The Rules Of Attraction Part 1

THE RULES OF ATTRACTION.

BRET EASTON ELLIS.

FOR PHIL HOLMES.

"The facts, even when beaded on a chain, still did not have real order. Events did not flow. The facts were separate and haphazard and random even as they happened, episodic, broken, no smooth transitions, no sense of events unfolding from prior events" - Tim O'Brien Going After Cacciato FALL, 1985.

and it's a story that might bore you but you don't have to listen, she told me, because she always knew it was going to be like that, and it was, she thinks, her first year, or, actually weekend, really a Friday, in September, at Cam-den, and this was three or four years ago, and she got so drunk that she ended up in bed, lost her virginity (late, she was eighteen) in Lorna Slavin's room, because she was a Freshman and had a roommate and Lorna was, she remembers, a Senior or a Junior and usually sometimes at her boyfriend's place off-campus, to who she thought was a Soph.o.m.ore Ceramics major but who was actually either some guy from N.Y.U., a film student, and up in New Hampshire just for The Dressed To Get Screwed party, or a townie. She actually had her eye on someone else that night: Daniel Miller, a Senior, a Drama major, only a little gay, with blond hair, a great body and these amazing gray eyes, but he was seeing this beautiful French girl from Ohio, and he eventually got mono and went to Europe and never finished his Senior year. So this guy (she doesn't even remember his name now - Rudolph? Bobo?) from N.Y.U. and her were talking under, she remembers this, a big poster of Reagan that someone had drawn a moustache and sungla.s.ses on, and he was talking about all these movies, and she kept telling him that she'd seen all these movies even though she hadn't, and she kept agreeing with him, with his likes, with his dislikes, all the time thinking that he might not be a Daniel Miller (this guy had spiky blueblack hair, paisley tie, and, unfortunately, the beginnings of a goatee) but was still cute enough, and she i sure she was misp.r.o.nouncing all these filmmakers' names, remembering the wrong actors, naming the wrong cinematographers, but she wanted him and she could see that he was looking over at Kathy Kotcheff, and she was looking back at him and she was getting incredibly smashed and kept nodding and he went over to the keg to get them some more beer and Kathy Kotcheff, who was wearing a black bra and black panties complete with garter belt, started talking to him and she was getting desperate. She was going to go over and drop some names, mention Salle or Longo, but felt it would be too pretentious, so she walked up behind him and simply whispered that she had some pot in her room, even though she didn't but hoped that Lorna did and so he smiled and said that seemed like a good idea. On the way up the stairs she b.u.mmed a cigarette that she was never going to smoke from someone and they went to Lorna's room. He closed the door and locked it. She turned the light on. He turned it off. She thinks she said she didn't have any pot. He said that was okay and brought out a silver flask that he'd filled with the grain alcohol punch before it had run out downstairs and she was already so drunk on that plus beer that she drank more of it anyway and before she knew it they were on Lorna's bed making out and she was too drunk to be nervous. Dire Straits or maybe it was Talking Heads were playing downstairs and she was blind drunk and even though she knew this was like sheer madness she couldn't stop it or do anything else. She pa.s.sed out and when she came to, she tried to take off her bra but was still too drunk and he had already started f.u.c.king her but he didn't know she was a virgin and it hurt (not that badly, only a little bit of a sharp pain, but not as bad as she had been taught to expect, but not exactly pleasant either) and that's when she heard another voice in the room, moaning, and she remembers the weight on the bed shifting and realizing that this person on top of her was not the N.Y.U. film student guy but someone else. It was pitch dark in the room and she could feel two pairs of knees on either side of her and she didn't even want to know what was going on above her. All she knew, all that seemed certain, was that she felt nauseous and her head kept banging against the wall. The door she thought he locked flew open and shadows came in saying that they had to put the keg somewhere and the keg was rolled in, knocking against the bed and the door closed. And she was thinking that this wouldn't have happened with Daniel Miller, that he would have taken her gently in his big strong Drama major arms and undressed her quietly, expertly, taken the bra off with grace and ease, kissed her deeply, tenderly, and it probably wouldn't have hurt, but she wasn't with Daniel Miller. She was there with some guy from New York whose name she didn't know and G.o.d only knows who else, and the two bodies above her continued moving and then she was on top and even though she was too drunk to stay on top, there was another person holding her up, propping her up, while another touched her b.r.e.a.s.t.s through the bra and kept f.u.c.king her and she could hear the couple next door arguing loudly and then she pa.s.sed out again, then woke up when one of the guys. .h.i.t his head against the wall, slipping off the bed taking her with him and both of them hitting their heads against the She heard one of the guys throwing up in what she hoped was Lorna's wastebasket. She pa.s.sed out again and when she woke up, maybe thirty seconds later, maybe a half-hour, still being f.u.c.ked, still moaning in pain (they probably thought she was turned on, which was definitely not the case) she heard someone knocking on the door She said, 'Answer it, answer it,' or at least that's what she thinks she said. They were still on the floor when she pa.s.sed out again... . She woke up the next morning, early, on the bed for some reason, and the room was cold and reeked of vomit, the half-empty keg leaking onto the floor. I Her head was throbbing, due partly to the hangover and partly because it had been banged against the wall for she didn't even know how long. The film student from N.Y.U. was lying next to her on Lorna's bed, which during the night had been relocated to the center of the room, and he looked a lot shorter and with longer hair than she remembered, his spiked cut wilted now. And in the light coming through the window she saw the other guy lying next to the film student - she wasn't a virgin, she thought to herself -the boy lying next to the N.Y.U. guy opened his eyes and he still was drunk and she'd never seen him before. He was probably a townie. She had actually gone to bed with a townie. I'm not a virgin anymore, she thought again. The townie winked at her, didn't bother to introduce himself, and then told her this joke he had heard last night about this elephant who was wandering through the jungle and who stepped on a thorn and it hurt a lot and the elephant was having trouble pulling it out so the elephant asked a rat who was pa.s.sing by to 'Please pull the thorn out from my foot' and the rat made a request: 'Only if you let me f.u.c.k you.' Without hesitation the elephant said okay and the rat quickly pulled the thorn from the elephant's foot and then scrambled up behind the elephant and began f.u.c.king. A hunter pa.s.sed by and shot the elephant, who started to moan in pain. The rat, oblivious to the elephant's wounds, said, 'Suffer baby, suffer,' and kept on f.u.c.king. The townie started laughing and it was a joke she wished she would forget, but it has stayed with her ever since. It was beginning to dawn on her then that she didn't know which one she had (technically) lost her virginity to (though odds were good that it was the film student from N.Y.U. and not the townie), even though that seemed to be beside the point for some reason on this post-virginal morning. She was vaguely aware that she was bleeding, but only a little. The guy from N.Y.U. burped in his sleep. There was vomit (whose?) all over Lorna's trashcan. The townie was still laughing, doubled up naked with laughter. Her bra was still on. And she said to no one, though she had wanted to say it to Daniel Miller, 'I always knew it would be like this.'

