October 6, 2007 (revised February 9, 2008)
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He said we could call him Spiv. �That�s a slang word in Britain, for someone who earns a living by shady means,� he would explain with a high-pitched laugh that compounded his preciousness.
And he always had a ton of talcum powder on his face, for some reason.
And I may have still worn sweater vests, but he wore tweed overcoats (with elbow patches!) and baroque loafers.
And maybe my fourth or fifth day at the dorm, I was in the bathroom by myself, peeing into a urinal, when he walked in, stepped up to the urinal to my right, and unzipped his pants. I looked away out of urinal etiquette. After a few seconds, he said �Hey look....Hey look, Gerald.� I turned to look. He had both his hands around his penis. Just the tip stuck out, so I couldn�t tell how endowed he was. He started staring into my eyes and smiling. �Take a ride on the stream of life,� he sang in a fruitier-than-usual voice as he started peeing. �I�ll be your man, you�ll be my wife.� He was singing the chorus to �The Stream of Life,� that Elderberry Jam song from the early Seventies; you might have heard the original version during the mid-Nineties in that campy movie about the menstruating teen werewolves.
Anyway, he continued his performance, staring into my eyes and smiling. �There�ll be no stress, there�ll be no strife / Take a ride on the stream of life / Sha la la la, la la, la la!� He kept repeating �Sha la la la, la la, la la!� for about half a minute, more and more softly, until he stopped peeing. If I�d had balls, I would have stomped his head into, well, jam. Instead, I watched him zip himself up and leave.
I�d managed to avoid all contact with him after that.
That is, until now, when I saw him sitting in a chair in the TV room, watching some soap opera in which a doctor told a nurse �It�s not too late. It�s not too late. Do it for Harriet. It�s just not too late.� For such a cheap college, we had an expensive-looking color TV, with a 28-inch screen and a column of push-button channels. (My family also had a color TV, but a 24-inch one with those primitive devices known as dials.)
I sat down in the chair next to Spiv. �You staying here for the break?� I asked.
�Indubitably.�
One word, and I already wanted to kill him.
�Me too,� I said.
Five seconds later, the commercials began. First up: a young blonde woman in a short beige dress, and in what looks like dark beige pantyhose, wandered through some meadow on a sunny day. �Pantyhose with the panties knit right in,� a female voiceover said. �So you can look fine��
�How nice,� I said.
��without a pantyline,� she said over a close-up of the blonde�s flat ass.
�Take a look at that great arse!� Spiv said. �I wouldn�t mind having some fun with that!�
So he wasn�t light in the loafers, apparently.
�It�s �ass,�� I said. �She has a great ass. We say �ass� in America.�
�Aw, don�t spoil my fun. As the Bard of Avon said, an arse by any other name would smell as sweet.�
We started watching the next commercial, in which a housewife standing in some kitchen asked us where she could find instant coffee that didn�t taste like instant. I certainly didn�t know.
�Would you like to do something later on, in the afternoon?� Spiv asked.
�Uh, thanks for asking, but I�ve already made other plans.�
That afternoon, Gerald walks to the town movie theater, the Henning Two-Plex, to see his first R-rated movie ever, an ultraviolent Western called Jack Justice. As he leaves the theater, he runs into his classmate Lissi Kernahan. She invites him to Thanksgiving dinner, her treat.
She led me to the local Burger Chef. I ordered a Big Shef (yes, Shef�a double-decker burger), a large carton of fries, and a large root beer. She ordered a Skipper�s Treat (a fried fish sandwich), a large carton of fries, a large orange soda, and an apple turnover. We sat down in a booth and commenced our holiday feast.
�You staying on campus over the break?� Lissi asked me a minute later .
�Yeah.�
�Me too."
