Friday, August 26
(Kate)
I'm running late as usual, so as I enter the cafeteria I scan the room quickly for any and all open seats. There are a few at every table, but I stop when my eyes land on a smallish guy sitting alone. He's wearing a vintage, pinstriped mailman's shirt; a plaid bowtie; intentionally short, red dress pants; blue argyle socks; and a pair of black and white wingtips. Somehow, I know that's where I'm supposed to be. He's got great style, and to wear something so bold you've got to have some pretty bold character to match. I decide that I need to meet him. As I approach I can tell he's trying to be stoic, but his shoulders look hunched, and he's got to be nervous as hell. I want to pat him on the back to relieve a little of the tension. But I don't. I'm a little touchy-feely, and I've learned through trial and error that it freaks some people out. Introductions first.
"Is this seat taken?" I ask politely.
He starts at the close proximity of my voice but turns to face me.
I smile. That bowtie is too damn cute. I ask again, "Is this seat taken?" gesturing specifically to the seat right next to him, even though every chair at the large table is empty.
As his smile widens his shoulders start to relax. "No. No one's sitting here. Go right ahead." I know that the term pixie isn't exactly a masculine description, but it's the first word that comes to mind when I see his smile. He's a well-groomed, well-dressed, little pixie.
"Dude, that shirt is the shit," I say, motioning as I take a seat. It's even got a vintage nametag—Frank. He didn't miss a thing. "I'm Kate." I extend my hand, which he grips lightly and shakes once. His hands are soft.
"Thank you...I think. Is Kate short for Katherine? I'm Clayton." He's formal, but not in a stuffy, snooty way. Formal in a subtle, sophisticated way. Still, this guy needs to relax. "And your shirt is fabulous, too," he adds. I'm wearing a tank top that reads Tijuana is muy bueno. The text was taken from three different donor shirts, with straps made of thick black ribbon.
"Aw, thanks, Clay." He seems genuine. "And it's just Kate. Katherine is something not even my mother would've named me."
"You're welcome, Katherine." He smiles coyly. "And it's just Clayton. Clay is something not even my mother would have named me."
I laugh. "So, that's how it's gonna be?" I like this guy. He's witty. And he's not backing down, even though he looks scared shitless to be here.
Just then some campus officials file through the door and begin their hour-long spiel about the Grant College Experience. A small chuckle escapes me when the Dean actually says the words Grant College Experience as he welcomes us. Clayton stifles a laugh too and motions for me to be quiet with his pointer finger to his lips. I stop when I realize we're the only ones in the room laughing. The Dean isn't being funny or ironic, he means it. And everyone else is eating it up. The Experience. It takes about twenty seconds for me to realize that not only does the guy mean it, he's really pumped to tell us all about it. He lives The Experience. Now that I know this day has a name, I can't help but feel like I've just walked into some sort of a traveling tent church revival or a motivational seminar. The fucking enthusiasm that's pouring out of this guy is unbelievable. So, I give in and surrender to it for the sheer entertainment factor, and even though I'm not necessarily buying what he's selling the way everyone else in the room seems to be, it's still entertaining as hell to watch. Some of the lines he's throwing at us, even though he's serious as a heart attack when he says them, they're some of the funniest things I've heard in a while. Except for the stifled laugh during the introduction and the occasional glance in my direction when the Dean's said something particularly hilarious, at least to the two of us, Clayton is laser focused as if he's being instructed on brain surgery and will be expected to perform an operation later today. His notes are so extensive that I start to feel like a slacker as I realize I haven't put pen to paper. In retrospect, there were a few classic lines that I wish I would've written down because Gus would've laughed his ass off. All that sticks in my head now are the overused clichés. The Dean is a big fan of clichés.
After we're bid farewell with a collective, "Live the Grant College Experience!" from the faculty, I offer up an unbridled, "Yee-haw!" It blends in nicely with all the clapping and hoopla from the other freshman. Clayton rolls his eyes at me like my enthusiasm has just embarrassed him. "What dude?" I retort. "I'm just so excited. That was some inspirational shit." I point at him and impersonate the Dean's voice with a straight face. "'Your destiny is in your hands.' 'The future is bright.' 'We're all one big, happy family here at Grant.' 'You're life starts now.'"
He shakes his head solemnly, but there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't do stern very well. "Katherine, that was an hour of my life I'll never be able to get back," he says dryly.
