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The Streetlight Goes Out While You're Underneath It
A Short Story by Adam Smith
I'm going to tell you a story. It's not a story with a lot of action, or anything. There aren't car chases; no guns, no drugs. Well, maybe some drugs, but they aren't important. Unfortunately, there's no sex either. It's a story with a lot of talking. It's a story about life. If life is boring to you, or anything, you'd be best off if you just stopped reading right now, and maybe ran off and shot yourself, or something. Seeing as how you find life so boring, or whatever.
Anyways, perhaps more importantly, it's a story about my life. Yeah, call me narcissistic, solipsistic, self-centered, egotistical or even existential. All my life people have bathed me in attention, and you live what you learn, right?
Let me describe the scene to you. I was at a boarding house. It was a fraternity, or a sorority�I'm not really sure. It's not important, you know? Alpha Sigma Gamma, Gamma Psi Zeta, it's all Greek to me. There was a party going on, and a friend knew a friend, and I came along for the free booze and chicks. You know how it goes.
So, I'm standing there at this party. There's music playing, people chatting, people dancing, people drinking. I'm a person, but I'm mostly just doing the latter. That's when I look across the room, and I fall in love for the third time this week.
She was beautiful like a clich�. She was walking sex. Long brown hair, black shirt, denim skirt. Her lips were painted red like a battlefield, and her eyes just demanded you think a little harder about that metaphor. Two metallic chains attracted the eyes and carved their way around her neck and down her body, meeting at her breasts; it was all so deliciously manipulative.
Wasting no time, I walk up to her and pull my ever-charming pickup line, "Hey. Wanna have sex?"
Hey, it worked on Tuesday. And Friday.
I can remember one night, when I was twelve years old, I was out late jogging. It was well past midnight, but I didn't care. The next day, I had a track meet, and I wanted to make sure I was ready for it. I ended up sleeping through my morning classes. My teachers had no problem with this. They had money on me.
So, anyways, I'm jogging along, and something catches my eye. Some young couple has decided to leave their curtains wide open while they're busy fucking. I watched them for a few minutes, and then continued jogging.
So, this girl, she turns to me and, very flatly, says "No". It almost seemed like an instinctual reaction, as though Pavlov had trained her. Still, it was cute to study her face change as she saw me - the way it went from pure malice to a softer, awe-struck expression, but only for a second. But I knew what that second meant.
There's a stereotype running about that girls are somehow more romantic than shallow, horny men. This stereotype is bullshit. Girls are just as shallow as guys are; they just have lower standards. I mean, they have to. If they didn't, the world wouldn't go around. Who'd want to have sex with a guy?
"Aww, why not?" I ask her with a puppy-dog mannerism that goes past cute and right into satirical. Unlike Tuesday and Friday, she suppresses her giggles, and just looks at me in sheer disbelief. The average girl might play along, laugh a little, and change the subject. Some might just rattle off the obvious. But this wasn't your average girl, and she knew it, too.
Now, don't get me wrong. I had never expected her to say "Yes". Not right away, at least. It's just a conversation starter, you know? But it shows a certain ballzyness, and chicks dig that.
I let out a fake sigh of fake exasperation, roll my head ever so slightly, and make a subtle gesture with my hand. With genuine interest and concern, I query, "Are you a virgin?"
"What?"
"Only virgins turn down sex."
She gives me a face that could sink a thousand ships. "That's ridiculous. What kind of slut would actually say yes?"
Let me tell you something. In retrospect, I should have realized at this point that I was in over my head. But I couldn't. There was something about her that kept me captivated in a way that not Tuesday, not Friday, not even the wonderful last Friday did. I couldn't back down now, even though I was just shooting in the dark.
"That's a little sexist, don't you think?" I suggest, well aware that I'm probably pushing her buttons. Typically, girls, much as they would deny it, enjoy having their buttons pushed. And I certainly enjoy pushing them.
