“What’s worse than a Parisian for a roommate?” he asks me.
“What?” Barely muster the interest.
“A Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone.”
“I’ll have to think about that one.”
“What’s worse than a Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone?”
“What?” Exasperated. “Sean?”
“A Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone and who wears an ascot,” he says.
In the next room someone starts replaying side one again. I get out of bed. “If I hear this song one more time I’ll scream.” Put on my robe, sit in chair by window and wish he would leave. “Let’s go to Price Chopper,” I suggest.
He sits up now. He knows for a fact that I want him to leave. He knows that I want it badly, as soon as possible. “Why?” he asks, watching as Seymour climbs into his lap and mews.
“Because I need tampons,” I lie. “And toothpaste, cat food, Tab, Evian water, Peanut Butter Cups.” I reach for my purse and oh shit, “But I don’t think I have any money.”
“Charge it,” he says.
“God,” I mutter. “I hate it when you’re sarcastic.”
He pushes the cat off the bed and starts to dress. He reaches for his underwear, tangled in the bedsheets and puts it on and I ask him, “Why did you push the cat off the bed?”
He asks back, “Because I felt like it?”
“Come here kitty, come here Seymour,” I call. I hate the cat too but pretend to be concerned just to bug him. The cat meows again and hops onto my lap. Pet it. Watch Sean get dressed. Tense silence. He puts on jeans. Then sits on the side of the bed again, away from me, shirtless. He looks like he’s getting the awful feeling that I know something and am pissed off about it. Poor baby. Puts his head in his hands, rubs his face. And now I ask him, “What’s that thing on your neck?”
Tenses up so noticeably I almost laugh. “What thing?”
“Looks like a hickey.” I’m casual.
He walks over to the mirror, makes a big deal out of touching his neck, inspecting the mark. His jaw twitches slightly. Watch as he stares at himself in the mirror; at his dull beauty.
“It’s a birthmark,” he says.
Right, lame-o. “You’re so narcissistic.”
Then it comes: “Why are you being such a bitch tonight?” He asks this while his back is to me, while he’s slipping on his T-shirt.
Stroke Seymour’s head. “I’m not being a bitch.”
He walks back to the mirror and looks at the small purple and yellow bruise. Wouldn’t even have noticed it if I hadn’t heard the news. And now he’s saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is not a hickey. It’s a birthmark.”
And now I come out and say it, getting none of the expected pleasure I thought I’d receive. “You fucked Judy. That’s all.” I say this quickly, really fast and offhand, and it throws him off balance. He’s trying hard not to flinch, or do a doubletake.
He turns away from the mirror. “What?”
“You heard me, Sean.” I’m squeezing Seymour too tightly. He’s not purring anymore.
“You’re sick,” he says.
“Oh am I?” I ask. “I heard you bit the inside of her thighs.” The cat screeches and jumps off my lap; pads across the floor to the door.
He laughs. He tries to ignore me. He sits on the bed tying his shoes. He continues to laugh, shaking his head. “Oh my my. Who told you this one? Susan? Roxanne? Come on, who?” he asks, innocent smile.
Dramatic pause. Look at Seymour, also innocent, sitting near the doorway, licking its paws. It looks up at me too, waiting for my answer.
“Judy,” I say.
Now he stops laughing. He stops shaking his head. His face falls. He puts the other shoe on. He mutters, “I have not bitten the inside of anyone’s thighs. I haven’t bitten yours, have I?”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, mystified. “Tell her to spread her legs and let me check?” What are we talking about? I don’t even care that much. It seems to be so minor that I don’t understand why I’m harassing him like this. Probably because I want this thing to be over with, and Judy’s a convenient marker.
“Oh Christ,” he’s saying and he looks disappointed. “I don’t believe this. Are you serious or like having your period?”
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m having my period. It didn’t happen.”
The moron actually looks relieved, and says, “I thought so.”
Trying to look crushed and heartbroken, I say simply, “Why did you do it, Sean?”
