Introductory Note: I want to briefly pass on my thanks for the many awesome e-mails I've been getting. You guys are extremely thoughtful and perceptive. There have been more than a few times when they've motivated me to open the story and keep writing. Also: This story is now longer than 125,000 words, which is insane at best, and twice what I would have guessed. You could have read The Great Gatsby three times over. You might want to consider doing that anyway, just for kicks.
Joe College, Part 14
The Monday before my meltdown was unseasonably beautiful, in the upper 60s, with the sweet, heavy smell of fallen leaves sunk into the air's humidity. Chris and I ran to a large hilly park about a mile off campus. It seemed more like a nature preserve than my idea of a park. Chris could run six or seven miles at a time by then. I was kind of proud of him.
We tended not to talk while we ran. When I'm running, I zone into a quasi-meditative state; I'm generally in no mood to talk. Still, it was good for him, having me to help him keep pace and keep moving when he wore out. I liked being with him, even without speaking.
About twenty minutes into the run, we were jogging down a wide, downhill path in the park, when Chris said: "Michelle asked me a weird question a couple days ago."
"What was that?"
"She asked if you're gay."
I didn't miss a beat. I'd rehearsed these conversations in my head, accounting for every variable and tone.
"She really asked you that?"
"Don't worry," Chris said. "She didn't mean it in a bad way."
"Why would she think that?" I said. "Do I seem that way?"
"No, you don't," he said. "She was just asking. She said that Matt Canetti's gay, which I didn't know. Is that right?"
"Yeah," I said, "but I don't talk to him about it, pretty much ever. We talk about other things. Classes and politics and parties."
The pace of our stride was slowing.
"That's pretty crazy," Chris said. "Huh." He paused and considered. "I never would have thought that in a billion years. Maybe that's part of why she asked. That and because you never have girlfriends."
"So what, having a gay friend makes you gay? That's fairly bigoted. And a lot of guys don't have girlfriends. It's hard to do that if you have friends and things going on. For instance, you don't have girlfriends."
"She says that's because I'm shy sometimes," he said. "She said that you seem like the kind of guy who'd have girlfriends."
"There are some girls," I said, fabricating a rule of thumb, "who really want a boyfriend, so they come up with buillshit, delusional theories to explain single guys. It makes them feel better about themselves."
"Michelle's not like that," Chris said. "I really like her. I think she's a good person. She meant it in a nice way. It wasn't like, 'Joe's a fag,' more like, 'What's his story?' If that makes any sense."
"It's nice that Michelle is an expert in picking which guys should or should not have girlfriends," I said. "Is she going around the house saying things about me?"
"No," Chris said. "It was just to me. She wasn't trying to be mean. I thought it was funny that she asked. If I knew you'd freak out I wouldn't have said it."
"Jesus, I'm not freaking out. But don't you think it's unfair?" I said. "How would you react if she and I were talking about you that way?"
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe I'd just whip it out, and I'd point to it, like, 'Yo.'"
"No you wouldn't," I said. "Fuck!" I shouted at him. "Don't start talking like you're Sam Frost and saying that stupid, vulgar shit to be funny. Sam does it and it works for him, but you talking that way, it sounds phony and disgusting. And what you just said makes zero sense."
He looked like I'd slapped him.
"Don't start saying things and become someone else because you feel like you need to impress us," I said. "We make fun of you sometimes, but it's not because there's anything wrong with you, at all. We make fun of each other. It's what we do. If you change who you are because of that, it'll be horrible. 'Whip it out and say yo.' Give me a break."
I hated that comment on the merits, and for the reasons I told him. But obviously, it was the case that I didn't like the conversation that built to it. If yelling at Chris is what it took to change the subject, I was happy to make that move.
We'd stopped running at the bottom of the hill, on a path with no one else in sight. I paced in a circle, trying to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Chris stood to the side, breathing heavy with his hands at his hips.
"Why are you mad at me?" he said. "I didn't mean anything-"
"I know."
"It's not a big deal," he said. "When Michelle mentioned it, she asked almost like she was embarrassed. She's not talking crap about you."
"I know," I said. I wasn't ready to say that I was sorry for yelling at him.
"Michelle didn't-"
"We can forget it," I said. "It doesn't need to be a big deal. It surprised me. It pissed me off a little. But not that much."
"Okay."
"But seriously, you shouldn't," I paused to breathe, "ever feel like you need to do or say things in order to fit in with us. It's why everybody likes you so much. You don't need to act like an idiot to get noticed."
"Okay."
"I mean it," I said. "I'm actually being earnest. I'm not going to make fun of you. Sam and I are vulgar, cynical bastards. You're not like that. You shouldn't be like that. Don't think you need to fit in. You're already in."
"Well," Chris said, "I appreciate it, but the thing is, you and Sam get incredibly obnoxious sometimes, and it seems like I'm just supposed to take it. I'll be chilling on the couch, and one of you -- I mean, Sam more than you, but you do it too, and now Trevor's getting that way -- has to make some comment about me. So you're saying I'm just supposed to take it and never respond? Like now? You just went nuts on me for something that I didn't even say. Michelle said it. I thought it was funny and dumb. You yelled at me like I said it. Then I said something stupid to try to be funny, and you yelled at me for that, too. The way it works is, you can just flip out and be completely rude and ridiculous, but if I do anything other than take it and laugh, I'm the jerk, or I'm somehow trying to impress you."
His point was so good, and delivered with such non-confrontational hesitation, that it pushed me off my analytical balance. I wasn't even freaking out over the Michelle comment anymore. That seemed like a non-issue to him in the first place. I mean, he was totally right: if Michelle had raised the topic with me directly, my response to her would have been far calmer and more mature. Part of that was because she's a chick and Chris is a dude, but part of it was that it was Chris.
"I didn't know those things bothered you," I said.