"You're calling me sexist?" She lifts her right eyebrow as she says it. I'm not sure whether she did it intentionally. She seemed to be the type who wouldn't want to show me her disbelief; fear is a weakness, and when you don't take someone's criticism seriously, it's only because you're afraid that they're right. She didn't have to worry, though.
"Sure," I tell her, in an attempt to bring my point somewhere rational, "Would you call a guy who has sex with a lot of girls a slut?"
She brings it back, though: "No, I'd call him a dick who has sex with a lot of sluts."
Back when I was in high school, way, way back in grade 9, in my English class, there was a grade 12 student who sat in front of me. Occasionally, we got to talking. He used heavy drugs, he had failed grade 9 English three times; he generally didn't seem like the brightest person. This wasn't the case, though. Once, he told me something that, to this day, I contemplate. He said, "Most people never truly ever think; they just rearrange the thoughts they already know."
Standing there, talking to this girl, I couldn't think. I had my thoughts, and I stuck to them, stupid as they were. It's hard to think with a cute girl starring you down. "So you're just a misanthropist, right?"
She giggles for the first time, but a feeling in my gut is that she's merely impressed that I can articulate a word like misanthropist. An even deeper feeling in my gut is frustrated that I've let some girl eat me up inside like this. Once her beautiful laughter echoes away like evanescence, she answers, "Don't label me like that. I love people. I just hate people who fuck anything on two legs."
I'm growing more and more frustrated with all of this. What the hell does she want from me? We both know she's gorgeous, and she's dressed like that�I mean, what does she expect? She's just asking for me attention, so why's she being like this when I give it to her. I don't get it. I don't get it. "Like you wouldn't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
If a person's subtle while dealing with another, all that says is that they think the other person's stupid and won't figure out that you're being subtle. Subtlety shows no respect; "Well, I mean, I'm only hitting on you cause you look like you want it."
"Fuck you."
As she turns and walks away, she swings her hair in just such a manner that it ends up flying in my face. In all my frustration, I find it difficult to shake one thought from my mind; stupid as this sounds, her hair smelled nice.
Time passes, and I'm feeling just a little aimless. On any other night, I'd have just given up on the girl and gone after another one, but this wasn't any other night, and so I didn't quite know what to do with myself. The booze was kicking in, and I was getting so drunk I could barely conjure up a clever turn-of-phrase. I figured I'd go find a bathroom and, for the first time in my life, understand that bittersweet connection between melancholy and linoleum.
Up the stairs, down the hall, I find what I figure to be a perfect spot, until it becomes apparent that someone's already lying there, starring at the ceiling above us. "Is this seat taken?", I ask, as I lie down next to the waif.
And the waif turns and looks at me and says, "Across the hall my girlfriend is fucking someone who isn't me."
I don't let it occur to me that, more often than not, I'm the guy who leaves casualties like him sprawled on the ground with their heads pressed against the tiles.
Without even fully understanding why, I turn my head towards him and ask, "What's her name?"
He pauses for a moment, evidently struggling over something. Finally, he tells me, without removing his gaze from a fly on the ceiling, "Sarah."
I'm not quite sure what comes over me, but I suddenly get very angry. I get up, walk out of the bathroom and up to the door directly across from us. Even from out here, I can hear the sound of the mattress springs straining from the pounding that they're taking. I begin to slam my fists against the door, hammering away as hard as I can, screaming at the top of my voice, "What the fuck is wrong with you Sarah?! You fucking whore! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!"
I can still hear the squeaking of bedsprings when I turn around and see Sarah's boyfriend sitting up, starring at me, perplexed. "Why the hell did you do that?"
I retort, "Why the hell are you lying on the bathroom floor?"
The poor guy collapses back, obviously almost as flummoxed with my behaviour as I am. I turn back and face him, and emphatically suggest, "You know what you need? You need some booze."
He mumbles, "Knock yourself out," so I take my own beer and chug it down, head downstairs, and grab a couple of bottles of liquid courage. I keep mine in my hand, and slip his into the pocket of my jeans.
