THE FRAT
by
Darren Dillman
Copyright 2011 Darren Dillman
Smashwords Edition
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
Chapter 1
Christian Black woke to a shrill noise. Not knowing where he was, his hand slapped against the stale drapes pressed to the wall by his mattress. He looked across the room. A stranger slept on a mattress perpendicular to his own. Not a stranger, he realized. His roommate, Victor.
“Why did I come here?” he muttered.
The body in the adjacent bed rolled over.
Shouting thundered from the dormitory courtyard.
Christian sighed, staring at the other bed. Victor, a tall architecture student, was sprawled on his torso, his feet hanging over the mattress. Whether alone or with company, he talked to himself incessantly, mostly in low whispers, but occasionally in a deep, audible grunt. He often arrived late at night from working on projects at the drafting studio, listened to Metallica on his walkman, and chanted the angry lyrics with the back part of his throat. A thick wooden stick, almost like a baseball bat, hid behind his bed against the wall, and he twirled it while lying on his back. Christian wondered how he had been paired up with him. He remembered asking for an outgoing roommate who liked to study.
The shouting ceased in the courtyard. Now it was too quiet.
It was the fifth week of classes. Mid-September. Albuquerque’s weather was changing, turning cold. The dorm’s yellow-white walls were crumbling and the floors shook when freshmen stomped across them. The heat flowed incessantly and the window was raised for the vapor to seep out. The floors needed new tiles, and roaches infested the closets.
Christian rolled over onto his right side, facing the coarse wall. His back cricked and pinched. He closed his eyes, but the black thoughts echoed back.
On registration day he had stood in line for over an hour, only to find most of the classes closed. Hour after hour, line after line. So many students. He had never seen so many weird people.
Classes had gone well until the fourth week, when the first exams were given. Although he’d studied and prepped at the library for several hours, staying up late many nights, he made two C’s, a D, and two F’s. To add to the insult, bills arrived almost daily from the financial aid office. Each day he called the office he was told the same thing: Your file is incomplete.
His grades, bills, and bachache had spurred a new alternative: suicide.
He stared into the darkness on Victor’s side of the room, wondering when his roommate might suddenly stand up, open the door, and wander down the hall to the bathroom. Although he was guilty of the same, it seemed Victor was a frequent interrupter. Was Victor really that weird, or was he just non-accepting? He rolled onto his right side, facing the wall again, and curled up in the darkness.
Chapter 2
Monday was hell.
His alarm clock beeped in staccato at 6:30 a.m., rising in pitch every twenty seconds. Upon waking and realizing where and who he was, the depression hollowed inside him.
He woke so early to get the best shower--and the scarce supply of hot water to soothe his back.
The eight o’clock class was biochemistry, his least favorite. He sat drone like, taking notes without will, making little attempt to comprehend the speedy scribbles of chalk and verbal babbling of the melancholy professor, Doctor Eichert, a dark-haired German in his early fifties. The fast pace irritated him; he couldn’t comprehend the logic when words, numbers, and theories were being shot out of the barrel of an M-16.
He had made a 65 on the first exam. As low as it seemed, many of his fellow students had been jealous. He had glimpsed 45’s, 33’s, and 29’s marked in heavy red.
Doctor Eichert lectured his students on the fine balance between chemistry and medicine, and the competence therein.
“If you prescribe the wrong drug or dosage,” he often said, “the patient dies.”
After Biochemistry Christian hurried to the main campus for his next class, Quantitative Analysis of Chemistry. The teacher, Dr. Williams, a dowager in her early fifties, rambled through her lectures, holding crumpled pages in one hand while scribbling reactions and theories with the other. Christian slumped over his notebook, attempting to jot down the information before Dr. Williams shoved the sliding chalkboard up behind another, and vice versa.
With his next class at two o’clock, he rested for an hour, ate lunch, and studied an hour before Histology.
On his way to chemistry, he crossed the bridge over the duck pond. The water looked dirty. Mud-dirty. The bridge rattled with the students crossing it both ways. A tall blonde was approaching him from the opposite direction. His eyes intuitively went to her breasts. Five feet away, she almost smiled, but refrained, and looked downward while passing, cringing within the bundle of books engulfed by her arms. The Greek lettering on her silky white t-shirt caught his attention: a sorority. She was out of his league.
He felt low again. His throat felt scratchy, so he cleared it. He made the half-mile to his room, dragging with fatigue, backpack slumped over his shoulder. As he approached the dorm, a six-foot football player bumped him in the shoulder while walking past.
“Sorry, man,” the player said.
Christian hiked up to the room. He opened the door, entered quietly, and saw Victor lying down, twirling the wooden log.
The radio was on, a lead guitar picking through its solo. He closed the door gently.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said.
“Nothing much,” Victor said. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” Christian said, slinging his backpack onto the carpet. He took a seat on his bed. “Classes suck.”
Victor gave a half-laugh. “Change your major.”
Christian covered his face with his hands. “I’m screwed.”
“You need to get wasted,” Victor said, holding the log behind his head, crucifix-style. Christian couldn’t imagine drinking. He’d never touched liquor. With a slow, mechanical motion, he lay down painstakingly upon the mattress, swinging his legs onto the bed.
Victor rose from his bed, turned off his radio, and left the room, careful to pull the door shut with a slow, gentle click.
Christian looked at the ceiling, at the rocky white clusters that gave its surface the look of a bumpy, amorphous maze. It was funny, he thought, that the ceiling was the brightest component of his life, more brilliant than the dawn of the sun or the sky that was becoming a darker shade every day. He drifted away into a submissive sleep.
He walked up the stairs from the dorm’s lobby, the tote bag over his shoulder. The stairs were tedious, each step burdensome. He didn’t hear any voices–no shouts, no giggles, no echoes against the walls.
As he reached the second floor, a hooded shadow ran past him along the wall, and he flinched in response, the backpack slipping from his shoulder. The hall was dim and a short black candle rested on a centerpiece. He lumbered toward his room. The numbers 219 were printed in Old Roman, standing tightly together. A roach the size of his thumb scampered ten feet down the hall, its antennae wriggling in the air.
Just move on, he thought. This isn’t your room.
But the numbers were his. 219. He turned the handle and the door gave. He pushed it open and walked inside.
Victor was sound asleep, sprawled onto his torso and buried under an array of blankets. And there was silence. No music. No shouting. Silence, and silence alone. And in utter darkness. The flame on the wall’s mantle went out. He closed the door quietly and walked over to his bed, dropping the backpack onto the floor. He removed his shoes, pulled off his jeans, his jacket, and slid into bed, pulling his thick comforter just over his eyes.