"Ninety percent of the time it doesn't, but every once in awhile, it's just like, 'What's your problem?' Plus, if you're saying that you act stupid and obnoxious all the time, I'm not sure why you do that. Unless you're the one who feels like he always needs to be a phony to impress people. But whatever."
"I'm not being, like, maliciously stupid and obnoxious," I said. "It's just the way guys talk to each other."
"It's not the way my friends and I talked to each other when I was growing up."
"Chris-"
"Sometimes it seems like all you ever talk about is getting drunk and making fun of people, or else it's just books and music. Which is cool and whatever, but it's not like all of that stuff is real."
"Of course it's real."
"Yeah, it exists, but it's not like real life. We've been friends for a year now, and pretty much all I know about you is how much you can drink, what books you like and that you practically worship Bob Dylan."
"Those are the key things," I said.
"Like your family? All I know is that your dad's a lawyer and that you think your brother Rob is a dick."
"Rob is a dick."
"I'm sure you just say that."
"No, it's true. If you ever meet him, you'll hate him. He's like Iago in Othello. Just does sinister shit for his own amusement."
"I've been friends with Michelle for less than two months and know way more about her than I do about you," Chris said. "Like, her dad fought for South Vietnam. Isn't that crazy?"
"Dude, I don't get it," I said. "I'm sorry I flipped out at you about Michelle. I'm not gay. You can tell her that. This other stuff doesn't have anything to do with that. Like, what do you want to know?"
"Forget it," he said.
"What?"
"There's not something I want to know. It'd just be nice if you could act more like a normal friend, instead of just ripping me when you want because I probably won't fight back. It'd be cool to have a normal conversation once in awhile, instead of a lot of weird showing off and, like, aggressiveness."
"I'll take it under advisement," I said.
"What's that even supposed to mean? Probably that you'll ignore what I'm saying and make fun of it later. Right?"
"My dad says it all the time," I said. "It just means that I'll think about it and get back to you." In truth, my dad says it when he wants one of us to shut up.
"Are you crazy, or just condescending?"
"Dude," I said, making serious eye contact with him, "I said I'm sorry that I just flipped out on you. It was highly fucking uncool. I get what you're saying. I'll think about it. I'm sorry if I've said things that rub you the wrong way. Let's not get carried away."
His face slacked and he said, "Okay."
"I'm not crazy or condescending," I said. "Or, maybe I am crazy, and I only try not to be condescending. Let's not take this too seriously and say something we'll feel even worse about about later."
This seemed satisfactory. He tugged at the hem of his shirt and repeated that it was okay. When we resumed running he moved faster than usual, like he had a point to prove. I let him set the pace, staying eight or ten feet behind, eying the cross of sweat on the back of his gray T-shirt. He ran in a pair of white nylon shorts and when he'd been sweating a lot, I could make out the outline of his white briefs underneath.
"You're fast today," I said.
"I want to see how fast I can go."
"Sounds good," I said. "Crazy that a year ago, you'd be dead after a mile."
He stepped it up even faster. I could tell by his stride and his breathing that it was hurting and he'd need to slow soon. When we started to ascend another hill, he hunched his head forward, breathing loudly and heavily. It was a tough hill at any time; his pace wasn't much faster than a quick walk. I ran next to him.
"Chris," I said, poking him in the shoulder blade, "no, seriously. I have something I need to tell you."
"Uh, what's that?" Under heavy breathing, his words came out coronary.
"I'll be better," I said. "I promise! I'll be nicer from now on."
I knew when I said it that my voice was doing that thing it does, how even when I'm trying to be sincere, I say stuff with a delivery that sounds mocky.
"Whatever, man," he said, in physical pain while we were running up that hill. "It's fine."
"Hey, man," I said to Sam. "Might be time to go easier on Christian."
I only went to the basement to do laundry. Because of Trevor's tendencies, it had a bouquet of pot and incense. The two basement bedrooms were fine -- large, with carpeted floors, indirectly lit from daylight through the window wells. Sam's bedroom was neater and more orderly than I'd expected.
"Jesus, he didn't cry, did he?"
"No," I said. "I roughed him up more than I meant. Verbally. Some of what we say, it gets to him more than I thought."
"He's a virginal fawn."
"He doesn't know how to fight back. He doesn't quite get it. I said I'd try to be nicer."
"You're already super-nice."
"I don't think we're pushing him over the edge. Nothing that dramatic. I got shoutier than I should have, and he indicated that sometimes the comments sandbag him."
"Stolen innocence."
"Indeed. He didn't ask me to talk to you. I'm doing this independently."
"A diplomat, like Boutros Boutros Ghali or Arthur Balfour."
"Yes. So maybe we should do that. Not all the time. Just let the pressure off."
"I will do my best," Sam said. "As long as he doesn't have the O'Reilly Factor on TV. I see that shit, and all bets are off."
To me, Sam is my first friend at college and the way he acts, it doesn't shake me. I'm used to it; I like it; a lot of my friends growing up acted the same way, but not as effectively. Still, I could see how he came across as menacing. Part of it was his looks -- scrawny, seemingly perpetually unshaven. His mouth could slant to a snarl, and when he laughed, there was something sinister about the smile. For someone less initiated, he must have been highly intimidating at times.
And the way he and I could talk, I mean, fuck: anybody with a normal temperament would be appalled. This is a true, sober exchange that Sam and I had a few days prior. I'm leaving out the context because it's unimportant:
SAM: Too bad I couldn't hear your mom when she said that, because my dick was in her mouth at the time. It just came out, 'Mragraamhraam. Jism.'
JOE: Oh, really? Because I heard your mom perfectly, since I was titty-fucking her at the time.
SAM: You've stepped into it now, you male cunt. My mom had a mastectomy three years ago.
JOE: That gets me off.
SAM: I'm serious, you sick dick.
