The feeling sort of clicked off when the beer didn’t come and the guys who had been trying to get it were arrested for drunk driving, Getch announced. But I was still in that room and we were still all together: two people I rejected, two people who had rejected me, one girl I had been rude to, but now it didn’t matter. Tim left with the waitress from Dunkin’ Donuts. I went back to the Swedish girl’s room and knocked. But she had locked her door and was probably asleep. I trudged through the snow back to my house and a cold, empty room. My window was open. I had forgotten to close it.
LAUREN
MITCHELL I could sense it wasn’t going to go well when I found out I had to drive with Sean Bateman to get a simple dime bag of pot. I didn’t really know Bateman that well but I could tell from the way he looked what type of guy he was: probably listened to a lot of George Winston, ate cheese and drank white wine, played the cello. I was pissed off that he had the nerve to come over to my room and tell me we had to go to that scummy idiot Rupert’s house, which I really wasn’t keen on to begin with, but it was almost end of term and I needed some grass to take with me on the drive back to Chicago. I argued with him for a little while, but Candice was sitting there on my bed trying to finish an overdue paper and she told me to go and I couldn’t resist, even though all term I’d been planning to break up with her. I took a Xanax and got in his car and drove off-campus to North Camden where Rupert and Roxanne lived. The roads were slick and he was driving too quickly and a couple of times we came close to spinning out, but we made it there without losing any limbs or causing a major pile-up.
The house was dark and I mentioned maybe no one was home. There was a party going on across the street. I told him I’d wait in the car.
He said, “No, it’s okay. Only Roxanne’s here.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. “I don’t want to go in.”
“Just come in,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
I followed him up the walk to the door and he knocked apprehensively. There was no answer. He knocked again, then tried the door. Someone abruptly yanked it open. And there was Guest, grinning like an idiot. He told us to come in, then laughed ghoulishly.
There were other townies in the darkened living room listening to Led Zeppelin. Someone had lit candles. I was getting suspicious.
Rupert was walking around the kitchen. “So what are you here for, boys?”
The townies giggled from the living room. There were four or five of them. Something glinted against the light of a candle in the darkness.
I yawned nervously, my eyes started watering.
“Came over to pick up some stuff,” Bateman said, innocently enough.
“Did you?” Rupert asked, moving in and out of the darkness, circling us.
“Where’s Roxanne?” Bateman asked. “You’re impossible.”
“Where is my money goddamnit, Bateman?” Rupert roared as if he was deaf and hadn’t heard Bateman. I couldn’t believe this.
“You’re crazy,” Sean said, perplexed. “Where’s Roxanne?”
One of the townies had gotten up. He was mean looking: beer-belly, a crew-cut. He leaned against the kitchen door. I moved back and bumped into a cabinet. I had no idea what the problem was, though it seemed clear to me that it had to do with money. I didn’t know if Rupert owed Bateman or if Bateman owed Rupert, but something was clearly fucked. Rupert was coked-up and trying to act tough, but the act was unconvincing and not very threatening. There was little light in the kitchen and where it was coming from I couldn’t tell. Something flashed in the darkness and glinted again.
“Where’s the money, you asshole?” Rupert demanded.
“I’m waiting in the car,” I said. “Excuse me.”
“Wait,” Bateman said, holding me back.
“Wait for what, you asshole?” Rupert asked.
“Listen,” Sean paused. Then he looked at me. “He’s got it.”
“You’ve got it?” Rupert asked, calming down and seriously interested.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that one of the townies, big and drunk, was holding a machete. What in the hell was a fucking machete doing in New Hampshire?
“Whoa, now wait a minute,” I said, raising my hands up. “Now, I don’t know what the hell’s going on. I just came for some bud. I’m leaving.”
“Come on Mitchell,” Sean said. “Give Rupert the money.”
“What in the fuck are you talking about?” I screamed. “I’m waiting in the car.”
I started to make my way out but another townie had just gotten up and was blocking the exit. I could see the car sitting there behind him through the window, in the snow, the party behind it. I thought I could see Melissa Hertzburg and Henry Rogers, but I wasn’t sure. I could hear Christmas music.
“This is absolute shit,” I said.
“Do you really have it?” Rupert was asking me, coming closer.
“Do I have what?” I screamed again. “Now wait, listen, this guy—”
“Does this guy have the money or not?” Rupert asked Bateman.
“Will you fucking tell him” I yelled at Bateman.
It was silent. Everybody was waiting for Sean’s answer.
“Okay, he doesn’t have it,” he admitted.
“What do you have for me?” Rupert asked him.
“I have this.” He reached into his pocket and handed Rupert something. Rupert inspected it. It was a vial. Rupert poured something onto a mirror. I assumed it was cocaine. He looked up at Sean, muttering how it better be good. The townies were now silent and interested in what was going on. But of course the stuff wasn’t good and a fight broke out. Rupert lunged across the table at Bateman. A townie grabbed at me. There was a scuffle. I was on my way out when I turned around and saw that Bateman had somehow grabbed the machete and was screaming “Back off” and jabbing it at the townies. I turned and ran out to the car, slipping on the driveway and falling hard on my ass. When I got into the car and locked the door I could see that the townies were backing off. Sean kept swinging the sword until he was outside and shut the door to the kitchen, dropped the machete and jumped into the car.