As I'm walking back to the staircase, though, I notice her, lying on a couch in a bit of daze. As she sees me coming towards her, she shuts her eyes tightly and I can almost feel her groaning; I can see the way she gently moves her lips, mouthing out 'Fuck', a word only to herself. I sit next to her moderate stature in the small space it leaves between her feet and the armrest.
"You know," I point out, "I don't know your name yet."
Without moving, without opening her eyes, barely breathing, she sasses me, "Good, let's keep things that way."
I ignore her, but in a manner that's hardly self-serious; "My name's Roger Moore; what's yours?"
"Pussy Galore."
Always the sharp wit.
"Oh, Ms. Galore, don't be such a tease."
For the first time, she moves, lifting her head up and giving me a look as murderous as a crow; "If I didn't have a headache I'd inflict horrible pain upon you."
"You already have." I inform her, nervously glaring at her feet dangerously close to my side.
"Blue balls don't count," she says, sarcastically, "Or are we referring to the emotional trauma you suffer because I won't suck your dick?"
Like I said, always the sharp wit. Luckily, at times, I can be sharper.
"Whenever I think of you, my face aches from too much smiling."
Undoubtedly frustrated with my spontaneous saccrinity, she asks, "What's with the sudden cutie-cute, kissy-kiss?"
Throwing on a faux-suthurn' drawl, I re-ply, "I like you, s'all."
Still curious, she asks, "Oh? And how did this sudden revelation come about?"
I'm not entirely sure myself, but I put two and two together; "Upstairs," I begin, "there's a guy who's suffering from pure agony because some other guy is busy nailing his girlfriend like a loose floorboard."
"You didn't answer my question."
I miss no opportunity to sound clever. "Or did I?"
Wielding a curious clairvoyance I doubt she realizes she has, she tells me, "You aren't clever just because you think you are."
"Sorry," I apologize.
She seems to be thinking something through. After a yawn and a long pause, she says to me, "But�that doesn't mean you should stop thinking that you're clever. I suppose�your own perspective is everything, right? All that matters�is the way you see the world through your own eyes�since you'll never see it out of anyone else's�"
She sounds sleepy. I look at her and say, "Isn't that what love is for?"
She glances at me, and then closes her eyes again, "Maybe�but�looking at you�I'm not sure love exists anymore. Love can be commercialized into a three minute pop song�it can be hastily scribbled down in a three dollar book you can buy at the drugstore. Maybe�sex is all that we have left."
I sit back and think about what she's said, letting her voice swirl around in my head. After a long silence, I finally think of something clever to say, but when I turn and look at her, I can see that she's clearly out like a light that's been turned off (and even I am not narcissistic enough to turn it back on again). So I get up and set off to get my man his beer.
I'd have looked to my right and seen that he wasn't lying there anymore had it not been so clearly obvious that the door to my left had been thrown open and an arguing couple was inside. The mysterious 'other man' was nowhere to be seen. The boy from the bathroom floor was standing, looking down on Sarah, yelling. She sat there, a naked vision of loveliness concealed by a blanket.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?!"
"Why would you do that?!"
"What about me?! What about our relationship?!"
"Don't you love me?"
Sarah just sat there, tears in her eyes, unable to say anything. I figured that now wouldn't be a good time to interrupt. I could always use another beer, anyways.
I was slumming about in a state of bittersweet obsession when I looked through a window and saw her sitting on the roof, legs curled up to her body, beer bottle in hand. Without hesitation, I crawled out into the night to join her. She turned and looked at me, and then turned away again, staring at a car parked on the opposite side of the street. I sat down next to her, but I kept my distance as much as I could bear to. After a long silence that may or may not have been awkward, she asked me, "What was your first time like?"
"I don't remember," I lied.
She was just drunk enough to not realize how unbelievable I was.
"When I was�14, I guess�six years ago already�I was at my first high school party, right? It was so overwhelming�some sophomore got me drunk. I puked while he was jack-hammering into me."
She took another swig of beer, but I noticed her bottle was already empty. "I told myself I wouldn't have sex after that. Not until I, you know, met someone really special. I only come to these sort of parties to congratulate myself on staying chaste for all these years. It's a form of masturbation, I guess."