JOE: Me too.
But the thing was, he wasn't joking, and for a moment, I'd pricked the visage. I knew better than to apologize, because that would just get me ripped for being a pussy, so I let the moment pass for a few seconds before Sam kneecapped me on a different topic. Sometimes, that was the best way to deal with him.
From: Joe C. To: Staff Date: October 22, 2002, 3:14 p.m. Re: Party
My roommates and I are having a party on Saturday night. It's our first house party, and your presence would make it super-special, even if I don't already know you. There will be beer, shouting and explosives,* if you're into that kind of thing.
Kegs tap at 9 p.m. on Saturday night, October 26. Feel free to bring your friends, roommates, significant other(s), etc. We're at 1254 Hamilton, between Cherry and Thackeray.
*I lie. We won't actually have explosives. But it'd be a lot cooler if we did.
From: Joe C. To: Matt Canetti Date: October 22, 2002, 3:21 p.m. Re: Party
Yo -- I think Michelle invited a bunch of you from the College Democrats anyway, but if not, we're having a party at the house on Saturday. Come if you csn. You should bring Erin. I miss her.
From: Matt Canetti To: Joe C. Date: October 22, 2002, 5:05 p.m. Re: Party
We'll be there.
Don't worry. I won't try to make out with you in front of people.
Yes, of course we'd argued about that party. First there was a movement to make it a Halloween party, but several of us didn't want to be pressured into dressing in stupid costumes. Then the three girls proposed that there should be some kind of organizing theme, and suggested that people dress in pajamas. This prompted a shitfit from me, Sam and Trevor.
"Oh my God!" Katie said. "They don't have to be actual pajamas. Sweats and T-shirts would be cool."
"What if one sleeps nude?"
"I don't want to think about you like that."
"I think that's what you're proposing."
"I sleep in basketball shorts and T-shirt, but sometimes shirtless," I said. "This is a terrible idea. What if somebody has more than one party that night? They're supposed to stomp around in late October dressed in their Victoria's secret or their boxers? No."
"Nobody said underwear party."
"Normal party, please."
"It definitely should be a normal party."
"There's no point in getting so ambitious. Let's start with a normal party and see how it goes."
"Then maybe we can have some stupid underwear party."
"Toga party."
"Naked party."
"Orgies."
"With human sacrifices."
"Yes."
"Seriously, I'm not going to invite anybody if they have to dress up in some weird outfit. We're not a sorority. You want cheesy theme parties? Join a sorority."
"You guys are so melodramatic," Katie said. "Everybody says that girls get dramatic, but in this house it's the opposite. All the girls are chill and the guys are drama queens."
"No kidding," Michelle said. "You're huge primadonnas."
"Not wanting to have a lame party is the opposite of dramatic."
"We'll get some kegs and play some music and see what happens."
"You can't force fun with themes," I said.
"This isn't a theme park."
"It's not like Sea World."
"It's not like Semen World."
"It's just a normal house, and we'll have a normal party, for normal people who just want to get fucked up and have fun."
Yes, we argued, but I don't think I was the only one who sort of loved it.
The afternoon before the party, I was riding shotgun when the ice cream truck rear-ended Chris.
One of the great things about our housewide friendship with the Next Door Girls was having twenty-one-year-olds who were happy to help us buy alcohol. We drove a couple miles off campus to a liquor store. We splurged on three half-barrels of pretty excellent beer -- none of that Natural Ice bullshit.
Monica, a Next Door Girl, was our designated buyer. Chris and I accompanied her for the ostensible purpose of helping to load the kegs into the back of Sam's Jeep. I can't remember why Sam didn't drive that day; Chris was the only one remaining who knew how to drive stick. Naturally, he was already terrified about the transaction. It was like he was Leo DiCaprio under deep cover in "The Departed." He was trying to play it cool, but the whole time, I knew he was scared shitless. He tried to make casual banter with me and Monica while he drove us out to that liquor depot. When Monica went in with the cash, he tapped his fingers manically at the steering wheel. His palms left sweatprints. I imagined the scenarios flipping through his head: If a cop approached to question us, would he peel out and leave Monica behind? Would he lie about his mission? What if someone pulled a firearm?
"Monica's taking awhile," he said.
"Dude, she's only been inside for about five minutes. It takes them awhile to get the barrels out of the back."
"You've done this before?"
"In high school once. I waited in the van while a friend's older brother went inside."
"Oh, God."
"Chill out."
A few minutes later, Monica came out, keg-less. She leaned into my open window. "They're going to bring them out. They'll just load them in the back."
"Are we going to be cool?" Chris said.
"I mean, they want our business, and it's not like you guys look thirteen."
Sure enough, the guys wheeled out the kegs and loaded them into the back of the Jeep without incident or question.
We were on our way back, driving on the sort of commercial strip that you see in suburbs or small cities -- the stretch where your Targets and Blockbuster Videos flock together.
As you might imagine, Chris was an incredibly cautious driver. This was true in any venture, let alone an illicit bootlegging operation. As the traffic light switched from green to yellow, most of us would have accelerated and comfortably cruised through the light before it clicked to red. Not Chris. The light clicked yellow, and he hit the brakes. He didn't slam them. It wasn't like he left rubber on the asphalt. He just stopped with more force than you'd expect.
The momentum pushed me forward in the seatbelt.
The car then lurched forward, suddenly and violently. It wasn't so violent that I thought we'd crashed -- I thought that he'd made an error in the stick shift -- but it was enough that my neck jerked forward and the seatbelt pressed hard at my collarbone.
"Holy shit!" Monica and I said in unison.
"Oh, no," Chris said.
"Are you okay?"
"Holy shit," he said softly.
I'm pretty sure that was the first time I heard Chris swear. A car door shut behind us, and when I glanced back and saw shadow looming in the window, I knew we'd been hit.
