Sean liked to say “Rock’n’roll” a lot. For example I would say, “Well, that was a pretty good movie” and he’d say “Rock’n’roll.” Or I’d ask, “What do you think of Fassbinder’s early work?” and he would reply “Rock’n’roll.” He also liked the term, “Deal with it.” For example, I’d say, “But I want you to,” and he’d say, “Deal with it.” Or, “But why do you have to get stoned before we do it?” and he’d say, “Deal with it,” without even looking at me. He also liked his coffee really faggy — tons of cream, lots of sugar. I’d have to drag him to the movies they showed that term and he’d have to get stoned first. He liked Taxi Driver, Blade Runner, The Harder They Come, and Apocalypse Now. I liked Rebel Without a Cause, Close Encounters of the Third Kind and The Seventh Seal. (“Oh shit, subtitles,” he moaned.) We both didn’t like Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex.
Of course I started finding the notes someone was leaving in his box. Pathetic, girlish yearnings. Whoever it was, offering “herself” to “him.” And though I wasn’t sure if he was actually responding to this nitwit I still would take them out of his box and either throw them away or keep them and study them and then put them back. I would watch the girls who’d flirt with us in The Pub and I’d watch the ones who would sit next to him, asking for a light even though they had matches in their pockets. And, of course, there would be a lot of girls around since he was so good-looking. And though I hated them, I also realized that I had the power in this game since I was also good-looking and had some semblance of a personality, something Sean lacked utterly. I could make them laugh. I could lie and agree with their stupid observations about life, and they’d lose immediate interest in him. Sean would sit there, shallow as a travel agent’s secretary, that one strip of eyebrow furrowed and confused. But it was a hollow victory and I’d look at the girls and wonder who was leaving the notes. Didn’t that person realize we were fucking each other? Didn’t that mean anything to anyone anymore? Obviously not. I thought it was this one girl. I thought I saw her put something in his box. I knew who she was. I found out where her box was and when no one was looking put a couple of cigarettes out in it. My warning. He never mentioned it. But then I realized that maybe it wasn’t a girl leaving the notes. Maybe it was Jerry.
LAUREN Conroy, who I bump into at the American Cartoon Exhibit in Gallery 1, asks why I wasn’t at the tutorial last Saturday. No use arguing. “I was in New York,” I tell him. He doesn’t care. I’m with Franklin now. Judy doesn’t care. She’s seeing the Freshman, Steve. Steve doesn’t care. She fucked him the night she went to Williamstown. I don’t care. It’s all so boring. Conroy who doesn’t care tells me to tell the other person in class to come on Saturday. It’s some Senior guy. So after I leave a reminder in this guy’s box, Franklin and I go to The Pub and get a little drunk and Franklin tells me what the symbolism in Cujo means and then we go to my room. I have received no mail from Victor. The idea crosses my mind that Victor might just be dead. Conversation I overheard at lunch the other day.
Boy: I think we should stop this.
Girclass="underline" Stop what? This?
Boy: Maybe.
Girclass="underline" Stop it? Yeah.
Boy: Maybe. I don’t know.
Girclass="underline" Was it because of Europe?
Boy: No. I just don’t know why.
Girclass="underline" You should stop smoking.
Boy: Why don’t you stop … stop …
Girclass="underline" You’re right. It’s not working.
Boy: I don’t know. You’re really … You are pretty.
Girclass="underline" You are too.
Boy: The meek shall inherit the earth.
Girclass="underline" The meek don’t want it.
Boy: I like the new Eurythmics song.
Girclass="underline" It’s the drugs, isn’t it?
Boy: Do you want to go back to my room?
Girclass="underline" What Eurythmics song?
Boy: Was it because of who I slept with?
Girclass="underline" No. Yes. No.
Boy: The meek don’t want it? What?
I have not painted in over a week. I am going to change my major unless Victor calls.
PAUL My mother called from Chicago and told me that her Cadillac had been stolen while it was in the parking lot of Neiman Marcus. She mentioned that she was flying to Boston on Friday, which was the next day, and would be there for the weekend. She also mentioned that she wanted me to be there with her.
“Wait. That’s tomorrow. I have classes all day,” I lied.
“Darling, you can miss one class to meet your mother and the Jareds.”
“The Jareds are coming?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Mrs. Jared is coming and so is Richard. He’s taking the weekend off from Sarah Lawrence,” she said.
“Richard?” Hmmm, that ought to be interesting, I was thinking, but tomorrow was The Dressed To Get Screwed party and there was no way I was going to leave Sean here unguarded. “You have got to be kidding,” I told her. “Is this a joke?”
I was leaning against a wall in the phone booth of Welling. I had been in town all day, most of it spent in an arcade with Sean who was trying to get the high score on Joust and was failing miserably. We smoked pot and had three beers each at lunch and I was tired. There was a cartoon someone had drawn next to the phone: in a cage was a hot dog that had sad eyes and a mean, pursed mouth and spindly arms grabbing at the bars. The hot dog was asking “Where’s me muddah?” and beneath that someone had written: “A term for the wurst.”
“Now, can you take the bus down Friday into Boston, or the train?” she asked, knowing damn well that Friday meant tomorrow. “How much does that cost? From Camden to Boston?”
“I have money. That’s not a problem. But this weekend?” I asked.
“Darling,” she managed to sound serious, even long-distance, “I want to talk.”
“What about Dad?”
There was a pause, then, “What about him?”
“Is he coming too?” I asked, then added, “I haven’t spoken to him in a month.”
“Do you want him to come?” she asked.
“No. I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it. I will see you at The Ritz-Carlton on Friday. Right, dear?” she hurriedly asked.
“Mom,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I was relenting. Suddenly she depressed me so badly that there wouldn’t have been any way to say No under any circumstance.
“Darling, yes. Now don’t worry. I will see you Friday, right?” She paused and then said, “I want to talk. There’s things we have to talk about.”
Like what? “Fine,” I sighed.
“Call me if there are any problems?”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye. Love,” she said.
“Yeah, you too,” I said.