by Jeff Strand
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.
Chapter Thirteen
“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?”
“I just started college, I’m broke.”
“College is a freakin’ joke, man! You don’t need to pay money to learn that Shakespeare bullshit. All those ‘prithees’ and ‘thou arts’ and all that other dick spew—you’re wasting your time!”
“Look, I have to get going.”
“No, wait, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. It’s these pills, man. Spike said double vision was the only bad side effect, but that piece of shit lied again. By the way, what time is it there?”
“Four a.m.”
“Oh, man, that sucks. I’d buy a watch, but that’s how the government controls you.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Hold on a second, my girlfriend’s whining at me about something. [ muffled ] It’s not your calling card, so what are you getting your tits in a twist
for? It’s not like she keeps track of her phone calls!”
“I really have to get going.”
“Seth? I’ve gotta get going. This wench-bag I call my girlfriend is having a... THE CANDLES! YOU FORGOT ABOUT THE CANDLES! NOW THE GODDAMN CURTAINS ARE ON FIRE! I CAN’T— WE DON’T HAVE ANY WATER TO DOUSE THEM, REMEMBER? CALL 911, YOU DUMB BITCH! YES, I KNOW I HAVE THE PHONE— DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE I’M STUPID OR SOMETHING! Seth, I’ll talk to you later. JESUS CHRIST THE COUCH IS BURNING AND MY STASH IS UNDER THE CUSHIONS! MOVE, WOMAN, MOVE! THAT STUFF COST ME ALMOST—”
Dial tone.
* * *
About an hour later Travis staggered into the room. I sat up in bed as he turned on the light.
“If you’re drunk, watch out for the loose section of carpet,” I warned him.
“No, I’m sober. Just tired and brain-fried.” He shut the door behind him, made a beeline for his bed, and flopped down on it. “Seth?”
“Yeah?”
“Remind me never to flop down on this bed again. The springs hurt.”
“Never flop down on that bed again. The springs hurt.”
He stood up and got undressed. “How long before we’re supposed to be at orientation?”
“About three hours.”
He considered that. “How important is it that we actually show up for this orientation?”
“Very.”
He let out a soul-rending groan. “I’m never going to another party again. Oh, who am I trying to kid? Are you sure we have to go to orientation? We’re already signed up for classes.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I am.” He grunted with frustration. “Why can’t I get these pants off?”
“Shoes first, Travis.”
“Oh, yeah. I can’t believe I stayed for the whole thing. Hearing that band play commercial jingles really messed up my mind. I’ll never think of Chex Mix in the same way.”
“Did you all get lucky?”
“Nope. Just Mick. Watching him work is very educational. He explained that seduction is a volume business, and that even the most feeble opening line will work if tried on enough people. I mean, sure, he got kneed in the groin by six women tonight, but lucky seven made up for it.”
“What was his opening line?” I asked.
“I think tonight’s was ‘My lips are your aphrodisiac.’”
“He actually said that to human beings?”
Travis nodded.
I rolled my eyes. “Well, at least that’s better than ‘I almost tested negative.’”
“Did you know that when he goes bar-hopping he actually carries around a Filofax of opening lines to use?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep. He says he doesn’t want to have to think any more than absolutely necessary. When he sees somebody who appeals to him—meaning she has at least one body cavity—he just flips to the right line and uses it.”
“That is truly sad.”
Travis shut off the light, then I heard the springs creak as he eased himself into bed. “He says that he tends to blurt out things that he shouldn’t, and having his material already written keeps him out of some sticky situations.”
“Or at least postpones them until the right moment.”
“Exactly. Anyway, we just hung out around the sorority house the whole time. I got to know some people pretty well. You should’ve stuck around. Laura was asking about you.”
“Really? What did she say?”
“Ummm, she wasn’t asking about you in a good way...”
“Never mind. Go to sleep.”
* * *
The next day we got up bright and early to go to Freshman Orientation. Travis wasn’t exactly cooperative in the morning, but having an entire bag of ice dumped on him seemed to facilitate his awakening process. We were in separate groups, so we split up and I headed to room 213 in Marksman Hall.
I entered the room and sat down with about fifteen other freshmen. In a world of delightful irony, Laura would have been my orientation leader. As it turned out, we did live in a world of delightful irony, just not quite what I expected.
“Hi, I’m Rex, your orientation leader. I apologize if I don’t fit your stereotypical view of what one should look like, but I am a gay man, and will be until the day I die.”