SEAN The party is starting to end. I get to Windham House right when the last keg is being tapped. The deal in town went okay and I have some cash so I buy some weed from this Freshman who lives in the cardroom in Booth and get high before coming to Thirsty Thursday. There's a Quarters game going on in the living room and Tony is filling a pitcher with beer. I ask him, 'What's going on?'

'Hey Sean. Lost my I.D. Pub's out,' he says. 'Brigid's got the hots for that guy from L.A. Wanna join in?' 'It's okay,' I say. 'Where's the cups?' 'Over there,' he says and goes back to the table. I get some beer and notice that this hot-looking Fresh- I man girl with short blond hair, great body, that I f.u.c.ked a couple of weeks ago, is standing near the fireplace. I'm about to go over and talk to her, but Mitch.e.l.l Allen's already lighting her cigarette and I don't want to deal with it. So I stand against the wall, listen to REM, finish the 1 beer, get more, keep my eye on the Freshman girl. Then I some other girl, Deidre I think her name is, black spiked hair that already looks dated and trendy, black lipstick, 1 black fingernail polish, black kneesocks, black shoes, nice 1 t.i.ts, okay body, Senior, comes over and she's wearing a 1 black halter top even though it's like forty below in the room and she's drunk and coughing like she has T.B., swigging Scotch. I've seen her stealing Dante in the bookstore. 'Have we met?' she asks. If she's joking, it's just too dumb.

'No,' I say. 'Hi.'

'What's your name?' she asks, trying to keep her balance. 'It's Peter,' I tell her.

'Oh, really?' she asks, looking confused. 'Peter? Peter? That's not your name.'

'Yeah it is.' I've still got my eye on the hot Freshman but she won't look over here. Mitch.e.l.l hands her another beer. It's too late. I look back at Dede Dedire whatever her name is. 'Aren't you a Senior? she asks me. 'No,' I tell her. 'Freshman.' 'Really?' All of a sudden she starts coughing, then sips Scotch, actually downs it, and says, her voice rasped out, 'I thought you were older.' 'A Freshman,' I tell her, drain my cup. 'Peter. Peter the Freshman.' Mitch.e.l.l whispers something in her ear. She laughs, and turns away. He keeps whispering. She doesn't move. That's it. She wants to leave with him. 'Like, I could've sworn your name was Brian,' Deedum says. I consider the options. I can leave right now, go back to my room, play the guitar, go to sleep. Or, I could play Quarters with Tony and Brigid and that dumb guy from L.A. Or, I can take this girl off-campus to The Carousel for drink, leave her there. Or, I can take her back to my room, hope the Frog is gone, get stoned and f.u.c.k her. But I don't really want to do that. I'm not into her all that much, but the hot-looking Freshman has already left with Mitch.e.l.l and I don't have any cla.s.ses tomorrow and it's late and it looks like the keg's running out. And she looks at me and asks, 'What's going on?' and I'm thinking Why Not? So I end up going home with her - she's dumpy but , from L.A., her father's in the music industry but she doesn't know who Lou Reed is. We go to her room. Her roommate's home but asleep. 'Ignore her,' she says, turning on the light. 'She's insane. It's okay.'

I'm taking off my clothes when the roommate wakes up and starts freaking out at the sight of me naked. I get under D's blankets, but the roommate starts crying and gets out of bed and D keeps screaming at her, You're insane, go to sleep, you're insane,' and roommate leaves, slamming the door, sobbing. We start making out but she forgets her diaphragm so she tries to put it in, squeezing the foam all over her hand but not getting any into it and she's too drunk to know where to put it. I try to f.u.c.k her anyway but she keeps moaning 'Peter, Peter' so I stop. I'm thinking about throwing up but do some bonghits instead, then flee. Deal with it. Rock'n'roll.

PAUL. We were already smashed when we got to Thirsty Thursday and the night was still young and the light-haired Swedish girl from Connecticut, very tall and boyish, came on to me, and I let her. Drunk, but still knowing perfectly well what I was getting myself into, I let her. I had been 10.trying to talk to Mitch.e.l.l but he was much more interested in this supremely ugly s.l.u.tty Soph.o.m.ore named Candice. Candy, for short. I was semi-appalled but what could I do? I started talking to Katrina and she looked very charming in her black Salvation Army raincoat, and the sailor's cap with the one tuft of blond hair peeking out, her eyes wide and blue even in the darkness of the living room at Windham House.

Anyway, we were drunk and Mitch was still talking to Candie and there was this girl at the party I really did not want to see and I was sufficiently drunk now to leave with Katrina. I suppose I could have stayed, waited it out with Mitch, or come on to that boy from L.A., who, despite being too sunburned, was well-muscled (red-muscled?) and seemed withdrawn enough to try anything. But he was still wearing his sungla.s.ses and playing Quarters and anyway, rumor had it he was sleeping with Brigid McCauley (a 'total tuna' according to Vanden Smith), so when Katrina asked me, 'What's going on?' I lit a cigarette and said, 'Let's go.' We were even more drunk by now since we had downed a bottle of good red wine we had found in the kitchen, and when we came out into the crisp October air, it hit us both with a bit of a shock, but it didn't sober us up and we both kept laughing. And then she kissed me and aid, 'Let's go back to my room and take a shower.'