“I’m leaving,” he says, unlocking the door. Steps into the hallway. People are in the bathroom cutting their hair, making noise. He looks freaked. I light a cigarette.
“Are you really serious?” he asks, standing there. “Do you really believe her?”
I start laughing.
He asks, “What’s so funny?”
I look at him, think about it, stop laughing. “Nothing.”
He closes the door, still shaking his head, still muttering, “I don’t believe this.”
I push the chair away from myself, put the cigarette out, then lay on the bed. In the next room someone takes the needle off the record and starts to play side one again. There is Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the hall freezer that I plan to steal and eat, but I can hear him standing outside the door, listening. I sit still, barely breathing. The cat meows. The record skips. His footsteps sound up the hallway, clump down the stairs; downstairs door slams. I move to the window and watch him head towards his house. Halfway across Commons he changes direction and moves toward Wooley, where Judy lives.
PAUL While in town one afternoon early in November I happened to pass by the pizza place on Main Street and, through the flurries of snow and the pane of glass and the red neon pizza sign, saw Mitchell sitting by himself in a booth, a half-finished pizza (plain cheese; that was how Mitchell always ordered them; bland) on the table in front of him. I went in. He was tearing open packets of Sweet’n’Low, pouring them out and dividing the powder into long lines that resembled cocaine. I assumed he was alone.
“Are you lost or something?” he asked and lit a cigarette.
“Can I have one?” I asked.
He gave me one but didn’t light it.
“How was the party last night?” he asked.
I stood there. How was the party? House crammed with drunk sweaty horny bodies dancing to old songs aimlessly wandering around blindly fucking each other? Who cares? I was entrusted by Hanna to watch her seventeen-year-old brother, who was visiting from Bensonhurst to see if he wanted to go to Camden. I was attracted to the guy but he was so straight (he would inquire about certain ugly girls, all of whom I told him had herpes) that I pushed whatever kinky thoughts I had out of my mind. He talked about the basketball team he was on and chewed tobacco and had no idea that his sister was Queen Lesbian of McCullough. We went back to my room to have a final beer. I went into the bathroom and washed my face, and when I came back he had taken off his sweatshirt, had poured what was left of my Absolut out and was using the empty bottle as a spittoon, asking if I had any Twisted Sister records. Needless to say, he had a great body and he drunkenly initiated a rather hectic bout of fucking. In between moaning “Fuck me, fuck me,” he’d alternately whisper, “Don’t tell my sister, don’t tell my sister.” I obliged on both accounts. How was the party? “Okay.”
Mitchell had taken his American Express card out and slapped it on the table next to the two lines of Sweet’n’Low and he looked at me with such vehemence that I felt like a blip, a fart, in the course of his life. He tells me that this lawyer who he’d been seeing last summer in New York (before me, before us), a real jerk who liked to light everyone’s cigarettes and who winked all the time, just got back from Nicaragua and told him it was “dynamite” so Mitchell might be heading down there for Christmas. He said this to irritate me, but I didn’t wince. He knew that was a real conversation stopper.
&n
bsp; I didn’t wince even when Katrina, that blond Freshman girl who told everyone I couldn’t get it up, sat down in the booth, slipping in next to him.
“You know each other?” Mitchell asked.
“No,” she said smiling, introducing herself.
SEAN I’m in the middle of having lame nightmares when the phone rings on the other side of the room behind the green and black striped parachute Bertrand hung up earlier this term and wakes me. I open my eyes hoping it’ll pass, wonder if Bertrand’s answering machine is on. But the phone keeps ringing. I get out of bed, naked with a hard-on from the nightmare, walk through the slit in the parachute and lean down to answer it. “Hello?”
It’s a long distance call and there’s a lot of static. “Allo?” a female voice calls out.
“Hello?” I say again.
“Allo? Bertrand?” More static.
“Bertrand’s not in.” I glance over at the pumpkin with the beret on it. Jesus.
