Jon Fixx

by Jason Squire Fluck

  As I reached her window, my heart rate increased. I stepped off the path onto the large brick I’d placed there and reached up to the windowsill. I laid my hands on the bottom of the window, gripped, and pulled up. The window slid easily. I smiled, pleased with myself. I took this as a sign that Jennifer wanted me to do this. She’d intentionally left the window unlocked, hoping I’d come over.

  Quietly, I slipped inside and closed the window behind. I looked around her room. It looked exactly as it had when I’d last been there less than a week before. The vanity mirror and chair in the corner, the television on top of her tall dresser in the other corner, pink accents throughout, and a large four poster with a white bedspread and a bunch of extra-large pillows at the head of the bed. I stood still, taking it all in. I could smell the soft citrusy scent of Jennifer’s lotion. I closed the window and crossed over to the bed, taking a seat. I reached down and untied my shoelaces, setting my shoes on the floor beside the bed. I laid my head back on the pillows and tried to get comfortable. But I couldn’t do it. I felt uneasy, like an intruder. What if she came home and completely rejected me? But how was that possible? How could she do that, considering everything we had shared over the last year? Could a few days apart wipe away those feelings? I decided it wasn’t possible. I settled back in the pillows, only slightly satisfied with my thoughts, the uneasy feelings lingering. But as the minutes ticked by, my muscles relaxed and I was seduced by the soft feel of the bedspread coupled with the effects of the alcohol and marijuana in my body. I fell into an easy stupor. I yawned, glancing at the clock: 9:10 p.m. I turned my eyes back to the ceiling, and before I knew it, I was asleep.

  I woke to voices. My head was fuzzy. At first I couldn’t remember where I was. I turned to the clock: 10:11. Suddenly my head cleared and I remembered what I was doing, realizing immediately something was wrong. The voices were getting closer, coming down the hallway toward Jennifer’s room. I could discern Jennifer’s voice, and I realized that the voice answering her was male. They were almost at the door. I panicked, grabbing my shoes and slipping them on without tying the laces. I stood up, looking across the room at the window. Jennifer was at the door. I heard her pull her key out. She always locked it because she didn’t like her roommates having access. The key was in the lock. I calculated the time it would take to cross the room, open the window, and climb out. I’d never make it. The key rattling in the lock sounded like a bomb going off in my ears. Frantically, my eyes jumped around the room searching for an escape, suddenly landing on the closet door. As quietly as I could, I slithered across the room, grabbed the closet door handle, opened it and slid inside. I heard the hallway door opening as I pulled the door shut. I held my breath, wondering if Jennifer had seen the door or heard me moving about. I slid as far back into the closet away from the door as I could. I stood tense, waiting to be discovered. But that didn’t happen. I relaxed a little, only then overcome with a wave of immense jealousy. It was past 10:00 p.m. on a Friday night and she had a guy in her room. A date! I’m at home getting drunk and high to assuage myself, and she’s out getting it on with someone else. Their voices pounded on my ears through the closet door, the male voice familiar to me. He spoke with the intelligent tone of an older man, not the swallowed vocabulary and slang of a student. “Are you sure your roommates will not be home soon?”

  “Allan, I’m sure. They’re at an all-night Kappa Sigma party. I won’t see them again until tomorrow. We’re completely alone. Anyways, I asked them for some privacy.”

  What?

  “You did?” The male voice seemed alarmed. “I hope you didn’t tell them why.”

  “No, silly. Geez, you’re such a worrier. Just relax.”

  “We have to be careful, you understand.”

  I knew the voice but couldn’t place it.

  Jennifer giggled. “Don’t worry, Professor, you’re secret’s safe with me.”

  It clicked. Dr. Benedict! Son of a bitch! There was silence, then the rustling of clothing. I took a step forward. There was no way I was going to allow this to go on any further. I pushed the clothing out of my way, about to grab the door handle when Dr. Benedict interrupted their festivities.

  “Did you hear something? Are you sure no one’s home?”

