Home Run

by Paul Kropp

  Bra hooks! I believe bra hooks are among the most fiendish devices ever invented. I cannot figure out how girls manage to do them up, backwards, or reaching over or around or whatever they do, and I cannot figure out how girls ever manage to undo them. In my—admittedly limited—experience, bra hooks have always defeated me. I have heard guys boast that they can unhook a bra with one hand, or that there’s some trick with two fingers that will pop the two, three, or four clasps that seem permanently hooked back there, but I cannot make that boast nor do I know that trick. Instead, after fumbling with one hand and getting nowhere, I reached awkwardly around Shauna with two hands and managed to unhook perhaps two of the three clasps that held the smooth cotton over her breasts. The pressure on the remaining clasp made it literally impossible to unhook.

  Then, magic.

  “Oh, here,” Shauna said, reaching around to unhook the remaining clasp herself.

  I responded in a very obvious way.

  “Is it getting painful down there?” Shauna giggled, running her hand over my pants. “Maybe I can help.”

  And then she unzipped me.

  “I see you like me,” Shauna observed.

  “Oh, yes,” was all I could say.

  At this point, the rest of our clothes got to the floor pretty quickly. Shirt, pants, underwear…they all came off in a flash. At the end, I had on nothing but my socks.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—a guy naked from his head to his ankles, but still wearing socks. I became aware that my socks were not attractive, and might even be mismatched.

  Shauna was giving me an appraising look. She was not focused directly on my socks, but eyeballing me in a more general way. I became aware that my physique did not measure up to the fashion clips on her poster board, that my abs were not washboard but more like Bristol board, that my pecs were both pale and underdeveloped. And I was still wearing my socks.

  In that fraction of a second, something changed between us. We had been headed in a particular direction, with a very obvious and desired conclusion, but somehow that forward movement came to a stop. A strange expression appeared in Shauna’s eyes as she looked at me, a look that would have revealed something going on in her mind, had I been able to read it. As it was, I had to wait for some words.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “Wait?” I repeated. Maybe I should just quickly pull off my socks and get on with this.

  “Yeah, wait. You seem to think you’re going to get some?” she asked.

  I replied with my usual suave articulation. “Well, I, uh…”

  “You’re like all the other guys,” she sighed, looking away. “You just want one thing. You think I’m so easy that you can get me in the sack, just like that.”

  “Well, I, uh…” I said, repeating myself.

  “You guys are all the same,” she sighed. “You think you’re so wonderful and so irresistible and really you’re just like all the others.”

  “Well, I, uh…” I seemed to have forgotten all the other words in the language.

  “So just forget it,” she said, sitting up. She reached over beside the bed and grabbed a nightshirt. In no time, it was over her head and covering that fabulous body. “That’s enough.”

  “Was it the socks?” I asked.

  “No, it’s nothing. I changed my mind, that’s all,” Shauna said. For a brief moment, as we looked at each other, while I tried to decide whether she was serious or just teasing me. I flashed a hopeful and perhaps engaging smile, but the look on her face was stern. It was time to begin putting my clothes back on.

  I carefully retrieved my underwear and managed to pull them up and over the offending part of my anatomy, which was shrinking, but still ready for another change of mind.

  “You guys…” Shauna began as I put on my clothes. It was the beginning of a lengthy monologue on men, our devious ways, our sexual urges, our misreading of the female mind. I wish I could remember it all, because there might have been clues there as to what went wrong, what I did or what I didn’t do, but I was feeling pretty stupid and pretty awkward at this point so I was mostly focused on getting dressed. Men are quite vulnerable when they’re naked. We may even be vulnerable with our clothes on, but at least it isn’t quite so obvious.

  When I was dressed, I apologized a couple of times for whatever I had done, or not done, or thought about doing. Then I said goodnight, and bent forward to give her a quick kiss. Shauna turned her cheek so I ended up kissing a mouthful of hair.

  “Uh, can I call you?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” she said, looking back at me. “I have my moods, you know.”