We were still walking across Commons lawn when she aid this, her mittened hands in her black overcoat, laughing, twirling around, kicking up leaves, the music still coming from Windham House. I wanted to delay this moment, so I suggested that we look around for something eat. We stopped walking and stood there, and though 11.she sounded more than a little disappointed, she agreed and we went from house to house, sneakily raiding the refrigerators, even though all we came up with was some frozen Pepperidge Farm Milanos, a half-empty bag of Bar-B-Que potato chips and a Heineken Dark.

Anyway, we ended up in her room, really drunk, making out. She stopped for a minute and made her way to the bathroom down the hall. I turned on a light and looked around the room, inspecting her roommate's empty bed and the poster of a unicorn on the wall; copies of Town and Country and The Weekly World News ('I Had Bigfoot's Baby,' 'Scientists Say U.F.O.'s cause AIDS') were scattered around a giant stuffed teddybear that sat in the corner and I was thinking to myself that this girl was too young. She came back in and lit a joint and turned off the light. On the verge of pa.s.sing out she asked me, 'We're not going to have s.e.x, are we?'

Paul Young was on her stereo and I was leaning over her, smiling and said, 'No, I guess not.' I was thinking about the girl I left in September.

'Why not?' she asked, and she really didn't look all that beautiful anymore, lying there in the semi-darkness of her room, the only real light the glow from the tip of the joint she held.

'I don't know,' I said, and then mock seriously, 'I'm involved,' even though I wasn't, 'And you are drunk, though that really didn't have anything to do with it either.

'I really like you,' she said before she pa.s.sed out.

'I really like you,' I said, though I barely knew her.

I finished the joint and the Heineken. Then I put a blanket over her and stood there, hands in my overcoat 12.pockets. I considered taking the blanket off. I took the blanket off. Then lifted her arm and looked at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, touched them. Maybe I'll ravish her, I pondered. But it was getting close to four and I had a cla.s.s in six hours, though the prospect of going seemed fairly remote. On the way out I stole her copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude and turned her stereo off and left, pleased and maybe a little embarra.s.sed. I was a Senior. She was a nice girl. She ended up telling everyone I couldn't get it up, anyway.

LAUREN Went to Thirsty Thursday at Windham. Thing I sort of started I didn't like and I was thinking about Victor and getting lonely. Judy came by the studio already drunk and tried to console me. We got high and I just got thinking about Victor. Then it's late and we're at party and notalot is going on: keg in the corner, REM or I think it's REM, beautiful, slow-witted Dance majors writhing about shamelessly. Judy says 'Let's leave' and I agree. We don't. We get some beer which is warm and flat but drink it. Judy goes off with some guy from Fels even 13.though I know she has a crush on that guy from Los Angeles who's playing Quarters with Tony, who I like and who I slept with my second term here, and that girl -a Bernette who I guess is seeing the guy from L.A. or maybe she's seeing Tony, and there's nothing going on and I think about leaving, but the idea of going back to the studio. . . Someone comes in I don't want to see so I start talking to this Freshman sort-of-yuppie guy. 'Brewski for Youski?' he asks. I look over at Tony, wonder if he's interested. He looks over at me, lifting the pitcher and raises his eyebrows from across the living room and I can't tell if it's an invitaton to play Quarters or to get laid. But how do I get away from this guy? But there's someone here I don't want to see and if I go over there I'll have to pa.s.s him. So I keep talking to this square. This guy who after every bit of innocuous info he hands me says in a tone that he thinks sounds subversively hip, 'Hey, Laura,' and I keep telling him 'Look my name's not Laura, got it?' and he keeps calling me Laura, so finally I'm about to tell him off when suddenly I realize I don't know his name. He tells me. It's what? Steve? He, Steve, doesn't like that I'm smoking. The typical drunk (not too drunk) nervous Freshman. Who is Steve looking at? Not the guy from L.A. but at Bernette who wouldn't go to bed with this guy Steve Square Freshman anyway, but well, maybe she would. Can't stop thinking about Victor. But Victor's in Europe. Brewski for Youski? Jesus. The Freshman tells me I haven't touched my beer. I touch it, running my fingers across the plastic rim of the cup. 'Oh that's not what I mean,' he says good-naturedly. 'Drink it,' he urges. Stereotype with a Haircut. Why does he even care? Does he actually think I'll go to bed with him? Why won't that person leave? Is Tony even looking over here? Someone from the Quarters game yells for Sean Yes I Am a Sc.u.mbag Bateman. Judy pushes past me rolling her eyes up. I ask the guy Steve what's going on. He wants to smoke some pot with me but if I don't want pot he has some good speed. Help. I want to know why I sent Victor four postcards and haven't gotten anything back. But I don't want to think about it and very instantly I am leaving with the Freshman. Because ... the beer has run out. He asks if we could go to my room. Roommate, I lie. We're leaving now. And I had promised myself that I would be faithful to Victor and Victor had promised me that he, too, would be faithful. Since I was under, am under, the impression that we're in love. But I had already sort of broken that vow in September, which was a complete and utter mistake and now what am I doing?

In the hallway of Franklin House. Ripped poster of A Clockwork Orange on his door? No, the next room. The Ronnie Reagan calendar on the door. Is that a joke? In the Freshman's room now. What's his name? Sam? Steve? It's so ... neat! Tennis racket on the wall. Shelf full of Robert Ludlum books. Who is this guy? Probably drives a Jeep, wears penny loafers, his girlfriend in high school wore his letter sweater. He checks his hair out in the mirror and tells me his roommate's in Vermont tonight. Why don't I tell him that my boyfriend, the person I love, the person who loves me, the person I miss, the person who misses me, is in Europe and that I should not under any circ.u.mstances be doing this. He has a refrigerator and pulls out an ice-cold Becks. Slick. I take a sip. He takes a sip. He pulls off his L.L. Bean sweater and his T-shirt. His body's okay. Nice 15.legs. Probably plays tennis a lot. I almost knock over a stack of economics books that are on his desk. I didn't even know they offer that here.

