“What about Judy?” I ask, reaching back and feeling the knots and blades in his shoulders.
“She’s in Manchester.” He has strong fingers.
It seems a sufficient answer.
PAUL I used the dead best friend story. It seemed better than using the girlfriend with cancer story or the favorite aunt who committed suicide after the favorite uncle died story, both of which seemed overly melodramatic. I told him about “Tim” who died in a “car accident” on a “road near Concord” killed by “a drunken gas station attendant.” I told him this after we finished the first beer, when I was adequately drunk.
He said, “Gee, I’m sorry.”
I kept my head lowered, tingling with excitement. “It’s so terrible,” I said.
He agreed, excused himself for a minute to go to the rest-room.
I bolted up and checked myself in the mirror then took one of his cigarettes that were lying on my desk, a Parliament. Then I sat back down in a suitable, casual position on the bed and turned on the radio. Nothing good was on so I put a tape in. When he came back he asked me if I wanted to smoke some pot with him. I told him no, but that it was okay if he wanted some. He sat in the chair next to the bed. I was sitting on the edge of the bed. Our knees touched.
“Where did you spend your summer?” I asked.
“Oh, last summer?” he said, lighting the small pipe with a lighter that barely worked.
“Yeah.”
“Berlin.”
“Really?” I was impressed. He’d been to Europe.
“Yeah. It was okay,” he said, looking for another lighter.
“How are the clubs there?” I asked, reaching into my pocket. I handed him some matches.
“Good, I guess,” he laughed and sucked in on the pipe. “Clubs?”
“Yeah? Do you speak German?” I asked.
“German? No,” he said, laughing. His eyes were very red. He took his jacket off.
“You don’t?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, I just assumed since you spent the summer in Berlin, I thought…” my voice trailed off and I smiled.
“No. Berlin, New Hampshire.” He was studying the pipe; he sniffed it, then filled it with more pot. It smelled bad, I thought.
“There’s a Berlin here?” I asked.
“Sure is,” he said.
I watched him refill the pipe, inhale, then hand the pipe to me. I shook my head and pointed at the Beck’s in my hand. He smiled, scratched at his arm and let out a thick stream of smoke. I had only my desk light on so it was dark in the room and beginning to get hazy, dreamlike, smokey. I watched his growing intensity as he refilled the pipe, his fingers delicately fingering what looked like dried moss to me. (He assured me it was “top grade weed.”) And it struck me then, that I liked Sean because he looked, well, slutty. A boy who had been around. A boy who couldn’t remember if he was Catholic or not. That appealed to something basic in me though I didn’t know what.
I took another Parliament and asked him to sit on the bed.
“I have to go to the restroom first,” he smiled shyly and left.
I took my jacket off and put another tape into the cassette player. Then I decided to take my shoes off. I checked myself in the mirror once more and ran a hand through my hair. I opened another beer even though I didn’t need it. He came back five minutes later. What was he doing in there, I wondered.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
He stood there and closed the door, then leaned against it for balance.
“I had to make a phone call.” He started to laugh.
“To who?” I asked, smiling.
“To Jerry,” he said.
“Jerry who?” I asked.
“Jerry Garcia,” he said, still smiling.
“Who’s Jerry Garcia?” I asked. His roommate? “Does he live in Booth?”
He didn’t say anything and stopped smiling. Was he a lover? What?
“I’m just f**king with your mind,” he said, whispered actually.
There was a long silence. I drank the beer. We listened to the music. I started to shake. Finally I said, “I didn’t expect you to come.”
“I didn’t either,” he said, confused, shrugging.
“Come here.” I motioned for him.
He looked down. He touched the back of his neck.
“Come here,” I said, patting the bed.
“Um, let’s talk for a little while. What did you get on your S.A.T.s?” He was nervous and shy and I didn’t like feeling as if I was the instigator.