The Seven Torments of Amy and Craig (A Love Story)

by Don Zolidis

  Uncle Jim set down his gun. “You got a girlfriend?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  His mustache curled around a little bit, which I guess indicated a smile. “Well, you better find out. Let me tell ya something, though. Shit. That first girlfriend? That’s all the gold in Fort Knox, kid. All the gold in Fort Knox.”

  “Yeah.” I think Uncle Jim was trying to be wistful here, but I’m not sure it was working.

  “After that first one? Shit. Fuck it.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, not really sure what he meant.

  He patted my knee. “Know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Fort Knox. All the best in life is right there for you, right now. Savor it.”

  “Okay.”

  “’Cause before you know it”—he smiled again—“you’re just an asshole sitting in the woods talking to a kid, and ain’t nobody gonna love you again.” Then he got up and took his gun and walked away. I sat there for a minute, watching him and trying to think of what he must have been like as a teenager.

  We stopped at a truck stop to shower. I want you to let that statement sink in for a second. We stopped at a truck stop to shower. If you’ve never been to a shower at a truck stop in central Wisconsin during hunting season, you are missing one of life’s grandest adventures. Let’s just say that cleaning was not a priority for either the workers at the truck stop or the voluminous naked dudes who were hanging out and chatting.

  I’m not going to try to explain why men raised before 1960 or so feel perfectly comfortable letting it all hang out, but there it was. I seriously saw a guy wearing a shirt, and socks, and shoes, and nothing else standing in front of a mirror and shaving. What is this thought process? How does one make the decisions that lead you into this? Socks? Check. Shoes? Check. Underwear? Who needs it?

  I’m sorry. I need to move on. I really need to move on.

  Gustavus Adolphus was about a five-hour drive from the hunting spot and allowed us to engage in the scintillating father-son conversation that was a hallmark of our relationship.

  “There are some hills in western Wisconsin.”

  “Yes. Yes, there are hills.”

  “Not something you see every day. Hills.”

  “Nope.”

  “Not quite mountains. But definitely hills.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Trees on ’em.”

  Kill me. Please, God, kill me.

  I gave up on the conversation and focused on the thing that had occupied my brain for most of the past two weeks: Amy. What was she was doing right now? Was she crafting legislation? (I had weird fantasies, I admit it.) I have a girlfriend reverberated in my brain like a happy background radiation. I could endure hunting, I could even make it through the college visit, if I focused on that.

  Dad drove in silence most of the way, which was better than the talking. And I’m not sure whether it was the complete failure of deer hunting, or the thought of his son going to college, but his mind seemed far away too.

  When we crossed the border into Minnesota my stomach started churning and my skin buzzed. It felt like I had swallowed a series of moles and they were busy gnawing at my insides. You know, my typical reaction to new social situations. But I thought of Amy again, and maybe it wasn’t so bad this time.

  Gustavus Adolphus is a perfectly nice place. It’s like a college, only smaller and more adorable. Brandeen, our tour guide, who sported rainbow-colored hair and a shirt that said GOD LOVES LESBIANS, happily escorted us around campus while my dad disintegrated.

  Every once in a while he would make a comment from the back of the group like “So what kind of jobs do people from this college get?”

  Then she’d say something like, “Getting a job isn’t really the point of going to college; instead it’s more important to grow intellectually and discover your own truth.”

  He turned a bit yellow. It was like Superman was chained to a liberal arts college made entirely of kryptonite. If I had to go hunting, you have to go through this college visit.

  But the tour was great, and I sat in on a class, which was also great, and then I had a meal in the cafeteria, which was not great but still okay, and then the shit hit the fan.

  That’s when I met Jonas, my host student for the night. My dad had gone to Best Western to recover and pray for deliverance or financial aid, and I was left to spend the night on campus with this guy.

