The Deep & Savage Way
i
Michael Sullivan looked at his calender and saw that it was the middle day of the middle week of the middle quarter of his first year at college, and he had still never gotten drunk, never had a group of friends and never kissed a girl.
He had seen all three of these things happening around him in the dorm he lived in at the University of California, Santa Zita. The day he and the other freshman had moved in, they had started drinking, partying, hanging out, but not with him. Somehow, by the way he looked and acted, they had seen he didn't fit in, and their new life had begun without him.
Michael attended classes, wrote papers, went to the dining hall, but except for occasional brief conversations with his floormates, he had no social life. Not that they were unfriendly to him. They just had a way of speaking and moving around him that told Michael he was not a part of their world.
Time had passed quickly. Already halfway through winter quarter. Halfway! And he was no closer to doing any of the things that his hallmates took for granted, that they had been doing since high school, or even before. And worse, he saw no way out of the rut he was in. None of the cheerful pamphlets the university administration had handed out to them mentioned how to be accepted, how to find out where the parties are and how to show up at them and be welcomed.
Michael looked again at his calendar, marking the day with a finger: Wednesday, the middle of the month, the middle of February, the middle of winter quarter-Valentine's Day, which on Michael's calendar was marked by a puffy red heart.
That morning, the two girls who lived down the hall that Michael thought were the prettiest and popular girls on his floor, Amy Mulligan and Sara Kestler, had both gotten baskets of flowers. After dinner, through some communications network that Michael was not plugged into, it had become known that the dorm was going to party that night. In his journey to and from the library that night, he had seen groups of freshmen roaming from floor to floor, carrying beers and laughing, with their arms around each other and holding hands. It was an eventful Valentine's Day, but not for him.
Standing and pushing the chair away with the backs of his knees, Michael looked out the window. Because it was dark out and the room light was on, he saw nothing but his own reflection. Two dark, serious eyes looked back at him, under dark brown mop-like hair that he had never figured out how to get cut.
Down the hall, Michael heard shouts and excited laughter. Music throbbed through the walls. One of the guys on the hall had a stereo so powerful that when he played it full blast, every wall on the floor vibrated, even all the way at the other end in Michael's room. Michael resented the noise because it made it difficult to study, but he didn't want it to sleep. He just wanted to be able to enjoy it like everyone else did. He would never call the night proctor and complain.
More laughter erupted. Doors slammed open. The music stopped. The noise of people increased for a moment, then started to move away. A minute later, all was quiet. Michael wondered why they had suddenly left.
Curious, he left his room and walked down the hall. He saw the wreckage left behind: bottles, cans and plastic cups of red, pink and green liquid lined against the wall. All the doors were shut. Michael wandered out of the hall into the space between his floor and the next, a space next to the stairwell open to the night air. He stopped when he saw a couple embracing in the shadows. Michael watched for a moment, seeing that it was Amy. He realized what he was doing and fled back in the hall.
When he returned to his room, Michael sniffed the air and decided that the room was too warm. He slid the window open and felt the outside air instantly, misty cold. Michael's room was on the side of the dorm facing the forest, away from the rest of the university.
Michael looked deep into the woods, at branches, needles and trunks going back until they merged into one indistinguishable mass of dark rumpled shapes. The trees grew close to one another, and clawed desperately towards the sky to gain the sunlight they need to nourish themselves. Michael looked down at the trees' offspring, tiny saplings which had little chance to become mature trees because their parents blocked the light and rain.
Michael leaned over the window sill and stared down at the hard, grey pavement five stories below. He wanted to meet someone, someone beautiful, attractive and accepted, someone who had better things to do than stand alone in a dorm room and study the trees. He had watched Amy Mulligan earlier in the year, and as much as he could, learned about her life-the music and movies she liked, the people who were her close friends and the ones she just hung out with, the classes she took. But beyond what he heard on her stereo, the things she put up on her door, and the things he overheard while he walked by, it was hard to learn much and doing it made Michael feel even worse. People who were accepted didn't skulk around the hall, trying to overhear conversations and peeping in rooms. It was just that Amy seemed so cool, so fun to be with. Michael had thought of her as the most attractive girl he had seen at UCSZ, until the start of winter quarter.