The townies were slow but they made it to their pick-up truck as the MG peeled out of the driveway. Sean raced it down the street, skidded through a stoplight and swerved down the road back towards the college. I could not believe this was happening. I never thought I would die on a Friday. Any other night but a fucking Friday. Bateman was actually smiling and asking me, “Wasn’t that fun?”
The townies led by Guest were behind us, but never too dangerously close, though once I thought I heard a gunshot. They caught up to us on College Drive and sped into the other lane trying to push the MG off the road. The MG lurched and then leapt over a snowbank and skidded gently to a stop. The pick-up sped by and then slowed down and with difficulty started to turn around. Bateman waited until they were coming toward us and suddenly reshifted, racing past the townies, and we drove the two miles to the Security gate without much incident. But when I turned around I could see the headlights of the pick-up behind us as it sat there down the road, idling. Scan smiled at the guards and waved as they lifted the gate up. He drove me back to my house. It was then that I noticed his headlights were still off. I looked at him and just said, “Jesus, Bateman, you’re an asshole.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, tightly tied dime bag and tossed it through the open window at me. I barely caught it. I didn’t bother to ask him what was going on and when he had gotten this. Even if I had it wouldn’t have mattered since he had already driven away.
VICTOR I went to the REM concert with Denton in Hanover. Rupert had already kicked me out of his house. He said there was some sort of problem happening and that I had to leave. I didn’t have anything else to do so I went with Denton. The auditorium was big but there were no seats. Some lame band opened for them and I hung out in back, drinking beer I’d snuck in with Paul, watching the girls. Once they started playing I left Paul an
d made my way through the standing crowd up front and sat on one of the speakers with some other guy from Camden named Lars. We sat there staring out at the crowd, at all the young stoned proud sweaty Americans, looking up at the stage. Some were tripping and high, others had their eyes closed, moving their grotesque, well-fed bodies to the beat. This one girl who I had been watching most of the night stood squashed in the middle of the front row, and when she caught me looking at her, I gave her a smile. She made a gagging look and turned back to the band, swaying her head to the beat. And I got really disgusted and started thinking, what was this girl’s problem? Why couldn’t she have been nice and smiled back? Was she worrying about imminent war? Was she feeling real terror? Or inspiration? Or passion? That girl, like all the others, I had come to believe, was terminally numb. The Talking Heads record was scratched maybe or perhaps Dad hadn’t sent the check yet. That was all this girl was worried about. Her boyfriend was standing behind her, a total yuppie with Brylcreamed hair and a very thin tie on. Now what was that guy’s problem? Lost I.D., too many anchovies on his pizza, broken cigarette machine? And I kept looking back at that girl-had she forgotten to tape her soap this afternoon? Did she have a urinary tract infection? Why did she have to act so fucking cool? And that’s what it all came down to: cool. I wasn’t being cynical about that bitch and her asshole boyfriend. I really believed that the extent of their pitiful problems didn’t exceed too far from what I thought. They didn’t have to worry about keeping warm or being fed or bombs or lasers or gunfire. Maybe their lover left them, maybe that copy of “Speaking in Tongues” was really scratched—that was this term’s model and their problems. But then I came to understand sitting there, the box vibrating beneath me, the band blaring in my head that these problems and the pain they felt were genuine. I mean, this girl probably had a lot of money and so did her dumb-looking boyfriend. Other people might not sympathize with this couple’s problems and maybe they didn’t really matter in the larger realm of things—but they still mattered to Jeff and Susie; these problems hurt them, these things stung…. Now that’s what struck me as really pathetic. I forgot about her and the other geeks and did some more of the coke Lars was offering me….
Afterwards I wanted to go to The Carousel but Paul told me it had closed down over the weekend; that no one went there much anymore except a couple of Seniors and graduates who never left North Camden. We drove by it anyway. Not that there had been a lot of fun at that place, but it still meant something to me. And it was depressing to see it dark on a Thursday night, the doorway covered with black paint, the path leading to the door covered with thick unshoveled snow.
LAUREN I lose my keys the first time I leave my room in over four days. So I can’t lock my door. It doesn’t really matter, I’ve packed all my stuff, there’s really nothing to take. I go to the post office to check the board to see about getting a ride tomorrow or the next day. Not a lot of rides. “Lost My Pet Rock,” “Ambitious Photography Major Looking for Imaginative Male to Pose in Cellophane,” “Madonna Fan Club Starting Soon. Anyone interested? Box 207.” I tear that one down but the woman working behind the post office counter sees this and glares until I put it back up. “Skateboarding Club Starting.” I want to tear that one down too. “Jack Kerouac Fan Club Starting Next Term.” I hate the idea of having that one up since it looks so pathetic next to the others, so I tear it down. She doesn’t say anything. Someone’s put a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude in my box and I look inside to see if anyone’s left a name or message. “Really good book. Hope you like it—P.” But it doesn’t look like it’s been read, and I put it in Sean’s box.
