The Rules of Attraction (5 page)

Dinner again and I’m sitting with the usual crew: Tony, Norris, Tim, Getch. The goddamn House Pigs, our house band, woke me up at four this afternoon, rehearsing above my room. I took a shower, aware when I was blow-drying my hair that I missed two classes today and that I have to find a major before the end of the month. I paced the room, smoking, listening to old Velvet Underground hoping it would drown the House Pigs out, until it was time for dinner. They were still playing when I left for Commons.

Jason was serving and I told him I talked to Rupert and that I could get him the four grams by tomorrow night, but that he should take his sunglasses off because they make him look too suspicious. He only smiled and gave me an extra slab of meat, or turkey, or pork or whatever the hell it was he was serving, which was cool considering, I guess. So, I’m looking at that girl, wondering if she’s the one who’s been putting those notes in my box and I get excited—even if it’s not her. But then her fat friend says something to her and they both look at our table and I look down and pretend to eat. I think she’s a Sophomore and I’m pretty sure she lives in Swan but I’m not going to ask anyone at this table. I don’t want to take the fun out of the pursuit. Tim’s a bonehead for getting Sara pregnant and he doesn’t care. I screwed Sara a couple of times my second year. In fact most of the guys at the table had. It seemed almost like a
joke that Tim just got stuck with the short end of the stick, the deal. But no one’s too upset or morose about the whole thing. Even Tim makes jokes about it.

“So many girls are having them there might as well be a CWS job for it,” he laughs.

“I’d seriously do it for fifty bucks,” says Tony.

Getch is playing with an Etch-a-Sketch and says, “Gross man. That is just gross.”

“Are you talking about the food or the abortion jokes?” I ask.

Tony explains: “Drano in a Water Pik.”

Getch says, “Great, we’re making jokes about it.”

“Come on,” I tell Getch. “Cheer up.”

“Why aren’t you upset, man?” Getch asks Tim, staring at him in a way only a Social Science major could.

“Look,” says Tim. “I’ve been through this shit so many times before, it doesn’t even faze me.”

Getch nods, but looks like he doesn’t really understand, but he shuts up, and looks back at the Etch-a-Sketch.

“How do you know it’s even yours?” asks Tony, who just came back from a student council meeting, stoned.

“I know,” Tim says, like he’s proud of being so confident.

“But how do you
know?
The bitch could be fucking you over,” says Tony, a big help.

“You can
tell,
” says Tim. “You can look at her and just know she’s not lying.”

No one says anything.

“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.

PAUL
I tried to talk to Mitchell at the party at End of the World tonight. He was standing by the keg filling a plastic cup. I already had a beer and was standing alone, where The Graveyard started. I poured the beer out and walked over to the keg. “Hi, Mitch,” I said. It was cold and my breath steamed. “What’s going on?”

“Hi, Paul. Nothing much.” He was filling two cups. Couldn’t the helpless bitch get her own fucking beer? “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. Can we talk?” I took the tap from him.

He stood there holding the two beers.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked with that famous blank stare.

“Just about what’s going on,” I said, concentrating on the beer and foam coming out of the tap. A girl came by and waited. I gave her a look but she wasn’t looking at me, only at my hands, impatiently.

“I warned you, Paul. Remember that,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah, I know,” I said and laughed quickly. My cup wasn’t even half-full but I handed the girl the tap anyway. “Wait, you warned me about what?” I asked. I could see Candice standing by the edge of End of the World, behind her and down, the Valley of Camden, lights in the town. I didn’t understand how he could prefer
that
because Mitchell was, admittedly, too good-looking for her. It was beyond my comprehension. I took a gulp of beer.

“I
warned
you.” He started walking.

“Wait.” I followed him. He stopped by one of the speakers. The Pretenders were coming loudly from them. A small group of people were dancing. He said something I couldn’t hear. I knew what he was going to say, but I didn’t think he had the nerve to say it. Had I been warned? Probably, but not in any verbal way. In the way he would recoil if I touched him in public or after he came. Or if I bought him a beer at The Pub and the way he would throw a fit and tell me that he’d pay for it and push a dollar across the table. How all he would talk about was wanting to go to Europe, take a term off, and then how he would always
add, stress,
alone.
I
had
been warned and I hated to admit it to myself. But I followed him over to where Candice stood anyway. He gave her the beer. She looked so trashy or maybe she looked pretty and I was having a hard time accepting this. Mitchell was wearing a T-shirt (was it one of mine? probably) and an Eddie Bauer sweater and he scratched at his neck nervously.

“You two know each other?” he asked.

“Yeah, hi,” she smiled and he held her beer while she lit a cigarette.

“Hi,” I smiled, genial as ever. Then threw her a severe look when she wasn’t looking, hoping that Mitchell would catch it, but he didn’t.