Out of Whack (12 page)

“Party Animal Seth”

       A group of about ten of us walked through campus, led by Mick, whose libido was a few steps ahead of him, running in circles and barking loudly. You’d think my stomach would have felt like it was wringing itself out, but really, I wasn’t all that nervous. Because, let’s face it, despite what Mick said, I knew I wasn’t heading for some two-drink-minimum orgy. That kind of stuff just didn’t happen.

       The sorority was on the opposite end of campus, and as we got closer, the music got louder. It was clearly a live band, which seemed to be doing a heavy metal rendition of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” that included a line about being bitch-slapped.

       When we reached the sorority house, there was a huge crowd of people outside, drinking and smoking and, I assume, having serious academic discussions (this
was
college, after all). The live band consisted of three scary-looking guys with their instruments set up on the grass. The lead singer finished the song with an aesthetically pleasing screech, then grabbed his crotch and gave it a hearty tug. It stayed in its new location, which I found a bit discomforting.

       Mick flapped his arms and rushed into the fray, screaming “PARTY ‘TILL YOU’RE PUTRID!” The rest of us made a less hyperactive entry into the crowd. There were no unconscious bodies to step over, so the party clearly was just beginning.

       As we navigated the perimeter, I noticed that very few of the partiers looked like our caste of loser freshmen. “You think we’re crashing this?” I asked Travis. Actually, to compete with the music it came out more like “YOU THINK WE’RE CRASHING THIS?!?”

       “PROBABLY!!!” he replied.

       “COOL!!!” I said.

       We made it to the front of the sorority house, where a guy in Mickey Mouse ears and a chef’s apron was standing in front of an immense cooler. “You!” he said, pointing at me. “I see no beer in your hand! That is bad!”

       I didn’t think it was all that bad, because I absolutely loathe the taste of alcohol. I’ve never been drunk. It’s not hangovers, or memory blackouts, or the fear that I might end up like this guy I knew in high school who got amazingly intoxicated one winter and tried to eat an entire snowman—it’s the taste. I hate it. Despise it. Gag me with a spoon.

       (Yes, I actually put “gag me with a spoon” into this book. No, I have no shame.)

       The guy thrust a beer into my hand. “You!” he said to Travis. “I see no beer in your hand! That is bad!” He rectified the foul situation, then repeated the procedure with each of the seven other members of our group. I don’t know my beers very well, but I figured that this was not a top-notch brand, since the can was blank save for the word “beer.” And “beer” was mostly worn off.

       A few of the other Tanglewood inmates began to mingle, while Travis, myself, and a couple of other freshmen moved to an area where we could lean against the building. Travis pulled the tab off his beer.

       “There doesn’t seem to be any fizz,” he said. He tilted the can a bit. “And it’s
thick.”

       The rest of us opened our beers, and yes, they all had a syrup-like consistency.

       “Oh well, it’s free,” said one of the inmates, Dominick, taking a big swig. We all watched for his reaction. “Oh, God,” he moaned, after the coughing fit subsided. “That’s worse than the time I got my nose stuck to the rubber cement tube!”

       “I think I’ll teetotal for the night,” Travis said.

       “I’ll join you,” said another inmate, Robert, taking a whiff of the liquid. “Whoa! That’ll clear your sinuses out like battery acid!”

       We stood there for a few minutes, just leaning against the building, trying to look cool with our beers. I wanted to look even cooler by swaying to the musical beat, but with what was playing I would have appeared to be having an epileptic fit.

       After the few minutes were up, there was a general consensus that we probably didn’t look all that cool. Travis and the other inmates made their way into the main flow of the partiers. I would have followed had I not promptly collided with the most gorgeous hunk of femininity I’d ever seen.

       Even the slimy beer I spilled all over her blouse didn’t detract from her beauty. I had a moment of sheer terror, thinking that maybe the beer was going to eat right through her skin like the creature’s acid blood in
Alien.
My instinct was to rip off her blouse to save her life, but a little bird told me that my action would be taken the wrong way.

       “You stupid jerk!” shouted the woman of my dreams.

       She was truly a sight to behold. She had black hair that spilled over her shoulders as her tiger eyes shone with a beautiful fury. Her slender fingers were curled into the most attractive fists I had ever seen. Those lips, pressed together in a glorious pissed-off expression, made my heart race.

       “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she exclaimed. Her voice was like heavenly music.

       I pried my eyes away from her long enough to check for Travis, but he was gone. Though the bonds of loyalty may be strong between two best friends, they don’t include sticking around to share in the shame when one of you has made a complete jackass out of himself.

       “I’m really sorry,” I said, lamely.

       “Good. I’m glad you’re sorry. You standing there being sorry is
much
more productive than getting me something to clean this up with.”

       In a perfect world, I would have ripped my own shirt from my chest, revealing rippling, glistening muscles that would have filled her with a ravenous passion. In the real world, I proceeded to bumble around in search of a towel or napkins.

       There were, of course, none to be found outside. “Go inside,” she said, as if speaking to a very young, very dumb child. “Get a towel. Once you’ve done that, bring me this towel so that I don’t have to stand here like a moron.”

       “Yes, ma’am,” I said with genuine humility.

       I walked around the sorority house to the front door. I went inside, walked past a staircase, and found myself in a TV room. Two girls were in there, watching a stand-up comedian share his hilarious views on how bad the food is on airplanes.

