The smell of wasted beer mingles
in the air of the semi-dark basement as David’s free hand brushes
against Lauren’s. Pushed up against the graffiti and poster-laden
cement wall, which vibrates with the bass, both smile. In a moment of
silence, she runs a fingernail down his forearm and into his palm.
Fingers close around hers and a new song, a new album actually, begins
to play. Slower, softer than what had come before. Someone across the
room whines: “Who changed the music?” Another shouts:
“We’re supposed to dance to this?” Wren appears from
a part in the crowd, smiling.
“There was a copy of
Boxer just lying in the dust,” he says to the two of them.
“Too bad they were enjoying
NOW 307,” says David.
“You’re right, I would never grind up on the rugby team
during 'Mistaken for Strangers.'”
Lauren’s
hand breaks away and she motions to her cup before breaking into the
still stagnant mass of students.
“Where’s that girl you were talking about?” David
asks.
“Couldn’t make it,” says Wren.
“She seeing someone else?”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m just saying it’s a possibility. She’s no
prude.”
The crowd,
normally shifting, swaying, between the keg and staircase, waits for
the inevitable resurgence of danceables. Silence again, shattered only
by the distinct plastic-on-plastic plink of ping-pong ball deflected by
Solo cup rim. A click, and it begins again. Steady drum beats pumped
from the CD player generate momentum and a large area of the crowd
collapses, the first dip of an undulation which will last well into the
night.
David and the
others hover at the outside of the mess. Time to go. Can’t be
much beer left anyway. She’s pretty, Lauren.
“Wanna get out of here?” he shouts over the music.
She nods.
Wren’s
gone. Who knows where to? It’s hard to keep track of him. Lauren
begins up the stairs. Very pretty. He feels each step bend beneath his
weight, but the soft creaks produced by the warping wood are lost to
the overpowering music from below. An onslaught. If only he could see
the waves as they appear from the speakers. A cascade flowing out into
the basement, mixing with echoes returning from cold walls and warm
bodies. Shouts and whoots blend with the notes and pong plinks,
overwhelming the soft stairwell creaks and the rarely-heard patters of
pipes and mouse feet.
A strobing red
light—no blue, thank God—announces an ambulance, which
David can’t hear. Lauren waves goodbye to a friend and, after
killing her beer, drops the cups on a coffee table, now laden with
dozens of such cups.
“So where do
you live?” David asks as they slowly navigate their way back to
the dorms.
“O’Connor, you?”
“Shane, we’re practically neighbors.”
“Quad-mates, of sorts.”
“Well it will be easy enough to escort you home.”
“Or you
could show me your room,” she says. Then smiles.
“It’s not too late.”
“You’re used to staying out late?”
“Super-late.”
“Well then…”
Inside, Lauren
reclines on the bed as David loops the end of a tie around the
doorknob. Smooth.
“Smooth,” she says from the bed.
Shit.
“Don’t worry, come here.” She beckons with a finger
and he silently obeys. Her lips push against his and linger, the
fingers of one hand running down his neck and back.
“According to my RA, you should have asked permission before
making any physical contact,” he says.
“That’s true. We have been drinking. You easily could have
been roofied,” she says. Then, after a pause, “And you left
alone with me. It’s almost like you want to sleep with me.”
“Oh, so now I’m asking for it?”
“That’s for the courts to decide.”
“What about me?” he asks.
“You’re drunk, this is all a mistake.”
“I don’t think so.”
David’s
open window allows in a multitude of sounds. Kids screaming, drunk, in
the street. Shouts of anger, of jokes. Bottles shatter. Passing sirens
disappear suddenly into the night. A bird, confused by the spotlights
hanging from each building in the quad, sings poo-too-weet. Steel
scrapes against flint and smokers inhale, then release in a steady,
silent stream, or in a series of rasping virgin coughs.
Depressing the
power button of his laptop, David rifles through a desk draw.
When’s Eric coming back? Maybe he hooked up with someone. He
never even came to 421. He might be seeing that girl. What was her
name? Simone? Simon? That would be cute. Wonder how many people live
with gay dudes and don’t even know it? One in ten…
Lauren runs
her hands under David’s shirt as he selects a playlist. All
mellow music. Nothing too crazy. He selects shuffle and presses play.
Piano begins to suppress the white noise of the outside world.
She’s very pretty.
He taps one hand quietly as she steps closer.
A boy, in the quad?, in the hall?, begins to sing.
We’re half awake in a fake empire. Can he hear?
