Single White Failure

by G. J. H. Sibson

  What am I to do? I feel like everyone is watching me – even Jeanie on the end of the phone. I’m sure I can hear her whine cry out, ‘Has he kissed you yet, has he, has he?’

  The pressure is ridiculous. It was so out of the blue and so damned unfair. I need a while to psyche myself up to that sort of thing, at least two hours of inane chatter, a quart of brandy, six Stellas and some Barry White before I remotely have the courage. I look at Raj. He’s looking at me with that face that says, ‘What are you waiting for you friggin’ Muppet, snog her now or I’ll do it for you!’ I look back at Vanessa. Then back to Raj. I do this another two times before I get a grip of myself. I lean in. The spectators draw breath, including Jeanie. We lock lips. My left hand goes to explore her bottom, after a few seconds my right one joins in. She tastes great and smells even better. She gets into it immediately. It might be Hollywood territory, and I don’t know if that had an effect on me, but this is the nearest thing to an onscreen kiss I have ever experienced (perhaps apart from the Brazilian). Everyone else around us are extras, the camera pans around us. It’s the kiss at the end of Four Weddings without the rain and the corny line. Then it steps up a notch and becomes a little more erotic, as kisses go.

  As an Englishman such a kiss would be the precursor to an invite back to the girl’s apartment for more of the same, and some on top – her preferably. But we forget that different countries have different cultures, with different mating rituals. It was unusual that Vanessa had asked me to kiss her in the first place. For me to force the hand and push for me to go back to her place, would be as warmly received there as Buck’s arse slapping technique would be received in the UK. The irony is that you get to sleep with the British girls, but it doesn’t matter how many Californian rumps you brand with the palm of your hand, there’s no going past first base for at least a month! You think Catholic Europeans have a bad reputation (or good depending on how you look at it) of not putting out, well they have nothing on the Californians.

  Although we didn’t know it then, that was the most action we would see in the Sunshine State. I left Vanessa in the club, with a large black guy who looked suspiciously like a minder. Vanessa – my one fond memory of Californian women. But at the time we hoped that it was just the start of better things to come. We should have thrown in our chips and left happy. More importantly, we should have known that the bank always wins.

  The next fortnight is spent frequenting student bars in places like San Luis Obispo. San Luis has a student population of 30,000 – if anywhere is going to have great parties, teeming with girls, this is going to be it. Our timing is impeccable, we arrive in the town during WOW week. WOW week stands for Week Of Welcome – or, in English, Freshers’ Week.

  Seeing the banners, welcoming the new students, draped high across the streets, sends an excitement through our veins. It’s hot, the pavements – sorry sidewalks – are full of students drinking smoothies in their Abercrombie & Fitch baggies. The girls are in hot pants or small gym skirts, finished off with a thoughtful bikini top. This place is like the town in Back to the Future. In fact, I’m sure I just saw Marty fly past on his skateboard, holding onto the rear bumper of an SUV. Having driven through the main drag we get directions to the college campus, from a girl who looks distinctly like Buffy. Heading away from the town centre, into the hills on the outskirts, we find the illustrious University of California Polytechnic, otherwise known affectionately to its members as Cal Poly.

  Raj and I cruise through the main drag of the college. It really is like any American high school that you have seen on TV. I thought they were just clichés; the yank equivalent to undergraduates on bicycles wearing gowns, negotiating narrow, cobbled streets in a city of spires. Nope, it really is like that.

  As we slow down, nearing a bend, we let a group of girls jog across the road, in front of us. A group of 20 19-year-olds, who are clearly part of some running club. Every single one of them has a ‘right tidy little figure’, as a Welsh friend of mine would say. Tanned, lithe and firm bodies. You would never see a group of girls like that at a British university, they’d be swilling pints of Fosters in the Student Union bar. And then, as if to complete the picture, a girl carrying a pair of pom-poms walks past us, on the other side of the road. She is kitted out in the full cheerleader get-up. Raj can’t believe his eyes. He winds down the window, and without a care in the world yells out, ‘Hey love,’ with his usual aplomb. She stops and looks over in our direction, with that ‘what me?’ look. And as if to answer Raj shouts back, ‘Yeah, you. Are you a cheerleader?’