       “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for a towel.”

       “We don’t keep towels in this sorority,” the first girl informed me.

       “What about some napkins?”

       “No napkins either,” said the second girl.

       “Where’s the bathroom? I’ll just use toilet paper.”

       “No bathrooms.”

       “What?”

       “No bathrooms,” the second girl repeated. “We have nothing to hide from each other.”

       I stared at them for a moment, incredulous.

       “We’re only kidding,” the first girl assured me. “You really should lighten up.”

       I forced a smile. “Lightening-up isn’t on tonight’s schedule of events. But if I got a towel or something I could at least get out of total panic mode.”

       “The laundry room is right across the hall,” said the second girl. “Someone’s left a load in the dryer for the past couple hours. You can probably find a towel in there.”

       “Thanks,” I said, hurrying across the hall. The moral dilemma of smearing somebody’s clean towel with the vile beer didn’t even occur to me. I opened the one dryer that wasn’t currently in operation, quickly searched through the contents, and found a bright orange towel. I rushed out of the building, immediately colliding with my beer-splattered beauty and knocking her to the ground.

       “Ow! My ankle!” she cried out.

       I reached down to help her, but she slapped my hand away. “Don’t touch me!” she said. “Your stupidity might be contagious!”

       She got to her feet, her left leg wobbling just a bit. I held out the towel, which she grabbed out of my hand and pressed against her blouse.

       “I’m sorry,” I said.

       “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to be an idiot?”

       “I’m really, really sorry.” Since I wasn’t exactly overflowing with dignity at this point, there was no reason not to grovel. “I’ll pay to have the blouse cleaned if you want. Or I’ll wash it myself in a demeaning fashion of your choice.”

       She was silent for a moment. “That’s okay,” she said, appearing to have lost a small chunk of her anger. “You’re plenty demeaned enough.”

       I chuckled good-naturedly. “By the way, I’m Seth.”

       “Don’t assume that just because I’ve stopped yelling at you I want to get to know you better.”

       “Sorry.”

       “Say you’re sorry one more time and gain a nostril.”

       I checked my watch. “I think it’s time for me to go somewhere that isn’t here.”

       “Good idea.”

       I left her and wandered around for a couple of minutes until I located Travis. He winked and gave me the thumbs-up sign.

       “She wants you.”

       “Shut up, Travis.”

       “No, really. I moved as far away from you as possible, and I could still sense it.”

       “Shut up, Travis.”

       “Seriously. I could feel the boiling waves of heat coming from her sensuous body. It’s like she had a flame-thrower between her legs.”

       “Shut up, Travis.”

       He grinned. “At least you got rid of the beer. Making yourself look like a jerk does have some benefits.” I decided a change of subject was in order. “You think Mick has arranged a
ménage a quatro
yet?”

       “Don’t change the subject,” Travis said. “I saw the way you were looking at her. And she’s your type. You should have turned your incompetence to your advantage and gotten her phone number.”

       “How do you know she’s my type?”

       Travis began to count on his fingers. “Brunette. Slender build. Colored eyes. Dominatrix. Decent-sized—”

       “Remember me telling you to shut up?”

       “Okay, all kidding aside, she’s your type, Seth. You know it and I know it.”

       “I don’t know anything! All she did was yell at me!”

       “Well, yeah, if you want to get into
personality...”

       Sometimes the whole idea of friendship seems stupid.

       “I’m going back to the dorm,” I said. “I’d rather hang around Tanglewood than here. Which is a heart attack concept.”

       “Oh, come on,” said Travis. “You need to lighten up.”

       “I’m not going to lighten up tonight, and that’s final!”

       “Okay, okay. Did you even get her name?”

       “No.”

       Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and faced a tall, well-built irate-looking guy. “Are you the asshole who spilled beer on Laura?” he asked.

       Oh, Laura, what a beautiful name for such a beautiful woman...

       “Yes, I’m that asshole,” I admitted.

       “Do you realize that you stole my girlfriend’s towel?”

       I ran.      

“Let’s Get Oriented”

       “Hello?”

       “Is this Seth Trepler?”

       “Yeah.”

       “Hi, Mike Garrett,
Gleefully Disturbed.
How are you doing?”

       “Pretty good.”

       “Listen, I’m on a stolen calling card, so I can’t talk for long, but I have some news. I made all those changes we discussed last time, and I just finished the layout of the November issue.”

       “Cool. I can’t wait to see it.”

       “Well, that’s the thing. Money has been kind of tight around here, and these jerk-offs keep calling saying ‘We’re gonna shut off your electricity! We’re gonna shut off your electricity!’ like they think I’m gonna give them money or something. It’s bad enough that they shut off my water. Shit, the way things are going, pretty soon I won’t be able to pay for cable, either.”

       “Times are tough.”

       “Yeah, they sure are. Release a worldwide nerve gas, that’s what I say. Anyway, I know how much you and the other contributors were looking forward to seeing your stories in print, so I figured I’d call and ask for a couple hundred dollars from each of you. That’ll get the November issue published, and we’ll worry about the February issue when the time comes.”

       Long pause.

       “Seth, are you still there?”

       “I’m still here.”

       “What do you think?”

       “I really don’t have any extra money right now.”

       “Shit, that’s what everyone else says. You’d think I bought stories from a bunch of goddamned vagrants. Come on, man, why won’t you help me out?”