  There was a pause.

  “Allan, you’re so jumpy. Stop worrying, there’s nobody here.”

  I considered bursting out of the closet and scaring the hell out of both of them and tell my lying, backstabbing advisor that I knew his dirty little secret and was going to make sure the entire world knew it as well. But in the next instant, I considered the bigger picture, and that’s where my best choice of action became fuzzy. I would have to explain what I was doing in the closet because, technically, I was breaking and entering. In addition, the thought of what the student population would think of my actions gave me pause. There would be no end to their contempt. I would not be able to hold my head up again any time I walked on campus. “There goes the guy who hid in his ex-girlfriend’s closet.” I could hear them laughing.

  So my fear of being considered less than a man by the general population kept me hiding in my ex-girlfriend’s closet, listening to her and my college advisor become intimate. The sounds of sexual excitement emanated through the closet door. Jennifer exhaled passionately. I knew that noise. She made it whenever I kissed the back of her neck. It had taken me six months to discover that little trick. This guy had it in one night? Unless . . . how long had this been going on? There was a soft thud. They were on the bed. I didn’t feel my fists clenching nor did I realize my fingernails were biting into my palm so hard they drew blood. Sounds of them rolling around on the bed filled the closet with a claustrophobic air. I was close to hyperventilating. I was not sure how much more of this I could take. The sound of shoes dropping onto the wood floor followed. I heard zippers unzipping, more rustling. I felt shame and anger, jealousy and despair, so many conflicting emotions flowing through me all at once. I wanted out of that closet. Suddenly, the most disturbing sound filled the room. Jennifer gave a high-pitched squeal, part exhalation, part excitement. Up until now, whenever I heard it, I knew my own release was not far behind. But it was so strange, foreign, to hear the noise from afar, knowing it was another man’s action doing the work. A dissonant feeling of excitement joined the many other feelings coursing through my body.

  I dropped to the floor, pulled my knees to my chest and sat back against the wall, resigned to the fact this was real and I would have to endure the whole thing. I looked at my watch. It read 10:36. I’d been in the closet for twenty-five minutes. Jennifer had always been loud. I always wanted to believe it was because of what I did for her. Sitting in the closet, I learned I was wrong. Jennifer’s moans filled the room, that and the creaking of the bed. Every so often, Dr. Benedict would grunt. He sounded stupid. I heard feet on the floor. The creaking of the bed ceased. The groaning continued. That meant they were on their feet. Their positions flashed across my brain. This was more than I could take.

  “Oh, right there. Ohhhhhh.”

  A wave of numbness washed over me. I felt myself splitting off, moving up to the top corner of the closet, and watching myself listen to the activities happening beyond my hiding spot. Suddenly there was a thud and the bed started creaking again.

  “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” That was Jennifer’s pre-orgasm declaration. She didn’t say that to me all the time, only when she was unbearably excited. Until that moment sitting in that closet listening to Jennifer’s moans of ecstasy, I foolishly believed she and I shared a unique sexual DNA coupling. But it appeared that Benedict and I had the same DNA. Jennifer’s moans subsided.

  My mind instantly refocused on my predicament. I still needed to get the hell out of the closet without discovery, a quandary I was not sure how to solve. Would they leave? Fall asleep? But wait—what was that noise? They weren’t done. It appeared Benedict had not finished his end of things. Jenn
ifer’s moans resumed, but with more intensity, taking on an insistent eagerness in tone I’d never heard before, a greedy call for more.

  “Oh my God, Allan, you’re incredible!”

  Propelled by her declarations, the thumping and slapping of flesh increased with frequency and sound. I tried to rid my head of the images the sounds were creating, but visions of Jennifer and Benedict in coitus filled my vision. I looked at my watch: 10:59. The sex continued. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I rested my head against the back of the closet settling in for the long haul. Benedict’s grunting turned into extensive groans. He and Jennifer had found a rhythm, his groaning and her moaning overlapping. Now 11:15. He was adding insult to injury. Forty-five minutes was my record with Jennifer. I shifted in my crouched position. I was beginning to feel cramps.