He heard something snap–like a switch on a stereo, and the heavy chainlike ring of an electric guitar deafened the pre-existing silence. It was Metallica, and the grunting lyrics followed.
A savvy, clever laugh bellowed from his roommate. Victor sat upright from his bed, his eyes glowing a luminous green like a cheetah’s. He smiled. Inside his gums, projecting out in a curve, were the curtails of sharp, tar-covered fangs. He hissed like a snake, hastily threw off his comforter and blankets, and sprung toward Christian, the green irises seeming brighter with every step.
Christian woke to a docile knocking on his door. Hard rock was scratching from the radio, and Victor was moving toward the door.
Christian looked at his watch. One o’clock pm. He had slept past his lunchtime and would have to grab some chips or donuts at the student union building on his way to class–or wait until dinner at four-thirty.
Victor looked far less frightening now. No fangs, no glowing eyes. He opened the door and had a quiet exchange with the visitor.
Victor turned to Christian. “It’s for you.” He paced to his bed and lay down on his back, grabbing a book of Calvin and Hobbes.
“Come in,” Christian said, rising from the bed. His brown hair was smashed in a wave across his forehead and he knew he reflected a creature half-dead, his eyes focusing through the world’s bleak opacity. He padded to the door.
“I’m Leland,” a young man said, extending his hand. Brown hair hung down to his neck, over the cusps of his ears, his bangs feathered over the eyebrows. He wore denims and a long-sleeve black t-shirt.
Christian introduced himself and received the worse end of a firm handshake.
“How are classes?” Leland asked.
“Don’t ask,” Christian said.
“Care if we go out in the hall?”
Christian shrugged his shoulders. “No.”
Three female students passed between them. Leland brushed his hair back with a hand and pulled his shirt sleeves past his wrists, gazing into Christian’s eyes as the girls passed.
“I’m in a fraternity called Panis de Vita,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Christian said, gently interrupting. “I’m not into the Greek thing.”
“It’s Latin.”
“Latin?” Christian said.
“Latin,” Leland said.
“What does it mean?”
Leland smiled. “You should learn Latin.” He offered a confused look. “We’re having a get-together Friday night. If you come you’ll find out what we’re about.”
Christian looked off to the side.
“It’s rush week,” Leland explained. “We invite a few guys every year. Some years we don’t invite anyone.”
“Nice pitch,” Christian said.
Leland’s face hardened like granite. “It’s not a pitch. We’re here to help. You won’t pay a cent. I promise.” Something in his voice seemed genuine. “We won’t make you do anything against your will. Stop by Friday if you’re not doing anything.” With a softer handshake, he turned away.
Christian stepped back, nearly tripped over his own feet, his eyes transfixed on Leland, who turned the corner and descended effortlessly down the stairs. He opened the door and hurried to his backpack, unzipping it and pulling out a book, then grabbed another thick text off his desk.
Victor sat on his bed looking through a loaded case of CD’s. “Who was that?”
“Some frat guy wanting me to rush,” Christian said. He shoved the wide hardback book into the bag and zipped it up.
Victor removed a CD from the case, inspected it, then looked up. “What frat is he in?”
“It’s a funny name,” Christian said. “Panis something.”
“Ohhhh shit,” Victor said. “Those guys are psychos.” The CD case slid off his knees, but he caught it by the corners. “Don’t mess with them.”
Christian slung the backpack over his shoulder and sauntered out of the room.
Chapter 3
Friday came with new test dates and assignments. Christian studied biochemistry for three hours in the medical library, then went to his dorm. While at his desk, a sharp pain pierced his upper back. He instinctively rolled his shoulders, but it helped little.
He stared at his desk--the envelopes, texts, and letters scattered loosely, his laptop sitting in the corner.
He crawled across his bed, leaned against the wall near the window, and perused the envelopes and letters. Most were bills from the university, such as tuition charges, which he had delayed with the help of a counselor. The bills covering room and board were just as numerous. Before he had postponed those fees, the Housing office had shut off his meal card on the billing due date and he had fasted twenty-four hours. He had miscalculated the costs of college.
He looked around the room. Stale wooden closets. The ancient heating system. The creaking windows that whined at night.
What a rip-off, he thought. My life sucks. I’m practically in prison.
He fondled through the papers on his lap, flipping most to the floor. He came to a letter from Leland and opened the folds:
Dear Christian,
I enjoyed talking with you on Monday. You seemed like you were a little under the weather. Don’t worry. Things will get better. But you have to do something about the stress. Remember, we’re having something at our place Friday, so come by if you can. We’ll be expecting you.
Leland
Christian took a deep breath. Metallica and Marilyn Manson posters jumped out at him from Victor’s side of the room.
If I only had a gun, he thought.
He leapt from the bed, shuffled to the drawers. He slid the top drawer open, fumbled through tubes of toothpaste, bottles of shampoo, and sticks of deodorant before finding a bottle of prescription sleeping pills.
He snatched his black jacket from the desk chair, shoved the pills in a nylon pocket, and left the room.
The campus sidewalks were nearly deserted. A few amber leaves swirled onto the concrete. The sun was setting over the jagged, rocky horizon, with puffy lines of vermilion and gold. Bloated hawks coasted in tandem above the library, bickering with high shrieks like old church ladies.
The road curving to Frat Row lay behind the dorm. He strolled uneasily on the sidewalk, hands clenched in his nylon pockets. A cool breeze blew across his face. He passed the first frat houses, the balconies crowded with brothers and sorority sisters, bottles in hand, the thumping of stereos.
As he came upon the Panis de Vita house, the noise from the nearby houses died away, and he looked back to see the void of wilderness separating the house from the others. It was getting dark now.
He sauntered up to the entrance, where a black turreted rail encased the porch. Sticking out from the black wooden door was an old door-ringer. He couldn’t hear anything from inside. Above the door stood another set of letters: Novacula de Nothus.
He lifted the door piece and swung it against the steel mantel. He waited. Feeling deserted, he looked back over his shoulder. The door opened, swinging open swiftly. Voices and music immediately carried.
Leland stood before him, holding a plastic cup of orange-colored drink.
“We have a winner!” Leland said, laughing. A few shouts echoed back. “Come in. Glad you made it.”
Christian followed him through a narrow hallway and into the main room, where brothers sat on sofas and chairs, played ping-pong and pool, and watched the large-screen TV in the corner, talking and drinking. The old wooden floor cricked with each step.