What kind of business an ice cream truck conducts in late October, I'm not going to responsibly speculate. All I know is that when Chris stopped for the yellow light, the ice cream truck driver was caught off guard. He'd slammed the brakes, which prevented a serious collision, but it was still enough to be more than a fender bender.
When you think about it, we might have been lucky. A full-speed ice-cream truck hitting a beer-laden Jeep at full momentum might have sent the kegs propelling forward. In that event: poor Monica. Could there be a less dignified obit (or source of paralysis) then getting crushed by deadly, ice-cream-truck-propelled kegs?
I jumped out of the car before Chris or Monica moved. Chris apparently thought I was about to flee, because he said, in a calm yet pleading voice, "Joe, don't go," but my only purpose was to step out and inspect the damage.
"What the fuck you do?" the ice-cream driver screamed at me.
"It's going to be okay," I said.
"It's not going to be okay!" he said. "Why the fuck you stop like that?"
My impulse was to correct him that I wasn't the driver, not to shift blame, but for accuracy. Then it occurred to me: if Chris stepped out in time to keep the driver confused, it would be better for everybody if I took the fall.
"No need to swear, sir," I said, "and I stopped so that I wouldn't run the light."
Chris and Monica stepped out of the car. By then, the light had changed to green. Cars slowed to creep safely around us.
"In fact," I said, "you shouldn't have hit us. You should have watched where you were going."
"I watch where I was going, asshole. Why you stop like that?"
"Because the light changed, sir."
This went on for awhile, and I could push the description further, but then I'd be an asshole, because I was just some douchebag with a fancy lawyer for a dad, trying to get some beer to my house for a party, and this guy was apparently an immigrant from somewhere in Central Asia or the Middle East, and the chaos, insurance hassle and monetary loss from the incident would sting him long after this became a funny anecdote about the time Chris Riis got into an accident with an ice cream truck. I mean, this poor guy was probably just trying to get a little business on one of the last tolerably temperate days before autumn hit with full force. I would've been pissed, too.
I'm not a total bastard, you see.
There were cops on the scene five minutes later, at which point, Monica and I, without premeditation or discussion, enacted an obstruction of justice scheme. It turns out that I had been driving when the light changed. I might have had time to make it through the light, but it was a close call. I didn't even know the ice cream truck was behind us. At first, I just thought there'd been a problem with the stick shift.
The beer was for Monica. She was 21 and lived at 1252 Hamilton. And no, we were just her neighbors. No, I wasn't 21, but Chris and I were trying to do her a favor. She only lived with girls. They didn't think they'd be able to carry the kegs themselves.
She turned on the tears: Chris weren't even going to be at that party. We'd only been helping her
In the end, I don't think the officer would have given a shit, even if he didn't believe her -- and he appeared to believe her. He hadn't so much as suggested that Chris and I were in trouble when she turned on the tears at the mere prospect that he and I would be in trouble for being in a car with beer. I mean, there couldn't have been a law against that kind of thing, and if there were, even cops in a college town have bigger concerns than ticketing the victims in a car accident because there were kegs on board.
Chris was quiet and composed the whole time, except when the cop asked to see his driver's license. He seemed mystified and transfixed by the charade. Once underway, my only worry was that his conscience would kick in, and he'd pipe up, like, "Sorry, officer. I appreciate what my friends are doing for me, but I was the driver, and the beer was for us. Can you please arrest me now?"
None of that. He was a good boy, playing dumb as Monica and I acted out our scene before the oblivious cop and the hapless ice cream truck driver. Between her tears and concern, and my fatigued explanation of caution, we were golden. The ordeal passed in 20 minutes that felt like an hour. No one seemed to think it was weird when Chris got in the driver's seat.
As we drove off, Midnight Train to Georgia played on the oldies station. A quarter mile away, I shouted back to Monica a triumphant, "Oh my God!"
"Oh my God!" she screamed, euphoric.
"What did we just do?"
"I don't even know!"
"You were fucking amazing!" I said.
"So were you!"
Chris sat rigid at the driver's seat. The bumper and back panels of Sam's Jeep had been mangled, but we could drive okay. As I called Sam's cell to break the news, I patted Chris's tense shoulder. "Never say that I don't do anything for you," I said to him.
It became the kind of story that got told and re-told forever, to the point of boredom. It was my go-to anecdote for the remainder of college. That night at the party, Monica and I regaled anyone who'd listen about our masterful improv and the simple hilarity of Chris's accident with an ice cream truck. Chris even got in the routine to contribute testimony about his terror through the whole tragedy and the persuasiveness of the performances that Monica and I concocted. To this day, Monica and I still e-mail from time to time, and I'm convinced that it's mainly because we bonded over the incident. People have never met Chris, but they know that he was the guy from the ice cream accident.
To cap it off, Sam wasn't even angry. He seemed to like imagining the accident, and was accurately confident that insurance would take care of the damage. Even if not, what did he care if the back of his car looked slammed up? All the more badass.
This party wasn't supposed to start until nine, which meant that people wouldn't actually show up until ten. Trevor had a theory that when you have a big party you should invite a bunch of people over earlier to drink and build social momentum. The Next Door Girls came early with some of their boyfriends. We tapped a keg in the basement and grilled out on the front porch. It was beginning to rain, which some took as a bad sign.
"Actually, it's awesome that it's raining," I said. "When people get here they'll be excited to come in and want to stay longer. No one's going to stay home because it's raining. We're not old women."
My theory basically proved right. I'm not sure how many people we invited. My e-mail to the newspaper staff went to more than 100, and when you piled on Sam and Trevor's soccer friends and the political clubs that Michelle and Katie belonged to, the number probably bumped to around three hundred.
Not all of them would show, of course, and there's no way we could have fit them if they did, but the first clumps arrived just before nine, and from that point until sometime after 2 a.m., there was a constant flow of traffic coming in and out of the house.