American literature, or just literature in general, was one of the majors he was considering. So Michael decided to take Intro. to American Lit. During the second lecture of the class, he had to choose which section he would be in. The professor wrote the TAs' names on the board. He chose Helen Zachary's because he liked the sound of her name, especially the 'Z' which the professor had written in big, bold strokes on the chalkboard, so that the rest of her name and the other section leaders' appeared to be a mass of indistinct squiggles around the three slashes.
His first section with Helen was on Friday of that week. To his surprise, Helen Zachary did not, like most of his TAs at UCSZ, seem much older than he was, and she wasn't: as she said during their first section, she was only a junior and still remembered what it was like to be taking lower division classes.
From that point, Helen had replaced Amy as the girl Michael dreamed that he would be with someday. She was intelligent, beautiful and sophisticated, and she had a sense of humor. Michael wanted to make Helen know about him; just talk to her. Although he loved her, he couldn't imagine asking her out on a date, or kissing her. He just wanted her to let him into her world so he could know what it was like.
Michael shivered. He slid the window to just a crack and went to lie on his bed. A glance at his digital clock showed that it was 12:01. His roommate, Andy, was still gone and might not be back all night. Andy was very involved with the dorm's social life, and even had a girlfriend, which was where Michael assumed he spent most of his nights. Michael couldn't imagine that kind of freedom-not having to study, being able to sleep with someone, partying all the time, no responsibilities. This was the only time of life you could live like that, and he was missing it.
Thinking about Andy being able to spend every night with his girlfriend aroused Michael. He thought about Helen. He reached into his underwear and felt his erection. He breathed deeply and withdrew his hand. He just wanted to sleep and forget.
Michael awoke, sore and woolly-headed, when his alarm beeped. Michael hit the snooze button after two tones. He couldn't get up yet. First he needed to shake the nightmare he had dreamed the night before. He had not gotten to sleep quickly, and when he did, he had woken up about every half hour. Finally, he dropped off to a deep sleep, which was when the nightmare started.
He didn't remember many specifics, only that there were three formless, evil shapes which, Michael knew in his dream, had the power of destroying everything they touched, including him. Not destroying, exactly, but annihilating-if they caught him, Michael would cease to exist so completely that it would be like he had never been. He had run from them, of course, except that the faster he pumped his legs the more he realized that he wasn't running on anything, that he was suspended in space and the shapes were gaining.
Just before the shapes consumed him, Michael suddenly knew that it was a dream and that he could wake himself up. Everything melted away and after a terrible moment of paralysis, Michael opened his eyes and he was in his dorm room, the clock reading 8:30 in the morning. It took about fifteen minutes before the world seemed normal again.
He felt like he hadn't slept at all. His knees and elbows ached. The clock beeped again, which meant it was now eight-forty. Michael switched the alarm off and swung his legs out of bed. He had just enough time to get the dining hall for breakfast.
For breakfast, Michael drank a cup of hot chocolate and ate a bowl of rice crispies. He returned to his room and prepared for his first class of the day, Latin, at ten. First, though, he needed to pee.
Inside the bathroom, he saw Philip Yau washing his face. Philip lived next door to Michael. Michael went into the left stall and unzipped his faded black jeans. Another thing he needed to do was buy new clothes. Since he had come to UCSZ he hadn't bought anything, and the jeans he wore were fraying in the knees. With a thud and a swoosh, Michael heard the bathroom door open.
—Hey, Philip, said a voice.
—Hey, Tim.
The person who had come in was Tim Page, a junior who lived in one of the floor's two single rooms. Michael had seen him talking to Amy a lot-they seemed to be pretty good friends. Tim was tall, extremely thin and wore large, oversized glasses with black frames.
—I don't usually see you this early, Philip continued.
—Yeah, well... I decided I really should attend lecture once this quarter, just to see what it's like.
—Yeah, yeah.
Michael finished peeing. His urine was yellow, and smelled strong, so he decided to violate the drought rules on toilet flushing. He pressed the silver handle and watched as clear water swirled in and washed the yellow away. Michael zipped his jeans and left the stall. He snuck a glance at Philip and Tim as he exited. Philip was brushing his teeth while Tim combed his brown, wavy hair. Michael went to the middle sink and rinsed his hands. With his left hand, Tim put his comb away and placed his right hand on the door.