  The dress hanging above me brushed my head. I looked up. In the semi-light, I realized it was the very same dress, a pink flower print with spaghetti straps that suggestively hung just above the knees, that Jennifer had been wearing when I met her the year before. My memory was interrupted by screams from the bedroom. Jennifer was on the point of a huge climax—her second, something I’d only been able to accomplish once—making noise on a measure beyond any scope I’d ever caused, all accompanied by loud grunting from Benedict.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh oh oh oh! Allan! Again! Again!”

  And like an orchestra hitting the final note in one large crescendo, my ex-girlfriend and my thesis advisor climaxed in one final coupled scream. Then silence. Well, I’d come over looking for some kind of answer as to why Jennifer wanted so much space and I found it. Now all I wanted to do was get out of there as quickly as possible. I hoped they would leave and I could exit quietly, undiscovered.

  “That was incredible,” Jennifer sighed.

  The torture continued.

  “I agree.” A pause. “So what’s going on with you and Jon Fixx?”

  I sat up ramrod straight.

  ”Oh, Allan, you are so crass. Do we have to talk about my ex-boyfriend right after we do it? Geez. I broke up with him. He’s really sweet. Just too intense for me. And there was you.” For the first time that night, I felt tears burning my eyes. I realized that up to this point I’d been thinking of everything I’d heard as just sex. But it was more than that. Jennifer was over me.

  “Are you sure your roommates aren’t coming home?”

  “I’m sure.”

  There was silence. Moments later, the sounds of quiet snoring crossed my closet threshold. Benedict had fallen asleep. I checked my watch: 11:45. I waited. The snoring continued, and I heard no movement or rustling. I stood as quietly as possible and slowly pushed my way through the clothes to the front of the closet. Silently, I placed my hand on the doorknob. As softly as I could manage, I turned the knob and guided the door open, peeking out. Benedict was sprawled on his stomach, his left leg crooked, his right arm hanging over the side of the bed. The guy sure knew how to make himself comfortable. Jennifer lay on her back, her eyes closed, her breathing regular. Carefully, I inched the door open and stepped into the room, trying to keep my eyes on the path to the window. As I crossed in front of the bed, my eyes fell on Jennifer’s painted toes peeking out from beneath the loose sheet. I followed the outline of her legs up over her stomach across her breasts to her face. She lay there, looking innocent in repose. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. Her face registered silent shock. She inhaled. I imagined a scream would follow. I raised my right index finger to my lips instructing her to stay silent. We locked eyes for a moment. She sat up slightly on her elbows. I kept my finger at my lips. Benedict stirred in his sleep, then settled back into the bed. I stared at her for a moment longer, then turned away, quickly crossed the room, and opened the window. Without looking back, I climbed out and left.

  That night I went back to my apartment, packed up all my belongings and moved out the next morning. I found a generic apartment in a working class part of town, void of college students, rent paid by the hard-earned wages of those living there, not by bourgeois parents. The neighborhood had an element of roughness. I formally dropped out of college the following Monday. I never spoke to Jennifer again. Prior to the end of the term, with the use of my computer and the local library, I finished the thesis I’d started with Benedict, probably the best research paper I’d ever written in my college career. I sent it to him in an anonymous envelope with no return address. I tacked a note on the front of it that said, “God knows your sins and so do I. Revenge belongs to the righteous.” At the time, it sounded powerful. A few years later, Benedict was driving home from a night out with another young female professor—I guessed he’d decided it wasn’t wise to keep tapping the undergraduate population—and their car was struck by a drunk driver running a red light. Both professors were killed instantly. By that point, I held no ill will for Benedict, too much time had passed, and I felt sadness for his family, wherever they were. A few days after the accident, I received a phone call from Jennifer, the only time she tried to contact me before or since. To this day, I don’t know what his death signified for her, or why it motivated her to call me, but I didn’t care. Unlike my feelings for Benedict, Jennifer I had not forgiven. I didn’t call her back.