I started thinking about this for the first time a couple days ago after I read an e-mail from one of you guys, but before then, it never occurred to me in writing this how different the college party experience might have been just eight years ago. There was no Facebook and text messaging hadn't caught on. You'd show up at a party, not knowing for sure who was going to be there or when they would arrive. You'd meet people and like them, and not really know if you'd cross paths again. Tracking them down afterward required effort. You'd have to remember their name, and then go to the trouble of looking them up in the directory in hopes that their phone number would be listed or that sending an e-mail didn't seem creepy. These things might sound mundane, but it made the whole thing more experiential and intimate. It made it possible to feel surprise and have a little anonymity. There was no adding as a friend some buttmunch named Caleb who bored you with an anecdote about Justin Guarini or Nikki McKibbin. No pictures posted of you making faces to the camera while drunk. You were there in a moment -- preferably drunk, with some of your closest friends and several attractive and/or interesting strangers -- having an experience, and once the night ended, it was just gone.
I mean, I don't want to sound like an old crank shaking his fist at the sky and bemoaning the horseless carriage, but there's something to be said about not living in public all your life, and especially when you're 19 or 20 and just want to spend a night relishing your riotous anonymity while loving friends and strangers.
(I also got an e-mail from one of you guys saying that you were getting tired of the meandering party scenes, but fuck that. Everything interesting either happens or begins at big parties. If I could write my own ticket from now through the hereafter, I'd be happy getting laid twice a week and spending the other five nights at house parties. Indeed, it's possible that I like going to parties more than I like sex, but I wouldn't want to make that choice at gunpoint. Don't worry, though. I remain aware of the fundamental purpose of this story: an account of affection whereby males sexually stimulate the genitals of other males to the point of ejaculation, and how such conduct and the feelings that inspire it alter one's views of oneself and one's place in society. There will be plenty more of that, so chill.)
So, yeah, I look back on these parties with as much nostalgia and yearning as I do when it comes to my time with Matt Canetti or my fumblings around with Andy before him. If I'd realized how good I had it at the time, I just would have been sad for the recognition that one day it would end.
I assumed a position on the crowded front porch for at least an hour, sitting on the arm of a couch and chainsmoking while I talked to friends from the school newspaper -- mostly sportswriters -- first about the school's football team, then political jockeying between the newspapers editors, before giving an account of the ice cream truck mishap earlier that day.
Watching the people dart up the rainy sidewalk and up the front steps to our house, there was a cloud of recognition for at least half the people who arrived. I know them from somewhere but I couldn't totally place it. Some must have been dorm acquaintances -- I'm not sure if you even remember the Florida Boys from my hall freshman year, but someone had invited them, arriving with their entourage of bitches -- but there was a long succession of faces from other parties and nights and barbecues. When you're the one having the party, it seems like everybody remembers you and is happy to see you.
Smoking and absorbed in a round of funny stories, I noticed when Matt Canetti walked up to our house, carrying an umbrella over himself and his roommate Erin. Through the crowd of smokers and talkers, I waved and smiled at him.
"Don't let me interrupt," Matt said loudly, shaking his head and waving me off.
I ignored him and slid through our crowd. We shook hands. Erin hugged me and we kissed on the cheeks in proper New York style.
"This looks like a scene," Matt said.
"Hopefully not from a horror movie."
"Or a porno."
"No, porno would be okay. Just not horror or action. Sissy Spacek comes out and torches the house. That'd suck."
I'm not sure if Matt got the reference. He shook my shoulder instead of responding.
Because people kept bringing me beers, I hadn't been in the house much since the party started. People weren't drunk enough for dancing yet. The lights were out in the living room and the air was humid. People lined the kitchen. As we walked around the ground floor, people kept saying hello to Matt. It was like he was Ray Liotta walking through the back passage of the Copa, only instead of "Then He Kissed Me" by The Chrystals, a shitty Pink song played on our stereo.
"Slick pool table," Matt said.
"It has cigarette burns in the felt," I said.
"Adds character," he said.
Sam's voice sawed toward us -- "You frat-tard motherfucker," Sam said with ebullience. "Did you come here looking for cult recruits?"
"Sweet shit, it's you," Matt said. "Trust me, if I'd known you then the way I know you now, I never would have tried to recruit you like that."
"You rejectionist fuck," Sam said, hugging Canetti around the shoulders. Sam was drunk, and when that was the case, he was full of a happy belligerence. He'd call you a cocksucker, and then hug you and say how much he loves you.
I went downstairs to get another cup of beer for myself. There was a Beirut game played on adjoining card tables. Chris leaned against the wall, talking to a couple of girls and watching the game.
"You shouldn't play that," I said.
"I know," he said.
"Be good," I said.
"I am." He twirled the beer in his half-empty cup and winked.
Chris would stay well-behaved that night; I would not.
In my habits of heavy drinking, I usually fell between the spectrum of Chris and Matt. Matt could carry on entirely lucid conversations while plastered. It was one of his favorite things to do: get drunk and then pontificate about politics or the ideals for living. Chris would get wasted and crash head-first into a door. When I get fully trashed, I often want to dance the Macarena or scream swear words, for the humor. For some reason, I decided that I was insufficiently drunk for that time of night. Trevor was presiding over a Beirut game played by his soccer friends and some hot girls, so I got in on the action. (I'm aware that in certain quarters, Beirut is called beer pong. It will always be Beirut to me.) I'm a fairly talented player, myself. I have a fairly idiosyncratic style, where I hold out my non-tossing hand parallel to the table, like I'm tapping into my chi or shit. I partnered with a hot, flirtatious girl who I permitted to rub my back between my shoulder blades or grasp my shoulder when I made a successful shot.