—See you later, Philip.
—Yeah, have a good day.
Philip spat out the toothpaste foam and rinsed his mouth.
—How's your quarter going? Michael asked when he saw that Philip's mouth was clear.
—What?... Oh, all right.
Philip wiped his hands, wadded up his towel and walked out. Michael looked at the bathroom mirror, which ran the entire length of the wall above the sinks. He didn't look very good that morning, but then, lots of other UCSZ students weren't that good-looking, and they had friends. He must be missing something else.
Earlier that quarter, Thursday afternoons had been the high point of Michael's week because that was when he had his section with Helen. Unfortunately, ever since a section two weeks before, it had become yet another thing to dread. The reason was a certain upperclassman, who was known only as Peak. He was tall and very good-looking. That day, they had been discussing Raymond Carver. For the first time, Michael spoke up in section.
For some reason, though, what he said got misunderstood, or he didn't say it right-Michael had no idea-but the more he talked, the more he felt the mood of the section turn against him. When he finished, an awkward silence descended. Peak then filled the gap by explaining to everyone how Michael had completely missed the point. Everyone else agreed with him. Michael tried to break in and explain what he had really meant, but everyone ignored him.
To make it worse, Helen hadn't given him a chance to speak either. Apparently what he had said was so offensive that even she couldn't save him. Since then, Michael had hidden himself in section and never said anything. He only sat in back, against the wall and not around the four tables that were set up in a square, where most of the students sat. From there, he could stilll see Helen, but he didn't feel like he could ever say anything in section again. He just didn't know what he was supposed to say about the books, or how to say it without being mocked.
On this day, Michael sat behind several taller students, so that he had to peer around them to see Helen. As usual, Peak was talking. He was one of the most vocal of the students in the section. Helen stood before them, her fingers resting against her cheeks and her thumb supporting her chin, looking attentive.
Michael pretended to listen to Peak's words while he gazed at Helen. She was too beautiful. She took her fingers away from her chin and brushed them through her hair. Michael felt a shiver run down his back, turning into a tingle in the base of his scrotum. He looked down at his notes, trying to clear his head.
—Thank you, Peak, Helen said. That was very interesting. What do everybody else think? Helen asked the rest of the section.
No one said anything. Michael looked up again. Helen's eyes jumped from person to person. They briefly landed on Michael's, and he dropped his head.
—Okay, said Helen. Well, I guess I should tell you guys about your papers.
She turned around and picked up a piece of chalk. Michael resumed his study of Helen, watching her hair move as she started writing on the board.
Michael found himself walking out of his room that evening, not wanting to study but having nothing else to do. He wanted to know what was happening on the hall. Did Amy have a new boyfriend? There all these episodes and stories happening around him, Michael knew, from overheard conversations, messages left on notepads and glimpses of people going from room to room, and from he could in rooms when the doors were left briefly open.
As he walked down the hall, Michael glanced quickly at the notepads, but saw no new messages. At the other end of the hall, he saw Amy Mulligan, her strawberry blond hair unbraided and falling almost to her waist. She and Sara had the first room on the right. She was taping something on the wall to the left of her door. As he got closer, Michael tried to see what it was. They were color pictures on shiny paper; Michael guessed that they had been cut from a magazine. She was wearing her usual outfit: long, olive-green shorts over black tights, along with a gray UC Davis sweatshirt.
Not sure what he was doing, or what Amy would think he was doing, Michael approached and slowed his steps. Amy turned her head slightly and their eyes met. Michael stopped and tried to think of something to say, looking to his right at the maroon door of the bathroom.
—Putting stuff on the walls? Michael said.
—Yep.
Michael heard a toilet flush. He studied Amy's hands and heard someone pass. He looked to see who it was, but whoever it had been, went in the bathroom.
—Who is that? Michael asked.
He pointed at the magazine picture.
—Somebody lame, Amy replied.
She reached out and rubbed the picture flat against the wall, smoothing out the wrinkles. Michael wondered what he should do. He had nowhere to go, he didn't want to leave the hall, and if he went back to his room, Any would think he was weird for walking down just to talk to her about the pictures she was putting up. He looked again at the bathroom door. Even though he didn't need to go, he had to look like he was doing something. He took two steps and pressed the door open.
