave the album a decent review.

  "Yeah, you're the only one left in the world who does. Big news flash! Corey Hart's newest album goes gold after selling three copies to his one and only fan, Andy Stevenson. Media goes wild! Fan stamps his feet in celebration while friends tell him to get a life!” If dealing with his snide remarks was my only complaint in life ... Stop that!

  "And moving right along.” I turned back to Kim. “Why do you think he's looking at me?"

  "So he can get to me.” She started nibbling on her ham-burger again while Ryan and I looked at each other, wonder-ing what it was we'd missed. “He asked me about you several times last semester. It was a coy way of getting close to me, but I'm on to him. I know this game.” She smiled and looked over his way. “I don't know why he'd need an excuse, because I think he's adorable."

  I didn't know what to say to that.

  "Oh, Andy, don't worry. I'm sure he's not as sweet as you are."

  "Great, he's adorable and I'm sweet. There is so much inequality in this friendship.” She threw a fry at me. “Still, that's weird. He must be coming on to you because I don't have a clue who he is.” Not that I wouldn't mind getting to know him. The boy certainly had it going on for him in the looks department and ... am I really this shallow now?

  "You mean you don't actually know him?” Kim asked.

  "Maybe you were thinner back then and the new weight is putting pressure on your brain.” Ryan smirked.

  "No.” I struggled to stay pleasant. “I wasn't any thinner, and I really don't know him.” Maybe she wanted me to tell her that he had visited my dorm room every night last semester for a quickie ... not an entirely unpleasant thought, but unlikely. And why was Ryan still going on about the weight thing? Was I bigger now? Stop!

  "It's not like I can blame him for using you to get to me.” She was totally letting this go to her head. “Because this mama knows how to barbeque herself some beef. The way he talked about you, though, I thought maybe you were old friends."

  "Maybe he's the one leaving you all those hang-up calls on your answering machine.” Ryan suggested.

  "I just figured it was someone calling the wrong number or, you know, it could be my grandmother ... drunk ... again."

  "Your new message is very creative, too!” Kim gave me a playful slug on my shoulder. “Mama likes, meow meow meow."

  "I think it's juvenile.” Ryan acted disinterested.

  "That's because you fell for it twice before you realized it was the machine.” I broke out into a spontaneous smile. “Sometimes I'm so good it hurts."

  "Well, I see the misconception fairy visited you again."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  2

&n
bsp; The journey to class was as fast as we could possibly walk it. The wind whipped around us and then, as if Mother Nature wasn't happy torturing us with that, it started snowing. If that's all I have to worry about in life, though ... Oh, shut it!

  We finally made it to the building our class was located in and started peeling off the layers of extra clothing so we didn't now overheat.

  "There better not be any of those artistic freaks in this class.” Ryan started down the crowded hallway in search of the classroom. and we followed. “They talk weird, they don't make any sense, and the last thing I need to hear is one of them whine ‘I don't get it ... this isn't real ... it's not an aesthetically pleasing and stimulating read.’ If it drives them to a deviant lifestyle or if they go home and jerk off afterwards, great. That's a real reaction and not some stupid, backwards way of saying they liked or hated it."

  "Hey!” Another student alongside us waved to someone passing by. “Hail and well met!"

  "Shut up!” Ryan glared at him and then turned back to us. “That's exactly the kind of shit I'm talking about. If one of them says anything even remotely close to what that idiot just did, I'm going to roll up whatever they hated and shove it right up their pompous ass! See if that suits their aesthetic pleasure."

  "Hey.” Kim pulled me closer to her and slowed down so Ryan couldn't hear. “That boy is one emotionally scarred mutha—"

  "Last I heard, he hadn't dated you.” I cut her off, raised my eyebrows and pulled away.

  "You don't want to be like that,” Kim called after me, “because they won't find the body."

  We caught up to Ryan a few moments later and joined him in the room. No sooner had we chosen seats and started to get comfortable when the place started filling up with additional puffy bodies—puffier than mine, thank you very much. As quickly as these bodies chose a seat, off came their coats, gloves, hats, scarves, earmuffs and, in some cases, leggings, to reveal much thinner, more human-looking inhabitants underneath. Now, whether or not they acted human or like prima donnas remained to be seen. Since it was only a basic creative writing class, it was unlikely that the professor would tolerate any high and mighty behavior.

  "Oh, wow!” We all looked up. “You guys look like the survivors from Silent Night, Deadly Night. Wonder how many of you are going to make it because I hear it's a weeder course."

  Aaaaand we all looked away. Freaky guy definitely stood out from the rest of the crowd and not in the best of ways. He wore a jacket with stitching resembling the blade marks from A Nightmare On Elm Street, a cap with a “Texas Chainsaw Rules!” patch on it and carried a backpack with “Every day should be Friday the 13th” scribbled on it in bright red marker.

  I could actually respect that.

  "Your white ass didn't tell me this was a weeder course.” Kim was less than thrilled. “I don't need this, it ain't in my contract and I ain't puttin’ up with it because my name is Kim."

  That right there—that's what she says in moments of frustration. No matter how bad something might become, if she can avoid it or it doesn't have anything to do with her, Kim would inform us that it wasn't in her contract, she wouldn't put up with it and then her reason for it, which was usually her name. It was another highlight of her personality.