'You don't have any herpes or anything, do you?' he asks while we undress.

I sigh and say, 'No, I don't.' Wish I was drunk.

He tells me he heard that maybe I did.

I don't want to know who he heard that from. Wish I was very drunk.

It feels good but I'm not turned on. I just think about Victor and lay there.

Victor.

VICTOR Took a charter flight on a DC-10 to London, landed at Gatwick, took a bus to the center, called a friend from school who was selling hash, but she wasn't in. So I wandered around until it started to rain, then took a subway back to the friend's house and hung out there for four or five days. Saw the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace. Ate a grapefruit next to the Thames River, which 16.reminded me a lot of the cover of that Pink Floyd alb.u.m. Wrote my mom a postcard I never sent. Looked for some heroin but couldn't find any. Bought some speed from an Italian guy I b.u.mped into at a record store in Liverpool. Smoked a lot of hash that had too much tobacco in it. Even though they all spoke the same language I did, they were all a.s.sholes. It rained a lot, it was expensive, so I split for Amsterdam. Someone playing saxophone at Central Station which was kind of pretty. Stayed with some friends in someone's bas.e.m.e.nt. Smoked a lot of hash in Amsterdam too, but lost most of my stash in some museum. The museums were cool, I guess. Lots of Van Goghs and the Vermeers were intense. Wandered around, bought a lot of pastries, a lot of red herring. The Dutch all know English so I didn't have to speak any Dutch, which was a relief. Wanted to rent a car but couldn't. The people I was staying with had bikes though, so I went biking one day and I saw a lot of cows and geese and ca.n.a.ls. I pulled off to the side of the road, got stoned and fell asleep, woke up, wrote a little, took some acid, made a few drawings, and then it started raining, so I biked to Danoever, to a youth hostel where there were some cool German guys who spoke a little English, and then I went back to Amsterdam and spent the night with this really stupid German girl. Next day I took the train to Kroeller in Arnhem where there were tons of cool Van Goghs. Hung out in the sculpture garden and I tried to get high there but didn't have any matches and couldn't find one. Got a ride to Cologne and stayed at a youth hostel in Bonn which was the worst youth hostel where there were a lot of really screwed-up kids, and it was too far away from the main part of town so we 17.couldn't do anything. Had a beer then headed South through Munich, Austria, and Italy. Got a ride to Switzerland, said f.u.c.k it why not. Ended up spending the night at a bus stop. Wandered around Switzerland but the weather was bad and it was too expensive and I wasn't into the situation so I took a train and then started hitching. The mountains were huge and really intense and the dams were surreal. Found a youth hostel and then headed south with a couple in their early thirties who had stayed at the hostel and they gave me a ride. I spent two days in Switzerland. Then I took a bus from Switzerland to Italy, then hitchhiked to get to this town where there was this girl from school who had graduated and who I was sort of in love with but I had lost her phone number and wasn't even that sure if she was in Italy. So I wandered around and met this totally cool guy named Nicola who had greased-back hair and wore Wayfarer sungla.s.ses and who loved Springsteen and kept asking me if I'd ever seen him in concert. It was then that I felt like an idiot for being an American but only for a little while since I finally got a ride from some French guy in a white Fiat who played Michael Jackson really loud and air-jammed. Then I was in some town called Brandis or Blandy or Brotto. Kids eating ice cream, all the movie theaters playing Bruce Lee movies, all the girls thought I was Rob Lowe or something. Still was looking for that girl, Jaime. b.u.mped into someone from Camden on the Italy Program and this person told me that Jaime was in New York not Italy. Florence was beautiful but too full of tourists. I was speeding heavily and I spent three days without sleep wandering around. Went to this tiny town, Siena. Smoked hash on the steps of this church, the 18.Doumo. Met a cool German guy in this old castle. Then I went to Milano where I hung out with these guys in some house. Slept in a big double bed with one of them who kept playing The Smiths and wanting me to jerk him off which I really wasn't into, but I had no place to go. Rome was big and hot and dirty. Saw a lot of art. Spent the night with some guy who took me out to dinner and I had a long shower at his house and I guess it was worth it. He took me to a bridge where, like, Hector fought off the Trojans or something. I was in Rome for three days. Then I went to Greece and it took me a day to get to where the ferry leaves. Ferry took me to Corfu. Rented a moped on Corfu. Lost the moped. Got on another ferry and headed for Patras and then Athens. Called a friend in New York who told me Jaime wasn't in New York but in Berlin and she gave me the phone number and address. Then I went to the islands, went to Naxos, got into town really early. Used a bathroom and some guy wanted ten drachmas but I only had German deutsche mark on me and I didn't have anything else, so I gave him my Swatch instead. Bought some bread, milk, and a map and I started walking. Saw a lot of donkeys. By nighttime I had walked halfway across town. Hit an archaeological site and lost the trail I was following. I just got stoned and watched the sunset. It was nice, so I headed for water and b.u.mped into some guy who dropped out of Camden. Asked him where Jaime might be. He told me either Skidmore or Athens but not Berlin. Then I went to Crete, f.u.c.ked some girl there. Then I went to San Torini, was beautiful but too full of tourists. Took a bus to the South coast, went to Malta and it made me sick. Started hitchhiking. Then I went back to Crete and spent a day at 19.this beach full of Germans and went swimming. Then I walked some more. That's all I did in Crete, was walk. I didn't know where I was. Everywhere was full of tourists So I went to this nude beach. Hung out, got naked, ate yogurt and swam with these two Yugoslavian guys who complained about inflation and wanted to make me a Socialist. I bought a mask and snorkled and we caught octopus, live, and beat them to death on the beaches and ate them. I met some guy from Canada, who had stolen a car and done some time in prison, and we hung out and talked about the state of the world, drank beer, caught some more octopus, took acid. This went on for three days. My a.s.s and d.i.c.k got sunburned. One of the Yugoslavian guys taught me how to sing 'Born in the U.S.A.' in Yugoslavian and we sang it together a lot. There was nothing else to do, since we had killed all the octopus, and I had learned how to sing every Springsteen song in Yugoslavian, so I said goodbye and left the nude beach. I hitchhiked some more, saw a h.e.l.l of a lot of donkeys, found a Donald Duck comic in Greek lying in someone's backyard. In Greece, while hitching, some truck carrying watermelons picked me up and this old geezer molested me, then I was attacked by dogs. I still didn't know where Jaime was. Ended up in Berlin but that person gave me the wrong address. Stayed at another youth hostel. Liked the Bauhaus architecture which I hate in America but here looked good. Hitchhiked some more, went to a lot of bars, met a lot of punk rockers, played a lot of checkers, shot some pool, smoked hash. Couldn't get a flight out of Berlin so I went back to Amsterdam and got mugged in the red light district by two small black guys.