  “I kind of gathered that,” I replied.

  She shot me a look, a pretty nasty look, as I slunk out of the room.

  6

  Prayers

  IT MUST HAVE BEEN the socks. A guy who’s about to have sex should always take off his socks so he doesn’t end up looking ridiculous and ruining the mood. I was doing okay, really, until the socks. I was ready for takeoff, in launch position, but then Shauna saw my socks and it was launch aborted. Simple as that.

  No, it couldn’t be that simple. It must have been something I said, some gesture I made that killed the mood. What had I said? Something like, “Well, I, uh.” That was pretty innocuous. Maybe it was too innocuous. Maybe I should have said something witty or seductive or romantic. Maybe I should have said, “My dear, you are a dream come true,” or “You look better with your clothes off than with your clothes on.” No, scratch that. Better to mumble “Well, I, uh” and adore her with my eyes.

  I was halfway to my dorm when the scariest idea came to me: maybe I’m kind of repulsive with my clothes off. Maybe there’s something about my body that just turns girls off. Maybe I should be working out in the gym, the way Kirk does, and building up my pecs and abs so I looked like one of the models on Shauna’s bulletin board. Maybe a toned body really does make a difference.

  Got to start working out, I said to myself.

  With that resolve, I turned the key in the lock and walked into our dorm room. The room was dark so at first I saw nothing, but then I heard a strange noise. It sounded like sobbing. So I turned on my desk lamp and saw where the sobbing came from.

  The sound was from my roommate, Kirk. He was on his knees, hands clasped, praying. There were tears running down his cheeks.

  I panicked. In my family we do not display emotion. I have never seen either of my parents cry, or get terrifically excited, or show any emotion beside bland good spirits. I’m not even sure if we Macklins are capable of any big emotions, though I’m certainly making progress learning about frustration and depression.

  But Kirk was obviously in the throes of some big emotion, some tremendous spiritual upheaval. Why else would he be on his knees? Why else would he be crying? Surely I had to do something to help him.

  “Kirk,” I asked in a whisper. “Are you alright?”

  He looked up. His face was as pathetic as any I have ever seen, as if he had just been witness to all the sufferings of the world.

  “I’m lost,” he cried. “I’m a fallen man.” His voice was raspy, as if he’d been weeping for hours.

  “It’s not that bad,” I said, just to be comforting. Actually, I had no idea how bad it might be, or even what the “it” was.

  “It is bad,” he said. “It’s terrible. I’ve betrayed myself, and God, and my parents, and Kathy, and everything I believe in.”

  That was quite a list. I stayed quiet.

  He looked up at me. “I was tested tonight, Al. I was tested—my resolve was tested, my faith was tested—and I was found wanting. I was weak…weak!”

  By now, my curiosity was piqued. When last I saw my roommate, he was happily dancing with a gaggle of girls at Butter. How could all this testing and weakness have happened in the course of a couple of hours? So I asked the obvious question.

  “What did you do?”

  There was a pause. He looked at me, angrily, then down at his chest, eve
n more angrily.

  “You left me alone with her, Al. You thought I was strong. You thought I could resist her, but I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know how.”

  “Rachel?” I asked.

  “Or Eve or Delilah,” Kirk went on. “Temptation has so many names, so many disguises. I should have been ready, Al. I should have seen what she was up to, but I gave in to temptation.”

  My mind leapt forward, or backward, but certainly made a jump. “Did you get laid?” The words just blurted out of my mouth.

  Kirk got to his feet, shaking his head and looking at me angrily. “Don’t be crude,” he snapped. “I may be weak, but I am not corrupt. Please, Al!”

  “Sorry,” I said, and I truly was, “but the way you were talking I kind of, well, kind of thought the worst. I’m glad it wasn’t that bad.” These words sounded quite strange coming from my lips, but they seemed the right thing at the moment.