Inside, Michael saw Tim Page, hands on edge of the sink, bent forward and peering into his reflection in the mirror. He stiffened when he heard Michael come in, then stood straight.
—Hi, Tim said. His voice broke when he said this, and Tim cleared his throat when he finished.
—Hi.
Michael reached for his soap and started to wash his hands. He saw Tim pick up a comb from the shelf between the sinks and the mirror spotted with blue-white stains.
—How's your quarter going? Michael asked.
—Okay. Actually, it's been mostly bad.
Tim cleared his throat again. His voice sounded scratchy, as if he had just woken up or not spoken to anyone for a long time. Michael about to ask Tim why his quarter was bad, when Tim continued:
—In the beginning, I thought it was going to be great.
Holding his hand horizontal in front of his eyes, Tim began to lower it, past Michael's hair, eyes and finally, mouth.
—But then the inevitable decline set in. I thought I could keep things going the same way forever, but I was just being arrogant.
Tim slammed his hand downwards, to just in front of his crotch.
—I plunged into the abyss. And now-
Tim's hand rose slightly, fingers wiggling.
—Things are just okay.
—Oh, Michael said.
—What about you? You're Michael, right?
—Yeah.
—Andy mentioned you, once or twice. Where are you from?
—Alta Lara.
—Really? So am I. Which high school?
—Reifull.
—How strange. I went there too. I don't recognize you.
—I don't think I remember you, either.
—Oh, well.
Tim took his comb and ran it through his hair with swift strokes.
—I saw you talking to Amy, Tim said.
—Trying to. I don't think she likes me.
—No, it's not that. She's decided she doesn't like UCSZ-she's not having a good time here.
—Really? She seems really popular.
Tim opened the bathroom door and looked out. He pointed towards the bathroom stalls, still holding the door open.
—Well, Tim said. She was, and is. Popular with others-
As Tim said this, he left the bathroom. Michael followed, since Tim still seemed to be speaking to him.
—But people aren't popular with her. She's a strange girl.
Tim pushed the door to his room open and entered. Michael stood outside for a moment, then heard Tim say more, so he went in.
—I mean, Amy is really cool, but she doesn't know what she wants. She tried a lot of things here, and for a while, UCSZ was everything she wanted in the world. But suddenly, something inside her turned against it, and now she just wants to get out.
Tim's room was small and cold. Tim had left his window completely open and his stereo on. Tim leaned back on his desk and picked up a pencil.
—You must be pretty good friends with her.
—For a while, yeah, I was. I think she's really cool. So, what do you think of UCSZ? I haven't seen you around much.
—I think it's a great place to go, if you have friends.
Tim smiled and nodded his head.
—But it's hard to meet people.
—Yes, it is. It takes luck. Anyway, don't worry if Amy seems unfriendly. She's just dealing with her own problems.
Tim nodded his head again, turned to his desk and shuffled some papers. Michael listened to the music playing on his stereo, a combination of thudding drumbeats and guitars which alternated between heavy grinds and high-pitched squeals. Not knowing what else to talk about, Michael pointed to Tim's CD player and asked:
—Who is this?
—Dog Collision. They're awesome. I borrowed it from a friend. They're from Sealth, and I think they're going to be really huge, someday. They probably won't, of course, but they should be. This is they're new album. They have an EP, too.
—Oh, cool.
Tim turned and pulled a black leather jacket from the closet. He put it on and turned off his stereo.
—What's it like living with Andy? Tim asked.
—We don't have much in common... and he doesn't like me at all. Not too great.
—Actually, I like Andy, Tim said, but if I had to live with him, I'd go insane. I have to go the claimstake, to pick something up. Want to come along?
—Sure, I guess. I need to put something else on, though. It's cold tonight.
—It is. I'll come by your room in a minute, then we'll go.
ii
Michael returned to the warmth of his room. He wondered if he should have agreed to go with Tim. He hadn't read any of The Joy Luck Club for lecture the next day.
And why on earth had Tim asked him to go, anyway? He had just started talking to him, telling everything he thought about Amy. He had talked to him like they had been friends for a while. It made Michael feel funny, to have someone ignore him for so long and then suddenly be so friendly.
