Luci turned back to my captor, “Let him go.” Suddenly, my arms were free. I quickly turned to the guy who’d been holding me captive. He backed up in a hurry, already five paces away from me. I looked at Luci in amazement, crossing the distance between us quickly to put him between our attackers and me. Eye makeup and skirts and a girl’s name masked Luci’s masculinity. This guy was like Bruce Lee.
The fraternity brothers were in varied positions of defeat. The linebacker who’d started it all was on his knees staring at Luci, though still unable, or unwilling, to stand up. Another lay on the ground curled up in pain. The fraternity brothers who remained standing had fearful, confused looks on their faces. All eyes were on Luci, their sense of reality thrown into turmoil. The look on Izzy’s face was unreadable. I couldn’t tell if she was angry with me for starting the whole debacle, or if she was angry with the fraternity brothers for acting like such ignorant creatures. Or maybe she was proud of Luci for taking care of business.
Luci took a step toward the guy laid out on the ground. The rest of the guys warily moved back. He leaned over and picked the guy up from the ground, helping him to the door frame and leaning him upright. Then Luci turned away, showing them he was fearless, and walked over to Izzy and me. He stopped a few steps before us and turned around. “Don’t mess with something you don’t understand. The trouble you get into will be inversely proportional to your lack of wisdom.”
Wordlessly, we turned our backs on the warehouse and walked the way we’d come. Izzy placed her hand on the back of Luci’s neck, caressing him affectionately. We walked along silently, lost in our own thoughts. I later discovered that Luci had been studying kung fu since he was a young boy and had, at the time I met him, already earned the title of master.
“Jon, you need to remember something. There will always be people out there who don’t like you. And they don’t know why. You have to let them discover why on their own. You can’t shove it down their throats.”
I was being reproved, though far more gently than how the bigoted ignoramuses had been. I glanced over at Luci sheepishly and apologized. “Thanks for saving my ass.”
Always generous, Luci said, “I didn’t save your ass. You could have handled those guys. It just might have taken longer.”
Izzy turned her beautiful, green elven eyes on me. “Thanks for standing up for us.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek.
I remember feeling one of the proudest moments in my life after hearing those words. I had new friends, and I’d shown them that they could count on me. We strolled through town back to my place. I have always remembered that night clearly. The moon was hanging low in the sky, guiding us home. As we walked, we lit another joint and talked about life and our dreams, about our favorite music and favorite books, and what we loved to do when we didn’t have anything to do.
Over the next many years, Luci took me on as his student and taught me his martial arts. An expert I would never be, but over time, I learned to hold my own. Throughout college and after, whenever something really good or really bad happened, Luci was my go-to guy, Izzy even more so, depending on the topic. My first two years in Los Angeles were probably my loneliest years there. I was busy with work, having no trouble taking my Love Story business to the next level, but without Luci and Izzy, I felt like a piece of my life was missing. The happiest day in my adult life was when Luci called and told me that Izzy had decided to do her residency at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to tell you about Jennifer too. In an ironic, perverted twist of logic, you could say Jennifer put me on my professional path as the purveyor of Love Stories.
JENNIFER BREAKER
College was expensive, and I was on a full academic scholarship, one key reason I never felt like I fit in. I didn’t have the money most of my fellow students had, or more accurately, their families had. I entered the school feeling like an outsider, and this feeling grew with each passing semester. My disaffection with the whole institution and its inhabitants—both students and professors—mounted each year, while at the same time my friendship with Luci grew. I spent more and more time off-campus, an unusual habit for a student attending a school with such a small, insular population. But in the fall semester of my junior year, I met Jennifer Breaker in an upper-level anthropology course, which was my major and an area of study for which I was a shoo-in to receive departmental honors when I graduated. She clearly had a chip on her shoulder about life in general and her parents specifically. She did her best not to fit in, and dating me worked perfectly. I was madly in love with her. She was upper middle class, on partial scholarship, smart, and with an off-center attractiveness. There is no need here to describe the ups and downs of our relationship, but it is important to point out that it lasted exactly one year, literally. On our first anniversary, when all I could think about was what we’d be doing at the end of the evening, Jennifer was in a completely different frame of mind, and body. I thought things were going great. She didn’t. Apparently, a recurring pattern in my life.
On that fateful night, Jennifer told me she was having personal problems, she needed some space. I couldn’t understand what personal issues she was talking about because I knew all about her personal life. We were in college, we spent almost all our time together, and we had even decided to take another anthropology course together. But she said she needed more space than she could find within the bounds of a relationship.
“It’s not you, Jon. It’s me,” she said with a sad frown and a tear in her eye.
So on the night of our anniversary, I became a blubbering idiot, saying all kinds of overly dramatic things like, “God, I love you so much, I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” and “I’ve never held someone’s hand the way I’ve held yours,” and “You are the most special person I’ve ever been with, I’ll be lost without you.” But the capper, said in my attempt to be a bigger man than I truly was, dribbled out of my mouth. “If this is what you want and what you need for your own personhood, then I want this too because I want what you want. I want what’s best for you.”