  Jonas was tall and thin, with a sweep of black hair and beady little eyes like a rodent. He had the collar turned up on his polo shirt and wore cool pants that he had acquired from a thrift store somewhere. We were on the third floor of a dorm named Co-Ed, which kind of gave away that it was a co-ed dorm. The tour guide had helpfully explained that it was once named Norelius, but that was hard to say, so they went with Co-Ed instead.

  I stood there for a second.

  He stood there for a second.

  “Hey…My name’s Craig, I’m a prospective student,” I managed. The moles in my stomach started drumming on my intestines.

  His beady little eyes focused on me for a second and then unfocused. “Shit,” he said. “I totally fucking forgot about this. Um…fuck.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.” This was starting out great.

  Jonas went to his dresser and spritzed himself with cologne. “Son-of-a-bitch, man. Um…you want to sit down or whatever?” He gestured vaguely to a couch the color of a corpse. “Don’t sit on that. I’m telling you.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing in the dead center of his dorm room. Jonas opened a tiny fridge that nestled next to his bed and took out a bottle of Pig’s Eye, which was a special Minnesotan brand of beer famed for its cheapness.

  “You want a beer?”

  “No, I’m cool. I’m trying to cut back.”

  “No doubt. No doubt. Fuck!” He kicked his bed. “I’m so sorry, man. I wish I had something planned for you. Tell you what? We’re gonna have an awesome time, okay?” He tipped the bottom of the bottle up to the ceiling and proceeded to down the entire beer in one gulp. Afterward he gasped for breath and declared, “Shit.”

  Silence descended again. I tried to make small talk. “So do you like it here?”

  He squinted. “What are you even talking about?”

  “At the college?”

  “Do I like it at the college?”

  “Yeah. I guess that was my question.”

  “Fuck. Um…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, dude, I’m not really the person you should be asking questions to, right? Like…I don’t fucking know if I like it here. How would I know?”

  “Huh.” I nodded. This is nice.

  Things got worse in a hurry. Jonas spent the next ten minutes calling his friends and saying things like “I know. Shit. I know. Right. Damn it,” which was apparently some kind of language that they used to communicate. We crossed campus to look for a “party” at another dorm, then crossed to a second dorm to find a second “party,” and then finally made it to a third dorm where we found the actual party.

  The party was stuffed into a near pitch-black lounge, which had all its windows open to let in the freezing Minnesota air. This was needed to counteract the effect of seventy people stuffed into a room the size of a minivan. A large guy with a full beard ran a keg out of the corner, and he was mobbed like he was a celebrity. I got separated from Jonas almost immediately; he squeezed through a scrum of flannel-clad longhairs and disappeared.

  I tried to follow, but the wall of humanity closed up behind him. Something wet crashed into me from behind—a burly football player with four cups of beer, the contents of which were now sliding down my back. The wave of people surged toward me, moving somewhat rhythmically to music—Prince—but of course no one could really dance because there was no room.

  Huh, this bears a striking resemblance to a few nightmares I’ve had. How interesting.

  I knew no one. The worst part was trying to figure out where to look. I couldn’t make eye contact wi
th anyone, obviously. So I tried to stare at the floor and make myself as small as possible. I was also acutely aware that I was in the dead center of the room—it was impossible to squeeze my way to the walls, where I might be able to find some safety by leaning against something and looking nonchalant. Instead, I stood there, buffeted from every side, surrounded by people having a much, much better time.

  I clearly would never escape. Most likely I would die here.

  PROSPECTIVE STUDENT FOUND SQUISHED TO DEATH IN FOUL-SMELLING BEER-DRENCHED MESS! THIRD DEATH THIS WEEK!

  About thirty hours later, Jonas reemerged, somewhat energized and more than a little drunk.

  “Shit,” he said, when he saw me. “What the hell have you been doing?”

  Standing here, paralyzed by anxiety. “Um…you know…stuff.”

  “This place is lame, man, you want to get out of here?”