  The poor girl looks confused. Possibly because it’s a man with brown skin who has what sounds distinctively like a British (or Australian) accent, and why is he asking such an obvious question?

  ‘Well, er, yeah I am. Say, are you guys Australian?’

  Instead of correcting her, politely, Raj screams back, ‘Wow, I’ve never seen a real-life cheerleader.’

  The poor girl goes the same colour as her pom-poms; being crimson.

  In short, San Luis promises great things. It is not long before we have ingratiated ourselves with the undergraduate student body. We have informed them that we are on an exchange from an English university. We aren’t here to take classes for a semester, or anything straightforward like that, oh no, we are here to set up an exchange between our two academic institutions. We soon realise that, as two British guys, we are somewhat of a novelty in San Luis. Within the first few hours on campus the frat guys have invited us to a couple of house parties.

  You see, the fraternities are in the throws of their pledge week. During this one week period, the new male freshers go through a strenuous selection and initiation process, in order to join one of the coveted Frat houses. Part of this process incorporates some serious private house or keg parties – so called because of the essential ingredient of a keg of your finest West American gnat’s piss.

  Our first keg party is that night, at the Phi Alpha Gamma frat house. But it’s only two in the afternoon, and we have been assured that the party won’t be ‘kicking’ until around eleven. Thankfully we have arranged to meet Sara-Jane at seven.

  Sara-Jane, or SJ, as she apparently likes to be called, is a friend of a friend. When we decided to come out to California, Dirty had told us that he has a friend in San Luis, and that if we should stop there, we should call her up. He assured us that she is a great girl, a lot of fun to hang out with, and that she would undoubtedly be happy to show us around. If we are lucky, we will meet all her cracking friends to boot. Well, who could refuse such a thoughtful invitation? So we had called SJ as soon as we knew we were on our way to San Luis. When I spoke to her, from a roadside service station in Big Sur, she had told us to meet her on Friday night at the English pub, called the Frog and Peach.

  SJ has that very alluring all-Californian accent. It really does evoke images of Baywatch lifeguards. I had Raj putting his ear next to the receiver, straining to hear her voice.

  ‘She sounds like a right fitty,’ he deduced, from the snippets he managed to catch. He’s right though, she does sound lovely. It sounds stupid, but I already find her attractive, her accent just does it for me. And she has promised to bring one of her friends along, to make it a double date.

  It is just before seven and we are sitting at one of the bar-side tables in the Frog and Peach. The pub is empty apart from us, and some old guy with a droopy grey moustache sinking his beer at the bar. It’s an English pub but they haven’t heard of bitter, or ale for that matter, so we grab a couple of Buds. We can’t help but feel excited, this is going to be one of the big nights of our trip, if not the big night. We have a date with two Californian girls, and then for the latter part of the night we are heading to a college frat party. How much better can it get?

  It’s ten past seven. They’re running late, we check our watches. We’re nervous, but still on a high.

  ‘Man, I wonder if they’re both blonde?’ Raj moots.

  ‘Yeah, and if they have tanned bo
dies, like those girls in the jogging group from earlier?’

  ‘Or the cheerleader,’ we both gaze like idiots, remembering her exemplary figure.

  ‘Aww, don’t!’

  At that minute, there is a ‘holler’ from the entrance to the pub.

  ‘Hey boys! You must be Max and Raj!’ I recognise that same alluring voice, which now booms across the empty saloon. The owner of the voice, however, is not, it appears, so alluring. We look up to see a girl the size of Roseanne Barr, with eighties bouffant hair. I don’t know how she got through the door. It’s clearly the result of too many of those burritos, the ones that are the size of small children, which they are so fond of eating around here. Standing next to her is a girl of equal proportions with white blonde hair, not the nice kind, more the ‘death rock’ sort of blonde hair. She is pale and wearing black stonewashed jeans. I look at Raj, he has come over very ill looking – worried, disconcerted, pissed off – he seems to be displaying all these traits. We should have guessed that SJ would be one of Dirty’s usual swamp donkeys.