After Rex gave us an insightful fifteen-minute lecture on the importance of sexual diversity, he passed out some schedules. “These show most of the events that are planned for this semester,” he explained. “If you’ll look at September fifteenth, for example, you’ll see that the Gay Pride Banquet, which I’ll be organizing, will be held at eight p.m. Because we believe in acceptance, you heterosexuals are more than welcome to attend and learn. And on October first there will be a Gay Pride Parade, which will be held at three p.m. and will weave its way all the way around campus, spreading our message. You can also see that the Gay Pride meetings are held every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday in Carbine Hall from seven to nine p.m. If you’re interested, let me know and I’ll sign you up. Any questions?”
A girl raised her hand. “Do you have a chess club?”
“I think so...you’ll have to ask around. Any other questions?”
I scanned the list of events, then raised my hand. “What’s this Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition?”
“It’s something that our illustrious university has chosen to schedule against the Gay Pride banquet, to keep our numbers down. That’s okay. It’s a free campus.”
“Do you know where I could get more information on it?”
“I’m not sure,” Rex admitted, “but if you attended one of the Gay Pride meetings, somebody there could probably steer you in the right direction.”
“Thanks.” A comedy competition was definitely something to look into.
Rex sat down on top of one of the desks. “Okay, now we’re going to do a little getting-to-know-each-other exercise. I want everyone to think of a secret in their lives, something that is perfectly natural but would invite persecution if it were made public. Then we’ll share these secrets and discuss why there’s nothing wrong with them.”
* * *
Freshman orientation ended at five. I hadn’t learned all that much about Trade Point University, but I did know every single accomplishment made by a gay man in the past two centuries. When I met Travis back in our dorm room, he was wearing a dangling earring.
“Our orientation leader said that a good way to get acquainted was to adorn each other,” he said. “It worked. I’ve got a date tonight. Her name’s Chi-Mao Johnson. I think her parents wanted an oriental.”
“Where are you two going?”
“The cemetery.”
“No, really.”
“I’m not kidding,” Travis insisted. “We’re going to the cemetery to pay homage to her dead grandmother. She does this once a week and invited me along. It would have been rude to refuse.”
“Well, have fun.”
“Oh, before I forget—you heard about the Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition, right?”
“Yeah! What do you know about it?”
Travis sat down at his desk and began to rifle through the papers he’d been given at orientation. “I guess this guy, Saul Rawlins, always wanted to be a stand-up comedian. But he sucked. Like, people would throw poisonous reptiles on stage to shut him up. He refused to quit, until he turned fifty and won the lottery. So to get his name associated with comedy, he funded the Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition, which is held every year at colleges around the nation. First prize is ten thousand dollars.”
“I could use an extra ten thousand dollars,” I remarked. “We could paint the room.”
“Ah, here we go,” said Travis. He began to read from one of the sheets. “Are you funny? Are you willing to prove it? Then enter the blah blah blah...all styles are permitted, from a stand-up routine to a hilarious song you want to perform. No more than five minutes, please. It will be held September 15 at blah blah blah. The winner at each school will get to perform in the fi
nals at New York State University blah blah blah.”
“I’m doing it!” I said.
“I was thinking we could do a collaboration,” Travis said. “We could write a skit to perform together, like we’d kinda sorta planned to do when we were talking after graduation.”
“Sounds great! It’s a deal.”
We shook hands.
“Have you noticed how greasy our hands get as soon as we step into this building?” Travis asked. “I bet if we did some research we’d find out that a bunch of nuns were murdered here.”
“Here’s what we’ll do,” I began. “You go out with Chi-Mao and say hi to her grandmother for me. Tomorrow after classes we’ll start getting ready to win that ten grand.”
“And win it we shall...partner.”
* * *
I’m not sure exactly how pathetic this is, but I spent the rest of the evening alone in the room, writing. I considered starting on a skit, but figured I should wait and let Travis in on it from the beginning. So I wrote a love poem instead. It was not dedicated to Laura.
“Our Never-Ending Love”
by Seth Trexler
Our love is a love that will never end
For I love you from the depths of my soul
On a moonlit beach our bodies will blend
As soon as you make parole.
Your well-chapped lips and your bloodshot eyes
Unlock passion I never knew I possessed
How I long to drool on your sun-burnt thighs
Oh, why did you resist arrest?
As soon as you’re free I’ll kiss both your teeth
We’ll be a modern day Bonnie and Clyde
But to show respect we’ll place a wreath
On the graves of your victims who died.
I wish my hand could squeeze through these bars
So I could caress your double chin
But soon we’ll make love under the stars
Along with your identical twin.
So no matter what violence you intend
Our love is a love that will never end.