  Somehow we ended up in the basement of another dorm, in the room of a guy named Cutter, who was growing dreadlocks and lived entirely by blacklight. He had various posters of Jimi Hendrix on the walls, which were illuminated by Christmas lights. All the standard-issue furniture had been moved out and replaced with shapeless, amoeba-like things that sucked you in and wouldn’t let go.

  Jonas riffled through his cool pants and produced a large baggie of marijuana.

  Oh yay, I thought. This gets better.

  Pink Floyd was on, an album called Animals that had a song with a lot of pigs oinking on it. I’m not making this up. Other denizens of this subterranean world appeared once the smoking began—they had a little pipe shaped like a snake that they passed around.

  A cold, prickling sensation began in my stomach and surged up into my lungs. This is when the cops get me. This is when they break down the door or smash through the windows and cart us off to prison. Or I’ll be initiated into “the gang.” They’ll take out a cow’s heart and I’ll have to take a bite out of it to prove my loyalty to the cause.

  These people are criminals. I’m in a room with criminals.

  This was not on the brochure.

  I started sweating. The music got louder. The smoke collected near the ceiling, only slightly counteracted by the bundle of incense they were burning.

  Not cool not cool not cool.

  In short, I was not reacting well. I was getting all the paranoia and none of the mellow groovy feeling. If this was college, I wanted no part of it.

  “Oh shit, man,” said Jonas, seeing me huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth. “You cool?”

  “Oh, yes. Most cool,” I lied.

  “You want some?” I looked hard for the cow’s heart, but he was only offering the pipe.

  “Nope, I’m good. Super good. Just taking in the ambiance.”

  “You wanna bail?”

  Please, God, yes. Let us bail. Let us bail like no one has ever bailed before.

  “Sure,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

  “’Cause I know another party that’s ridiculous,” he said.

  We tromped back across campus. Jonas regaled me with a tale of a mythical horse tranquilizer.

  “So if you smoke it, you need someone else there, because you don’t move afterward.” He giggled, super excited about this for some reason.

  “Probably because you’re tranquilized,” I said.

  “I know! Fuck! We’re on the same wavelength!”

  I stank like beer and pot. I was pretty sure that if I attended GAC I would be dead by the end of the first semester.

  “All right, check it,” said Jonas. “This other party is downtown in an apartment, and these guys are serious.”

  I longed to go back to deer hunting.

  “I’m just gonna head back to my room to resupply and we’ll be out of here,” he said.

  I stopped walking and let him get ahead of me.

  Maybe I’ll just camp out here on campus and no one will notice.

  It was getting cold, below freezing now, and I was in an open spot away from the trees. The clouds had cleared, and the moon was bright like a searchlight looking for a kid that had fallen into a stream. There were a few people standing outside the dorms, wearing heavy coats, and pointing up.

  I looked up too, and I saw them.

  The northern lights.

  When they show the northern lights on television or in pictures it looks like a little colorful worm undulating close to the horizon. Like, Hey, I’m just a weird-ass snake made of shimmering light and I’m just going to wave back and forth over here.

  That’s not what they look like at all. I had grown up in Wisconsin and never seen them before in person.

  It was more like cascading waves of blue and green light, and they raced across the ENTIRE SKY. It was like the whole dark sky had been shattered, and pink and purple arcs of light were cracking open everywhere.

  And I could hear them. There was a little popping sound as each wave raced over my head.

  I stood there, head craned to the sky. My eyes were watering from the cold air, and I could feel tears streaming down my cheeks. I wasn’t crying, but, you know, it probably looked that way.

  For a moment I felt the tension ease out of my body. I realized I had been freaking out for about five consecutive days—from the misery of the hunting trip to the insanity of the night’s parties; my soul had curled into a ball and was rocking back and forth in the corner. This is not my future. This is not my future. And now—somehow—this was what I wanted to see. The world is bigger than this.

  I took a deep breath. It’s going to be okay.