20.The last time I saw Mitch.e.l.l before school started was in September. As usual, we were laying on my bed and it was early, perhaps twelve. I reached over him and lit a cigarette. The people next door were fighting. There was too much traffic on Jane Street, it was either that or something else that was making Mitch.e.l.l so tense, clutching his wine gla.s.s. So much attention paid, so much detail studied, worked over so hard that he loses it all. What was I doing there, I kept wondering. My father worked with his father in Chicago and though their relationship depended more on what was happening over on Wall Street and what table the other could command at Le Francais or The Ritz-Carlton, it still gave us the opportunity to meet each other. In New York we would meet at the apartment I lived in last summer. We could never meet at his place because of 'roommate trouble,' he would gravely tell me. We would meet usually at night, usually after a movie or some bad off-off-off-Broadway play one of Mitch.e.l.l's endless supply of N.Y.U. Drama friends landed a part in, usually drunk or high, which seemed Mitch.e.l.l's constant state those last months, when I was breaking it off with someone else. Mitch.e.l.l knew and didn't care. Usually wild bouts of s.e.x, clothed, early drink at Boy Bar, don't ask. Up on 92nd we sat at a cafe and cursed a waitress. Then taking a cab downtown we got into an argument with our driver and he made us get out. Twenty-ninth Street, ha.s.sled by prost.i.tutes, Mitch.e.l.l kind of enjoying it, or maybe pretending to. He looked kind of desperate those months. I always thought it would pa.s.s, but I was getting to the point where I knew it never would. Just a big night on the West Side and he'll be out of it. Then something ridiculous like 21.eggs benedict at three in the morning at P. J. Clarke's. Three in the morning. P. J. Clarke's. He complains the eggs are too runny. I pick at a cheeseburger I ordered but don't want, not really. I'm amazed that there are three or four out-of-town businessmen still at the bar. Mitch.e.l.l sort of finishes his eggs, then looks at me. I look at him, then light his cigarette. I touch his knee, thigh, with my hand. 'Just don't,' he says. I look away, embarra.s.sed. Then he says softly, 'Just not here.'

'Let's go back home,' I say.

'Whose?' he says.

'I don't care. Let's go to my place. Your place? I don't know. I don't feel like spending money on a cab.'

It's now getting depressing and late. Neither of moves. I light another cigarette, then put it out. Mitch.e.l.l keeps touching his chin lightly, like there's something wrong with it. He runs his finger through the dimple.

'Do you want to get stoned?' he asks.

'Mitch,' I sigh.

'Hmmm?' he asks, leaning forward.

'It's four in the morning,' I say.

'Uh-huh,' he says, confused, still leaning.

'We're at P. J.'s,' I remind him.

'That's right,' he says.

'You want to get. . . stoned?' I ask.

'Well,' he stammers, 'I guess.'

'Why don't we . . .' I stop, look over at the businessmen and look away, but not at Mitch.e.l.l.

'Why don't we . . .'

He keeps staring, waiting. This is stupid.

I don't say anything.

Why don't we ... why don't we what?' he asks, grinning, leaning closer, lips curling, whites of teeth, that ugly dimple.

"There's a rumor going around that you're r.e.t.a.r.ded,' I tell him.

In a cab heading toward my apartment, late, almost five, and I can't even remember what we did tonight. I pay the driver and give him too big a tip. Mitch.e.l.l holds the elevator door open, impatient. We get to my apartment and he takes off his clothes and gets stoned in the bathroom and then we watch TV, some HBO, for a little while... and then we went to sleep as soon as the sun started rising, and I remembered a party we were at back in school when Mitch.e.l.l drunk and angry tried to set fire to Booth House in the early morning. . . . We look straight at each other right now, both breathing evenly. It's morning now and we're not sleeping and everything is pure and bright and clear and I fall asleep. . . . When I woke up, later that afternoon, Mitch.e.l.l was gone, left for New Hampshire. But the ashtray by the bed was full. It was empty before. Had watched me sleep during that time? Had he?