Lissi used her thumb and forefinger to pick up a strand of shredded lettuce that had fallen out of her fish sandwich. She dangled the strand before her face. She dropped the strand back onto the table. �Just wondering...how has Peyton been as a roommate?�
�Peyton? Oh, pretty good. He�s caused no problems. Still, it�s nice to have the room to myself for a few days.�
�What do you mean?�
�He took the bus home yesterday?�
�Uh-huh. What time did he leave?�
�Around ten A.M.?�
�That�s interesting, cuz I saw him last night around eight, at Pageant. I don�t think he saw me. He had a shopping cart full of canned eggnog and TV dinners. Had a big night planned, apparently. I was still pissed at him and didn�t feel like talking to him, so I just watched him pay for his food and leave. I looked through the front window and saw him drive off, alone, in a brown clunker.�
�Huh. He doesn�t own a car.�
�Maybe he stole it. Or maybe he borrowed it. Maybe he borrowed it from the person or persons he�s staying with, if he�s staying with anyone.�
�Yeah.� I sipped my root beer through a white straw that had vertical red stripes. Burger Chef had fancy straws. �You know, I didn�t actually see him, Peyton, get on the bus. He just left our room at ten.�
�How curious.�
�Yeah�.You still pissed at him, by the way?�
�Hell yeah.�
We continued our feast.
After a few moments, I looked around and noticed the lights hanging from the ceiling. Each light had a glass globe covering it, consisting of maybe twenty or twenty-four white equilateral triangles, each with a smaller orange or turquoise equilateral triangle in the center. I�d always liked the angular light globes at Burger Chef; they made the consumption of carbs seem futuristic in a world�s-fair type of way, not that I�d ever attended any world�s fairs or�
�Why�d you stay on campus for Thanksgiving?� Lissi asked.
�Uh�why do you ask?�
�Just wondering.�
�Well, my parents had planned to pick me up, but yesterday, they suddenly decided gas prices were too high.�
�They didn�t want you home, in other words.�
I chuckled. �Looks that way.�
�Do you get along with them?�
�Only when they ignore me, which they do most of the time. Otherwise, they�ll point out my many, many faults to me in excruciating detail. I�m fat. I�m lazy. I don�t take care of my sweater vests. I have a smart mouth. That�s what my father likes to say, that I have a smart mouth�.Actually, my main problem�s with him.�
�What does he do for a living?�
�He�s the senior public affairs representative for J&L Steel in Aliquippa. He travels around Western Pee Ay, going to schools and organizations, telling everyone how wonderful the steel plant is. How it helps the local economy, how it doesn�t pollute too much, et cetera. He supervises the production of press releases. He talks to the media. He participates in fund-raising stunts. He gets his picture in the paper every other week, posing for some fund-raising event with geezers or crippled kids. As long as he�s not home, he�s a great guy with a great personality.� I sipped the last of my root beer through the striped straw. �So what does your father do?�
�He rots in the ground. Along with my mother�.I�m an orphan.�
�Really?...I�m sorry to hear that.�
�Thanks�.My dad went first. He died two years ago from a massive heart attack. He dropped dead at work while trying to lift a large cardboard box by himself, with no forklift or anything. Had to prove his manliness, I guess. He was 48 and actually in good shape, ironically enough. He exercised every day and took vitamins and didn�t eat fast food. The way I�m going, I�ll live to be a hundred and seven.�
�Maybe a hundred and eight, if you�re lucky�.So what job did your father have, that he died for?�
�He was the warehouse foreman at Smith Incorporated, this company that makes promotional items for companies all over the U.S. Bumper stickers, tote bags, keychains, coffee mugs�.He�d bring samples, product samples, home from work, so I was the only kid on the block who wore a T-shirt that read NEWPORT LANYARDS with the catchy slogan FOR ALL YOUR LANYARD POSSIBILITIES�.I should have asked what was in that box that killed him. Oh, well, one of life�s great mysteries.�
Lissi and I sat in silence for a few moments.
�He screwed around on my mom for their entire marriage, and vice-versa,� she said. �You could say they had an open marriage. They loved each other, but they just needed the thrill of extracurricular activities, I guess. My parents never told me anything about their private lives, but I couldn�t help noticing the strange pair of cellophane panties on the dashboard of Dad�s car�they were too large for Mom�or the way Mom would leave for weekends out-of-town by herself, for a little rest, ha ha, while smelling of Carly Natural perfume. She never wore it except when she wanted a little rest, ha ha.�
I hoped Lissi wouldn�t start crying. That would have made me uncomfortable.
