Random Acts Part 8

She laughs, but she wants me to hurry. I rip the package open and she takes it from me, has me roll over, but instead of putting it on me she bends forward and takes my p.e.n.i.s into her mouth. It feels wet, and warm, and I can feel her lips and tongue and even her teeth. I watch her in a sort of awe, her head moving slowly up and down. When she's done she gives the top a kiss and turns and smiles her brilliant smile at me, soft in the glow of the stereo. "Just returning the favor," she says, then puts the condom on me. "There, now it's safe."

"Boy, it was sure dangerous before."

"Boys always make such a mess." She falls down next to me in her soft, wonderful bed, spreads her legs, and says, "Okay. I'm ready."

She's giggling.

I move up and over her, and she wraps her legs around me and forces herself against me. I slide it back and forth across the top, in the soft groove, then pull it back an extra bit and then move forward. It slips inside, and Pris gives a startled cry and the a long, low moan. I love you, I think at her, I love you. I think it so loud I'm sure she has to hear it. I push at her for a few minutes but it's not good enough, so I grab her lithe body firmly in my arms and roll backwards.

She's so light, I don't even think she weighs a hundred pounds. I hold her whole body and thrust the way I think she likes it the most.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, we're standing up." She likes it. I'm on my knees, upright, holding her. She's so light and I love her so much it's effortless. Encouraged, I get out of her bed and go walking around the room holding her, thrusting as I take each step. "You're walking!" she says with a sense of wonder. "Oh G.o.d, oh." She likes it, she definitely likes it. She squirms wildly and cries out again, calling for G.o.d, then holds me tight and seems to shudder. Then she goes quiet and still, and I realize she had come to a climax.

I walk back to the bed, roll us into it, and end up on top, moving gently. She's staring into my eyes, caressing my hair, a warm smile on her lips. She looks tired. I let go, closing my eyes and letting it go, and within seconds I'm coming. But it seems distant, far away, like I'm feeling the echoes of an o.r.g.a.s.m from some guy down the hall. Maybe it's that the o.r.g.a.s.m is so unimportant to me. I just don't care about it.

Still smiling, she says, "Was it good for you?"

I laugh. "Yes."

"Mmmm. That's good. It was very good."

"Want me to get a towel or something?"

"Nah."

I pull out, then look around at the room. "Where should I put it?"

"Wastebasket, silly." Her eyes are closed. "Unless you want to sleep with it."

I get out of bed, then carefully pull off the disgusting rubber sack. I wrap it in a tissue, toss it into a wastebasket, then climb back in bed. She turns toward me, wraps her arms around one of mine, and says "G'night." Within minutes she's sound asleep.

I watch her, feeling love flowing like the raging of a river. I just watch her. It's hours before I get to sleep.

5. ACQUIRED PERCEPTION.

I wake up and Pris is already out of bed and wearing a robe. "Good morning," she says brightly.

"What time is it?"

"Eight. I've got to rush and get to work. You can go back to sleep if you want."

She has to take the Muni train to work, which is why she has to rush. "I'll give you a ride to work," I tell her.

"No, that's okay."

"Then you won't have to be in such a hurry."

"You don't have to."

"I'd like to."

"Oh, okay." She's indifferent. Little alarm bells starting ringing in my brain. I don't want her to be indifferent. "You want some breakfast?" she asks. "I've got some frozen waffles in the refrigerator."

"No, thank you. I don't eat food in the morning."

"Neither do I. The waffles were for Tom." She grabs a towel off a hook on the wall. "I wonder what Heather is feeding him." There's bitterness in her voice.

"He's in Berkeley."

"No. I called over there at seven. He's not there."

Seven? She got up at seven and called the apartment? Why? I don't ask her, however; she's already left the room, gone to take a shower.

What day is this, I wonder. Thursday? I've got cla.s.s at 10:00, and Tom doesn't have to show up at work at any specific time --- he's usually there until 8:30 or so on a Thursday morning.

Then I think to myself: Does my cla.s.s start at 10:00 or 10:30? Or was that a dream? G.o.d, I think to myself, I hope it was a dream. It's upsetting that I'm unsure. Because if it wasn't, then that whole mixed up day wasn't. No, I think, that was the day I was tired all day. Most of it must have been a dream I had during that nap after my last cla.s.s.

While Pris is in the shower I put on my clothes and make an attempt at combing my hair, which is all distorted and wild. Pris comes back in, her hair wrapped in a towel. She smiles at me, and says, "I like your hair like that."

"Messy?"

"Wild. You look like a surfer dude."

"Nerk." I look in the mirror. Actually, it's not that bad, really.

"What is nerk?" Pris asks.

"What?"

"Nothing. I didn't understand what you said."

"Nerk?"

"Nerk? What is nerk?"

"It's an expression denoting amused frustration at an ironic or . . . wait a minute, you were using it last night."

"I was?"

"Yeah, I----" I break off, searching for the blue paperback dictionary she'd thrown on the floor last night. It's not there. I look through her bookshelves, and can't find it there, either. "Where's your dictionary?"

She pulls out a red paperback from the bookshelf. I take it in numb fingers and look though the pages. I already know the word "nerk" is not going to be there. Sure enough. I hand it back.

"Is something wrong?" she says.