22.23.SEAN 'It was the Kennedys, man ...' Marc's tellin' me while he's shooting up in his room in Noyes. 'The Kennedys, man, screwed it ... up. . . . Actually it was J . . . F . .. K . . . John F. Kennedy did it. ... He screwed it up ... all up, you see. . . .' He licks his lips now, continues, 'There was this . . . our mothers were pregnant with us when we ... I mean, he ... was blown away in '64 and that whole incident . . . screwedthingsup. . . .' He stops, then goes on. '. . . in a really heavy duty way . . .' Special emphasis on 'heavy' and 'duty.' 'And ... in turn . . . you see, it jolted us in a really heavy duty way when we ... were . . . in . . .' He stops again, looks at his arm and then at me. 'Whatchma-callit...' Looks back at his arm and then at me, then at the arm again, concentrating as he pulls the needle out, then at me, still confused. 'Their . . . um, primordial wombs, and, so, that is why we are ... me, you, the narc across the hall, the sister in Booth, all the way we are.. .. Do you . . . understand? ... Is this clear?' He squints up at me. 'Jesus . . . think if you had a brother who was born in '69 or something ... They'd be ... f.u.c.king bonkers....' He's saying this all real slowly (a lot of it I can't even listen to) as he puts the eyedropper next to his new computer that's humming, his friend Resin, who's visiting from Ann Arbor, leaning up against the table, sitting on the floor, humming with it. Marc sits back, smiling. I thought Kennedy bit it a couple of years earlier but wasn't sure and I don't correct him. I'm kind of wired but still could use some sleep, since it's late, sometime around four, but I like the familiarity of Marc's room, the details I'm used to, the ripped Bob Dylan poster for Don't Look Back, the stills from Easy Rider, 'Born To Be Wild' always coming from 24.the stereo (or Hendrix or Eric Burdon and The Animals or Iron b.u.t.terfly or Zep), the empty pizza boxes on the floor, the copy of an old Pablo Neruda book on top of the pizza boxes, the constant smell of incense, the yoga manuals, the band upstairs that's always rehearsing old Spencer Davis songs all night (they suck). But Marc's leaving soon, any day now, can't stand the scene, Ann Arbor is where it's at, Resin told him. After I f.u.c.ked Didi I came back to my room, where Susan was, alone, crying. I guess the Frog was in New York. I couldn't deal with her so I told her to get out, then I drove to the Burger King in town and ate it on the way to Roxanne's and had to deal with her new boyfriend, this big mean townie pusher named Rupert. That whole scene was a total joke. She was so stoned she actually lent me forty bucks and told me that The Carousel (where Rupert also bartends) is closing down due to s.h.i.tty business, and that depressed me. I picked up the stuff from Rupert, who was cleaning his gun case, so c.o.ked up he actually smiled and let me do a line, and brought it back to campus. The drive was a cold, long drag, my bike almost kicking out near the college gates, and barely making it through the two-mile stretch of College Drive. I was too stoned and the Burger King food was making me sick and those two miles past the gate on that road at 3AM in the morning was creepy. I smoked some more pot in Marc's room and now he's finishing up. It's no big deal. I've seen it all before. Marc lights a menthol cigarette, and says, Tm telling you, Sam, it was the Kennedys!' His arm's bent up, resting on his shoulder, folded. He licks his lips. 'This stuff.. .' 'I hear you brother,' I sigh, rubbing my eyes.

25.This stuff is. . .' 'Is?' 'Is good.' Marc was doing his thesis on The Grateful Dead. At first he had been trying to s.p.a.ce the shots out so he wouldn't get hooked, but it was sort of too late for that. I'd been scoring for him since September, and he had been slacking off on his payments. He had kept telling me that after 'the Garcia interview' he would have some cash. But Garcia hadn't been to New Hampshire in a long time and I was losing my patience. 'Marc, you owe me five hundred bucks,' I tell him. 'I want it before you leave.' 'G.o.d, we use to have ... wild times at this place .. .' (This is the part where I always start getting up.) 'It's so ... different now . ..' (Blah Blah) 'Those times are gone ... those places are gone . . .' he says. I stare at a piece of broken mirror next to the computer and the eyedropper and now Marc's talking about chucking it all and heading for Europe. I look down at him, his breath reeks, he hasn't showered in days, his hair is greasy and pulled back in a ponytail, stained dirty tie-dyed shirt. '.. . When I was in Europe, man ...' He picks his nose. 'I gotta go to cla.s.s tomorrow,' I tell him. 'What about the cash?' 'Europe ... What? Cla.s.s? Who teaches that?' he asks. 'David Lee Roth. Listen, can I get the cash or what?' 'I dig it, I can dig it, sshhh, you'll wake up Resin,' he whispers. 'I don't care. Resin has a Porsche. Resin can pay me,' I tell him.

26.'Resin's broke,' he says. 'I'm good for it, I'm good for it.' 'Marc, you owe me five hundred bucks. Five hundred,' I tell the pathetic junkie. 'Resin thinks Indira Gandhi lives in Welling House,' Marc smiles. 'Says he followed her from the dining hall to Welling.' He pauses. 'Can you dig . .. that?' He gets up, barely makes it to the bed and falls on it, rolling his sleeves down. He looks around the room, smoking the filter now. 'Um,' he says, head rolling back. 'You've got money, come on,' I say. 'Can't you lend me a couple bucks?' He looks around the room, flips open an empty pizza box, then squints at me. 'No.' 'I'm a Financial Aid student man, I need some money,' I plead. 'Just five bucks.' He closes his eyes and laughs. Tm good for it,' is all he says. Resin wakes up and starts talking to the ashtray. Marc warns me that I'm f.u.c.king up his karma. I leave. Junkies are pathetic enough but rich junkies are even worse. Even worse than girls.

