“Well…” My mother was looking at me like I was a real weirdo. A real KooKoo.
“Go on,” I urged. “Go on.”
“Well,” she continued. “I came out of his office and it was gone. Completely gone. Can you believe it?” she was asking me.
“Typical,” I told her. Just pretend she’s not crazy and things will go smoothly.
“Yes.” She stopped brushing her hair, but continued gazing into the mirror.
The bellboys brought the bags up-all eight of them. That’s right. Of course, a weekend in Boston, eight bags for two people, sure. There were eight pieces of luggage: four pieces of Louis Vuitton, my mother’s; and four pieces of Gucci, Mrs. Jared’s.
“How’s school?” my mother asked after she tipped the bellboys (who were not sexy, contrary to Mrs. Jared’s allusions that they were).
“Fine,” I said.
“Classes,” she reminded herself. “How are your classes?”
“All right.”
“What are you taking?” she asked.
I must have told her this, given her a list over the phone, at least five times. “Classes. Just classes. Acting. Improv. Scene Design. Classes. Drama.”
“How is that lovely friend of yours? Michael? Monty? What?” she asked, unzipping one of the bags and looking through it.
I couldn’t believe she did shit like that. She damn well knew his goddamn name but I couldn’t even get angry, so I laid back and sighed his name. “Mitchell. His name was Mitchell.”
“Yes. Mitchell. That’s it.”
“How is he?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” I started to worry about Sean again. Sean at the party. Sean fucking someone. Who? That girl leaving notes in his box? Or worse … what if he went home with Raymond or Harry or Donald? What am I doing here?
“When is Richard coming in?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know,” my mother whispered, suddenly concerned. “Mimi?”
“I’d say sixish,” Mrs. Jared said. “I told him that we had dinner reservations downstairs at nine, so he knows when to be here.”
What am I doing here? My mother wants to speak to me about nothing. It’s only a ploy to get me here so she can complain about the way I dress and eat and smoke and live and god only knows what else. My mother and Mrs. Jared move to the other room. “We’ll leave this room to you boys so you can talk and whatever….” It sounds ominous and suspicious and what am I doing here? I look over at the copy of The Fountainhead on top of the TV set, a reminder of Michael? Monty? I watch a cartoon. My mother and Mrs. Jared split a Seconal or whatever and start to worry about what they’re going to wear tonight. I watch more cartoons and curse Sean and order room service. I decide to get drunk early.
SEAN After I got drunk this afternoon I looked for Lauren at dinner tonight. She wasn’t there. I looked for her after Getch and Tony and Tim and I fixed up Wooley. I looked for her after I put my toga on. (Since I’m on Wreck Committee I’ve got to wear a toga but I put my leather jacket on over it so it looked hip.) I even looked for her room, walking around campus in the dark, trying to remember which house she lived in. But it was too cold to look, so I stopped and watched TV in Commons, and drank some beer instead. I didn’t know what I was going to say to her once I found her. It was just that I wanted to see her. And thinking about her like that, searching all over the place for her, I went back to my room and jerked off, fantasizing about her. It was something completely spontaneous, something I couldn’t help doing. It was like walking past a beautiful girl on the street, someone you can’t help but look at, someone you can’t suppress whistling at, someone who gets you that excited, that horny. That’s how I was feeling about Lauren, my toga raised above me, touching myself feverishly in the darkness. What does she like, I was thinking. Questions raced through my mind — does she go wild during sex, does she come easily, does she freak out about oral sex, does she mind a guy coming in her mouth? Then I realized I won’t go to bed with a girl if she won’t do that. I also won’t go to bed with a girl if she can’t or won’t have an orgasm because then, what’s the point? If you can’t make a girl come why even bother? That always seemed to me to be like writing questions in a letter.
PAUL I call Sean up. Someone answers the Booth phone.
“Yeah?” Person is obviously stoned.
“Can I talk to Sean Bateman? I think he lives upstairs,” I ask.
“Yeah.” Really long pause. “If he’s asleep should I wake him?”
“Yes. Please.” The idiot probably is asleep.
I look at myself in the mirror and turn away. Next door, either my mom or Mrs. Jared is taking a shower. The TV is still on. I reach over and turn the volume down.
“Yeah? Hello?” Sean says. “Sean?”
“Yeah? Who is this? Patrick?”
Patrick? Who the hell is Patrick? “No. It’s Paul.”
“Paul?”
“Yeah. Remember me?”
“No. This better be good,” he says.
“I just wanted to know what’s going on,” I say. “Who’s Patrick?”
“No, Paul. That’s not it. What did you want?”
“Were you asleep?”
“No, of course I wasn’t asleep.”
“What are you doing?”
“I was just about to go to the party,” he says.
“With who?” I ask. “With Patrick?”
“What?”
“With who?” I ask again.
“I thought you asked me that,” he says.
“Well?”
“The person who’s been leaving notes in my box,” he says loudly, laughing.
“Are you?” I ask, sitting up.
“No, I’m not. Christ, you call me up to check on who I’m going with to the party?” he yells into the phone. “You’re sick!”
“I thought … I had a very vivid … image of you.”
“You’re also a bad judge of character,” he says, calming down.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I apologize.”
“It’s okay.” I can hear him yawn.
“So … who are you going with?” I ask, after a while.
“No one, you idiot!” he yells.
“I was only joking. Calm down. Can’t you take a joke?” I ask. “Don’t people from the South have a sense of humor?”
There’s a long pause and then he says, “When we’re around funny people.”
“Scorcher, Sean. Scorcher.”
“Rock’n’roll. Deal with it,” he mutters.
“Yeah.” I try to laugh. “Deal with it.”
“Listen, I’m going to the party, okay?” he says, finally.
“Well….”
“I’ll see you next week,” he says.
“But I’m coming back on Sunday,” I say.
“Right. Sunday,” he says.
“I’m sorry for calling,” I say.
“Sunday. Bye.” He hangs up.
I hang up too, then touch my face, and drink another beer; wonder why Richard’s late.
LAUREN Judy’s room. Judy and I decide to wear togas to The Dressed To Get Screwed party. Not because we want to all that much, but just because we look better in the togas. At least, I look better in the toga than in the dress I was going to wear. Judy looks good in anything. Besides I don’t want to go back to my room to get the dress since Franklin might be there, though he also might not, since I told him I thought The Fate of the Earth was the most boring book he’s made me read yet (worse than Floating Dragon) and he had this violent seizure (capital S: he shook, he turned red) and stormed out. Plus I don’t want to see if my mother called back. She called earlier today and demanded to know why I haven’t called her in over three weeks. I told her I forgot my Calling Card number. But I’m in a good mood anyway, mostly because Vittorio, my new poetry teacher says I show a lot of promise and because of that I’ve been working on more poems, some of them pretty good; plus Judy and I might buy some Ecstasy tonight and that seems like a good idea and it’s a Friday and we’re in front of her mirror trying make-up on and “Revolution” is on the radio and I feel okay.