At the time, I meant every word I said. At least I wanted to believe I did. I knew that last bit was a load of crap, but it sounded good. I was trying a weak attempt at reverse psychology, which failed miserably. What I really wanted was for her to shut up, stop saying the things she was saying, and have sex with me. Instead, she said, “Jon, are you okay with this? I know you’re super sensitive and tend to blow everything out of proportion.”
That one hit so close to home I got defensive, but I knew I couldn’t show it. I had to be careful. I looked into her eyes with all the sincerity I could muster and said, “I truly want whatever is going to make you happy.” A look of guilt and relief crossed Jennifer’s face, and then it was gone, covered with sadness. Suddenly, I wondered if there was more to this than she was admitting. Was there somebody else? So I asked.
“Jon, c’mon. Look at me. I love you. This doesn’t have to do with anybody else. I just need space. I have a lot going on personally in my head.” What was she talking about? This was the first I’d heard about stuff going on in her head. “Well, you know, with my parents and everything.” Her parents had been divorced five years. “And I just feel like I can’t give you what you need right now.” I could not understand what she was talking about. Mostly what I needed was sex. It wasn’t that complicated.
But Jennifer was intractable, and nothing I said could change her mind, so we broke up. On our anniversary. I spent the rest of the week going to classes like a zombie. On Friday, we shared Anthropology Theory class with Professor Benedict, one of the few professors I actually admired. I got to class late and sat in the front row. She gave me a sympathetic, pained smile from the second row as I walked into the room. My return smile was a failed imitation.
Dr. Benedict patted me on the back as I passed him on my way to my seat. “How you doing, Fixx?”
I nodded to him. I’d taken other classes with Benedict, liking him so much that I picked him to be my advisor. Benedict was in his early thirties, very bright—and cocky—but an atypical professor, nonetheless. He was handsome, charming, and had a loose teaching style. Many of the co-eds had crushes on him. I’d heard stories but I didn’t much care, because his classes were some of my favorite. I listened to Dr. Benedict’s lecture and heard nothing he said. I could feel Jennifer’s presence on my skin. The minutes ticked interminably by on the clock hanging high up in the front of the room. Class was ninety minutes long, and I felt every one of them. Inadvertently, I would glance over my shoulder at Jennifer, who seemed completely rapt with Benedict’s lecture on the development of anthropological theory in the early twentieth century, fully engaged, taking notes, intently listening. I was overcome with the urge to scream at the students sitting there, at Jennifer, at Benedict. They all looked so smug and content hiding in this little cocoon of costly higher education.
“Jon, you have a question?” Dr. Benedict was staring at me. He’d stopped talking. The rest of the class had their eyes on me as well. I realized I was standing up. My urge to scream had propelled me out of my seat. “Uh, no, no. Just stretching. Sorry, Dr. Benedict.”
I sat down, embarrassed, frustrated, overwhelmed. I ducked low in my seat, staring straight ahead, keeping my focus on the front blackboard as best I could and off the woman one row back and four seats over who was creating an emotional storm inside me. I didn’t really know how to behave. Jennifer and I were no longer together, no longer a couple, but we were sitting twenty feet apart in a classroom we would share for the rest of the semester—eight more weeks! The thought of it made me sick to my stomach.
Then I heard a rustling behind me. The students were packing away their notes and books, getting ready to move on. I looked up at the clock: 10:20 a.m. Class was over. Benedict wrapped up his lecture, leaving us with a question for the next class. Students headed out the door. I didn’t move. If I left first and didn’t say goodbye to Jennifer, then I’d feel like the bad guy, but if I waited for her to leave and she left without saying goodbye, I’d feel like crap. So I did nothing. I left the decision in Jennifer’s lap.
“Jon.”
I looked up from my backpack. She was standing beside me, her voice dripping with sympathy. What did that mean? That she felt sorry for me? That she wasn’t having any trouble with this?
“Hi.”
“How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. The final few students filed out of the classroom. Dr. Benedict was just finishing packing up his briefcase. He looked up at me from the front of the room.
“Jon, we still on for tomorrow to discuss your thesis?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Look forward to it. Bye, Jen.”
Jennifer smiled and waved to him. “Bye, Professor Benedict,” she tittered, the sympathetic tone gone completely for a moment. Then she turned back to me, the brief smile replaced with a sad frown. “I just wanted to say ‘hi.’ Hi.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry about all this, Jon.”
I nodded, looking out the window for fear my emotions might take over and I would either start to cry or grab her by the neck and throttle her right there in the classroom. I stared at the East Coast autumn, trees with leaves of deep reds and light purples and soft greens visible beyond the window frame.
“Well, I’m going to go now. I have to get to my next class.”
I nodded without looking at her. She turned her back to me, walking toward the door, but hesitated after three steps and looked back over her shoulder. I gazed out the window. She sighed and turned away from me. As she reached the doorway, the urge to speak to her was so strong, I couldn’t stop myself.
“Jennifer.”
She stopped in the doorway and turned to me. “Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
She smiled sadly. “I’m okay.”