  "I'm sure it's not.” I was pretty certain freaky guy heard wrong. Basically, most introductory courses, like chemistry, were designed to be a bit more difficult than usual to weed out anyone not suited for that area of study, like me with chemistry. Why anyone would plan a course like creative writing in that same vein was beyond me, though. Writing a complete sentence was a whole lot easier than learning Pavlov's Law of Relativity.

  "You and freaky guy have the same taste in movies.” Kim poked me in the side. “Are you sure the two of you aren't related? This is farm country, you know."

  "I will not be baited by the evil things you say about our progressive state.” I leaned over to Ryan. “Well?"

  Freaky guy, whatever his name really was, took his hat off and rearranged a mop of black hair so that it wasn't hanging down in front of his face. Dark eyes probed the room for an empty seat; and his goofy, awkward smile met every face he saw along the way. I thanked God I was already sitting between two people.

  "What do you think?” I persisted.

  "I'll bet he reads your column every week and is one of your biggest fans."

  "I hope he sits next to you.” No sooner had my words been uttered than the subject of our conversation pulled up right next to Ryan and sat down. Kim squeezed my arm and purred in delight.

  "I'm Rueben.” He extended his hand to Ryan. “Aren't you the guy with the ‘No Fat Chicks’ bumperstickers on your car?"

  Uh-oh. That was going to come back to haunt him, and everyone's attention was suddenly on their conversation.

  "Yeah, I saw you driving in when I was on my way to class today. You were swerving all over the road."

  "I was reloading.” Ryan responded through clenched teeth, and Rueben quickly retracted his hand.

  "'Scuse me, honey?” Kim leaned forward, sweet-sounding as can be. Yep, he was in deep sushi. “You got what on the back of your car?” She wasn't really looking for an answer to that question. No, there was a deeper one in store for him here. “You have a problem with happy, fluffy women?” And there it was.

  "No.” Ryan peered at her. “It's not a problem. It's called a standard."

  "A standard?” She faked delight with his answer. “Ohhhh, I see. Well, did I ever tell you that a standard fluffy women like me have is to not date bitter, skinny bitches like you?"

  "Did anybody ever tell you that the reason we're bitter skinny bitches is because fluffy women like you block us from getting to the food?"

  "Mutha fucka!” Kim stood up. “I'm gonna rip your ears off and shove ‘em up your ass just so you can hear me kick it!"

  Oh, good. Now we had people from outside the hallway poking their heads in to see what was going on.

  "Sweetie?” I put my hand on her arm and spoke as soothingly as I could. “He's just trying to get the better of you, and you're letting him do it. Don't let him win. Don't be that girl.” It wasn't doing the trick. “Too many witnesses.” That did, and she sat down—very reluctantly, though.

  "So.” Reuben picked up the conversation again as Kim settled down. It wasn't over, not by a long shot, but it would wait until later ... probably when Ryan least expected it. “I was thinking that a bunch of us could get together once a week or something and bounce our ideas off each other. What do you think?” Ryan didn't answer him. “When would you be available to meet?"

  "Never. Is never good for you?"

  "Very funny.” Reuben pulled a pen out of his backpack. “I'll call you, and we can set something up. What's your number?"

  "It's listed in the phone book.” Ryan looked away.

  "Okay.” Rueben seemed momentarily at a loss. “Um, what's your name?"

  "That's listed in the phone book, too."

  "Oh, hootchie mama!"

  Ryan and I turned to see Kim gripping the sides of her chair and looking towards the door. We followed her gaze and saw the same blond kid who'd been in the commons earlier walking in with a woman who must have been the instructor. The sight of him was like a refreshing warm breeze.

  "Hootchie mama?” I whispered to her. Actually, it did feel like it was getting warmer in here. I certainly felt flushed.

  "It's a sista thing. You wouldn't understand.” Kim looked at the cute guy again then back at me. “Go. I don't want you sittin’ by me anymore. You annoy me."

  "You just want him to sit here so you can tell him how you'll fulfill his every sexual fantasy,” I leaned in closer. “Only I don't think you own a Chihuahua."

  "Honey, you need help.” She laughed despite herself and then added a “meow meow meow” to let me know things were good between us. If only she knew how much I wished she had moved so that he could sit next to me. Of course, he probably wasn't even interested in either of us, which made this the
strangest bit of nonexistent competition I'd ever not been involved in.

  "Okay, everyone,” the instructor addressed the class. The blond kid took a seat close to the front. “Let's get things moving along.” She set a stack of papers and a pair of headphones down on the desk.

  I always wondered what professors listened to and what it might reveal about their personalities. Was she a Motley Crue or a Liberace kinda gal?

  "I'm Cathleen Gevaultski, but you may call me Cathleen. I'm your docent and mahatma through the realm of Promethean writing this semester, and despite what you may or may not have heard, this is a weeder course."

  Definitely Liberace. The woman, probably in her early fifties, ran her hands through an almost disturbing amount of red hair, which I suppose kept her ears warm in the winter months.

  "At the end of the term, some of you will find that English isn't your best fidus Achates and it will behoove you to seek your professional goals elsewhere."

  "Mahatma?” Kim whispered in wonder.

  "Behoove?” Ryan quietly added.

  "English?” I mumbled.

  "Does the tall kid with the bad hair have a comment he wishes to share with the rest of the group?"

  Oh, joy! She heard me. It was just like what happened with Professor Staff last year. The only thing more disturbing than her hearing me was her saying that I had bad hair. It's obvious she never took chemistry, otherwise she'd have heard of static psychotherapy. My hair looked messy because of the ski mask, not picture perfect like ... well, the blond kid.