He heard three sharp taps on his door. He opened it.
—Ready? Tim asked.
—I'm not sure I should go, said Michael. I've got some studying I really need to catch up on.
—What class?
—Contemporary American Literature.
—You're in that class? I have a friend who's a TA in that class-Helen Zachary.
—She's my TA.
Tim knew Helen? He would have never imagined it, but there was no reason why they wouldn't be. They were the same year, and both literature students. Michael's heart thumped when he realized what it meant. If he knew Tim, and Tim knew Helen, then it could end up that he might meet her, that they could be something other than one of thirty students and a TA.
—She's really cool, Tim said. She's one of my best friends in Santa Zita. We met freshman year, when we and all our friends lived on this hall. Do you like being in her section?
—It's great. It's the best class I've had at UCSZ.
—That's so funny, that you're in Helen's section. Anyway, don't worry about studying. What are you reading, right now?
—The Joy Luck Club.
—Oh, yeah. Tomorrow, just say that it's a woman's redefinition and reempowerment of her cultural and gender identity through imaginative storytelling.
—Okay. I'll remember that.
—Helen's really cool. She won't care if you haven't read it. She probably hasn't read it herself. Helen's a little like, Amy, or, I should say, Amy reminds me of Helen, but I like Helen a lot more. So, let's get out of here and go to the claimstake.
—All right, let's do it.
Michael grabbed his coat from his chair and followed Tim's steps as he left the room.
iii
WHEN DID THE SNAKE ENTER THE GARDEN?
As Michael followed Tim past the junior's door, Michael saw these words printed in capital letters on Tim's notepad.
—Who wrote that quote on your door? Michael asked Tim.
Tim opened the hall's outer door and held it open for Michael.
—I did, Tim answered.
—Why?
—I was in a bad mood, and exaggerating, but still... the words have meaning.
—Okay, said Michael, smiling.
When they came out onto the covered walkway that connected the dorm's two fifth floor halls, and which also formed the top of the stairwell, Michael felt a cold wind blow through. The night was clear and gusty.
—My car's down in east remote, said Tim. I didn't bother to enter the lottery for parking spaces in the lot up here, so we have to walk. Unless you want to take the shuttle.
—No, walking's fine.
—I like the walk. The shuttles are too slow.
East remote was a huge parking lot at the base of the UCSZ hill, just above where the main road passed through the campus gate. From there, most students took the shuttle buses up to the center of campus, but the walk wasn't that long, just uphill. Kane College, where he and Tim lived, was at the top of the hill. They had to walk through the Fremont Hall area, then down past the athletic complex and fields.
Once they got off the stairs, Tim walked quickly, both hands jammed deep in his pockets. Michael wondered what the 'claimstake' was, probably a cafe or a some kind of store, since Tim said he needed to pick something up there. At least he was getting off campus. It was the first time he would be leaving it since he had gone home for winter break.
Michael looked down the road as they drove past the campus gate and into the dark night beyond. He recognized the road they traveled briefly, but it soon became completely unfamiliar as it curved back and forth through a suburban neighborhood shadowed by huge eucalyptus trees.
The road then leveled and straightened for two blocks, at which point Tim had to stop for a red light. Looking up and down the street they were crossing, Michael saw gas stations, mini-malls, motels and fast food restaurants, everything lit by pale, yellow light.
After passing through the light, Tim drove straight for another block, then turned right. After this point, Michael completely lost track of where they were going, as Tim made an incomprehensible series of left and right turns which left Michael thinking that they must be traveling back the way they came. Had he been alone, Michael would have never been able to find his way back to the campus.
There was no moon that night, and a bank of low fog colored dull orange by the city lights now covered the sky. The streets all looked the same, the same kinds of houses, cars and front yards, with no people to be seen, or movement of any kind, beyond a few passing cars. It disappointed Michael. He had imagined the city of Santa Zita to be much more exciting and alive. He remembered Andy telling Amy that all the best parties were off-campus.
—It's not very exciting down here, is it? Michael said.
—No, this is one of the more boring parts of Santa Zita. I guess that's why people like living here.
Tim turned right on a curving street.
—Because it's safe.