She looks at me and giggles, "I gotta admit, though. You nearly broke me."
I smile, "Really? For a while there, I figured you were gonna sneak up behind me and slit my throat, or some-such�"
"Nah," she says, "You're cute. Not just physically, you know? But also how you're just so damn meatheaded."
I decide now would not be a good time to take offense.
"Can I ask you a�personal question?"
She points her eyes towards me, "Sure, I guess."
"Well," I begin, "this is probably going to sound kinda�weird? But bear with me, please. This has always�kinda bothered me, but I'm curious, you know. How should I�?"
"Well", I explain, "I guess�like, OK, let's take you for example."
"Sure", she says, "It is a personal question, after all."
"Well, you had this one bad experience your first time, and decided to completely swear off sex for the next 6+ years. But really, what was so bad about it that caused you to do that?"
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah. I'm 'meatheaded', remember?"
"It was some guy I barely knew. I didn't really want to do it. I just was too drunk to stop what was happening."
I pause for a moment, "OK, but�I dunno. What's the difference between him and me? You, and I'm quoting you here, said I "almost broke" you. And I barely know you. And you're pretty drunk."
"I was joking man, jeez."
"Behind every joke there's at least one grain of truth."
She suddenly gets a little defensive, not that I can blame her; "Well, maybe I just like you more than him? Is that so terrible?"
"But�that's not really what I was trying to ask. Lemme�rethink it." I pause and ponder. "Well, OK, you like me more. But what's the difference, when it comes to sex? It's still the same thing, isn't it? Whether it's me, him, or any other guy on the planet, it's still just fucking, right?"
She laughs, "Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor, once described sex as 'The mere release of slime by rubbing a woman's innards.'"
"Was he right?"
"Sometimes�I'd like to think he was." she says, "I mean, why should sex matter so much in a relationship, anyways? Do you know how many boyfriends I lost, just because they weren't willing to wait until I was ready?"
"Those guys were idiots. You're worth the wait."
"No; don't you see�? I don't want to be worth the wait. Why the hell does all our poetry have to be so overwrought and full of metaphor? Why do we have to wear so much makeup? What happened to just�love? Why can't it just be simple, and sweet, and honest? What the hell happened to that? Who decided that there should be all these bullshit strings attached?"
I sit there quietly for a moment; "�I'm not the person to talk to about this."
She smiles at me, "I know. I'm not telling you this because I think you'll understand, I'm telling you this because sometimes I need to talk to someone, and since you want to fuck me, I know you'll listen."
After a second, I smile back at her, "I think I've got it, you know?"
"Got what?"
"Remember how you said that all that really matters is your own perspective? You'll never see anything out of anyone else's eyes, right?"
"Yeah�?"
"Maybe sex is like that too. I think, maybe it's only what we make of it, right? If someone means a lot to you, than the sex with them would mean a lot, right? It's not something that makes sense or is right or that can be justified. It's just what it is�to you"
Arching her eyebrows like Spock, I expect her tell me just how illogical I'm being. Instead, she points something far more obvious out. "That's not much of an answer."
I sigh and lie back, and let my eyes trace out the constellations. "Maybe. But maybe there aren't any good answers�"
There's one of those silences - the type you read about in soppy short stories, as we both try to figure out exactly what I meant.
In an instant, though, she brightens up, and says "Anyways, don't let this kinda stuff get you down, Mr. Moore. Could you do me a favour and get me another beer? This one's dry."
"You're in luck. I happen to have an extra one on me right now," I say, as I take the still-cold bottle out of the pocket of my jeans and hand it to her, "I always keep an extra on me. You know, just in case."
"Just in case you ever get sober enough to think straight?"
"Exactly," I laugh, "If there's one thing I've learned today, it's that thinking too hard about life gets you nowhere."
As she's opening her beer, she replies, "No, that's not true. It's just that it doesn't get you where you want. Nothing ever really does."
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