“How is that lovely friend of yours? Michael? Monty? What?” she asked, unzipping one of the bags and looking through it.
I couldn’t believe she did shit like that. She damn well knew his goddamn name but I couldn’t even get angry, so I laid back and sighed his name. “Mitchell. His name was Mitchell.”
“Yes. Mitchell. That’s it.”
“How is he?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” I started to worry about Sean again. Sean at the party. Sean f**king someone. Who? That girl leaving notes in his box? Or worse … what if he went home with Raymond or Harry or Donald? What am I doing here?
“When is Richard coming in?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know,” my mother whispered, suddenly concerned. “Mimi?”
“I’d say sixish,” Mrs. Jared said. “I told him that we had dinner reservations downstairs at nine, so he knows when to be here.”
What am I doing here? My mother wants to speak to me about nothing. It’s only a ploy to get me here so she can complain about the way I dress and eat and smoke and live and god only knows what else. My mother and Mrs. Jared move to the other room. “We’ll leave this room to you boys so you can talk and whatever….” It sounds ominous and suspicious and what am I doing here? I look over at the copy of The Fountainhead on top of the TV set, a reminder of Michael? Monty? I watch a cartoon. My mother and Mrs. Jared split a Seconal or whatever and start to worry about what they’re going to wear tonight. I watch more cartoons and curse Sean and order room service. I decide to get drunk early.
SEAN After I got drunk this afternoon I looked for Lauren at dinner tonight. She wasn’t there. I looked for her after Getch and Tony and Tim and I fixed up Wooley. I looked for her after I put my toga on. (Since I’m on Wreck Committee I’ve got to wear a toga but I put my leather jacket on over it so it looked hip.) I even looked for her room, walking around campus in the dark, trying to remember which house she lived in. But it was too cold to look, so I stopped and watched TV in Commons, and drank some beer instead. I didn’t know what I was going to say to her once I found her. It was just that I wanted to see her. And thinking about her like that, searching all over the place for her, I went back to my room and jerked off, fantasizing about her. It was something completely spontaneous, something I couldn’t help doing. It was like walking past a beautiful girl on the street, someone you can’t help but look at, someone you can’t suppress whistling at, someone who gets you that excited, that horny. That’s how I was feeling about Lauren, my toga raised above me, touching myself feverishly in the darkness. What does she like, I was thinking. Questions raced through my mind—does she go wild during sex, does she come easily, does she freak out about o**l s*x, does she mind a guy coming in her mouth? Then I realized I won’t go to bed with a girl if she won’t do that. I also won’t go to bed with a girl if she can’t or won’t have an orgasm because then, what’s the point? If you can’t make a girl come why even bother? That always seemed to me to be like writing questions in a letter.
PAUL I call Sean up. Someone answers the Booth phone.
“Yeah?” Person is obviously stoned.
“Can I talk to Sean Bateman? I think he lives upstairs,” I ask.
“Yeah.” Really long pause. “If he’s asleep should I wake him?”
“Yes. Please.” The idiot probably is asleep.