  I looked around at the other people staring at the sky. They weren’t the denizens of the underworld. They weren’t a raving band of drunks and stoners. There were people who looked like they could be my friends. Others were joking and laughing. I also noticed a high percentage of girls. This could be all right.

  “Hey,” said a girl near me. “Are you Jonas’s prospie?”

  “I’m trying not to be.”

  “If you want to ditch him, you should totally come with us.”

  “No, I’m resigned to my lot in life and…” I stopped, hearing myself. “You’re not having a wild drug-addled party, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will totally hang out with you.”

  Her name was Melanie and she was tall and had a mane of waist-long curly brown hair that could be used to house a squad of birds. She lived on Jonas’s floor, in a triple with two other girls who seemed to be the foundation of the secret resistance, if the resistance were composed of cute girls who lived in a world of potpourri and upscale home furnishings. Tori Amos was playing on CD. There was a hot pot.

  It was great.

  “This is Craig, he’s Jonas’s prospie.”

  The other two girls groaned in sympathy. “Oh my God,” said one of them, who kind of resembled John Lennon. “I’m so sorry about that.”

  “He’s like a plague on this floor,” said a tiny black girl. “He keeps getting prospies and no one knows how this is happening.”

  “The last prospie he had puked in the lounge.”

  “It was a nightmare.”

  “Seriously,” said Melanie. “That guy is a total asshole.”

  “I was kind of discovering that,” I said.

  “You’re safe now.”

  “You’re safe.”

  About an hour later, we were having a great time. Popcorn had been made. Incense had been lit, which was driving away the smell of booze and marijuana that clung to me like a cloud of evil.

  I had settled into an armchair (they had actual furniture that you could sit on!) and was listening to the rattle and pop of the radiator. The nervousness that had coagulated in my stomach was gone. I felt like…I felt like myself.

  “You want some tea?” asked Melanie.

  “Hell yes I do.”

  I will add that at this point I had never had tea in my life. I don’t know what was wrong with my family (scratch that, I do know what was wrong with my family, and tea was prob
ably not high on my dad’s list of acceptable manly beverages) but tea was not something that we aspired to.

  Melanie gave me a mug of hot water and Nina (John Lennon) handed me something that looked like a tiny ball and chain, vaguely reminiscent of a morning star (which is a medieval weapon with a spiked ball on the end of a chain that can be used in melee combat—yes, that’s right, I knew a lot more about medieval weaponry than tea). Inside the ball was a mass of green foliage.

  I stared at it and the thought occurred to me: I do not know what I am doing.

  I looked around, then I pried open the ball and dropped the mass of green stuff into the water. It settled to the bottom of my mug and lay there, mocking me. I didn’t know a lot about tea, but I knew enough to realize that I had just made a terrible mistake. The tea leaves looked up at me and I imagined a tiny, high-pitched tea-leaf voice saying, You have failed.

  “Some guys, you know. They’re just not cut out for high school,” said Marketa (the tiny girl). “You’re probably more of a college guy.”

  That was probably the greatest thing anyone had ever said to me.

  Only slightly undercut by the fact that I seemed to be a guy not cut out for tea.

  “Sure,” I said, not sure whether to sip the tea or not. It was not changing colors. I tried it. It tasted like hot water with leaves in it.

  “Have you thought about what you might want to major in?” asked Nina.

  “Um…I don’t know yet.” Definitely not beverages. “What are you majoring in?”

  “I haven’t declared yet, but probably Russian literature.”

  A shot of electricity went through me. “You don’t say….”

  Half an hour later, after we had talked through Notes from Underground (It’s about a delusional guy who lives underground and hates humanity. Super fun. He also writes notes, hence the title), Melanie unrolled a sleeping bag on the ground. “You’re staying here tonight. Chances are Jonas isn’t going to make it back anyway.”

  “He probably doesn’t remember you exist,” said Nina.

  “That’s a good thing,” I said.

  “Just remember,” said Marketa, “you don’t have to hang out with that guy if you come here. You get to make your own choices.”