The smile made my heart skip. “Good. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” I nodded uncomfortably, indicating I didn’t have much else to say. Jennifer stood silently in the doorframe for another moment. I shrugged my shoulders, trying to get comfortable with my body, still unclear how to act. Jennifer realized I had nothing more to add, so without another word between us, she left.
“Bye, Jennifer,” I muttered.
I remained in my chair at the front of the lecture hall. I stared at the large oak tree outside the window, the first leaves of winter dropping before my eyes to the ground. Lost in my reverie, I missed the students entering for the next class, and before I knew it, I was listening to a lecture on the history of modern dance in the United States with the focus that day on Twyla Tharp. Unwilling to bring attention to myself, I sat through the class, feigning note taking. The only fact I took from the class was that Twyla Tharp, a dancer and choreographer, had written and published two books, one her autobiography, the other a guide on living the creative life. “If Twyla Tharp can get published,” I muttered, “so can I.” By that point, I’d been working on my first novel since the summer before entering college, figuring I should be able to finish it once all this college work was out of the way. I was hoping to be like Brett Easton Ellis, but at the rate I was going, it looked like I was going to be the next Jon Nobody.
When class ended, I unobtrusively made my escape and wandered off campus down the small city street to my apartment. As a senior, I had the luxury of being able to live off-campus and I much preferred it. I lived in a one-bedroom conversion above a garage that I’d found for cheap in the back of a four-unit apartment building. It was far less than I would have paid for campus housing, and the location was private, so it worked for me. The garage backed up to a junior high school parking lot cum playground. My day from 8:10 a.m. to 3:10 p.m. was defined by the bell system of the junior high’s class schedule.
Arriving at the front of the fourplex, I took a look up and down the street. An occasional car passed in both directions. I looked at my watch. It was almost noon. Other students filtered down the street, ostensibly heading for their domiciles and lunch. I looked up at the sky, blue as could be, the temperature moderate, somewhere in the high sixties, a beautiful East Coast October day, but I felt empty and lost. I crossed the backyard and climbed the stairs to my small apartment. Once inside, I grabbed a beer from the fridge, dropped on the couch, and started drinking, doing my best to think about nothing.
But Jennifer’s face kept crossing my mental screen no matter how hard I tried not to think about her. At some point, I passed out, many beers already down my throat. I woke with a start. I must have been asleep for hours, because it was almost dark outside. My reality quickly jumped to the foreground of my thoughts as I stared at the ceiling, Jennifer’s face etched across the smooth surface. Hoping to distract myself, even though I could tell I was still inebriated, I grabbed a rolled joint from the kitchen drawer where I stashed them, and lit up. I tried to relax as the joint slowly burned away, but it was all to no avail. My head began to spin.
What was she doing at that very moment? We often spent Friday nights at her apartment, watching movies. Like me, she didn’t like going to parties; she felt they were juvenile. Like me, she was not a big fan of the college drink fests. Her schoolwork came first and everything else came second. Including me now, I guess. Overcome with a wave of loneliness, I moved over to my bed, staring at the ceiling as the fullness of the evening darkness filled my room. Luci was visiting Izzy in Philly, so I couldn’t call him for emotional support. My digital clock across the room read 8:42 p.m. I knew there was only one salve for my loneliness. Jennifer.
In short order, I logically convinced myself that Jennifer missed me, that even if she wanted to remain broken up she’d be happy to see me. She was probably at home right now mooning around in her room just like I was.
Once the idea entered my mind, the decision to go was a fait accompli. It would have taken gargantuan self-discipline on my part to take a contrary action. I was craving a fix, and Jennifer’s face was both the drug and the antidote. With purpose, I threw my jacket over my shoulders and headed out the door. I crossed the yard to the alley. I could hear an amalgam of male and female voices coming from one of the apartments above, music underlying the chatter. I walked down the alley at a brisk pace, turning the corner at the front of the house, heading east. There was a slight chill in the air. I shuddered, the cold seeping under my skin, my drunken high not keeping me as warm as I expected. I was shivering and moving a little faster with a slight sway to my stride. Jennifer lived six blocks down and four blocks over, ten minutes at best. I covered the first few blocks at a fast clip, slowing down as I got closer, suddenly reconsidering my approach. What if she didn’t want to see me? What if she told me she wanted to date other people? What if. . . ? I came within a block of her apartment duplex.
I kicked the negative thoughts out of my head. Of course she’d be glad to see me. She might be mad at first, but that would change once we started talking. I took a deep breath and walked the length of the last block, passing the duplex and fourplex apartments lining the street. I stopped in front of the light blue, East Coast traditional that was Jennifer’s. She lived in the four-bedroom unit on the first floor with three roommates. The second story was an identical unit, also full of students. The house was dark and the lights out. Obviously no one was there.
Jennifer was not home.
Doubt crept into my mind. I walked around to the side walkway between the houses and crossed down the middle. Over the last year, I had developed a habit of climbing into Jennifer’s bedroom through her window so I wouldn’t disturb her roommates’ rabid reality television viewing. They were usually sprawled out in the communal living room, watching TV, and I had to cross in front of them to get to Jennifer’s room. Over time, I stopped using the front door altogether. Jennifer left the window unlocked, so I never had trouble getting in.
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