“You can feel it,” he reiterates.
“That’s, uh, really mystical,” Tony says.
“So when is she getting the fetus ripped out of her?” Norris asks.
The whole table moans collectively and Tim’s laugh is guilty but helpless and it makes me queasy. The girl finally gets a Coke and walks out of the main dining room, looking confidently hot.
“Wednesday, guy,” Tim borrows a cigarette and cups his hands even though there is no possibility of the match going out. Precautions, I guess. “It would’ve been Tuesday, but she has this primal dance piece on Tuesday so it has to be Wednesday.”
“Show must go on,” I smile, grim but loose.
“Yeah,” says Tim, a little anxious. “Right. And then she’s going to Europe, which is a total relief.”
The table, including Tim, has already lost interest in this already old (known since last night, for latecomers, lunch) piece of gossip, so other conversations ensue, about other important subjects. I ask Norris if he can get me some coffee when he gets up.
“You want cream in it?” he asks.
“Yeah. Cream in it,” I tell him. Old joke.
“Hey Sean, you’re … pretty funny.”
“Yeah, I’m a pretty funny guy.”
“Does anyone know where we can get Ecstasy tonight?” Tim asks.
“Where’s the party tonight?” Getch asks.
I spot my roommate, he’s back from New York.
“Ça va,” he says as he passes by.
“Ça va,” I say, then “Ribbet.”
“At End of the World and probably The Graveyard,” Tony tells him. Tony’s head of Rec Committee too. “All donations toward alcohol will be greatly appreciated.”
“Isn’t it too cold to be outside?” asks Getch.
“Dress warm, pussy.” Tony pushes his plate away and starts on his salad; even though I like Tony, that European salad thing bugs me.
“Pussy? Who said pussy?” asks Tim. “I haven’t heard that term since eighth grade.”
“Fuck off,” Tony says. He’s pissed because he didn’t get the part in some stupid Drama Division production, even though he’s a sculpture major, and even though he’s a good guy and all, it bugs me that he gets sulky over something so lame. I want to fuck Sara again. She gives incredible head, I remember. Or was that someone else? Or was Sara the one with the coil I almost slit my dick open on? Considering what the situation is now, she probably wasn’t the one with the I.U.D., but even if she was I might just take a chance again, if it was offered to me.
“Anyone know what the movie is tonight?” asks Getch.
“Beats me,” says Tony.
Norris comes back with the coffee and whispers, “Creamed in it.”
I sip it and smile. “Delicious.”
“I don’t know. Night of the Dead Baby? I don’t know,” says Tony.
“Can we shut up?” asks Tim.
“I heard from Roxanne that The Carousel’s closing,” I offer the table.
“No way. Really?” Norris asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “At least that’s what Roxanne says.”
“Why?” Getch asks.
“Freshman and Sophomores don’t drink anymore,” Tony says. “Sucks, doesn’t it.”
“I think it sucks too,” Getch says. He always looks cheesy to me for some reason. I can’t explain it. He shakes the Etch-a-Sketch.
I say, “Rock’n’roll.”
Tim laughs, “The horrah, the horrah.”
Tony says, “It’s just another example of this place going to shit, that’s all.”
I tell him, “Deal with it.”
Tony’s losing his patience, getting all political. “Listen, do you realize that we’re getting a fucking weight room? Why? Do you understand? Can you explain? I can’t. Do you realize that I just came out of a student council meeting where the Freshman reps want fraternity houses installed on campus? Do you understand that? Do you want to deal with it?”
I cringe. “It’s all dumb.”
“Why?” Tim asks. “I think a weight room’s a good idea.” “Because,” I explain, hoping to cool Tony down, “I came here to get away from jock idiots and frat assholes.”
“Listen,” Tim says with an ugly leer, “Girls work out on that shit for those inner thigh muscles man.” He grabs at my leg and laughs.
“Yeah, well,” I’m suddenly confused. “Still, a weight room.” I don’t really care.
Tony looks at me. “Who are you to talk, Sean? What are you majoring in? Computers?”