A Godsmack song hammered from the tall speakers in one corner. He felt the subtle stares drawing upon him. It was the most attention he’d experienced since orientation.
Overhead, two balconies ran on each side, east and west. Gold chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, the metal scratched and bent in places. The light they provided was poor, so four lamplights surrounded the chandeliers in a square, increasing the brilliance.
Two young men stood on the west balcony, laughing and drinking from tall bottles.
“Come here,” Leland said.
He followed, feeling at ease with the music and voices around him.
Leland stood over a brother in a soft chair holding a bottle of Modelo. He had a stout build and fine dark hair spilled from his scalp.
“This is Brandon,” Leland said.
Brandon stretched out his hand and Christian obliged. The shake was not as overpowering as Leland’s, rather with a softness that Christian found odd. Brandon said nothing.
The alignment of chairs and sofas swung around in a horseshoe around a coffee table. Paintings of nude and semi-nude women, wolves and landscapes glowered from the walls. Christian didn’t see any clocks. Leland moved along, introducing brothers in turn.
One brother, Manasses, started toward the kitchen. “Want a beer?”
Christian looked quizzically at Leland. He knew what Leland was going to say, that he wouldn’t be pressured into anything. It was so casual, the manner of drinking, Christian thought. He thought about the pills. Beer wouldn’t do the job.
“Whiskey,” he answered. He felt the bottle of pills from the nylon of his pocket, making sure he hadn’t lost them.
“Like our house?” Leland asked, sipping his drink.
“It’s pretty cool,” Christian said.
“Even though it’s older than a son of a bitch,” Manasses said, returning with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses. His dark hair tumbled in braids over his back, and a scimitar-shaped tattoo slithered down his shoulder. He set the shots on the coffee table, poured the oil-colored liquid.
“You sure?” Leland asked. “It’s strong.”
“The stronger the better,” Christian said, taking a glass from Manasses.
“Ready?” Manasses asked.
“Yeah,” Christian said, looking steadily into the liquid, taking in its sour smell.
“One, two, three,” Manasses said, tipping the shot into his mouth and calmly gulping the whiskey. The stud of a gold ring blinked from his tongue.
Christian carefully tilted his own shot, leaning his head back and swallowing the burning tonic. His face flushed, he took a deep breath.
Manasses grinned. “How was it?”
“Not bad,” Christian said, struggling for voice.
“Don’t lie,” Leland said, wrapping his arm around him. “You know it tasted like shit.”
“Want some more?” Manasses asked.
“Sure,” Christian said.
As Manasses poured the whiskey, the two brothers on the balcony stamped down to the floor. They walked over to Leland and whispered, looking casually at Christian.
“Here,” Manasses said, handing out the drink. Christian took it and again drank on the count of three. It wasn’t as sour, or as strong, the second time. His limbs felt looser, lighter. Manasses gave him a high-five, in which Christian almost missed, the world seeming now like a colorful blight of images swirling around him.
“More?” Manasses asked.
“Yeah,” Christian said, regaining his stance.
The front doors banged open and laughter bellowed from the arrivals. A tall cowboy wearing sunglasses and holding a bottle of beer emerged with a handful of young women.
“Skiv!” Leland said.
“Leland!” the cowboy replied.
“Get your ass over here,” Leland said.
Skiv strutted toward Leland, took a swig from the bottle.
Leland introduced him to Christian.
“We got us a cool kid in the house, Leland,” the cowboy said. He switched the beer bottle into his left hand and eagerly reached out his right. “How the hell are you?” The grip was firm.
“Right now I’m pretty good,” Christian said.
“Well I’m glad to hear that,” Skiv said. “Say, you want one of my girlfriends?” He looked at the brunette to his left. “All I need is one.” The brunette hit him in the ribs. “Take it easy, baby. I wasn’t talkin’ about you.” The blonde to his right raised her eyebrows sharply, the turquoise on her eyelids beaming. “Well, we’ll see.” He vanished to the back with the girls.
Christian doused another shot of whiskey.
“Sometimes Skiv’s an asshole, but he’s a lot of fun,” Leland said. “He’ll be back.”
Young women crowded the place now, lounging on the sofa and whispering in dim corners with the brothers.
“You have girls over all the time?” Christian asked.
“Pretty much,” Leland said. “You want some of that, don’t you?”
Christian laughed.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get some.”
Christian grabbed the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.
“Whoa!” Leland said. “Let’s lay off this for awhile.” He cupped the bottle and set it down on the table. “You’ll be passed out on the floor.”
“Here,” Manasses said, holding out an opened bottle of Coors Light. “It will chase the whiskey.”
Christian took a drink. It was bitter.
“No one likes it at first,” Manasses said.
“It’s definitely an acquired taste,” Leland said. Christian remembered his pills. Even drunk, he couldn’t forget his grades and bills. He made his way toward the entrance and went outside. No one was around. He reached into his nylon pocket, uncapped the bottle of pills, and poured thirty oval tablets into his palm. He stared at them. Was he really going to go through with it? His pain outweighed any consequences. He held the pills to his mouth when an arm grabbed his wrist.
“Not tonight,” Leland said. “It’s not worth it.” He made Christian empty the pills into the bottle. “Better let me hang onto them.”
Christian gave him the bottle.
“Come on,” Leland said, sliding an arm around him. “We’ve got drinking to do.”
Inside, Tool was pounding out a track called “Lie, Cheat, and Steal.”
Christian rose and went to the men’s room and, when he came back, sat next to a demure brunette. The girls were drinking heavily now, as were the brothers, and the music blended with their voices.
Leland introduced him to the girls, but he immediately forgot their names.
“It’s been awhile since we had someone rush,” a red-headed brother named Josh said.
“I wonder why,” a girl said cynically.
“Hey,” Josh said. “I don’t want anymore shit from you.”
A door slammed upstairs. Skiv slumbered onto the floor with the brunette at his side, and oddly enough, he was wearing his sunglasses. He strutted toward the group, wiped his mouth, and leaned over the sofa.
“What’s up, buddy?” he asked Christian. “How ya feelin’?”
“Alive,” Christian said.
“That’s what we’re here for,” the cowboy said.
“Where’s your other girlfriend?” Christian asked.
Leland looked at Manasses.
“She didn’t like the handcuffs so I kicked her ass out,” Skiv said. The brunette matched his grin.
“How are classes goin’?” Skiv asked.
“They suck,” Christian said.
“All of ‘em?” Skiv asked.