As you probably realize, I'm a competitive individual, and outside of a craps table or maybe a game of Spades, there's not much that sustains my attention like Beirut. We won our game, my partner rotated out, and I maintained an hour-long streak at the Beirut table, at which point, it was close to midnight, and when I mounted the stairs to see what else was going on, I understood that I was trashed -- my balance was off, and to focus my eyes required conscious decisions.
"Come dance," Katie said. Her hand felt cool against mine.
"Not yet," I said. "I want to just hang out more."
"You're no fun," she said.
Matt was talking politics with a group of his admirers. Next Friday, he and about 40 other College Democrats were taking a bus to Minnesota to canvas against Norm Coleman in the Senate race. It was funny, the way these underclassmen hung on his word. You forget how in college, even though you were only two or three years apart, the seniors seemed to have actual wisdom in some contexts. Like, people actively deferred to them. The same was probably true for me when it came to Matt -- even when it came to Kevin Berger. It was like they had some grain of experience that I hadn't yet found.
He saw me watching him and smirked in my direction. He broke from his conversation a couple of minutes later and came over to me. "Let's go have a smoke," he said.
"Maybe. Let me show you my room first."
"You're drunk."
"Yes, but even so," I said.
There was a line outside the second floor bathroom. The trap-door to my bedroom was safely closed. I imagined Chris Riis and his friend Gene retreating to my room to play Grand Theft Auto or something, but it was untouched. We went up the spiral staircase and I closed the door behind us.
"Nice," Matt said. "Spacious. You should get some plants or something."
"I suck at plants," I said, as I slid the futon over the trap door.
"What are you doing?"
"Barring intruders," I said.
"Sounds like you're looking for trouble."
I took a big stack of books and set them under the futon and on the door. "I should nail this door shut."
"That sounds ill-advised."
"Like in a zombie movie. To keep out the zombies."
He dropped down on my bed. "You don't have any pictures of me on your bulletin board."
"We don't have any good pictures together," I said.
"True," he said. "Didn't your buddy Andy take a few out on the island?"
"Yeah, but I've never seen them."
I stacked more books on the door.
"Sometimes you're funny."
"Sometimes you're always funny," I said.
I went over to the bed and started kissing him. This enterprise must have taken him by surprise, because I could tell right away that I was more into the situation than he was. I was already boned, but his kissing started out pretty restrained.
"You're not scared that someone's going to come in?"
"That's why I put all that stuff on the door. The only one who would is Chris to play Playstation, but he likes getting drunk and silly too much for that right now."
He grabbed me by the back of the neck, smirking. We had several seconds of sustained eye contact. "I'm sorry we haven't been hanging out more."
"Me too."
"I've been super busy."
"It's cool," I said. "I know."
What I really wanted to do was to blow him. I wanted to blow him and jerk myself off, with the whole thing taking about 20 minutes, and then run back downstairs and keep hanging out. When we kissed I undid his belt and the top button of his jeans. I slid my hands into his boxers. He was only half-hard. Because I was drunk, I was already mildly sweaty. My breath must have smelled like beer and cigarettes. I can't imagine that I was at my hottest or smoothest. Matt let me tug down his jeans and his boxers until they were halfway to his knees. His dick pointed downward against his thigh. I slid a hand up his shirt and rubbed a circle around his nipple. I took his softish dick into my mouth and rubbed the tip of it with my tongue. He must have liked my dual move, because he clench his buttocks and arched his back up a little. He ran a hand down and held the back of my head.
I'd never had a guy's dick in my mouth while it transitioned into being fully hard. It was like a flesh-and-blood Transformer, like you could feel it changing into something else with each incremental pulse of blood. I hold my fingers in an O around the base of the shaft, sliding it up and down with my mouth. When he was fully hard, I deep-throated it, feeling the tip of it land at the back roof of my throat. Matt sucked in breath through his teeth. With my free hand, I dropped my jeans down to my hips, holding my dick with my free hand and tugging at it rapidly.
"This certainly is efficient," he said.
"Mmmmm hmmmm," I hummed.
"That's why it's called a hummer."
"Mmmmmm." I took his cock out of my mouth. "Are you going to cum soon?"
"I'm not sure," he said. "Probably not?"
"I want to cum."
"Go for it," he said.
I got up on the bed next to him, sitting alongside him with our hips pressed against each other. I made out with him while I stroked his dick and slowly jerked my own.
When I came, it shot up to the chest of my sweatshirt. A few more streams followed. I kept kissing him.
"Do you want to keep going?" I said.
"That's okay," he said. He already was tugging up his boxers and his jeans. "I think I'm more in a party mode than horny or, like, romantic. But it's cool." He stood and tugged up his pants, with his boner still peeking from the top of his boxers. He adjusted himself. "It'll go away in a couple of minutes."
I was still lying on my bed, exposed below the waist in my jizz-marred sweatshirt. Suddenly, I felt tired. I felt like I needed to take a piss, and I felt a drunk's sense of shame.
"Was that too weird?" I said.
"Not at all. Just unexpected."
He was configuring himself in his jeans. "Don't forget to change your shirt," Matt said.
"Good point."
"And clean up your junk."
I picked up a pair of boxers from my floor and wiped up. I threw off my sweatshirt and went rummaging in my dresser.
"Just tell them you spilled beer on it if anybody asks," he said.
I fished a T-shirt with our school's name on it and threw it on. "Do I look okay?"
"Uh, yeah," Matt said. "You always look good in a T-shirt."
"Awwww."
"Do you want to go back downstairs?"
"Sure," I said. Matt kissed me on the lips. We slid my futon off the door and moved the books.
A substantial part of it was probably the alcohol talking to me, but as soon as I got down and stood in line for the bathroom, my mood was pretty dark. It seemed like I'd just fucked something up. At the moment, it didn't occur to me that Matt was startled by my sloppy seduction, the same way I would've been if he'd put those moves on me in a house party. As you just read, he hadn't been a dick in any way. I'd been awkward and over-aggressive -- that was pretty much it.