"No. I guess I dreamed the word up last night."

"Oh." She stands there, and it begins to get awkward.

"Do you want me to leave the room while you dress?"

"No, it's okay. I just . . ."

"What?"

"I want to ask you a favor."

"Okay."

"Don't tell Tom we f.u.c.ked."

Tom knew the moment I left last night, but I don't tell her that.

"Why?"

"I don't want Tom to know."

"Okay."

I watch her dress, feeling a little sad. Her body is beautiful and perfect in the morning light, a soft white light filtering through her curtains, and I want to reach out and touch her but I can tell she doesn't want me to. There's a bit of lead in my heart, and there's lead in my footsteps fifteen minutes later as I walk with her up the hill to my car. When we reach it I stop and stare. I guess I look shocked and startled; Pris looks concerned and says, "What's wrong?"

"I swear this is not where I parked my car."

"Do you think someone moved it?"

"Either that or I'm going crazy." The car is facing uphill, not down, and it's on the other side of the street. To get it started, I'm going to have to somehow get it facing downhill. It's going to take more than just Pris and I to push it, and it's going to take so long that Pris is going to be late for work. It's too late for her to take the Muni train. It's all my fault.

I unlock the car, and just for whimsy and wishful thinking I sit in the driver's seat and try to start the car with the key. To my total dismay the starter works fine, and the engine kicks right over. Pris gets in and I pull out onto the street, not believing my luck. Ten minutes later I'm pulling over in front of the pizza parlor where she works. She leans over and gives me a kiss, which makes me feel better, then asks if it's okay if she comes to Berkeley this afternoon. This cheers me up a bit, and I tell her, "Of course it's okay!" She kisses me again and gets out of the car. We wave, and she disappears into the pizza parlor. I drive away, feeling better --- but I suspect this situation is going to make me into a bona-fide manic depressive.

Early that evening I arrive at the Euclid and enter the apartment to find Tom, Heather, Felix and Aaron are having a little party. I'm not happy, but I'm not displeased --- I'm just glad to be there. I have this terrible, raw-nerved feeling that I've taken some drug and I'm not coming down from it. My cla.s.s was at 9:00 this morning, I was an hour late for it. There were three cla.s.ses scheduled today, not two, and one of them had something to do with Ichthyology, which I hardly know anything about. It seems I've taken over a cla.s.s for someone who's gone on sabbatical.

The carpet in the cla.s.sroom was not the wrong color this time, the walls were. They were a light sea green and the ceiling was black. There was no carpet at all, the whole floor was covered with tile. It was so ugly it made me nauseous.

None of the students were even remotely familiar. The way they were dressed was strange, too, all in heavy patterns and lots of felt --- even in the heat! --- and everyone had a hat. I kept my mouth shut and did my best, but even so I could tell they were all thinking that something was wrong with me.

I looked everywhere for Alvin Laurel, I even looked for his car. I couldn't find him, and I desperately wanted to talk to him. When I reached the Euclid I was hoping to find him on the steps, but he was nowhere in sight.

"Hey fun boy, where's your hat?" asks Felix as I make my entrance.

Only then do I notice everyone is wearing a hat, just like the students.

"Wind blew it off," I say, trying to sound causal.

Tom is wearing a wide-brimmed black Spanish cowboy hat --- he looks like Jim Morrison with it on. His black shirt is open down to his navel.

Heather has a white lace hat on, and Aaron is wearing some funky Swedish looking cap with a red feather. Felix's hat is a straw wide-brimmed thing that would have looked appropriate on Huckleberry Fin.

"Get this man a hat," Aaron says. "A man without a hat is like a lamp without a shade."

Tom disappears into his room and reappears with a Texas Ten Gallon monstrosity which he plants on my head. I feel like a lamp all right, shade and all. "Tom, I need to talk to you."

"You need a beer, by the looks of you. Bad day?"

"The worst."

We step into the kitchen, and of course the refrigerator is the wrong color. Even worse, the hinges on the refrigerator door are on the wrong side. Tom (or possibly myself, for all I know) has stocked it with a whole case of a beer who's brand I've never heard of before: Tsunami, "A Premium j.a.panese Beer." They're big brown bottles with blazing red labels.

"Tom, please tell me you remember taping that interview with our b.u.m."

Tom stares at me with a blank expression. It's hard to read. I can't tell if he doesn't know what I'm talking about, or if he can't fathom why I'm so desperate to talk about something he considers trivial. "Our b.u.m?" he says.

"Alvin Laurel," I tell him, hoping to jog his memory.

"Alvin Laurel, the mathematician?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Our b.u.m?" He looks confused.

"Forget the b.u.m part. Did you or did you not record an interview with Alvin Laurel?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

"I've been trying to get him to say something for a week. You were supposed to try to persuade him to talk to me."

"About the government project?"

"Yes, the one that's going on up by the cyclotron. What's wrong, what's going on?"

"Well, I talked to him. I----"

"Hi there, guys," says a familiar, bright voice. I turn and see Pris, dressed in a long, flowing flower-print dress and a blue hat with flowers. "You didn't tell me there was a party tonight," she says to me.

She walks up to me and gives me a kiss, then turns and gives Tom a look.

"I, uh, didn't know about it either," I tell her.