  ‘I’m SJ, great to meet you, at last.’ We shake hands. ‘This is my friend Lou,’ she introduces the pale girl, who has a high-pitched, chipmunk-like voice that could, and probably will, grate after a few minutes.

  We resume our seats while Raj gets some beers in.

  ‘So David told me all about you boys, old friends from college, right?’

  ‘That’s right, and how do you know Dirt…er, Dave again?,’ as if I have to ask.

  She goes a little red and, like an excitable sow, releases a terrifying giggle. ‘Well, I was over in the UK, on a college programme, like, and well we met at some bar in Piccadilly, I think,’ she explains.

  Chipmunk looks at her friend and they giggle in unison; she has clearly heard the full, gruesome details. In other words, Dirty had picked her up in Tiger Tiger, taken her home to his pad and shagged her senseless. Now I’m glad she’s unattractive, the idea of stirring Dirty’s porridge makes me nauseous.

  Before Raj returns, SJ moves around the table to sit next to me, forcing Raj to take a pew alongside Lou. We’ve been paired up already, it would seem. It’s not a good sign. I don’t think I have ever been happier to see Raj. Being left alone with these two, even for a few minutes, was too much. I note the fear in his face, again, as he sees the seating arrangement has been engineered. Divide and conquer.

  ‘Anyway, we were kinda thinking,’ says Lou, ‘we could go out for some food and then go dancing. You know if you boys haven’t got anywhere to stay, we have some couches at our place.’

  They smile, sweetly and almost innocently. And I believe they think that we might, actually, be tempted.

  All that Californians seem to do is eat. At baseball games, the cinema, shopping in the mall. These past times are all just vehicles to facilitate the mass consumption of vaguely edible shite. You would think that California, the Sunshine State, would have a Mediterranean diet of fresh fruit and lots of salads. You would be forgiven for having such preconceptions, but you would be wrong – it’s bubblegum ice cream, smoothies (devoid of any tracings of fruit, yet brimming with colourings and sugar), Tri Tip sandwiches (things the size of a ‘Scooby snack’ filled with leather-like steak) and coke served in German steins – don’t worry, sir, you get a free refill!

  The thought of more greasy food adds to our general malaise. And then dancing? Those two would clear the floor. The invitation to crash at their apartment is the proverbial straw that breaks this particular camel’s back. We have to extricate ourselves from this situation, and as soon as possible.

  ‘That sounds like an excellent idea,’ I lie.

  Raj looks at me with mortal fear and in utter disbelief. ‘But let’s go dancing for a bit first, build up an appetite, so to speak,’ I suggest.

  I give Raj that ‘trust me, I know what I’m doing look.’

  ‘Great,’ whoops SJ, she is all smiles, ‘we’ll finish our drinks and head over to The Graduate.’

  ‘How about Mother’s Tavern, I heard it has great music,’ I say.

  The two girls agree. We spend the next ten minutes finishing our beers and chatting about our trip and England and Dirty – the little shit.

  ‘Dude what on Earth are you thinking of?’ Raj whispers, with some force, in my ear, as we leave the Frog and Peach.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure him, ‘just follow my lead, okay?’ I can see he doesn’t look convinced.

  We cross the road and head into Mother’s. It’s early but, being WOW week, it’s heaving with undergrads. They’re not first years because, at eighteen, they aren’t old enough to have a drink. But these seniors are newly turned legal imbibers. At street level the bar is full of sweaty students, jumping around to house music. We follow the two girls up some stairs to the mezzanine bar. It’s also crammed, but these punters are all queuing for drinks, or standing around chatting to their mates. The twosome tell us to wait by the balustrade while they get the beers. We look down at the throng of dancers in the bar below, jumping together.

  I’m not proud of what I do next, but I have no choice. There are times to be a gentleman, and times to think of yours truly. This is an occasion for the latter. I see that the girls are almost at the bar. The queue is several people deep so they can’t really see Raj and I, even if they do look back for any reason. It has to be now.

  ‘Right mate, follow me!’ I yell at Raj, so he can hear me above the music.

  ‘Eh, what are you on about?’

  Idiot, he always was slow on the uptake.