“Is it Jean-Jacques?” the voice calls out. “Allo? Ça va?”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“Éa va? Ça va?”
I hang the phone up, walk back through the slit in the parachute and lie down. Then it hits me: I remember last night. I moan and cover my head with the pillow but it smells like her and I have to take it off my face. Why in the hell did Judy tell Lauren? What in the hell was going through that girl’s mind when she told Lauren? I tried to talk to the bitch last night but there was no answer when I stopped by her room at Wooley. I moan again and throw the pillow against the wall, depressed and tense and horny. Move my hand over my hard-on, try and jerk off for a little while, reach beneath my bed and pull out the October issue of Playboy, reach a little further and find Penthouse.
I open up the Playboy to the centerfold. First I check out the girl’s face, though I’m not sure why since it’s her body, tits, cunt, ass, that seem so much more prominent. This girl is okay-looking; contemptibly pretty; her tits are tan and big and smooth; the flesh looks salty; run my hand over the thick, glossy paper, the small triangle of hair between the legs is carefully brushed and fluffy. I don’t like the legs too much so I fold part of the centerfold over. This girl thinks she’s smart. Her favorite movie is Das Boot, which is weird since a lot of these girls’ favorite movie has been Das Boot lately, but she’s obviously retarded, even though she does have nice tits. Spitting on my hand I think she might even look slightly horny, and I move my hand faster, but spit always dries up and I can’t find any Vaseline in the mess of my room so I hump the discarded pillow instead and check out her measurements. 35-22-34.
And then I see it: Next to the measurements, next to height and weight (is that information supposed to turn us on? maybe it does) and color of eyes, is her birthdate. My mind does some quick subtraction and I realize that this girl is nineteen and me, Sean, is twenty-one. This girl is younger than me, and that does it—instant depression. This woman, this flesh was always older and that was part of the turn-on, but now, coming across this, something I’d never noticed before upsets me more than thinking about the conversation Lauren and Judy must have had. I have to close the Playboy and reach for the Penthouse and flip it open to the Forum section but it’s too late and I can’t concentrate on the words and I keep wondering if I really did bite the inside of Judy’s thighs and, if so, then why? I can’t even remember why it happened or how. Was it a week ago? It was the night of Vittorio’s cocktail party. Had there been anyone else since Lauren? Shut my eyes and try to remember.
Throw the Penthouse across the room, where it accidentally hits the stereo, somehow turning it on and it’s Journey and then “The Monster Mash” coming from a station in Keene and I have to moan again, my erection completely deflated. I drag myself from bed, put on my underwear, walk to the closet, open it, look at myself in the mirror hung there, finger the hickey Judy (or was it Brooke or Susan who I saw last night after stopping by Judy’s place?) gave me, scowl at the reflection. I reach for a wire hanger, for the tie draped over it, a brown Ralph Lauren tie that Patrick sent me for a birthday I’ve forgotten. I tug it, stretching it, toss it away. Pick up another tie I got at Brooks Brothers and it seems stronger. I tug it, testing its strength, then knot it carefully, making a noose. Take the fern that some girl gave me off the large gold hook that some other girl stuck in the ceiling and place the dead plant on the floor, slip the part of the tie with the knot around the edge of the hook. I go to my desk and hurrying, pull the chair from it, stand on the chair, put my head through the pink and gray striped cotton noose and, about to hang myself, have a memory of a Christmas mass, why? “The Monster Mash” still coming from the radio, without any more hesitation, close my eyes and
I kick the chair away….
I hang there for about a second (not even a second) before the tie rips in half and I fall like an idiot to the floor, screaming “Shit.” Laying on my back in my jockey shorts I stare up at the piece of ripped tie, swinging from the hook. “The Monster Mash” ends. A cheerful D.J. says, “Happy Halloween New Hampshire!” I get up off the floor and get dressed. I walk across campus to the dining hall. Get this over with.
