Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  Baker, having caught a glimpse of her through an open door, went outside to meet her. “Why don’t you come in,” he said. “There’s nothing happening out here.”

  “Can’t I just go home? I’m so out of place—just look at ’em all.” Underneath her jacket, she was wearing a new long-sleeved button-down shirt, her leather vest, and the new jeans. When she’d left her apartment, she’d felt pretty good. But now she was terribly aware of how the other girls were put together: make-up, earrings, colored bell-bottoms, short dresses or miniskirts that were barely visible beneath wool coats … At best, she was dressed like one of the boys.

  “I think you look fine,” Baker said. Then, quoting a fashion magazine Cynthia loved to poke fun at, he added, “Basic black is right for any occasion.” And he grinned.

  But Micki didn’t smile. “Look, I showed up and gave it a shot, so why don’t you let me go home now?”

  “How can you say you gave it a shot when you haven’t even gone in yet?”

  “What’s the point? It’s not like anybody’s gonna dance with me.”

  About to answer, Baker looked at her—really looked at her. Like she was a girl. Her hair was soft and shiny, and she’d trimmed her bangs into a choppy, raggedy fringe. But there was nothing to accentuate her eyes, and her face was still faintly discolored here and there because she’d stopped wearing the concealer she’d bought—the shade hadn’t matched very well. And though she’d been spared the typical teenage scourge of acne, the old scars, raised and pale, were like misplaced threads against the fabric of her skin.

  Regrettably, her clothes weren’t helping: heavy and functional, her black leather jacket was anything but cute or chic, and her old, worn-out sneakers detracted from the new black jeans—her big attempt to dress up. She was what Cynthia’s friends would call a fashion disaster. And nothing could be done about it now. Letting her leave would be a mistake, but he should never have made her come here in the first place.

  “Y’know what?” he said, “You’re already wrong. Because if no one else dances with you, then I will.”

  “What?”

  He walked to the row of doors and held one open.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IN THE LOBBY, THE music was reduced to a dampened throbbing of bass in between loud, intermittent surges of rock ’n’ roll that traveled down the building’s western corridors whenever the doors to the gym were opened. For safety purposes, the entire east wing had been cordoned off by a large metal gate. Baker took Micki to the security office and unlocked it so she could leave her jacket there. After he’d secured it again, he escorted her further down the hall.

  The divider between the boys’ and girls’ sections had been retracted to create a huge dance floor. In one corner, a boy was playing deejay, changing the records that were blaring out over a rigged-up PA system. In another area, a table was covered with soda, punch, and cookies, a mountain of coats piled behind it. There was a huge mass of bodies gyrating in the middle of the floor while numerous little groups of boys or girls huddled together, laughing and shooting snotty glances at each other.

  Micki scanned the crowd. None of the kids she knew from the science program were there. “How soon can I leave?”

  “What?” The music was so loud Baker couldn’t hear without bending down so his ear was close to her lips.

  “When can I get out of here?”

  “Not till it’s over. I’m going to drive you home.”

  She did not look happy.

  Before he left, he said, “I’ll be out front and in the hallway mostly, but I’ll check in from time to time.”

  She wondered if that was meant as a reassurance or a warning.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BARBARA ANDERSON AND TOM Dawber, both of whom worked the late shift, were assisting Baker, several teachers acting as chaperones. The teachers were in charge of keeping things orderly inside the gym while the security team monitored the entrance, accessible hall areas, and bathrooms. Most notorious was the staircase at the farthest end of the corridor. While the actual steps were gated and locked, the doors to the stairwell itself were not. It was a favorite spot for couples to make out or smoke. The bathrooms also saw their fair share of smoking—and not just tobacco.

  During the evening, Baker was kept busy confiscating contraband, including cigarettes (which he immediately flushed down the toilet) and a pint bottle of Southern Comfort (which he promptly poured down the sink). But Micki had drifted back into the crowd of kids lining the dance area till she was leaning against the wall near the pile of coats. A black shadow against beige tiles, she was watching other kids dance.