In the movie that ran in my mind, that's not how it seemed at the moment. I felt simultaneously dirty (what kind of oversexed asshole had I become?) and undesirable (fuck, I was drunk, but that wasn't unusual -- Matt and I had hooked up drunk only a few dozen times) and socially inept (was there something I was missing?).
I tapped my foot to the bass of the Ludacris track coming up from the living room, staring out into the distance.
"What's up, Joe," said one of the newspaper sportswriters, as he walked out of the bathroom and pegged me in the shoulder. Something in my face must have been messed up, because he kept walking ad went downstairs.
After I took a long piss, I cleaned my hands and glared at myself in the mirror.
When I went down to the basement to get another beer, Trevor said, "Dude, the last keg is close to getting tapped out."
"Fuck!" I said. "Goddammit! I knew we should have bought more beer, but you guys thought I was crazy."
"Whoah," Trevor said. I drew startled looks. Then, Trevor laughed at me and dude-hugged me around the shoulders. "Don't worry about it, you drunk-ass," he said. "The NDGs and their friends passed a hat and are making a run for a few cases. There's still an hour before they stop selling."
I nodded. I got myself another full cup of beer.
Then I went into the kitchen looking for somebody that I wanted to talk to -- maybe Matt's roommate Erin, or Katie, or Michelle, or a couple specific friends from the newspaper. Somebody who was going to be happy and uncomplicated. All of these other people, they looked like they were having a great time, but I didn't want to talk to any of them. I wasn't in the mood.
When I went back to the living room, Katie grabbed me with her cool hand. "Do you want to dance now?" she said.
"Sure!" I said. The stereo had just switched to Izzo by Jay-Z. I have a soft spot for Jay-Z, and the song was easy to dance to. My three female roommates -- Michelle, Katie and Jessica (who, yeah, has been largely absent from the narrative lately, but she's cool) -- were dancing together with Trevor and a handsome, skinny guy who looked vaguely familiar from the dorms last year. Due to the nature of the song -- H to the izz-o, V to the izz-a -- our moves consisted largely of creative arm gestures and measured hip gyrations, followed by getting our damned hands up.
Who needed to be gay, anyway? Like, who cared? My housemates were awesome, and gayness was overrated. What I wanted going forward was to get drunk more, hang out with my housemates more, and embrace my inner dancer, in a purely hetero way -- that's the anthem, get your damn hands up.
My dancing euphoria must have lasted at least an hour. Other people came and went, but Katie and I were consistent. We stopped once while she got us cans of the cold beer that had just been brought into the house, and I broke briefly to step out onto our less-crowded porch and have a cigarette.
In the corner, Trevor was dancing close with a slender, dark-haired girl, the kind of girl who showed up at parties dressed to get laid. I thought to myself that Trevor was fairly attractive, when properly regarded. They weren't quite making out, but their faces had been close a couple of times. They'd touched each others asses and hips. From time to time, her breasts brushed up against him. I thought to myself, "That's great that Trevor's going to get laid tonight."
Then, in an opposite corner, I saw Matt Canetti and Christian Riis chatting. What I wanted to do at that instance was separate them. If there were any two people I did not want talking at that point in time, it was Matt and Chris. Not when Chris had just recently heard the news about Canetti being gay. Not when Chris had raised that topic with me, prompting my strenuous denial and series of outright lies. Not when I'd had my mouth on Canetti's dick roughly 90 minutes before.
Yes, they knew each other, and they'd met on the same night when I first met Matt, but there were few people who had less in common. What could they possibly have to discuss if it wasn't me? What kind of crazy shit was Chris saying to Matt about human sexuality? I mean, Chris was polite and decent to a tee, but it wouldn't have surprised me if he came from a background where everyone thought gays carried AIDS and should be banned from public schools; it wouldn't have surprised me if he'd asked an earnest question on those topics. Certain backwater recesses of his thinking never failed to surprise me.
I didn't intervene, though. I just watched. Their conversation didn't look overly serious. They were both smiling, but in a way that looked casually friendly. Nobody's body language was awkward. You can tell when someone's uncomfortable or bored or on the defensive, and there was none of that between them. When they stood next to each other it was a study in contrasts. Chris's handsomeness was delicate and refined; Canetti's features were blunter, with his bulging Adam's apple and a sharper profile dominated by the profile of his nose. Blue-eyed blond and Aryan against Matt's dark hair and eyes and skin that still looked tannish. Chris's nervous smirk versus Canetti's sociable, toothy smile.
Not wanting to be too obvious, I went back to dancing,
Then, the fateful song came on: Blackstreet's "No Diggity." A song that I vividly remembered from junior high dances. I'd even owned it as a single on CD.
Something started changing with how I was dancing with Katie. I hadn't initiated or calculated it, but the way we were positioned, it was kind of intimate. My hands were kind of sweaty on her cool shoulders. We moved in easy unison. She was kind of holding me against her, so that her breasts were pressed up against my chest. If I'd been a straight guy, I might have picked up the cues 10 or 15 minutes earlier, and understood that something different was going on. I sure as hell would have noticed that the situation had transitioned out of goofy dancing well before we were on the verge of kissing.
But then we were kissing.
I swear, I'm not even sure how it happened. Remember -- I was legitimately wasted. When her face got close to mine, all I thought is that it would have been rude to turn my face away, that I'd somehow led her on without realizing it, that to not kiss her would be insulting (girls are so sensitive) and bring her party experience to an unhappy crash, and who wants to be responsible for that kind of thing? Etiquette demanded that I kiss her, and it would end at that, and any mess I caused could be cleaned up in the morning.