“All of ‘em,” Christian said.
“They can’t be that bad,” Skiv said.
“I hate them,” Christian said. “And the moron profs.”
“College sucks, don’t it?” Skiv said. “Hey, you want another beer?”
Christian held up his bottle high enough to see the foam on the bottom. “If you have anymore.”
“Hell, yeah, we have some more,” Skiv said, rising, walking toward the kitchen. “Everlasting supply.”
He looked at Skiv’s brunette girlfriend, purple blouse rippled against her waist, and wondered why she remained and not the blonde who had accompanied the cowboy earlier.
“Was it good for you?” he asked.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Was it good for you?” he said slowly.
She blushed with a smile, attempting to hide her face with a hand.
“How you like that beer?” Leland asked, playfully.
Christian turned his head slowly. “Just a little better than dog piss.” He raised the bottle upside down and tipped the remainder into his mouth.
Leland gave a quaint look at Manasses and they both laughed.
Skiv came back with a beer and handed it to Christian. He twisted off the cap, took a drink. As far as he could tell, alcohol wasn’t the evil he had always perceived. So far it had relieved him of anxiety, social ills, and back pain.
He turned toward the adjacent brunette, and she noticed him crowding her. “Hey Megan.”
“It’s Cindy,” she corrected.
“Sorry,” he said. “You have a boyfriend?”
“No,” she said, grinning.
“You wanna go suck face?” he asked.
“Whoa,” she said. “I think you’re a little drunk.”
Christian heard laughter belting him.
“Nevermind her,” Skiv said. “She just don’t know how to drink.”
“Go drown yourself, Skiv,” Cindy said.
“Well excuse me, honey,” Skiv said.
“Asshole,” Cindy said under her breath.
Leland leaned over Christian’s shoulder. “Come here, man.”
Christian got to his feet, beer in hand, and followed Leland to a quiet spot near the entrance.
“Christian,” Leland said, “Looks like you blew it with that girl. Next time play it subtle. Talk to her and let her loosen up. Then make your move.”
“All right,” Christian said.
He went back into the living room and sat down.
“You hate all your professors?” Skiv asked.
“Yep,” Christian said.
“Which one you hate the most?”
Christian thought for a second. “Dr. Williams.”
“The chem prof?” Skiv asked.
“Yeah,” Christian said.
“That’s a nasty dog right there,” Skiv said.
Christian made a sour face. “She kicked me out of her office.”
“What for?” Skiv asked.
“For arguing points on a test. Wouldn’t listen.”
Skiv took a long swig of Wild Turkey. “I hate profs like that. They don’t budge for nothin’. Not even when you’re hung like me.”
The two brunettes on the couch shared looks of repulsion.
“Bloodsuckers,” Christian said.
“Especially Housing,” another girl said. “They want you to pay three months in advance.”
“I’m way behind my payments,” Christian said, disgusted. “They cut off my meal card last week and I had to beg them to give me some credit. Assholes.” He sunk into the chair, the room spinning, the faces glazed with carnival smiles, the night fading as he felt millions of miles from pain.
Chapter 4
The room was just the way it had been when Christian had fallen asleep: the chandeliers and cylindrical lights lit, and still as bright.
Although sluggish at first, he rose feeling refreshed, unsure where he was, his back and shoulders loose. He had slept on a sofa. He looked around the room, saw the nude and semi-nude paintings, and remembered the night before. The fraternity. The girls.
Oh, man, he thought. I was a dumbass.
Now he was alone, not a person in sight. He looked at his sportswatch: 2:40 pm.
He walked around the room, perusing the paintings. Blondes and black-haired beauties smiled and winked back at him, baring their navels, their green eyes sparkling like rubies, each face humble, without artificial longing. Faded metal engravings at the lower end of the frames revealed the dates: 1784, 1837, 1921, 1897, 1914.
He looked up to the balcony overhead, its rails poised in brown varnish. The room extended around a circular wall of the kitchen, winding left into a dark cleft. He proceeded toward the back, hands in his jacket, nervous that someone might catch him browsing. He brushed a hand over his hair, felt it sticking out on one side like smashed grass.
He ambled on, closer to the darkness, until the base of the stairwell broadened into view. He stepped onto the first step and the top board squealed, so he withdrew his foot. Behind the stairwell the ground shifted downward about a foot, the boards cricking, ending with a concrete wall and a door and a brass bolt lock. He tried the doorknob. Locked.
Back at the entrance, the front doors opened grudgingly and he sprung out onto the row, shocked at his limberness. The muscles were relaxed, the joints loose, the spirit free. Frat brothers were kicking back on front lawns, and to the right, dark-skinned sorority girls were spread out on towels in front of their houses. They stared at him as he walked up the block, the air riffling his face, and he glared back with a taste of self-esteem.
At the end of the row he realized where he was going: back to his room, his roommate, his books. Tests loomed on Monday, but he didn’t care. Not as much, at least.
One need, however, gnawed at him.
Hunger.
Chapter 5
He stood at the crosswalk on busy Lomas, his backpack strapped over his shoulder, a thirty-degree wind chill in his face. He stopped at the midpoint of the intersection as sports cars and pickups turned just a foot or two in front of him. Crossing from the opposite side, Skiv jogged carelessly in front of the turning vehicles while holding one hand out against the traffic and the other on his Stetson. When he reached Christian, he offered a gum-chomping smile.
“Hey, Bud,” Skiv said. “Where you going?”
“Anatomy lab.”
“That’s where I’m comin’ from. Who’s your TA?”
“Some asshole named Tad,” Christian said.
“Yep. He is an asshole. Looks like you got the wrong teachers.”
“I just came to the wrong school.”
“Don’t give up yet,” Skiv said. “It takes awhile.”
“I’ll be dead by then,” Christian said. “They cut off my meal card again.”
“No shit?” Skiv said. His gum-chewing slowed, then sped up again. “Don’t worry about it.”
Christian started to cross to the north campus, but felt a tug on his jacket.
“Hey,” Skiv said. “How you doing in your lab?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a D.”
“Why don’t you change into my class?”
“I can’t,” Christian said, confused.
“Yeah, you can.”
“It’s too late.”
“No, it ain’t too late,” Skiv said. “I’ve done it before. My TA’s real cool. She don’t give us any shit. My grade’s a whole hell of a lot better than yours right now, and I know I ain’t no smarter than you. So how about it?”
Christian shrugged. “Sure, if you can get me in.”
“Hell, yeah, I’ll get you in,” Skiv said.