  In the long run, though, Jennifer’s betrayal was a boon of sorts. I have no idea where I would be if I’d finished college, graduated, then tried to figure the next step in my life. My choices may have ended up generic and mundane, maybe graduate school, or a nine-to-five. As it was, Jennifer’s action forced me to think outside the box, to push my creative envelope to find out what I was made of, which, with the help of a little serendipity, led me to my current profession. It all began with the first job I scored after leaving college.

  MY FIRST LOVE STORY:

  ZACHARY & NICOLLETE DICKERSON

  When I dropped out, I had to get a job immediately. I’d been working on campus as part of my scholarship, but my job was inextricably linked with my attendance at school: no more school, no more job. As soon as I had my living situation handled, I hustled for a few days looking for a waitering position, finally landing one as a server at The Bordello, a local high-end joint serving an eclectic mix of Cajun Americana. I spent my days training with Luci and writing, working on my interminable novel, as well as short stories I sent to The New Yorker, The Village Voice, the newly formed n+1, and many other internet and print media sources, all to no avail. Bret Easton Ellis I was not.

  While honing my writing skills during the day, I spent my nights serving food and learning about people. I enjoyed the job because it provided me ample opportunity to study human behavior. I learned what good waiters do—become invisible. The less aware the clientele are of your presence, the better your tip. Don’t make mistakes in the order, keep the drinks filled without asking, deliver the food on time, get the table cleared immediately after the food has been ingested, and talk only when the clientele ask you a direct question. I learned how to fade into the background. As fate would have it, though, Nicollete Dickerson, the daughter of the owners, took a platonic sort of liking to me. One night, while I was sitting out back behind the restaurant on my break and writing in my notebook, she stepped up to me after lighting a cigarette and pulled the book out of my hands with that ubiquitous look of charming entitlement wealthy American children carry throughout their lives. After a few minutes of reading my words, she said she liked my style and wanted to know if I had more. So I gave her my manuscript, at least what I had up to that point, and she liked that too, which made me like her all the more. Just the fact that she was willing to read my writing was enough for me.

  Over the next couple of weeks, over her cigarette breaks behind the restaurant, Nicollete and I became good friends, sharing stories of our past, our families, and our love life. My Jennifer-tale garnered a great deal of sympathy, though I left out the finale, unable at that time to talk about it. Nicollete was in the throes of preparing for her
wedding, which was coming up in just shy of three months. Most of our conversations centered on the planning of the wedding: the choices she had to make about colors and designs and, of course, the wedding dinner reception.

  One night, I asked her how she’d met her fiancé, Zachary. I was surprised to learn that she’d met him while backpacking in Ireland. It had been a whirlwind fling that lasted only a week. Zachary had just finished college and taken a job as an elementary school teacher, but he was also a semipro rock climber and hardcore outdoorsman. On the weekends, he was a guide for tourists on nature hikes and entry-level rock climbing missions. Nicollete said she fell in love the first day of her trip as she watched Zachary scramble up the side of a sheer cliff to show his charges how it should be done. The next week, they spent every waking and sleeping moment together, right up to the second she disappeared inside the hull of a 747 headed back to the States. But one month after Nicollete got back, Zachary showed up on her doorstep, holding a bouquet of roses and a ring.

  I made an offhanded comment that their story would make a great movie romance. Nicollete turned to me and asked, “Will you write it?”

  “Write what?”

  “Our love story. Will you write it? Zachary has gone back and forth between here and Ireland while we work out his green card situation, and many of my extended family and even some of my friends haven’t had a chance to get to know him. This would be a great way for everyone to see why I fell in love with him.”

  At first, I dismissed the idea out of hand, saying I had neither the ability nor the wherewithal to do something like that. But Nicollete was adamant. She grabbed my hands, pleading with me. “Oh, Jon, c’mon. Of course you could do it. You’re a great writer. Zachary and I will tell you everything, and all you have to do is take notes and then write it up in a story.”