It was a fairly dry kiss, no tongue, but with more lip-smooching than you'd have in a Platonic gesture. The result seemed to make her happy enough. When the song reached the hey-yo-hey-yo-hey-yo-hey-yooaah apex, she moved in for another kiss. I think she thought it was going to be something heavier, but I came to my senses enough to make sure that there was no tongue action, and to abruptly close the kiss before anyone got crazy ideas.
"Are you okay?" I shouted over the music.
"Are you okay?" she said.
"I'm fairly drunk," I said.
"Me too," she said. "It's okay!"
"No, not like that," I said. "I just want to make sure you know what you're doing."
"Do *you know what you're doing?" she said.
"No!" I said.
I glanced to the corner. Chris and Matt had clearly seen this. Chris looked, like, delighted -- like he finally could pin me to an incident. He was smiling and talking excitedly to Matt. Chris wasn't directly staring, but he pointed a finger in my direction while he jabbered excitedly in Canetti's ear.
Canetti looked like I don't know what. It was kind of amused. He was looking in our general direction without seeming to realize that I was watching him. Then, when we had a moment of eye contact, he didn't register anything. He didn't smirk at me the way he might have, or roll his eyes as would have been appropriate, or shrug ambivalently. He just looked at me and then looked away.
At that point, I couldn't in good conscience break away from Katie. If I ran off after we'd kissed, she would have thought that I was mad or rejecting her. Fortunately, the next song was Come on Eileen -- the kind of song that lends itself to flailing and whooping. There was no way that would invite unanticipated kissing. I decided that I'd dance that last song with Katie (it turned into a large-group exercise, actually) then leave her and figure out what I'd say to Canetti.
Canetti left before that could happen. I thought he went to the front porch for a cigarette, but no. He'd left. Looking casual, I walked a circuit around the ground floor, checked out the Beirut scene in the basement, and didn't find him.
I took a can of beer out of the refrigerator and went outside for a cigarette. There were only four people on the porch. They sat next to each other on the couch. It appeared that they knew each other extremely well. They laughed and argued. Their lives were uncomplicated. They loved each other. I stood at the other end, lit a cigarette and watched the rain come down.
"You seem pretty wasted," Chris said, when he was standing next to me.
"Nah. I'm okay."
"So, Katie?"
"That was weird."
"I saw it coming," Chris said.
"Whatever. It was nothing."
"Do you like her?"
"I don't want to talk about it," I said. "I mean, I don't like her like that. Even though she's awesome."
"Why not?"
"I just don't."
Some drunk girls exited the house. They squealed and laughed as they headed toward home in the cold rain.
"What were you and Matt Canetti talking about?" I said.
"Not much," Chris said. "I just congratulated him for being gay and then we talked about how much we love it here."
"What do you mean you congratulated him?"
"I mean, I was just like, 'Hey, I heard you're gay. That's cool.'"
"Oh."
"I didn't say, like, actually the word congratulations."
"Ugh," I said. "I think I'm too wasted for normal conversation."
He stood next to me, looking out at the neighborhood with me while I smoked.
The next thing I knew, it was 3:30 in the morning. There were about a dozen people left. Three of them were upperclassmen I knew from the newspaper, but I didn't know them well. There were a couple Next Door Girls and two soccer dudes. The living room lights were back on and the music had come off. Michelle was calling in a pizza order before the places hit their 4 a.m. closing times. Sam and a couple of guests were starting to clear empties out of the living room.
"Where are Jessica and Katie?" I said.
"Probably passed out," Sam said. He was too tired to be belligerent.
"Where's Trevor?"
"Trevor has ... company."
"Oh."
I considered getting myself another beer and hanging out in the living room, but I really wasn't in the mood for any more companionship. I went back on the porch and sat alone on the couch. I lit a cigarette and smoked it. Our porch was littered with empty plastic cups and cigarette butts. I began to dump drizzles of beer out into the rain and collect the cups in a stack.
Chris came back out. "Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"Are you, like, okay?" he said.
"I think I'm just tired. And too drunk."
He started working with me to collect the cups. With my shoes, I swept and kicked the cigarette butts into little piles.
"Hey," I said. I put an arm around his shoulder. "Really, I'm sorry if I've been a dick sometimes."
"Ha."
"No," I said, "you're never like that to other people." I shook his shoulder. "I don't know why, like, I act how I do sometimes."
"Oh, it's okay," he said. "I'm sorry if I got a little crazy a few days ago."
"You were right. I deserved it."
He slung his arm around my shoulder. We probably looked like a drunk, bedraggled Gap ad.
"Really," I said, "I'm going to try to be less of an asshole from now on."
"You're not really an asshole."
"Yeah I am."
"No you're not. Everybody loves you, so stop it."
I kind of jostled his shoulder. Usually when people say nice things to me, I don't believe it. I get mad at them for saying that kind of stuff. I feel like they're trying to get something. This time, it felt really nice. Like he'd said exactly what I'd needed to hear, even though it wasn't anything particularly creative or profound.
We stood on the dark end of the porch like that for a few seconds. Not for long. Not so long that it seemed weird or awkward. It was just a little moment.
I was about to go back to kick-cleaning the cigarette debris on the porch when Chris lightly slid the back of his fingers against the side of my face. He pressed them against the top of my cheekbones. They scraped against my day-long stubble. He brought them down the curve of my jawline to my throat, next to my Adam's apple. They stayed there for a couple of seconds. I reached my hand up to the back of his hair. It felt smooth and fine. I messed up his hair a little and let my hand rest so that it clamped at the back of his neck. I squeezed it lightly. He slid his fingers to where they started, on the upper ridge of my cheekbone. With that, our gestures broke.
In Edith Wharton and Henry James novels, you sometimes get these repressed characters who touch hands, and the erotic charge and intimacy of the moment electrifies them and haunt them forever. Standing on that empty porch in the rain, surrounded by the debris of empty beer cups, it makes me understand what those characters went through.