“Reagan’s Eighties. Detrimental effect on underclassmen,” Tim says, shaking his head.
It really doesn’t piss me off as much as he wants it to. “Computers,” I mimic him.
“What are you majoring in?” He’s daring me, the big fucking baby, finish your salad, asshole.
“Rock’n’roll,” I shrug.
He gets up, disgusted. “What are you, a parrot?”
“What’s up his ass?” someone asks.
“Didn’t get that part in the Shepard play,” Getch says.
Deidre appears out of nowhere, to save the day? Not quite.
“Peter?”
The table looks up and falls silent.
“I thought my name was Brian,” I say, without looking at her.
She laughs, probably high. I can see her hands, her fingernails aren’t painted black anymore. It looks like cement color. “Oh well, yeah. How are you?” she asks.
“Eating.” I point at the plate. All the guys are looking at her. This is a highly uncomfortable situation.
“You going to the party tonight?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’m going to the party tonight. You going to the party tonight?” Meaningless.
“Yeah.” She seems nervous. The guys are intimidating her. She was actually okay last night, just too drunk. She’s probably good in bed. I look over at Tim, who’s checking her out. “Yeah, I am.”
“Well I guess I’ll see you there.” I look at Norris and roll my eyes up.
“Okay,” she says, lingering, looking around the room.
“Okay, see you there, bye,” I mutter. “God.”
“Okay, well,” she coughs. “See you.”
“Go away,” I say under my breath.
She goes to another table. The guys aren’t saying anything. I’m embarrassed because she’s not that great looking and they all know I screwed her last night and I get up to feed more coffee to my impending ulcer. Rock’n’roll.
“I need a double bed,” Tim says. “Anyone got a double bed?”
“Don’t smoke pot,” someone else says.
“Yabba Dabba Do,” Getch says.
The feeling is neither icy nor hot. Yet there is still no in-between. Just this bland pulse that fixates in my body at any given time of the day. I have decided to put notes in his box every day. I imagine him pinning these notes somewhere, perhaps pinned to a white wall in his room, a room I wish to live in. Are these devices sufficient? I ask myself, sickened, left punctured and cowering after I deliver these notes into his box, his pocketbed. My will is an ambulance on emergency call. But I often try to forget him (I have not met him, will not meet him until later, have not dared open my mouth to confront him, sometimes I want to scream, sometimes I think I am dying) and I try to forget this beating from my heart, but cannot and get sick. The space I follow is black and arid. My obsession (I do not know if it can even be considered that, that word does not seem quite right) though futile or ridiculous to you takes the mystery from nothing. It is simple. I watch him. He reveals himself in dark contours. Everything I believe in floats away when I witness him, say, eating, or crossing the boundaries of a crowded room. I feel a scourge. I have his name written on a sheet of pale blue paper that is tissue thin, fallen poplars I’ve drawn surround the letters. Everything reminds me of his being: there is a dog that lives across the hall from me. Its owner registered it as a cat (canines are forbidden at this place) and took a fuzzy photo of it and it is small and white-violet and has gremlin ears. I fed it Bon Bons once. I take that person’s actions as a hint and because of that I speak to no one. He is beautiful, though you might not think so. There is something circular about him, like moths fluttering in the clear Arizona night. And I know we will meet. It will come easy and soon. And my resentment — my terrified, futile resentment — will float away. I write another note after dinner. He must know it is me. I know his brand of cigarette. I saw him buy a Richard and Linda Thompson tape in town once. I was standing, looking through a bin I didn’t care about, and he didn’t notice me. I listened to them in high school. When Linda and Richard were still together. They broke up, like John and Exene, like Tina and Ike, Sid and Nancy, Christie and Ray. That will not happen to me. His name is a word on top of a page and it signifies a poem started, stated, started but unfinished since the typewriter will not type anymore. I kiss my hand and smell it and smell him, oh I pretend it is his scent. His. His. I don’t dare go to his house or pass his room. I will walk by him and not even look. I will pass him in the dining hall with a nonchalance that shocks even me.