Franklin passes by in the mob of people lining up for lunch. He asks me if I want to go to The Brasserie. I’ve eaten lunch eight times today but I have to get off-campus. So we go into town and it’s not bad at all. I buy a couple of tapes, and a frozen yogurt, and then at The Brasserie I have a bloody Mary and take a Xanax. For the past week I have been hoping the job was botched; that maybe the doctor had somehow screwed things up, had left everything incomplete. But of course, he hadn’t. They had done a good, thorough job. I have never bled so much before.
I stare out the window, at the snow. Jukebox plays depressing pop. I make a mental list of things I need to get done before I go to New York. Christmas presents.
“I screwed her,” Franklin says, sipping his drink and pointing at the waitress in back; some foul-mouthed bitch from campus who I think is hideous, who told her boyfriend that I was a witch and he believed her.
The waitress disappears into the kitchen. A waiter takes her place. He sets something on the table next to ours. In a blinding moment of recognition I realize who the waiter is. He keeps looking at me, but there’s no recognition on his face. I start laughing, the first time in over a week.
“What’s funny?” Franklin says. “No, I really did screw her.”
“I screwed him,” I tell Franklin. It’s the townie I lost my virginity to.
“Hey,” Franklin says. “We are the world.”
SEAN Tim helps me pack the next morning. I don’t have a lot to take with me, but he has nothing else to do and he carries most of the stuff out to my car. He doesn’t ask about Rupert, though he knows that’s why I’m leaving. From across the lawn Lauren is on her way to Commons. She waves. I wave back.
“Heard about Lauren,” Tim says.
“Already?” I ask, closing the trunk of the MG.
“Yeah.” He offers me a cigarette. “Already.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“What happened? Is she okay?” He laughs, “Do you care?”
I shrug. I try to light the cigarette and to my amazement the match doesn’t go out in the wind and light snow. “I liked her a lot.”
Tim’s silent but then asks, “Then why didn’t you pay for it?”
He’s not looking at me. I crack up.
“I didn’t like her that much,” I say as I get into the car.
VICTOR I was up all night doing coke with some girl I met at The Pub who worked for my father one summer. The next morning we go to some cafe in town (which has terrible food; soggy quiche, canned snails, tame bloody Marys) and I’m strung out and completely not hungry. I look so pasty I keep my shades on. We stand in the doorway of the place and wait for a table, the service is really terrible, and whoever designed this place must have been lobotomized. This girl wanders around and puts a quarter in the jukebox. The waitress keeps checking me out. She looks familiar. The Talking Heads sing “And She Was” then good old Frank starts singing “Young at Heart” and I’m amused at the disparity of her choices. Suddenly this girl I sort of saw a little bit last summer walks up to me crying softly—the last thing I need. She looks at me and says, “You don’t know what a drag it is to see you.” Then she throws herself on me, hugging tightly. I just say, “Hey, wait a minute.” It was just some rich girl from Park and 80th who I kind of screwed around with last term who’s kind of pretty, who’s good in bed, who has a nice body. She automatically says goodbye to the guy she’s with but he’s already talking to the familiar-looking waitress. The girl who worked for my father and who has all the coke is already talking to some townie by the jukebox, and I could of used another gram but this girl, Laura, has already taken my arm and is leading me out The Brasserie’s door. But it’s probably best like this. I need a place to stay anyway and it’s going to be a long, cold Christmas.
LAUREN Walking back to my room. The last day. People packing. Collecting addresses. Drinking farewell kegs. Drifting drunk through the snow-covered campus. I bump into Paul as he comes out of Canfield.
“Hi,” I say, startled, embarrassed. “How are you, Mr. Denton?”
“Lauren,” he says, still shy. “How’ve you been, Ms. Hynde?”
“Okay,” I say.
We stand there awkwardly.
“So … What are you now?” I ask. “Still … Drama major?”
He groans. “Yeah. Guess so. What are you? Art still?”
&
nbsp; “Art. Well, Poetry. Well, actually Art.” Stutter.
“What is it?” he laughs. “Make up your mind.”
“Interdivisional.” I make it easy.
Long pause and I remember with true clarity how dumb Paul looked as a Freshman: a PiL T-shirt beneath a Giorgio Armani sweater. But I also loved him anyway, later on. The night we met? Cannot remember anything except Joan Armatrading playing on the box in his room; two of us smoking cigarettes, talking, nothing exciting, nothing important, but memorable flashes. He breaks the trance: “So, what are you doing?”
I think about what Victor told me after he found me at The Brasserie, before he went to rent a car in town. “Europe, I think. I don’t know. Probably Europe.” I would not mind ending the conversation now, since it’s been good just to be close to Paul and to hear him talk—but that would be rude, and too pithy.
“Europe’s a big place,” he says; such a Denton thing to say.
“Yep, it shore is.”
We stand there a little while longer. It’s still snowing. The streetlights suddenly go on even though it’s only a little after three. We both laugh at this. For some reason I think of that night in the cafe when he was looking over at me; how his face had clouded over; was he still in love with me? Was he jealous of other people I was with? I feel I have to glue things. I say, “He really likes you.”
He looks confused, and then embarrassed, understanding. “Yeah? Great. That’s great.”