  Yet the deejay was playing a lot of great songs, mixing it up between old and new, mostly loud, driving rhythms that made her body want to move. And for the slow songs, couples held each other close, awkwardly swaying back and forth. She wondered what that felt like. The football player was always dancing with some pretty girl whose long hair looked like a flowing sheet of brown silk. But once, when he was passing by, he caught Micki’s eye and flashed a smile over his date’s shoulder.

  Micki took to watching the clock.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IT WAS ALMOST TEN, and the dance was nearly over. Micki, who’d been sitting on the floor since midway through the evening, stood up and stretched her legs. Baker entered the gym and went over to Miss Rindell, one of the teacher chaperones, who then went over to the deejay. But as Baker headed toward Micki, the teacher—nicknamed the Spiderwoman because of her short torso and long, spindly arms and legs—ran to catch up with him. She clutched at his arm, and he paused, bending over to hear what she was saying. When he shook his head no and pointed to Micki, the woman’s smile disappeared.

  The music stopped, and it was sharply quieter, the deejay announcing he was about to play the final song. He encouraged all of the couples to get out on the dance floor one more time.

  “Man,” Baker said to Micki, “the last thing I’d want to do is dance”—he tilted his head in the direction of Miss Rindell—“with that one.”

  “Can we go now?” Micki asked.

  “Not yet. I still have to clear the place out. Plus, I think I owe you a dance.” The Association’s song “Cherish” began to play.

  Her face went blank. “I thought you were kidding.”

  “No.”

  Color rose in her cheeks. “Forget it.”

  The corners of his mouth crept upward. “I can’t. I’m a man of my word. Besides, you’re supposed to be the reason I’m not dancing with the Spiderwoman.”

  “No—really—I can’t. I—I don’t know how to dance slow.”

  “It’s easy; you just follow me.” He extended his hand, but she didn’t take it. Staring down, he asked, “Are you afraid?”

  Her eyes turned dark.

  His appeared to be laughing.

  She placed her right hand in his left, and, with nearly a foot of space between them, they moved into the crowd of dancing couples. Overly conscious of the subtle weight of his palm on her waist, Micki could feel a tiny trickle of sweat edging its way down her back. Baker—though wearing a full suit, complete with tie—looked dry and comfortable.

  When she stepped on one of his feet, she looked up sharply, but he seemed to be amused. After the third time, he leaned over and said, “This works better if you’re closer.” And before she could object, he’d pulled her to him, placing her right hand on his back to match her left, which was barely touching his jacket.

  Though she’d stiffened, she tried to force herself to relax—and was only partially successful. Heart fluttering wildly, she prayed he couldn’t feel it through the numerous layers of clothes. She tried to focus on the music that was playing—a song of unrequited love. But then her heart started to hurt: no one would ever feel that way about her; no one would ever hold her in their arms the way Bak
er was doing now. And he didn’t even mean it. This was something of a joke to him. She could tell. Still, the scent of his aftershave and the sensation of his body moving with hers were sparking something. She began to feel distressed.

  Baker, meanwhile, was reminded of when he’d danced with some distantly related young cousin at a wedding several years ago. Easily as short, Micki was just as shy and nervous. And between her new clothes and (if his nose didn’t deceive him) Clairol’s Herbal Essence shampoo, she’d clearly had some expectations for the night. But she’d spent the evening alone, just as she’d predicted.

  Without realizing it, he held her a bit more tenderly.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  FOR MICKI, THE MUSIC ended both too soon and not soon enough. Kids started battling for coats, and Baker took her back to the security office to wait till he was done. As he was leaving, he used his chin to indicate the refrigerator, saying, “Help yourself to a soda if you want.” The door closed behind him.