—Yeah. I've gotten really depressed in my life at UCSZ, but driving through the north side makes me feel, like, no matter how depressed I get, I would hate even more to be old and settled down in one of these houses, never having done anything really good or bad, but just the minimum I needed to survive-gotten a regular job, bought a regular car, then a house, married someone normal.
After making a complete semicircle, Tim turned right onto a long, wide street. He speeded up.
—There's not much to say about that kind of life, Tim concluded. Just whatever.
—I guess it's better to be depressed from thinking hard about your life then to be happy because you're doing what everybody else is.
—Yeah.
Tim turned left and slowed the car. Michael looked up and down the street. He saw nothing that looked like a destination; just white, pale blue and yellow houses. However, they must have been wherever they were going, because Tim parked the car and turned off the engine.
—This is the claimstake? Michael asked.
—Right there.
Tim pointed across the street to an off-white two-story house.
—That's where my friends Jake, Mick, Sophie, Roxy and Peter live. The claimstake is a nickname for their house.
—Oh, I get it.
Smiling and nodding, Tim cracked his knuckles, then undid his seatbelt.
—Let's see if they're still home, Tim said.
iv
Tim rang the doorbell and stepped back, folding his arms for a second. He grimaced. After a few seconds and there was no answer, Tim knocked several times.
—Got more rhymes than Jamaica's got mangos! Tim declared in a sing-song voice after he had knocked.
He leaned towards the door, peering through its square window.
—There're people home, Tim continued. Good.
Tim rubbed his hands together and shoved them in his pockets. From inside the house, Michael heard footsteps coming up towards them. The door opened to reveal one of Tim's friends, a girl with long, golden hair and a sleepy expression, which abruptly changed to a wide smile.
—Oh my God, Tim, hi.
—Hey, Sophie, Tim said. I decided to drop by.
—I haven't seen you in weeks.
Sophie's hands reached up to Tim's neck. Michael stepped back as Tim put his arms around Sophie's waist and hugged her.
—Sophie, this is Michael.
Michael stepped forward and extended his hand.
—Hey, Michael. Come in, you guys. Jake's here, and George.
Michael followed behind Tim as Sophie held the door open for them. She closed it behind him. Stairs led up and down from the front door. Upstairs, Michael saw a bathroom and two closed doors. Downstairs, which was where Tim was going, was all one room, combining kitchen, dining room and living room. A white tiled counter separated the kitchen area from the rest of the downstairs. The walls of the opposite side of the room were taken up by sliding glass doors. Michael couldn't see the darkness outside, but only reflections of the house's interior.
In an open space between a round table and couches, Michael saw two more of Tim's friends lying down. He smelled something, something which reminded him of the grass fires which sometimes erupted in the hills above where he grew up, a heavy, cloying smell.
—Tim, said one in a surprised voice. How are you?
The guy who said this was closer to them. He sat up. He was tall, Michael could tell. Sophie sat down behind the other guy, who had not moved since they had come down.
—Hey, Jake. I decided to come over.
Tim brought out his hand and clasped Jake's-they wrapped each other's knuckles with their fingers tightly.
—I brought a visitor, too, Tim continued. This is Michael. Michael, this is Jake, and the guy next to him, who's presently unconscious-that's George.
—Hi, everybody, Michael said.
—Sit down, said Jake.
Tim grabbed two chairs from around the table and pulled them over. He sat in one, and Michael took the other, facing Jake and George. Sophie put her arms around George's shoulders.
—So what've you been up to, Tim? Jake asked. You haven't been around much.
—I had to be by myself for a while, but now I'm back, and better than ever.
—He's back... said Sophie, giggling.
George groaned and opened his eyes.
—George, wake up, you big silly, said Sophie. Tim and Michael are here.
George closed his eyes, rolled over and buried his face between Sophie's legs.
—So, now that you're back, said Jake, are you going to hang out?
—Yeah, I am.
—Do you live with Tim at Kane? Sophie asked Michael.
—Yeah. I'm a freshman.
—How do you like UCSZ?
—I like it. It's a nice place.
—Yeah, it is. It's mellow.
Sophie sighed and stroked George's brown and blond streaked hair, as he burrowed deeper between her legs, stretching the faded blue denim tight around the tops of her thighs.