PAUL My d.a.m.n radio went off accidentally at seven o'clock this morning and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I stumbled out of bed, immediately lit a cigarette and closed the windows since it was freezing in the room. Even though I could barely open my eyes (if I did I was positive my skull would split open) I could see that I was still wearing my tie, my underwear, and my socks. I couldn't figure out why I was only wearing these three articles of clothing so I stood for a long time staring into the mirror trying to remember last night, but couldn't. I stumbled into the bathroom and took a shower, grateful that there was some warm water left. I dressed hurriedly and braced myself for breakfast. Actually it was quite nice out. It was that time of October just when the trees were about to lose their fall foliage and the morning was cold and crisp and the air smelled clean and the sun, obscured by graying clouds, wasn't too high yet. I was still feeling awful though, and the five Anadin I popped weren't anywhere near doing their job. Bleary-eyed, I almost put a twenty in the change machine. I pa.s.sed the post office but there was nothing in my box since it was too early for mail. I got cigarettes and went up to the dining hall. There was no one in line. That cute blond-haired Freshman boy was behind the counter not saying a word, only wearing the biggest pair of black sungla.s.ses I've ever seen, serving the wettest looking scrambled eggs and these little brown toothpicks which I suspected were sausages. The thought of eating nauseated me to no end and I looked at the boy who just stood there, holding a spatula. My initial horniness gave way to irritation and I muttered, 27.You're so pretentious,' cigarette still in mouth, and got a cup of coffee. The main dining room was the only one open so I went in and sat down with Raymond, Donald, and Harry, this little Freshman who Donald and Raymond befriended, a cute boy who was concerned with typical Freshman questions, like Is there life after Wham!? They had been up all night doing crystal meth, and they had invited me, but I had followed . . . Mitch.e.l.l, who was sitting at another table across the dining hall, to that stupid party instead. I tried not to look over at him and that awful f.u.c.ked-out s.l.u.t he was sitting with, but I couldn't help it and I cursed myself for not jerking off when I woke up this morning. The three f.a.gs were huddled around a sheet of paper composing a student blacklist and even though their mouths were moving a mile a minute, they noticed me, nodded, and I sat down. 'Students who go to London and come back with accents,' Raymond said, writing furiously. 'Can I b.u.m a cig?' Donald asked me absently. 'Can you?' I asked back. The coffee tasted atrocious. Mitch.e.l.l, that b.a.s.t.a.r.d. 'Oh, do be real, Paul,' he muttered as I handed him one. 'Why don't you just buy some?' I asked as politely as someone who's hungover and at breakfast possibly could. 'Anybody who rides a motorcycle, and all Deadheads,' Harry said. 'And anyone who comes to breakfast who hasn't stayed up all night,' Donald shot a glance over at me. I made a face at him and crossed my legs. 'Those two d.y.k.es who live in McCullough,' Raymond said, writing. 'How about all of McCullough?' suggested Donald. 'Even better.' Raymond scribbled something down. 'What about that s.l.u.t with Mitch.e.l.l?' I offered. 'Now, now, Paul. Calm down,' Raymond said, sarcastically. Donald laughed and wrote her name down anyway. 'What about that mean fat trendy girl?' Harry asked. 'She lives in McCullough. She's taken care of I couldn't stand this twisted f.a.ggy banter so early in the morning and I was going to get up and get more coffee but I was too tired to even do that and I sat back and didn't look at Mitch.e.l.l and soon all the voices became indistinguishable from one another, including mine. 'Anyone with beards or facial hair of any kind.' 'Oh that's good.' 'How about that boy from L.A.?' 'But not really.' You're right, but put him down anyway.' 'Anyone who goes for seconds at the salad bar.' 'Are you auditioning for that Shepard thing, Paul?' 'What? What are you talking about?' " 'That part. The Shepard play. Auditions today.' 'Anybody who waits to get braces after high school.' 'No, I'm not.' 'People who consider themselves born again.' 'That rules out the entire administration.' 'Quelle horreur!' 'Rich people with cheap stereos.' 'Boys who can't hold their liquor.' 'What about boys who can hold their liquor?'

30.True, true.' 'Put down girls who can't' Til just put down Lightweights.' 'What about David Van Pelt?' Why?' 'Why not?' 'Well, I slept with him.' 'You didn't go to bed with David Van Pelt.' 'Yes I did.' 'How?' 'He's a Lightweight. I told him I like his sculptures.' 'But they're awful!' 'I know that.' 'He's got a harelip.' 'I know that also. I think it's. . . s.e.xy.' 'You would.' 'Anybody with a harelip. Put that down.' 'What about The Handsome Dunce?' I vaguely wanted to know who The Handsome Dunce was for some reason but couldn't bring myself to muster the interest to ask. I felt like s.h.i.t. I don't know these people, I was thinking. I hated being a Drama major. I started to sweat. I pushed the coffee away and reached for a cigarette. I had switched majors so many times now that I didn't even care. Drama major was simply the last roll of the dice. David Van Pelt was disgusting, or at least I used to think so. But now, this morning, his name had an erotic tinge to it, and I whispered the name to myself, but Mitch.e.l.l's came instead. Then suddenly they all cackled, still huddled around the paper, reminding me of the three witches from 31.Macbeth except infinitely better looking and wearing Giorgio Armani. 'How about anybody whose parents are still married?' They laughed and congratulated each other and wrote it down, satisfied. 'Excuse me,' I interrupted. 'But my parents are still married.' They all looked up, their smiles fading quickly to deep concern. 'What did you say?' one of them asked. I cleared my throat, paused dramatically and said, 'My parents aren't divorced.' There was a long silence and then they all screamed, a mixture of disappointment and disbelief and they threw their heads on the table, howling. 'No way!' Raymond said, amazed, alarmed, looking up as if I had just admitted a devastating secret. Donald was gaping. You are kidding, Paul.' He looked horrified and actually backed away as if I were a leper. Harry was too stunned to speak. Tm not kidding, Donald,' I said. 'My parents are too boring to get a divorce.' I liked the fact that my parents were still married. Whether the marriage was any good was anyone's guess, but just the fact that most, or all, of my friends' parents were either divorced or separated, and my parents weren't, made me feel safe rather than feeling like a casualty. It almost made up for Mitch.e.l.l and I was pleased with this notoriety. I relished it and I stared back at the three of them, feeling slightly better. They were still staring, dumbfounded. 'Go back to your stupid list,' I said, sipping my coffee, waving them away. 'Stop staring at me.'

32.They slowly looked back at the list and got back into it after that short, stunned silence, but they resumed their game with less enthusiasm than before. 'How about people with tapestries in their rooms?' Harry suggested. 'We already have that,' Raymond sighed. 'Is there any more speed left?' Harry sighed. 'No,' Donald sighed also. 'How about anyone who writes poetry about Womanhood?' 'Bolsheviks from Canada?' 'Anyone who smokes clove cigarettes?' 'Speaking of cigarettes, Paul, can I b.u.m another one?' Donald asked. Mitch.e.l.l reached across the table and touched her hand. She laughed. I looked back at Donald, incredulous. 'No. You cannot,' I said, my hysteria building. 'Absolutely not. That infuriates me. You are always "b.u.mming" cigarettes and I won't stand for it anymore.' 'Come on,' Donald said as if I was only joking. I'll buy some later. I'm broke.' 'No! It also infuriates me that your father owns something like half of Gulf and Western and you always pretend to be broke,' I said, glaring. 'Is it such a big crisis?' he asked. Yeah, Paul, stop having a grand mal,' Raymond said. 'Why are you in such a bad mood?' Harry asked. 'I know why,' Raymond said slyly. 'Wedding bells?' Donald giggled, looking over at Mitch.e.l.l's table.