LAUREN I see the jerk first in the post office where he’s throwing away letters without looking at them. Then he comes up to me while I’m sitting at lunch with Roxanne. Reading Artforum, wearing sunglasses. Sharing a bottle of beer someone self-dubbed The Party Pig left. Roxanne probably slept with him. Roxanne’s wearing T-shirt and pearls, her hair heavily gelled. I’m drinking tea and a glass of Tab, unhungry. Roxanne looks at him suspiciously as he sits down. He takes off his sunglasses. I look him over. I had sex with this person?
“Hi, Roxanne,” he says.
“Hi, Sean.” She gets up. “FU talk to you later,” she tells me, picks up a book, leaves, comes back for the beer. I nod, turn a page. He takes a sip from my Tab. I light a cigarette.
“I tried to kill myself this morning,” he says, offhand.
“Did you? Did you really?” I ask, taking a long satisfying drag from the cigarette.
“Yeah,” he says. He’s nervous, looking constantly around the room.
“Uh-huh. Right,” I skeptically mutter.
“I did. I tried to hang myself.”
“My my.” Yawn. Turn a page. “Really?”
He looks at me like he wants me to take my sunglasses off but I can’t bear to look at him without the bluish tint. He finally says, “No.”
“If you did try,” I ask him, “Why did you do it? Guilt?”
“I think we should talk,” he says.
“There’s nothing to say,” I warn him and what’s sort of surprising is that there really isn’t. He’s still looking nervously around the big open room, probably on the lookout for Judy, who after breaking down and telling me left for New York with Franklin for the Halloween party at Area. He looks sad, like there is something on his mind, and I cannot understand why he doesn’t comprehend that I want him to leave me alone, that I don’t care about him. How can he still think I really like him? That I ever liked him?
“We’ve got to talk,” he says.
“But I’m telling you there’s nothing to say,” I smile and sip the tea. “What do you want to talk about?”
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Listen. You fucked Judy. That’s what.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Did you or didn’t you?” I ask, bored silly.
“I don’t remember,” he says after a while.
“You don’t remember?”
“Listen, you’re making too much out of this. I realize you’re hurt and upset but you’ve got to know that it didn’t mean anything. You want me to admit I feel shitty about doing it?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“Fine. I admit it. I feel shitty.”
“I feel humiliated,” I say, half-sarcastic, but he’s too dumb to catch on.
“Humiliated? Why?” he asks.
“You went to bed with my best friend,”
I say, trying to act angry, clutching at my teacup, spilling a little, trying to elicit some feeling.
He finally says, “She’s not your best friend.”
“Yes, she is. Sean.”
“Well,” he says. “I didn’t know that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say loudly.
“What doesn’t?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I stand up. He grabs my wrist as I reach for the magazine.
“Why did you still sleep with me if you knew?” he asks.
“Because I didn’t care,” I say.
“I know you do, Lauren,” he says.
“You’re pathetic and confused,” I tell him.
“Wait a minute,” he says. “Why should it matter how many I fucked? Or who I fucked? Since, like, when does having sex with someone else mean, like, I’m not faithful to you?”
I think about that one until he lets go of my wrist and I start laughing. I look around the dining hall for another table to sit at. Maybe I’ll go to class. What day is it?
“You’re right, I guess,” I say, trying to make some kind of exit.
Before I walk away from him wondering about Victor still (not wondering anything in particular, just vague nothing wondering) he asks, “Why don’t you love me, Lauren?”
“Just get out of here,” I tell him.
SEAN The rest of my day.
Me and Norris are in Norris’s red Saab driving into town. Norris is tired and hungover (too much MDA, too much sex with various Freshmen). He’s driving too fast and I don’t say anything about it; only stare out the window at the gray clouds forming above red and green and orange hills, “Monster Mash” blaring on the radio bringing this morning back.
“Lauren found out about Judy,” I tell him.
“How?” he asks, opening the window. “Is my pipe in the glove compartment?”
I check. “No. Judy told her.”
“Cunt,” he says. “Are you kidding? Why?”
“Can you believe it? I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head.