Christian started along the crosswalk, then turned around. “Why are you wearing shades on a day like this?”
Skiv smiled, said nothing, and turned toward the main campus.
Tuesday.
The phone rarely rang in room 219, and half the time when it did ring it was the wrong number. Tuesdays and Thursdays were sleep-in days for both Victor and Christian, and the abrupt ringing at eight o’clock a.m. caused Victor to shoot up from his bed and put a halt to the noise, jerking the receiver off the wall.
“Hello,” he said. “Just a minute.” He looked at Christian, who had no intention of getting out of bed. “It’s for you.”
“Shit,” Christian mumbled, throwing off the electric blanket and comforter and walking barefoot across the stale carpet. The receiver was ice-cold. “Hello.”
“Christian,” a woman said. “This is Jenny from Housing and Dining Services. Your balance has been taken care of and you’re free to enter the dining hall this morning if you would like.”
“Okay,” Christian said, dazed. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” Jenny said.
He hung up the receiver and marched back to his bed. I didn’t pay them anything, he thought. How can my balance be okay?
After surviving on donuts and packaged cakes the day before, he put on some clothes and hurried to the dining hall before breakfast ended.
In the afternoon Christian sat on his bed against the wall, a three-pound text, Human Histology: A Study of the Body’s Tissues, bruising his thighs. He used one hand to steady the book, the other to highlight. A spiral notebook sat to the side, and he listened to the lecture on a micro recorder.
The prof, Dr. Barnes, a small bald man who wore a suit and old lavender hat, used a long, thin stick to point to his diagrams on overhead while describing the components of human tissues and their functions. He did so through memory, not notes. His rambling voice came through as garbage on tape—if not also in the lecture hall.
Two-bit bore, Christian thought.
A knock on his door jarred him from the book and tape. He looked up, suspended in the recesses of thought, and shoved the book to the side. He rose from the bed and opened the door. Leland stood in faded denims, a black leather jacket, and sunglasses. “Hey man, what are you doing?”
“Studying,” Christian said.
“You done with classes?” Leland asked, holding his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna meet some brothers for dinner just down the road,” Leland said. “You’re welcome to come.” He paused while Christian stretched his neck to one side popped it. “It’s on me.”
Christian glanced at the book on his bed. The prospect of reading, of listening to Dr. Barns’ voice all night, sickened him. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”
As they descended down the steps and came into the lobby, young women stared at Leland.
“What is it with you?” Christian asked.
“I’ve been around awhile,” Leland said.
Out in the parking lot, Leland stopped at a black ‘67 Camaro, pulled the driver’s-side door open. “Go ahead. It’s unlocked.”
Christian stood with disbelief. “This is your car?”
Leland slid into the driver’s bucket seat. The windows were tinted.
Christian opened the door and sat down. The bucket seat was firm, comfortable, and he leaned his head back against the headrest.
Leland turned the key and the engine roared like a mountain lion. A raucous brigade stomped through the speakers. He circled around the campus, passed the glittered row, and turned west onto Central, shifting in split seconds, treating the stick-shift like a toy.
Leland yelled “Come git some, Baby!” to a prostitute walking the sidewalk. She tossed up her middle finger just as fast, and Leland laughed as the window rose shut.
“You do that all the time?” Christian asked.
Leland gave a slight shrug. “Whenever I get a chance.” He glanced at Christian. “Don’t be so uptight.” He jabbed Christian in the arm. “You look like Al Gore taking a shit. Have a little fun.”
The buildings rose higher as one drove further down Central, the air tainted with smog and fast food scents. Leland swung the Camaro into the parking lot of Dante’s Inferno Restaurant and Bar.
“Wait,” Christian said. “This is a handicapped space.”
“So,” Leland said. “I think we’re special enough.”
Inside it was dark and compact, with paintings of pueblos, kachinas, and rocky mesas. The smell of baked dough and Italian sausage wafted from the kitchen. Leland snaked around corners and through corridors until they reached a secluded booth where the brothers waited.
Bottles of Jack Daniels, shot glasses, pitchers of beer and glass mugs clinked against each other on the table. Masked by the Stetson and sunglasses, Skiv leaned back in the corner. When he saw Leland he perked up, straightening his ruggedly arched back.
“It’s about freakin’ time,” he said sternly.
“I hope you weren’t waiting on us,” Leland said with a touch of disagreement, removing his sunglasses.
“Hell, no, we weren’t waitin’,” Skiv said. “Pizza’s on the way, with extra meat. And we’re emptyin’ the house’s draft.” He grabbed a mug filled with beer and drank.
“You saved some for us, though, didn’t you?” Leland asked.
“What’s it look like?” Skiv asked.
“Good,” Leland said. “Because for a minute I thought I was gonna have to kick some ass around here.”
“Sure you were,” Skiv said.
Leland smiled as he walked over to Skiv and slapped his hand against the cowboy’s. Skiv rose up and the two bumped chests like pro athletes.
“Git some!” Skiv said.
Christian took a corner seat of the booth, and Leland took a seat across from him.
A chubby black waiter with curly hair to his neck dumped two large pizzas onto the table, then began passing out medium-sized plates and silverware wrapped in cloth.
“That was faster than a whore on Friday,” Skiv said.
The waiter noticed Leland and Christian and pulled out a little notebook and pencil with his fat little fingers. Leland ordered Corona and Hennessey. Plates and forks scattered around the pans of pizza, which made their way into the center of the table.
“Leland,” Skiv said, pulling a gargantuan slice from the pan, “I forgot to tell you. Our waiter’s a fag.” The cheese stretched with the slice as he lowered it onto his plate, and he severed the strings with the side of his hand. He took a monstrous bite, chomping and inhaling, then grabbed the whiskey and drank from the bottle.
“How did you guess?” Leland asked.
“Damn, Skiv,” Matt, a lanky brother, complained. “Don’t you have any manners?”
“Sure, I do,” Skiv replied, setting the bottle back down, and giving a hippy-looking brother named Jace a high-five. “I’m doing ya’ll a favor backwashing all that shit out of there.”
Christian laughed out loud.
The waiter brought the bottles of Corona and Hennessey, setting them down with a quick snap of the wrist.
“You guys doing okay?” he asked.
“Give us another bottle of Jack,” Skiv said, with a mouthful of pizza. “Nevermind.” He stared at Leland. “I forgot. Leland’s a lightweight. We’ll just drink some of his.”
Leland matched Skiv’s glare. “Bring us another bottle of Irish.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, and he whisked away, blubber jiggling behind his uniform.