  ‘Do you want to be dancing the fandango with Chipmunk over there for the rest of the night?’ I ask facetiously. ‘An evening of harpooning is certainly not on my agenda!’

  ‘No! Of course not.’

  ‘Then let’s get out of here!’ I shove my way past some of the revellers, without pausing to apologise. I get to the top of the stairs that lead down into the lower bar. I turn back to make sure Raj is behind me. He is at my heels, but I also see Lou look back from the bar and clock us.

  ‘Shit, hurry up, mate.’

  We make a quick descent down the stairs but we are slowed down as we hit the human wall of dancers. We prise our way through. Halfway into the sea of people we look up to see the two girls at the balustrade. They are holding four bottles of beer, and appear highly bemused. Finally, we pass out of sight, underneath the mezzanine floor. The crowd has thinned out and it’s easier to move through.

  ‘Where are we going Max?’ Raj shouts.

  ‘Well, I noticed earlier that this place has a rear exit. It takes us down Bubblegum Alley and onto Marsh Street.’ I can see the incomprehension on Raj’s face.

  ‘It’s where the car is parked!’

  His face lights up, ‘So what are we waiting for!’

  We burst out of the fire exit and into Bubblegum Alley (as gross as it sounds, it literally is an alley covered with thousands of bits of bubblegum – it looks like some Jackson Pollock creation). We pause to drink in the cool air. Running down the alley, taking care not to brush up against the gum-coated walls, we fall onto Marsh St. There she is, our Pontiac, waiting like a trusty steed.

  We speed off, thanking our stars for a lucky escape. We head uptown towards the college and the area known as Foothills, where all the frat houses are based. We get to the Phi Alpha Gamma house. It all looks pretty quiet. We park the car and saunter up to the front door of the frat house, which is guarded by two huge blokes. Jocks. They appear fairly stern, and not as if they are about to let us in. What is it about door men the world over, even if they’re only overweight 21-year-olds, who lost their last living brain cell on the football field. Bouncers are supposed to work in the entertainment industry, but they all seem bent on ruining your chances of enjoying yourself.

  ‘Yeah, whaddya want?’ the one on the left demands. He looks like a clean-shaven Desperate Dan.

  ‘We have been invited to the frat party tonight,’ Raj explains.

  ‘Hey, you are the English guys, righ
t?’ suddenly he has become as friendly as a cub scout on ‘bob-a-job’ day who has just been paid a tenner for washing someone’s car.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, over here on an exchange,’ I say, mildly convincingly.

  ‘Well, you boys go right on in, beer glass on the side, hit that keg, man!’

  We didn’t need to be told twice, not after our near miss with Dirty’s castoffs. We thank the two jocks and head inside. The frat house looks like any other suburban American house: single storey building with white wood façade and pitch roof. The only thing that sets it aside are the three-foot high Greek letters above the doorway – Phi Alpha Gamma. The dark hallway leads into a brighter lit lounge, where all the party goers are ‘hangin’.’ It’s far rowdier than a student house party back in Blighty, and that’s saying something. Old-school hip hop is playing and already some people are dancing around in the centre of the room.

  It’s only around nine, we thought we would be a bit early. The party is in full swing. In fact, it soon becomes apparent that they are all pissed. A small group of people are busying themselves in the corner of the room, near to the kitchen, like a small swarm of wasps around an open jar of strawberry jam. Once they have got their hands on their sticky bounty they get out the fray and head back into the room. The open jam jar is the keg; the beating heart of any college party. Collecting clean cups of our own from the sideboard we make our way to join the swarm. It’s not long before we catch sight of the tap. The guy in front is filling up his glass, for what looks like the eighth time.

  ‘Hey dudes, tuck in,’ he says as he turns around. ‘Man, aren’t you guys from England or something?’

  How he knows I’m not sure, I suppose we stick out like sore thumbs. Check – no one else is wearing shirts and slacks with leather shoes. All the other guys are in polyester sports tops, about three times too big for them, baseball caps, faded jeans of equal disproportion to the sports tops, and trainers… sorry, sneakers. It seems that everyone has heard about our arrival. I don’t think they can have many English people passing through this town.