33.'It is such a crisis.' I was adamant, ignoring them. I'm going to kill that s.l.u.t.

'Just give me one. Don't be b.i.t.c.hy.'

'Okay, I'll give you one if you tell me what won best costume design at the Tonys last year.'

There was a silence that followed that I found humiliating. I sighed and looked down. The three of them didn't say anything until Donald finally spoke up.

'That is the most meaningless question I have ever heard.'

I looked over at Mitch.e.l.l again, then slid the cigarettes, across the table. 'Just take them. I'm getting more coffee,' I got up and headed out of the dining hall. But then I had to stop and duck into the salad bar room because there was the Swedish girl I was with last night, showing her I.D. to the food service checker. I waited there until she walked into the serving area. Then I ran quickly downstairs and headed for cla.s.s. I thought about trying out for that Shepard play, but then thought why bother, when I'm already stuck in one: my life.

I sat at a desk not listening to the drone of the professor, glancing over at Mitch.e.l.l, who looked happy (yeah, he got laid last night) and who was taking notes. He looked around the room, disgusted, at the people smoking (he quit when he came back - how irritating). They probably looked like machines to him, I imagined. Like chimneys, spurts of smoke rising from that hole in their heads. He looked at the ugly girl in the red dress trying to look cool. I looked at the graffiti on the desk: 'You Lose' 'There Is No Gravity' The Earth Sucks' 'The Brady Bunch Slept Here' 'What Ever Happened to Hippie Love?' 'Love Stinks' 'Most Cab 34.Drivers Have Liberal Arts Degrees' And I sat there feeling like the hapless lover. But then I remembered, of course, that now I'm only hapless.

LAUREN Wake up. Hair needs to be washed. I don't want to miss lunch. I go to Commons. I look disgusting. No mail today. No mail today from Victor. Just a reminder that the AA meeting is going to be in Stokes instead of Bingham next Sat.u.r.day. Dawn of the Dead tonight in Tishman. I have four overdue art books from the library. b.u.mp into weird-looking girl with pink party dress on and gla.s.ses who looks like a victim of shock treatment searching for someone's box. Another minor irritation. Walk upstairs. Forgot my I.D. They let me in anyway. Cute guy wearing Wayfarer sungla.s.ses serves cheeseburgers. Ask for a plate of fries. Start to flirt. Ask him how his flute tutorial's going. Realize I look disgusting and turn away. Get a Diet c.o.ke. Sit down. Roxanne's here for some reason sitting with Judy. Judy's picking at tofu lettuce celery rice French fry salad. I break the silence: I'm sick of this place.

35.Everyone reeks of cigarettes, is pretentious, and has terrible posture. I'm getting out before the Freshmen take over.' I forgot ketchup. I push the plate of fries away. Light a cigarette. Neither one of them smile. O ... K ... I pick at a spot of dried blue paint on my pant leg- 'So ... what's' wrong?' I look around and spot Square out of the corner of my eye at the beverage center. Turn back to Judy. 'Where's Sara?'

'Sara's pregnant,' Judy says.

'Oh s.h.i.t, you're kidding,' I say, pulling the chair up, 'Tell me about it.'

'What's to tell?' Judy asks. 'Roxanne's been talking to her all morning.'

'I gave her some Darvon,' Roxanne rolls her eyes up; Chain-smoking. 'Told her to go to Psychological Counseling.'

'Oh s.h.i.t, no,' I say. 'What's she doing about it? I mean when?'

'She's having it done next week,' Roxanne says. 'Wednesday.'

I put the cigarette out. Pick at the fries. Borrow Judy's ketchup. 'Then she's going to Spain, I guess,' Roxanne says, ' rolling her eyes up again.

'Spain? Why?'

'Because she's crazy,' Judy says, getting up. 'Does anyone want anything?'

Victor. 'No,' I say, still looking at Roxanne. She leaves.

'She was really upset, Lauren,' Roxanne's bored, plays with her scarf, eats fries.

'I can imagine. I have to talk with her,' I say. 'This is terrible.'

'Terrible? The worst.' Roxanne says.

'The worst,' I agree.

'I hate it when this happens,' she says. 'I hate it'

We finish the fries, which are pretty good today. 'It's awful, I know,' I nod.

'Awful.' she says. More agreement. 'I'm beginning to think romance is a foreign concept.'

Ralph Larson, Philosophy teacher walks by with tray looking for a place to sit followed by my printmaking teacher. He looks at Roxanne and says, 'Hey baby,' and winks. Roxanne smiles big - 'Hi, Ralph' - and she's looking now at me, eyes saucers, still smiling big. I notice she's gained weight. She grabs my wrist. 'He's so handsome, Lauren,' she breathes, pants, at me.

'Never invite a teacher to your room,' I tell her.

'He can come by anytime,' she says, still squeezing.

'Let go,' I'm telling her. 'Roxanne, he's married.'

'I don't care, so what?' She rolls her eyes up. "Everyone knows he slept with Brigid McCauley.'

'He'll never leave his wife for you. It would screw up his tenure review,'

I laugh. She doesn't. And I slept with that guy Tim who got Sara pregnant and what if it was me who was getting an abortion next Wednesday? What if ... Ketchup on the plate, smeared, make unavoidable connection. I wouldn't let it happen. Judy comes back. Next table: sad-looking boy is making a sandwich and wrapping it in a napkin for hippie girlfriend who isn't on the food plan. Then it's the Square walking toward the table. Whirl around and tell Judy to tell me a joke, anything. 'What? Huh?' she says.

36.'Talk to me, pretend you're talking to me. Tell me a joke. Hurry. Anything.'

'Why? What's going on?'

'Just do it! There's someone I don't want to talk to.' Point with my eyes.

'Oh yeah,' she starts, we've played this before, warming up, 'that's why, it all, you know, happened.

'That's why?' I shrug. 'But I thought, you know that, it happened . ..'

'Yeah, that's why . . . uh, see, do . ..' she says.

'Oh, ha ha ha ha ha ...' I laugh. It sounds fake. I feel ugly.