Christian stuffed himself. It felt awkward--almost indentured--eating pizza that had been bought by rich frat members. Did they do this regularly?
“Here, Christian,” Leland said, pouring the whiskey into a shot glass. “Let’s get you going.” He shoved the shot over to Christian’s side of the table. “You can chase it with the beer.” He eyed Skiv. “And once you’ve become an alcoholic--like Skiv over there--you can drink it in any order you want. Isn’t that right, Skiv?”
“Damn right,” Skiv said, gulping down a shot.
Christian held the shot to his nose, smelling the vapor. He dumped the eighty-proof drink into his mouth. It had a strong but sweet taste and went down like a smooth wave. It only took a minute before he noticed the tingling of his nerves, his off-kilter equilibrium.
“Yeah!” he said, his face flushed.
Hands slapped his own from across the table. A drink spilled.
“Taste good?” Leland asked.
Christian laughed. He saw Skiv’s ugly mouth chugging on the bottle.
“Hey!” he said accusingly. “Who told you to drink from the bottle?”
Skiv grinned, set the bottle back down.
“I can do that shit too,” Christian said. He grabbed the bottle near Leland and took a drink.
“Man in the House!” Skiv said.
“Man in the House!” Leland agreed, draining his shot.
The faces blurred like melting wax, spinning with the paintings to the rear, their hands and arms doubled in Christian’s narrow vision. The alcohol singed his nostrils, burned his throat, deadened his pain.
It’s good to be alive, he thought. But then the thoughts turned cold. What would he feel when the alcohol wore off? Would he revert to his miserable self? What if his meal card were shut off again? Where were those sleeping pills?
Leland leaned over the table. “You can join us, you know. You can be a PDV.” His face was quite serious. “I’ve already asked the others.”
He met Leland’s eyes and started laughing. He grabbed Leland’s sunglasses from the table and slid them on.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
Chapter 6
He slept like a baby Tuesday evening and awakened in a fetal position. The day was bright; there was so much light now. The worries gone.
The next three days lapsed quickly, and Saturday was again staring him in the face. Leland told him to show up for the initiation and by eight o’clock he was smug in the House of Panis de Vita, playing quarters with vodka.
They had moved a large oak table in front of the coffee table. The table and chairs rattled from the stereo.
The quarter and shot glass spun in front of Manasses. He bounced the coin off the table and into the glass on his third try, then shoved both over to Christian, who made his shot on the first attempt and passed the glass to Leland. The second shot glass and quarter trailed four spaces behind, as Matt fumbled the quarter onto the floor.
Skiv was absent. He’d gone upstairs with a blonde.
“Skiv!” Leland said. “Get down here and start drinking like the rest of us!”
Skiv stepped from the corner of the stairwell, alone, wiping his mouth and smearing something onto his jeans. His sunglasses seemed off-balanced on the bridge of his nose, tilted slightly to one side. He smiled at Christian.
A kaleidoscope of bottles hugged in the middle of the table.
“What are we playin’ for?” Skiv asked. He sidled behind Christian and massaged Christian’s neck and shoulders.
“Vodka,” Leland said.
“Bunch of lightweights,” Skiv said. “I drink that in my sleep.”
“Then why don’t you?” Leland asked. He held out a glass full of drink.
“Gimme that shit,” Skiv said, taking the glass and emptying it. He pushed the glass back to Leland.
“Don’t mess with an alcoholic,” Leland said.
“Damn straight,” Skiv agreed, and put his hands onto Christian’s shoulders. “Dang, you’re tight. You drink coffee?”
“No,” Christian said.
“You been takin’ too much heat off the profs,” the cowboy said. “You gotta learn to reflect it.”
Across the table, Brandon struggled with the quarter and shot glass, his hands slapping the table with each bounce, and he slumped over the glass, laughing. Behind him, Jace racked up his number of drinks by bouncing the quarter into the trailing shot. Dax, a short brother with tattoos of eagles rounding his shoulders, slammed shots of Wild Turkey despite his own talent for the game, passing the glass along when it came his way.
Christian made a brief visit to the bathroom near the entrance. When he came back he found a dozen new, smaller bottles shoving their way onto the table via Matt’s lanky hands. Bronze wrappers covered the top of each, and just below, through the glass, the drink’s dark red texture gleamed through.
“What’s that?” Christian asked, nodding to the bottles.
“Cisco,” Leland said. “Wine, mostly. Made this batch ourselves. Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”
Skiv unscrewed the cap off a bottle. He held the top to his nose, seemed to drift off into some distant world, his head swaying. He clenched the bottle with a force that threatened to bust it, but it simply tilted higher and into his mouth as he drank and lowered the bottle. He tilted his head back, shook his jowls like a dog.
Christian thought he saw a touch of blue glistening through the cowboy’s sunglasses.
Leland grabbed a bottle of Cisco, slid it across the table to him.
The game of quarters resumed. Christian opened the bottle and took a drink before the shot glass rounded his direction and frowned from the drink’s sour nature. Some brothers grinned while others tried to stifle their laughter.
“That’s some strong shit,” he said.
The table exploded with hysterics. Jace banged his forehead on the table, and Matt gave Brandon a slew of high-fives.
The shot glass squatted before him. Before he could take the quarter out and bounce it, Manasses ricocheted a quarter into the trailing shot. The jingling distracted him; he watched Manasses’ quarter through the corner of his eye.
“Come on!” Christian said.
Manasses racked up the fourth shot before Christian ended his debt with a shallow rimmer.
“Drink up,” Manasses said, passing him the shot.
Leland flipped in the quarter on the second try and watched Christian grimace through four drinks.
“You hate it now,” Skiv said, “but you’ll love it later.”
“How much later?” Christian asked.
“Can’t tell ya,” Skiv said. “It’s different for everybody.”
“No shit,” Christian said, disgusted with the sour taste. “Tastes like a V8.”
He made his next shot and excused himself to the bathroom. When he came back, he took another drink of Cisco. It tasted even worse, with a strong aftertaste that flushed through his cheeks, spreading slowly down his esophagus.
“Did someone put anything in my drink?” he asked.
Leland shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone.”
When he finished the bottle, Christian swore he’d never drink Cisco again.
He rode in the back seat of Leland’s Camaro. He had no idea where they were going, only that the city lights flashed past him too quickly to distinguish red from green from blue.
“How you feeling?” Brandon asked from the front seat. Manasses sat near Christian with his legs kicked up onto Brandon’s headrest.