Blonde hair, undone from a ponytail, falls to her shoulders.
Lights off.
Hair lit by ambient light. Spotlight? Teeth glowing, almost.
Bluebirds? What type of bird is awake at night?
Then, almost
halfway through the song, the first drum note, a snare. It almost
sounds out of place. Piano solo, almost. And it happens. It’s
steady now. An alternation between cymbal and, what type of drum is
that anyway? Another verse begins. New words, same tone, but the drums
make it sound different. Ties it all together. Now the crescendo,
starts slowly. Building the tension. The same set, but the weight of
the previous acts come falling on the third. Yes that’s it. The
third act. Like a play. All the powers rear their heads. The players
begin. It’s all so clear, how could anything go wrong?
Wide-awake, no buzz to speak of, the room disappears, giving way to
horns. A complete and total crescendo. When did the guitar part begin?
Like falling through the sky. A note, held onto, as though for dear
life.
Poo-too-weet.
* * *
Through the
window, Lauren watches late-night stragglers nursing folded pizza
slices, heroes—hoagies, here—or the start of a hang-over.
Music, softly now, still plays from David’s computer. An
ambiance. He sleeps in silence. Does he expect me to stay? This is his
room. At least he won’t disappear into the night and become a
figment of the imagination, leaving no trace of our past experience.
She could though. The idea flickers into her consciousness. Cool air
flows, filled with sounds, about her, consuming her, beckoning her: the
night is over. Leave.
But he’s
nice. I think I’ll stay. She continues to watch over the
nightscape. Down the hill, an assortment of white-yellow lights explore
the town, an illuminated grid, an asphalt and concrete maze. Other
lights control their motions. Students guide themselves, careful not to
wander into the unforgiving traffic. As time passes they become rarer.
The quad remains empty for long and longer as even the transient
drunkards find a bed for the night.
Another song begins.
iTunes
continues its shuffle from behind the blackened screen. Sighing, she
stands and drapes her purse over one shoulder. Hinges, creaking,
announce her entrance into the hall, dimly lit by the EXIT sign shining
above the stairwell door. Careful to leave the door ajar, she walks
past the sign, but stops and admires the effect of the dim, red light
on the chicken wire set into the glass separating the hall and
stairwell: thousands of tiny red lines crossing silver ones.
Wren spits a
mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and pauses to listen to the
cascading water as it washes the porcelain clean. What did he mean by
not a prude? A rattle from the radiator shook him from his
standing-daze and, with a sigh, he returns to the semi-lit hallway.
Lauren turns upon hearing his entrance. They smile. He waves with one
hand as the other finds his doorknob.
Light from
Wren’s room floods the hallway, destroying Lauren’s
interest in the wire. She continues to the bathroom as Wren closes
himself within his room. Wish James had come back today. Too quiet
without him.
Yawning, Wren
opens iTunes and clicks play. Changing into his pajamas, he listens to
the audible ebbs and flows. He turns it up, just slightly, and pulls
the covers down from his pillow. There’s something reassuring
about pop music. He hums along and runs a finger along his bookshelf.
It’s not threatening. There is nothing to be gained from it. You
can lose yourself to it. It has consumed the radio, television, movie
soundtracks. And what’s worse: I enjoy it. I tap my foot. I
download it. Wonder when Sophia wants to come over tomorrow. She must
like me. Why’s David got to be a prick all the time?
'Airbag'
begins—perfect—and Wren switches off random. What do I have
to do for class tomorrow? A quick zip, then ruffling papers mix into
the low humming opening bars of
OK Computer. He pulls a sheet of paper from the backpack. Not much. I’ll have plenty of time to hang out with her.
Tiring, he lies in bed, lights off, music on, but to no avail.
Which album
had Sam been talking about? Tapping his fingers now to the beat of 'Let
Down,' he tries to recall. It had been in Jenna’s back yard,
after graduation. People where playing Frisbee or swimming. Sam was
telling someone about growing mushrooms in Binghamton.
“The best trip I ever had was listening to
Kid A,” he had said.
“Really,
I think that might freak me out a bit,” replied Wren.
“No,
Kid A is fine, but
Hail to the Thief,
now that will make you go nuts. Don’t get me wrong, you’ll
be fine for most of the time, but then 'Punch up at a Wedding' will
start you down the wrong track and let’s face it, 'A Wolf at the
Door' is a creepy song even when you’re sober.”
“I guess so.”
“You a big Radiohead fan?” he asked.