I laugh. "Aw, Clayton, I wouldn't take back that hour for all the coffee in Columbia."
"I think the phrase is 'for all the tea in China.'"
I shake my head. "I hate tea."
He shakes his head like he's not sure what to do with me.
I suppress a giggle and continue. "My eyes have been opened like a newborn babe to the Grant College Experience. It's going to be fucking magnificent."
He cracks a smile and throws his pencil at me. "Katherine, hush!"
I point to his notebook still on the table in front of him. "You get any of the Dean's little nuggets of wisdom? Jesus, were you taking dictation, Clayton? Those are some extensive notes."
He blushes. "I'm thorough."
And now I feel bad for making him blush. I pat his shoulder as I stand. "Ah, I'm just kidding, Clayton. I'm a slacker. You're an overachiever. We'll get it sorted out. Let's go find our dorm rooms."
I'm a little surprised that after he stands and slings his leather messenger bag over his shoulder, he loops his arm through mine. I'm all for touchy-feely, but he's not leading, he wants to be led. I'm beginning to wonder if I emit the scent of sour milk like a nursing mother, because certain people gravitate to me for one reason, and one reason only—they need to be taken care of. I have a new mission: to shelter Clayton from the storm, or at least to gently introduce him to it. I get the feeling life hasn't always been a picnic for Clayton. He's chosen the right friend. I make a fantastic buffer, believe me.
I cover his hand looped through my arm with my own. "Let's get this goddamn Grant College Experience started."
Our dorm rooms turn out to be right across the hall from each other. Goddamn destiny. Our names along with our roommates' are posted on each door. Clayton's is Peter Samuel Longstreet III. I say a silent prayer, Please God, please don't let Pete be a homophobic bastard. Because although I've only known Clayton for an hour, I'm 99.9% sure that sweet, lovely Clayton likes boys as much as I do.
My roommate seems to have been saddled from birth with the name—I'm not kidding you—Sugar Starr LaRue. Did her parents even think that one through? I'm trying so damn hard not to let my imagination run away with me, but the first thought that pops into my head is...stripper. I know, I know. She could be a lovely, chaste, prudish young maiden, but with a name like Sugar Starr LaRue you almost have to live up to the stage name, don't you think? And once the stripper profile implants itself in my head I find myself thinking I'll be disappointed if this girl turns out to be normal.
I help Clayton carry his belongings from his car to his room, and then he helps me. Peter Samuel Longstreet III shows up somewhere in the middle, so we help him carry his stuff, too. He's tall and a little heavy around the middle. He's got light brown hair that's cut in a military-style crew cut, a mild case of acne, and he's wearing pleated khaki pants and a forest green polo shirt with slip-on brown loafers. The dude looks like a middle-aged insurance agent trapped in an eighteen year old's body. He's really just your average looking guy I guess, except that he looks insanely innocent. I mean, like, insanely innocent. After spending five minutes around him, I learn I'm not far off. He's really shy and really, really tense. I take a minute to give God a silent shout out, Thank you, God. Pete seems way uptight, but he doesn't seem like a hateful ass clown. Many thanks. Over and out.
I know it's weird, but I like to think of God as my homeboy. I'm not religious; I just talk to him a lot. I ask for a lot of favors. Sometimes things go my way, sometimes they don't. That's life. You just have to make the most of it.
Of course, now that my interest is piqued, and I'm wondering if Sugar will set up her stripper pole in the north corner of our room or right in the center, she's a no-show. The mystery will have to wait another day. I unpack all by my lonesome, accompanied by my trusty iPod. I claim the bed farthest from the door, right next to the window.
Clayton comes over to borrow some toothpaste, and I follow him back to his room. Jesus. H. Christ. It's the tidiest, most organized room I've ever seen in my life. They're both unpacked, and everything's put away. Damn, it's kismet. Clay and Pete were destined to be roommates. What are the chances of two obsessively neat guys randomly getting assigned to the same room? I mean, the odds have to be like a million to one, right? I hope Sugar's not OCD like this, or she's going to be monumentally disappointed. I don't make my bed, ever. I don't put my dirty clothes in a hamper, ever. It's not that I'm unclean, I'm just messy.
It's late when I finish settling into my new home. The last thing I do is place two picture frames side-by-side on the desk near my bed. Before I turn off the light, I look to the framed photos. "Night night, Gracie. Good night, Gus. Love you both."