Leland’s driving sent Christian close to vomiting a couple of times.
“Been in any wrecks lately?” Christian asked.
The brothers laughed.
They hit a back road leading to an airstrip of blue and red lights. A search light hovered over the four-story tower in the middle, and a handful of single and twin-engine planes stood near.
Christian opened the door, nearly fell to his knees, and wobbled over the pavement.
“Watch your step,” Brandon said, helping him to his feet. “That shit hits pretty hard.”
Two sports cars and a Hummer skidded onto the pavement at the same time, tires squealing, gravel flying. The driver-side door of the Hummer opened, and a pair of black ropers stepped out onto the crisp caliche. Then the Stetson and sunglasses. Skiv.
“What took you so long?” Leland asked.
Skiv burnished the middle finger, resumed a delayed series of rapid gum-chewing, and walked up to Christian, who held his hands anxiously in his denim pockets, fumbling with the hard change of nickels, quarters, and dimes.
“You’re looking kind of scary tonight,” Christian said, jingling the coins.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Skiv said crassly.
“What’s your problem?”
“Flyin’s my problem,” Skiv said.
“Flying?” Christian said.
“Yep,” Skiv said. “Welcome to the world where rich pricks and Cessnas.”
Brandon and Manasses came up behind them.
“What do you think, gunfighter?” Manasses asked. “Good night to go up?”
“I don’t know,” Skiv said, turning subtly toward Christian. “Don’t know if it’s the right season.”
A shade of doubt stretched across Brandon’s face. “It’s as good as it gets.”
The cowboy held his gum between his teeth, then resumed chewing. “I suppose it’s as good as any.”
One of the planes, an old gray Air Force glider, roared to life and maneuvered to the starting strip. Leland motioned the others to join him at the take-off line and, before he knew it, Christian was sitting next to the brothers, on a duck tape-cushioned bench, watching the ground leave him as the junker ascended.
The pilot—a four-hundred-pound bald man with an ugly scar on his skull--smoked a cigarette while jabbering with Leland, who sat beside him.
“I ain’t prejudiced or nothin’,” Skiv said. “But what kind of cheese does a nigger like?” A gap of silence. “Nacho cheese, fool. Nacho cheese.” Two brothers offered a mercy laugh. “Come on. Ain’t that funny?”
“Kind of weak,” Jace said.
“We’re talking stand-up in Vegas,” Matt said, giving Skiv a high-five, the knees of his long legs pointing up, his back sloped to fit into the crunched space.
“All right,” Skiv said, holding out his palm, “I’ll give ya another one. Now I ain’t prejudiced or nothin. Okay? You hear the one about the meskin fire department?”
“Up yours,” Manasses said, jabbing the middle finger at Skiv. “Racist pinche.”
“No, I swear to God,” Skiv said, holding his hands up, “I swear to God I ain’t prejudiced. Hell, I love niggers an meskins.”
Leland snapped his head around toward the others. “Hey, you guys ready to go?”
“Me and my cojones was born ready,” Skiv said, leaning comfortably into his cushioned seat.
Christian panicked. “What are we doing?” The side door slid open, and Christian’s heart pounded at the vast darkness sitting at his side.
“What are we doing, Skiv?” Leland asked.
“Skydiving!” Skiv said.
“Ever done it before?” Manasses asked.
“Hell, no,” Christian said.
“First time’s the charm,” Brandon said, edging toward the open side, his black hair whipping up.
Christian looked around. “Where are the parachutes?”
Skiv and his brothers exchanged glances.
“Don’t need no parachutes,” Skiv said. He moved to the open ledge and sat down, his legs hanging over the end.
“What?” Christian said, turning to Leland. Was this some diehard frat prank testing his loyalty? Don’t be afraid, he thought. I’ll probably fall onto a large soft matt or something.
“See ya’ll faggots in hell!” Skiv said, pushing himself off the ledge and into the darkness.
“No way,” Christian said, eyeing Leland. “Where did he go?”
“Airborne,” Leland said.
As Christian turned his head back around, Brandon and Jace jumped consecutively, followed by Josh, then Matt, who hit his head on the top of the exit.
Manasses sat by the ledge. “Christian, don’t worry about it. You’ll be okay.” Then he leaped out.
I’m not afraid, Christian thought. The alcohol allayed his nervosa, and with it came courage. What am I worried about? My life is shit. Who cares if I die?
“You don’t have to do this,” Leland said. “But if you stay in here, you’ll be missing out. Now or never.” He looked meditatively at the open door. “Can’t you smell it?”
“What?” Christian asked.
“The night,” Leland said. “Ain’t it sweet?” He sprung from his sitting position and flew out with his arms wide and his feet straight, soaring out of the plane.
Christian looked around. All he could see were the empty seats and the glow of the pilot’s cigarette.
“Damn it,” Christian said, creeping from his seat along the side. Cries and hollers echoed from the darkness outside. He decided to jump. He grabbed the left side of the opening, leaned forward to look below, and pushed off.
The blackness engulfed him, stars swirling. Lights in the distance flurried in small bits, lights from Albuquerque, which meant nothing to him now. Only the alcohol, Panis de Vita, the livid night air. Awakenings in themselves. School was irrelevant, church a theater for righteous cliques, life a medium of punishment.
Voices filtered upward through the wind.
“I wouldn be talkin’,” Skiv was shouting. “Mine’s bigger than yours.”
“Gotcha!” Leland jabbed from above, brushing past. “Didn’t take you long.” He drifted below and out of view.
Christian felt loose now, as though he were suspended in mid-air, defying gravity. His clothes snugged against his skin in downward ripples. As the wind ceased from hitting him as strongly, he realized what he was doing: floating steadily in the air.
Chapter 7
The rain thumped against the base of the window pane, its music shifting with the size of the drops.
Then thunder.
Christian rolled out of bed, stiff in the joints, and rushed to close the window. His laptop and some of his texts were damp on top from the splatter, but he wiped them off with a towel. A small stream of water coursed on the floor under the window, but he ignored it, knowing it would evaporate.
Victor was buried in his blankets, snoozing away, his large bare feet hanging off the end of the mattress.
Christian suddenly became time-conscious. His electronic clock read 11:20 pm. He had missed church again.
He put on some denims and a sweatshirt and sat down, attempting to separate reality from fantasy. What did I do last night? he wondered. Was I really skydiving?
