“Come in, come in,” Mr. Masur says.
I enter.
“Ah, Mr. Bateman, it’s good to see you, every, what is it now? Month or so?” the sarcastic bastard asks.
I grin and plop myself down in the chair across from Masur’s desk.
“Where have you been? We’re supposed to meet every week,” Masur says, leaning back.
“Well…” Duh. “I’ve been real busy.”
“Oh, you have?” Masur asks, grinning. He runs a hand through his long gray hair, sucking in while lighting his pipe, like a true ex-boho.
“I got your note. What is it?” I know it’s going to be something bad.
“Yes. Well…” He shuffles through papers. “As you know it’s mid-term and it’s come to my attention that you are not passing three of your courses. Is this true?”
I try to look surprised. Actually I thought I was failing four courses. I try to guess which one I’m passing. “Um yeah well, I’m having trouble in a couple of classes.” Pause. “Am I failing Sculpting Workshop?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, you are,” Masur says, glancing ominously at a pink sheet of paper he holds up.
“I don’t see how,” I say innocently.
“It seems that Mr. Winters said that for your mid-term project, it seems to him that all you did was glue three stones you found behind your dorm and painted them blue.” Masur looks pained.
I don’t say a word.
“Also Mrs. Russell says that you have not been showing up to class regularly,” Masur says, eyeing me.
“What am I passing?”
“Well, Mr. Schonbeck says you’re doing quite well,” Masur says, surprised.
Who’s Mr. Schonbeck? I’ve never been to a class taught by a Schonbeck.
“Well, I’ve been sick. Sick.”
“Sick?” Masur asks, looking even more pained.
“Well, yeah, sick.”
“Ahem.” This is followed by an uncomfortable silence. The smell of Masur’s pipe nauseates me. The urge to leave hits hard. It’s also sickening that even though Masur is not from England he speaks with a slight British accent.
“Needless to say Mr. Bateman, um, Sean, your situation here is, shall we say, rather … unstable?”
“Unstable, yeah, well, um…”
“What are we going to do about it?” he asks.
“I’m going to fix it.”
“You are?” he sighs.
“Yes. You bet I am.”
“Well. Good, good,” Masur looks confused but smiling as he says this.
“Okay?” I stand up.
“Fine with me,” Masur says.
“Well, see you later?” I ask.
“Well, fine with me,” Masur laughs.
I laugh too, open the door, look back at Masur, who’s really cracking up, yet stupefied, and then I shut the door, planning my overdose.
In my room is Beba, Bertrand’s girlfriend. She’s sitting on the mattress beneath the wall-length blackboard that came with the room, the carved pumpkin in her lap, old issues of Details scattered around her. Beba is a sophomore and bulimic and has been reading Edie ever since she arrived last September. Bertrand’s phone is cradled in her neck, covered by shoulder length platinum blond hair. She lights a cigarette and waves limply at me as I pass through the slit in the parachute. I sit on my bed, my face in my hands, silent in the room except for Beba. “Yes, I was wondering about a cellophane tomorrow, say, around two-thirty?” The ripped tie is still hanging from the hook and I reach up, pull it off and throw it against the wall. I start rummaging through my room. No more Nyquil, no more Librium, no more Xanax. Find a bottle of Actifed, which I pour into my sweaty hands. Twenty of them. I look around the room for something to take them with. I can hear Beba hang up the phone, then Siouxsie and the Banshees start playing.
“Beba, does Bert have anything to drink over there?” I call out.
“Let me see.” I hear her turn down the music, tripping over something. Then an arm sticks through the parachute’s slit handing me a beer.
“Thanks.” I take the beer from the hand.
“Docs Alonzo still have any coke?” she asks.
“No. Alonzo went to the city this weekend,” I tell her.
“Oh god,” I hear her moan.
I wonder if I should leave a note. Some kind of reason for why I’m doing this, why I’m swallowing all my Actifed. The phone rings. Beba answers it. I lay down after taking five. I drink some more of the beer. Grolsch — what an asshole. Beba puts on another tape, The Cure. I take three more pills. Beba says, “Yes, I’ll tell him Jean-Jacques called. Right, ça va, yeah, ça va.” I start falling asleep, laughing — am I really trying to O.D. on Actifed? I can hear Bertrand open the door, laughing, “I am back.” I drift.
But Norris wakes me up sometime after nine. I’m not dead, just sick to my stomach. I’m under the covers but still in my clothes. It’s dark in the room.
“You slept through dinner,” Norris says.
“I did.” I try to sit up.
“You did.”
“What did I miss?” I try to unstick my tongue from the roof of a very dry, stale mouth.
“Lesbians in a fistfight. Pumpkin carving contest. Party Pig threw up,” Norris shrugs.
“Oh man I am so tired.” I try to sit up again. Norris stands in the doorway and flicks on a light. He walks over to the bed.
“There are Actifed scattered around you,” Norris points out.
I pick one up, toss it away. “Yes. There are.”
“What did you try to do? O.D. on Actifed?” he laughs, bending down.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say, getting up. “I need a shower.”
“Just between you and me,” he says, sitting down.
“Where’s everybody?” I ask, taking my clothes off.
“At Windham. Halloween party. Your roommate went as a Quaalude.” Norris picks up a copy of The Face that for some reason is on my side of the room. He flips through it thoroughly bored. “Ether that or a pastry. I can’t tell.”
“I’m taking a shower,” I tell him. I grab my robe.
Norris picks up the Peanut Butter Cups. “Can I have one?”
“No, don’t open them.” I come out of my stupor. “They’re for Lauren.”
“Calm down, Bateman.”
“They’re for Lauren.” I stumble toward the door.
“Relax!” he screams.
I head for the bathroom, dizzy, steadying myself as I make my way down the hallway, and into the bathroom. Enter the cubicle, take off the robe, step into shower, lean against the wall before turning the shower on, think about passing out. I shake my head: the feeling subsides, I turn the water on. It hits me weakly and I try to get the pressure up but the water, barely warm, keeps dribbling out of the rusty showerhead.
Sitting down on the floor of the shower I notice Bertrand’s Gillette razor lying in the corner next to a tube of Clinique shaving cream. I pick up the razor by its silver handle and stare at it for a long time. I move it down my wrist. I turn my hand over, palm up, and slowly move it up my arm, the blade catching some of the hair that covers the skin. I pull the blade away and wash the hair off it. Then move it back to my arm, this time bringing the handle up to the wrist, pressing it hard, trying to break the skin. But it doesn’t. I apply more pressure, but it only leaves red marks. I try the other wrist, pushing with all my strength, almost groaning with exertion, lukewarm water splashing in my eyes. The blade is too dull. I press it down against the wrist, feebly, once more.