“
OK Computer changed my life.”
“I always preferred
The Bends,”
he said. “Best way to listen to that album is straight through.
Just lie down as soon as 'Planet Telex' begins, close your eyes and
listen. Then, when 'Street Sprit (Fade Out)' begins, you
masturbate.”
But what did
David mean? Was he saying she had seen other people? Like he could
talk. He sleeps with anyone. Had he slept with her? Doubtful. And if so
does it matter? No.
And Sam’s wrong.
OK Computer is, by far, their definitive album. They had already accomplished a nearly perfect album with
The Bends,
sure, but rather than repeat over and over—the cookie-cutter
method which had worked oh so well for most bands—they turn
alternative music on its head. Drawing on everything from Dylan and the
Beatles to Shakespeare and Orwell, what other band could write a song
as perfect as Paranoid Android. The lyrics, chorus-less, are epic as
they meander from verse to verse and blend into the beautifully
rendered melody of the guitar. All the while making use of synthetic
sounds and electronic distortion effects, and yet the general form is
stolen from 'Happiness is a Warm Gun': three distinct movements. And
it’s only the second track. Every song on the album comes
together to function perfectly, each song frames the next. God. What I
would give to create something that beautiful. To conceive of such a
thing. And Sophia likes them too. Could I find a more perfect girl?
What does it matter if she’s slept with people? Fuck them all.
And David can go fuck himself. I like her.
* * *
Tangled
beneath covers, socked feet slide about and entwine. Below cotton
sheets, the plastic mattress squeaks if either moves. Springs stretch
and pull as shifting bodies lie upon them. A movie continues to
flicker, its sounds and images ignored. Muffled conversations pass by
the door.
I guess its good he’s taking it slow. Still, he could kiss me.
Not that cuddling is a bad thing. Unless he’s gay. Doubtful
though, he stared at my tits that time at lunch. And David said I
wasn’t a prude. Why doesn’t he call me a slut? I’ve
dated what, four guys? Yeah I sure get around. I only slept with
Andrew, and only twice, before he left for school. That was over a year
ago, and I haven’t even kissed anyone since. And for that matter,
we’ve been at school for two weeks. How many guys could I have
been with? If anyone on this campus is not a prude it’s David. My
entire dorm already knows to stay away from him.
Music begins
to play from the television as credits begin their short trek across
the screen. Rolling slowly, Wren draws his arm from beneath Sophia to
search for the remote. Sophia sits up, stretches and yawns. Wren clicks
the power button of the remote and stands to turn his computer on.
“Anything you’d like to listen to?” he asks.
“Whatever,” she says. Pulling the covers away, she stands
to rearrange them. Maybe I should just kiss him.
Guitar notes,
played softly, come from the speakers arranged on, and below,
Wren’s desk. He adjusts the volume and returns to the bed.
“So when
does James get back?” she asks, looking over the large text books
stacked upon his desk.
“Later tonight.”
“He’s pre-med?”
“Yep.”
“Cool. Did you declare yet?”
“No.”
“Decide yet?”
“Nope.”
Watching her
flip through James’ biology book Wren begins tapping his fingers
against his legs. She was upset about what David said. I didn’t
mean to suggest anything. Guess I did though. She can’t be mad at
me though, she’s still here.
Sophia turns a page
and looks over an illustration of glycolysis. Must be a shit job for an
artist. Draw a bunch of boxes and arrows. She flips further into the
book. Flowers. Takes more skill to draw that. He’s still on the
bed. Must think I’m mad. Or maybe he’s not really
interested. Or shy.
“This is a nice mix,” she says, turning back to Wren.
“It’s all covers.”
“Really?
I thought Jeff Buckley wrote ‘Hallelujah.’” She
approaches and sits at the opposite end of Wren’s bed.
“Nope,
Leonard Cohen. But I’m not much for that version. It’s like
a completely different song.” You should move closer to her,
stupid.
“Do you have the original?”
“No,”
he says, then stands. “But I’m sure I could find it
online.”
“Don’t worry about it. I trust that it sucks.”
“Oh. Okay.” He sits, closer now, and waits.
“Is this Radiohead?” she asks, turning to the desk.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know they covered anything.”
“It’s an unplugged album. Lots of rarities.” She
turns back to him. “I’ll burn it for you.”
“That would be cool.” She smiles.
Finally, he
leans forward and touches his lips to hers. She kisses back, and he,
unsure of what to do now, runs his fingers through her hair. They part,
both smiling.