  She could hear the noise in the hallway from kids exiting the school, but the office itself was still. Windows dark and mirror-like, it felt kind of eerie. Inside the refrigerator, she found a carton of milk, two cans of Coke, a Tab, and a Sugar Free Dr. Pepper. She closed the door without taking anything.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  ONCE THE GYM HAD finally been cleared, the teacher and students from the clean-up committee proceeded to take over with the custodian. Baker locked the front doors and began his check of the peripheral areas. As he approached the accessible stairwell, he could already smell the pot, a girl’s voice seeping out into the hall with it.

  “No! How many times do I have to say it? If the stuff’s so great, how come you’re not really smoking it yourself?”

  “’Cause the first hits are the best, and I want you to have ’em. C’mon, baby”—the boy’s voice had gone from wheedling to whining—“it’ll make you feel real mellow.”

  Loosening his tie, Baker sighed. He’d had enough babysitting for one night; he wanted to go home and get out of his suit. “Party’s over,” he announced as he burst through the door. “Just give me the joint and you can go.”

  The boy hesitated a little too long, and the girl, who’d shrunk behind him, whispered, “Go on, Ben; give it to him. I wanna get out of here.” Slowly, with a look that was meant to let Baker know just how uncool he was, the joint was handed over, and the couple hurried out.

  A quick glance showed no one else on the landing, and Baker moved on, returning to the lobby. But he was already regretting not treating the incident with greater gravity: alcohol was one thing, but drugs were something else. He was about to go flush the joint away when Barbara Anderson appeared, telling him the girls’ room was clear. Seconds later, Dawber showed up, saying he’d checked the boys’ bathroom. With the school now locked and secure, the two guards were heading out—and Baker was free to leave. The custodian would shut the school down completely once the clean-up committee was done.

  Alone in the lobby, Baker pulled the confiscated item from his pocket—a nice, fat joint and probably very good stuff; the boy had been so reluctant to part with it. He ran his fingers down the tightly rolled paper, then palmed it. And felt a small surge of adrenaline. Looking around, he started walking, then turned the corner. He passed the security office, then the gyms until, at the end of the hall, the stairwell door clanged shut behind him. Shadowy and silent, smelling strongly from before, the empty enclosure seemed far removed from the rest of the world.

  He looked at the joint again. Some strange kid’s pot. “Fuck it,” he said, and pulled out his lighter.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE SCENT OF MARIJUANA followed Baker back to the office, and Micki’s eyes grew wide. But the look he gave her told her to mind her own business. They went to his car and got on the parkway, where he drove more cautiously, even though he wasn’t feeling all that high. Just a little disappointed. But then, he’d only wanted to take the edge off anyway. Yet he did feel strange, like a giant man in a tiny car. And his hand was almost numb on the steering wheel.

  What if the pot had been laced with something?

  They drove from the Grand Central Parkway onto the Long Island Expressway, at which point he turned on the radio. Ominous and dark, the church organ chords from Elton John’s “Funeral for a Friend” went crawling up the windows like demonic vines of ivy. He shut the music off, and the car was at peace again. But after they exited the LIE, the local streets appeared unusually long and wide.

  Shooting him a harsh look, Micki said, “Y’know you’re driving really slow.”

  “Yeah?” He glanced down at the speedometer, which read all of six miles per hour. He was high as a kite. Red, yellow, and green, the traffic signals looked like huge, brilliant Christmas-tree ornaments. He skated right through a red light, too entranced by its lustrous ruby glow to stop.

  “Maybe we should pull over for a while,” Micki said.

  “I’ll be all right; we’re almost there.” But his voice sounded much lower in pitch, and very slow—though Micki didn’t appear to notice anything odd at all.

  A short ways past her building, he pulled to the curb and got out. He looked at the lousy job he’d done parking and found this very funny, but didn’t laugh. Instead, he said, “I’m not feeling too good. I need to rest a few minutes at your place.” The words sounded so serious—so far away. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d actually said them until he heard her reply, “Okay.”

  Only, he just stood there, staring at the car, unable to recall what it was he was supposed to be doing. Taking hold of his arm, Micki gently guided him toward the stoop. His long wool coat was open and billowed out as the wind blew down the street.