He had a headache, his balance wasn’t so good, and his vision was blurred. A sour taste shot from his throat and he darted from the room and into the bathroom down the hall, arriving at the toilet in time to vomit. He sat on his knees until he was certain everything had come out, and then he cleaned himself up and lingered back to the room. His gut throbbed as he sat down in his chair. It didn’t hurt, necessarily, but more or less spasmed, spreading sparingly to the left side and then to the right, wiggling until it ceased.
What the heck? he thought. The hangover from hell.
His throat was dry, and in minutes he felt both dehydrated and hungry. He grabbed his jacket and wallet and hurried to the dining hall, running in the rain across the paved path, up rocky steps and slippery sidewalks, opening his mouth to the water that fell from Heaven.
He sat at a glass table in the atrium, devouring lasagna. A waterfall sequence tumbled nearby and a cumulus overcast frothed through the glass window in the ceiling. He gulped down a glass of fruit punch, but he was still thirsty, so he drank a glass of grape juice. He went back for seconds, tearing into a chicken breast with his fingers, swallowing the tender white meat without chewing. After inhaling the breast, he sucked two wings to the bone and washed it down with two glasses of Sprite. He was still hungry.
He went back for more chicken and devoured it even quicker. The drinks seemed to dry on the way down, leaving him with a still unquenched thirst. He slid the tray into the slot on the way out and ventured back to his room.
Victor was gone, and a note on the door read, “Leland wants you to call him.”
Christian opened the top drawer of his desk, sorted through scraps of paper. He pulled one out, went to the wall-phone, and dialed the number.
“Hey,” Leland said.
“Did you call me?” Christian asked.
“Yep. How you feeling?”
“Not that great,” Christian said.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Leland said. “Long night.”
“For every action--” Christian quoted.
“There’s an opposite and equal reaction,” Leland finished. “Law of Conservation of Mass and Energy.”
“I feel like shit,” Christian said. “What all did we do?”
Leland laughed. “First you came over. Then we went skydiving.”
“I thought I might have dreamed it.”
“It was real.”
“We used parachutes, right?” Christian asked.
Leland paused. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”
“I guess I dreamed we didn’t use anything. We just drifted in the air.”
“That’s freaking scary, man,” Leland said.
“No shit,” Christian said. “But it would be cool if you could.”
“You coming over?” Leland asked. “We can catch a flick or something.”
“No,” Christian said. “I better not. I have too much crap to study.”
“Come on, man. You can do that later.”
“No I can’t,” Christian said. “I have tests this week. I already put off studying for last night.”
“It’s your suffering,” Leland said casually.
“Yeah, I know,” Christian said.
“Have fun in the library,” Leland said.
“Yeah,” Christian said, and hung up.
Christian turned on Victor’s TV to see what Dallas was doing to the New York Giants. The Cowboys led by three touchdowns and Terrell Owens was dancing in the end zone. He turned it off.
He looked around the room for a minute or two, dazing more so than thinking. Even with the old walls and decrepit features, it was fulfilling to be alone. He walked to his bed and fell face-first onto the blankets.
He jerked upright, gasping for breath, sweat diffusing from his pores. Something had jarred him from a nap. A nightmare? A pain of some kind? He waited, trying to slow down his breathing. Calm down, he thought.
A jolt of pain rocked his chest, and he jerked forward.
“Oh, God,” he said, pressing against his heart. The pain resounded with a pounding, uncontrollable fibrillation that reverberated inside his head, blood rushing to his face, and he crumbled to the floor. I’m too young to have a heart attack, he thought. After a few minute, however, it faded.
He slowly rose to his feet, cautious of another attack, and moved his arms about in circles and stretches.
“The hell was that?” he asked himself.
His bladder felt threatened to bust so he walked down the hall to the bathroom, picked a toilet in the corner, and closed the door. He unzipped his denims and began to urinate. After an initial trail of gold, the excretion changed to light red. Then maroon.
Holy shit! he thought. I must be dying! He zipped up his denims and left the stall.
The library was always crowded, even on Sundays. It was being remodeled, and students sidled around the labyrinth of boarded aisles and shaky plywood detours that finally led to the books.
Christian chose the basement floor, where scattered newspapers lingered like gnats on a dead, decaying deer. And the smell wasn’t much better. Despite the study booths with wooden dividers for privacy, one could not help notice the coughs and sneezes and throats cleared while turning the pages of a magnanimous text, or the legs crossed or stretched underneath.
He sat in a corner booth, paging through boring Biochem. His eyes were focusing better than ever, perhaps too well. He could dissect the letters of words to see if they had been printed clearly, or if the ink had missed a speck. He broke eye contact from the words. Several bookworms sat hunched over their texts, highlighting with yellow, blue, sometimes pink markers. It put a dry taste in his mouth, and he pushed himself back from the desk, the chair legs sliding across the carpet, and rose to get a drink of water.
He stopped at a fountain, slurped the water, and started back to his seat. Midway, a dizzy spell altered his equilibrium, and he wobbled to the booth. When he sat down he felt a little better. He began reading again, but as his eyes moved halfway down the page, the letters grew larger, as though he were reading under a magnifying glass. What’s happening to me? he wondered. I have enough health problems.
He massaged his temples, then looked around. A chair over, a blonde flung her hair over her shoulder. He caught himself staring at her arm, at the blue wires of veins pulsing beneath her skin. If he could only glimpse the vein in her neck that was hidden by her hair …
I’m going crazy, he thought, burying his eyes in his palms. I’m worse than my roommate.
“Are you okay?” the blonde asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
She asked him what he was studying and told him briefly about an economics test she was preparing for. He introduced himself and, stepping toward her, shook her hand. Her name was Jessica. While he looked at her he became more conscious of her veins, and he believed he could hear her heartbeat. He broke eye contact and pulled away.
“I have to go,” he said. He closed his book and snatched it up.
He walked back through the plywood detour. A hammer was banging against a two-by-four, each knock a cannon blast inside his head.
A slim brunette with blue eyes and a bare belly approached from the oncoming side of plywood. He perused the radial veins at her wrists, curling under a gold bracelet. He pictured himself kissing her from the lips down to the throat, everywhere around the neck, especially at the veins, which, more than anything, he felt the urge to bite into.
I’m sick! he thought. Sick in the head. I can’t look at anyone.
He walked with his head down to the dining hall, where he again sat in seclusion under the atrium’s tall plants.
He was hungry as ever for the warm enchiladas piled on his plate, and he inhaled them in two minutes, washing them down with a dozen glasses of Coke and fruit punch. He emptied his tray and walked out, avoiding eye contact with anyone.