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 and 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….