�They really did love each other. After he died, I never saw Mom cry, not even at the funeral, but I could tell she took his death pretty hard; she stayed home all the time and did paint-by-number paintings of cute animals, mostly mice and baby deer. Finally, four months later, she decided to start going out again. So she left one Friday night for the new NiceNite hotel near town. One of her weekend trips. A few hours later, she was dead.�
�Oh, no.�
�She choked to death on a piece of jumbo shrimp at the hotel restaurant. No one there knew the Heimlich maneuver�.After funeral number two, I was sent to live with my mom�s sister, Aunt Rena. First day I was there, she said to me �I hope you don�t think God hates you or your parents.� I said he doesn�t exactly love us. She said �Don�t say that. I don�t know why he called your parents away, but I do know he loved you enough to have them in your life. He loved them enough to have you in their life.� She said �Sex is a gift from God, so how can he hate anyone who partakes of it, even outside marriage?��
�Huh.�
�I could tell from, like, her tense smile that she didn�t believe a word she said about God. But I loved her anyway for lying. For trying to comfort me.�
A long pause. Lissi's depressing tale had apparently ended.
�Have you ever been in love, Gerald?�
�Huh?�
�Have you ever been in love?�
�No. Well, maybe�.I had a major crush on this girl named Frances in high school. For months I drooled over her. I finally told her how I felt, at a party graduation night, and she blew me off. She said I was weak, and that she would never date me under any circumstances. Then she left. I followed her and saw her get into the van of this guy named Greg, the biggest creep in school. Everyone loved him, but he was still the biggest creep in school. He�d tormented me for years and��
�Wait. Why�d you follow her? Didja think she�d change her mind?�
�I guess, but that�s only part of it. I followed her mostly because, well, he�d been bothering us at the party, he�d slapped his hand on her ass and wouldn�t let go, so she said she�d meet him at his van at midnight, just to get rid of him. Or that�s what she told me after he�d left. But I had my suspicions, so that�s why I followed her, mostly�.So she got into the van, in the passenger seat, and she didn�t look too hesitant about doing so. The van drove off. End of crush. At least he died later that night, when he crashed his van into a pole. A crush and a crash�.He was the only person in the van, by the way.�
I picked up my empty root beer cup for no reason. I put the cup down.
�And you know what really pisses me off? My parents dragged me to his funeral three days later, and everyone in town was there except her. She probably had sex with him a few hours before he died, and she can�t even go to his funeral? As a courtesy or something?�
�Give her a break, Gerald. Maybe she was too distraught to attend the funeral. I never fucked my parents, but I could barely manage to keep myself together enough to attend their funerals.�
�Yeah. Yeah, maybe she was distraught�.You�re the first person I�ve ever told about Frances.�
�Thanks, I�m honored.�
Did Lissi want to fuck me?
�So, your turn,� I said. �Have you ever been in love?�
�Let me think�.Nope. I�ve never been in love.�
�So why�d you ask that question? To see if you�re not the only weirdo on Earth?�
�Something like that.�
She tapped the tabletop a few times with her forefinger. She paused. She tapped a few more times.
�Why don�t we go to your room? I�d like to see how you live.�
Lissi would like to see how I live? Why, did she write for Better Homes & Gardens? She definitely wanted to fuck me.
And I definitely knew I should say �No, thanks.� I could tell she was unstable, to say the least. I didn�t want her looniness to infect me. I didn�t want to end up whispering sweet nothings to my drool bucket at the nut house.
On the other hand, I was a little horny. She was apparently a little horny too, and apparently needed comforting due to her dead parents.
Screw the danger, no pun intended. I could magnanimously ignore her looniness for a while. Who can pass up a free sample?
TO BE CONTINUED (Thanks to Kyle Brown for the Burger Chef information.)
"'What a Lovely Couple (Part 2)' makes War and Peace look like Puffy Duck's Journey to the Island of Bindleby-Boo! Yeeeah!"--Garrett "Smashmouth" Gunderson, The Lit Minute, WTDE-FM, public radio with that extra TUDE, dude!--Fiction, Home.
� 2007-2008 David V. Matthews