  They started up the flight of stairs inside. Baker, hoping to clear his head, tried to silently count the steps he was taking. But before they were even halfway down the hall, he’d lost track. And when they’d reached her apartment, she unlocked the door while he waited behind and pulled out his wallet—to stare at it. Then he stared at the badge inside. Until, like a revelation, he remembered his promise to compensate her for the night’s lost wages.

  She flicked on the light switch and jumped as the one functioning overhead bulb blew out. Then she stepped inside and left Baker in the doorway, still fumbling around, staring at his money with all those teeny, tiny intricate lines and scrollwork. He’d never noticed how pretty they were. There were two twenties, a five, and three singles. Just how many hours did she work a day? Times minimum wage, which was what? So was eight enough? Twenty, too much? Overheated and sweaty, the math problem was a royal pain in the ass. He decided to go with twenty. What the fuck.

  Micki turned on the desk lamp and went back to shut the door. Baker had already dropped the money on her bed and his coat on top. “I’m going to wash up,” he heard himself say as he crossed the floor.

  He locked himself in the bathroom.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WEEKS AGO, MICKI HAD bought a lightbulb to replace the first one that had burned out. But she’d never bothered to install it. The ceiling was so high that, even standing on the table, she couldn’t quite reach. But now, with just the sixty-watt desk lamp working, she couldn’t put it off any longer. She took a dinette chair and turned it around to use as a stepladder. Then she took the two largest textbooks she had—history and calculus—and stacked them on top of the Formica. Bulb in hand, she climbed onto the table, which swayed doubtfully beneath her. Very carefully, she stepped up onto the books.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE BATHROOM WAS SO fucking tiny! Baker loosened his tie some more and looked at himself in the mirror. The perceptual distortions were fading, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive home just yet. Call someone? Who? Who could he trust? A taxi? Either way, he’d have to leave the Camaro. But if he waited around just a little while longer, he’d probably be able to drive himself.

 
He looked for the sink and remembered there was none. Never had been. If he wanted to splash water on his face, he’d have to use the sink in the kitchen. About to step out, he unlocked the door, only to pause: he was getting an erection; was suddenly horny as hell. He had to either stay put in this claustrophobic, little bathroom or get the hell out of her apartment as fast as he could.

  After a few slow breaths, he turned the knob.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WITH A FINAL TWIST, the new bulb was in place. Micki, standing perfectly still atop the tiny tower of books, was waiting for the table to stop swaying. The initial two textbooks hadn’t been enough, and she’d had to climb down and add the physics one, as well. Even so, she’d barely reached on tiptoe.

  Rushing up behind her, Baker grabbed her by the waist. “Christ! You could break your neck like that! Why didn’t you wait and ask me to do that for you?”

  She shrugged, thinking, ’Cause you’re too fucking stoned. And she let him help her down. But when her feet were planted safely on the floor, he didn’t let go.

  Inside his head, a voice was screaming at him to get out, and he willed his hands to release her. She tensed as she tried to step away, but was restrained.

  His world was exploding, the walls of the room bleeding into pools of iridescent shadow. High above, he was hanging from the ceiling, looking down. He saw his hands still encircling her waist, heard the sharp intake of her breath as his lips gently kissed the side of her neck. He felt something inside him give. He nuzzled her ear. “Do you want me to stop?” His large hands, now resting on her belt, felt the slight expansion and contraction as she breathed, her small body muscular and lean, so unlike that of Cynthia, who was tall and thin but soft; so unlike the kind of body that normally turned him on. And yet he could barely stop himself from ripping off her clothes. It took every ounce of self-control he could muster from his drug-addled brain not to act like the animal he felt himself to be.

  But she had yet to answer. So strong yet so tender, his touch had sent her pulse racing—a shimmering, visceral excitement spreading like fire throughout her body. And still she imagined herself telling him to fuck off, imagined wriggling out of his grasp and telling him to leave—to get out.