  Again there was a pause. There seemed to be some tremendous emotion welling up inside of Kirk, like he was getting ready to explode. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes stared forward like a man on the edge of sanity. “She kissed me!” he spat out, and then he covered his face and dissolved into sobs.

  I guess I could have put my arm around him, but I have so little experience with real emotion that I decided to keep my arm where it was. Words, I thought, words can be a solace.

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” I told him. “You can’t be responsible for what somebody else does. I mean, you’re a handsome guy, Kirk, and girls are going to do things like that. You can’t control what other people are going to do. Your only real control is over what you do.”

  He pulled one hand down from his face and looked at me, despondent. “I kissed her back,” he whispered. Then the tears started again.

  I could have said something, I suppose, but my little speeches hadn’t worked that well so far. Who was I to demean the importance of a kiss? Sure, for most guys—for me—a kiss was next to nothing; it was first base in the metaphorical ball game, and you didn’t really score until you got to home plate. But I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t tell Kirk that a kiss was just a kiss, I mean, that would be like singing the old song from Casablanca.

  “Well, Kathy doesn’t have to know about it,” I said. “You made a mistake, now just move on.” That was always the approach in our family: sweep problems under the metaphorical rug.

  “I can’t,” Kirk said, sniffling. “I promised to be true to her. We promised to be open with each other.”

  “Well, uh, in that case…” I began, my words falling off because I had no idea what to say. Instead, I grabbed a Kleenex and handed it to my roommate. “Here, this might help,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he replied, blowing his nose. “I know you can’t understand this, Al, but it’s like the fall of man, like Adam and the forbidden fruit.”

  This is, like, too melodramatic, is what I thought to myself. I have no particular expertise in theology, but it seems to me that kissing a girl who’s already in the process of kissing you is pretty low on the order of sins. Besides, I had my own problems to think about and was getting a little tired of Kirk’s carrying on.

  “Kirk, if you keep talking like that, you won’t have a prayer of getting over this.”

  He looked at me suddenly, with bright eyes. “Prayer? Were you offering to pray with me?”

  That wasn’t what I said, but obviously Kirk found the idea appealing.

  “Would you?” he asked, his face beaming.

  I sighed. “For you, Kirk, as a special favour.”

  For a second, I was afraid he might hug me, but that moment passed and all I got was a deep “thank you.” Then Kirk closed his eyes and began, I suppose, to pray.

  Now I was a bit confused since I didn’t know much about religion or prayer or anything like that. At my house, we never even said grace before meals and I’d only been to church for my granddad’s funeral, so I was more than a little inexperienced at this.

  “Do we kneel, or anything?” I asked.

  “No,” Kirk replied, “just close your eyes and send your thoughts to God.”

  This was a bit disappointing. At least at my granddad’s church there were a few inspiring things to look at: statues, stained glass windows, and plaques on the walls commemorating the death of the Very Reverend So-and-so who faithfully served the flock from 1872 to 1896. But Kirk and I were in our dorm room, so inspiration was limited. Better to close my eyes, I suppose, than stare at a blank TV screen.

  So I offered up a prayer. Dear God, I said to myself, please forgive my friend for his trivial sin and let him go back to the righteous, guilt-free life he ordinarily lives. He’s a decent guy and deserves a break. That was pretty much my only request on the issue, so I opened one eye only to find Kirk still lost in prayer.

  I closed that eye and decided to keep going. Since I was asking God on Kirk’s behalf, maybe I should ask something for me, too. Dear God, I went on, please let me succeed in my simple and admittedly mundane goals, because not all of us are as lofty as your servant Kirk. Please let Shauna forgive me, despite my mismatched socks and repulsive body, and let her change her mind once again so that your servant, Al, who has spent so many years trying to get laid, can finally succeed in his quest.

  “Thank you,” Kirk said when I opened my eyes this time. “Prayer is a wonderful thing.”

  “Let us hope,” I sighed. “Let us hope.”

  7

  The Grind

  I BELIEVE KIRK’S PRAYERS were answered. He awoke at dawn the next morning, as he did most mornings, but spent a full two hours at the gym rather than the usual one. I believe he might have been “mortifying the flesh,” something that medieval monks used to do when they sinned. Later, he had a long phone call with Kathy, punctuated with sighs and tears and earnest expressions of love—at least from what I could hear as I paced the hall—and he emerged forgiven by the girl of his dreams.

  The good Lord, I suspect, is kind to the truly faithful.

  The good Lord, however, doesn’t pay much attention to the odd prayer from some poor sinner who’s been left with an embarrassing physical condition and only a pair of socks on his feet. Though I called Shauna’s cell phone five times, and left messages that ranged from pathetic apology to annoyed why-aren’t-you-calling-me, it was obvious that I’d been ditched.

  This might not have been so terrible if I’d known exactly why. Unfortunately, I couldn’t really discuss with Kirk what had happened, since it was too far beyond his experience, and I couldn’t very well explain it in an email to Maggie, who, whether I had on socks or not, had managed to resist having sex with me for our entire last year of high school. Still, I could hint at the issue.

  From: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  To: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  Serious question: how important is it for a guy to have a really hot body? Maybe you could survey the girls in your dorm and let me know the consensus. Lately I’m feeling a bit unattractive, verging on repulsive. My roommate works out in the gym every morning. Should I wake up early and join him?

  From: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  To: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  Sounds like you had a really great time at that dance club. But relax, Al, there’s nothing wrong with your body. You’re even quite attractive in a kind of skinny, hairless way. I didn’t have to do a survey to answer your question: a hot body doesn’t matter all that much. If it did, Bill Gates would still be a single geek. Those guys who work out in the gym all day should try reading a book or two. I go for attractive minds; washboard abs actually look kind of bizarre.

  Maggie’s email was encouraging, but I continued to mull over the issue. Unfortunately, I am not good at mulling. Sometimes I think I am not capable of extended thought. The television programmers who insert commercials every eleven minutes have got it right—eleven minutes is a lot of sustained attention. I know guys who have trouble with concentrating even that long, but I vowed to at least hit the average. Surely an
y serious issue deserves some mulling time.

  So I mulled over my failure with Shauna for a number of elevenminute segments over the course of a week, and then decided that I had made no real gain in understanding. Maybe it was me; maybe it was her; maybe it was the socks. I would never know.

  What I did know at the end of that week was more mundane: Psychology 101 was killing me. I had taken the course with good intentions—everybody should know a little psychology, I thought—but the lectures were really heavy on experiments with mice, electric shocks, and little rewards of mouse-food. I tried, for a while, to develop some interest in the poor, tortured, and confused mice, or to see some connection between mice and men, like that famous book by somebody-or-other, but I was getting nowhere. The lecture class was enormous, the professor had a voice like a flatulent goose, and the textbook was going to set me back $125. I managed to get along by using Kirk’s textbook for the first couple of weeks, but when my first multiple-choice came back with a miserable thirty-two inscribed by the computer scorer, I knew it was time to act.

  At the beginning of drop-and-add week, I made an appointment at the Dean’s Office to change the course. Drop-and-add week is the last chance to scoot out of a course before a dismal mark appears on your transcript. At the same time, it was my last chance to add a course that might actually interest me. So on the last week of September, I waited outside the Dean’s Office to meet with G. M. Thayer, the dean assigned to first-year M’s like me.

  “Mr. Macklin?”

  I looked up, but saw no one who appeared at all deanish. There was a short, rather attractive woman with dark hair standing at the door amid a dozen students, waiting for their chance to drop and add.

  “Alan Macklin…”

  The voice was coming from the short, rather attractive woman. “Yes, right here.”

  “Come this way,” she replied with a smile.

  It was quite a lovely smile, really, quite warm and full of character. One of her teeth was slightly twisted, and a bottom tooth slightly discoloured, but that just made her smile seem real. I hate people with magazine smiles: with perfect, identical white teeth. Ms. Thayer had a real smile, so I was sure that she’d okay my course change.