—So, what're you guys doing tonight? asked Tim, smiling.
—Uh, just chillin', said Jake.
—Getting baked... said Sophie, looking away and smiling sadly to herself.
—Wow, really? said Tim. Shut up. You guys are baked? I totally couldn't tell.
—Really? said Sophie.
—No, no, it was pretty obvious.
—Do you want some? asked Sophie. Or you, Michael?
—No, said Tim. One of the reasons I had to get away from things for a while was pot, I think. It fucks me up too much.
—No, thanks, said Michael quickly.
He wanted to try it and look as relaxed as Jake and Sophie, but he didn't know how, and he hated the idea of having to be taught.
—Have you ever smoked out, Michael? Tim asked him briskly.
Michael shook his head.
—Try some. If you're here at the claimstake, you should really take a hit.
—Okay.
—I'll pack you a bowl, said Sophie.
She took a device from behind her which Michael had never seen before. He had always imagined people smoking pot in joints, the way they did in the movies. What Sophie held in her hand was a plastic tube full of brown-green water, decorated with a red, black and white sticker saying 'ALPAD Says Be Cool and Just Say No!' The tube was set in a black plastic base. From halfway down its side projected a smaller, metallic tube.
—Where'd you get that sticker? Tim asked. I don't recognize it.
—Isn't it hot? Jake said. George's little brother goes to Alta Lara, and they handed out these stickers. He gave it to George.
—And now it adorns the claimstake bong. It's awesome. What's the ALPAD?
—Alta Lara Parents Against Drugs. It's really scary, what George's little brother has to go through. All this anti-drug hysteria.
Tim chuckled. Michael got down from the chair and sat indian-style next to Jake. Sophie set the plastic tube between them and looked around herself, then around George, who appeared to be completely asleep. Sophie smiled and slipped her fingers into his pocket, starting to pull out a folded plastic baggy.
—Hey, said George, raising his head and looking around wildly.
—I'm just getting my buds, George. Now you go back to sleep.
Sophie patted George on the head. He grimaced, but then closed his eyes and placed his head back on her thighs. With one hand, Sophie stroked George's hair while the other opened the baggy.
From what he had heard in high school, Michael had imagined pot to be small green leaves, but what Sophie took out of the baggy looked more like grainy green pine cones about three-eighths of an inch long.
Tim leaned forward in his chair, so that his face hovered over them, watching everything with narrowed eyes and nodding approval. Sophie took a third bud out, placed it in the bong and rolled the baggy up again, placing it by her side. George mumbled something.
—No, George. It's my pot, you big silly. I can't believe you-you always try and steal it. Now, sleep.
Sophie took the bag from George's fingers and continued to pat him.
—Hey, I'll hold the bong, Jake said.
—Thanks, Sophie responded.
Jake splayed his fingers and anchored the bong to the dark green carpet, while Sophie stuffed the buds into the bong's metal tube projecting from its side.
—Ready, Michael? Jake asked. Put your lips against the tube and make a seal. Breathe in when I tell you. Breathe deep and hold it in your lungs.
—Okay.
Michael puckered his mouth over the bong, feeling the sharp plastic edge against his insides of his lips. He stared down and saw Jake's hand fumbling out of the corner of his eye. A match struck and flame erupted just in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat. He breathed in, heard bubbling water, then felt burning smoke pour into his lungs, hot, heavy and overwhelming. He held his lips as long as he could, but his lungs could take very little, and he broke away, coughing once before he could close his mouth.
—Want a hit? Jake asked Sophie.
—I couldn't say no.
Sophie bent and sucked the remaining smoke out of the bong. Sophie's cheeks bulged and her eyes closed as she did. When she withdrew, her cheeks slowly contracted and her chest moved in and out. Finally, she breathed out a cloud of grey smoke.
Michael kept trying to catch his breath. He felt nothing yet except the burning sensation in his lungs and an urge to cough up his guts. He forgot about for a few minuts, as he listened to Jake and Tim talk.
—Can I borrow that CD? Tim asked. The one you gave me already was awesome.
—Yeah, Jake said. Dog Collision rock. They're pretty cool.
—They're going to save rock and roll, Tim said.
—Well, I don't know about that.
All of the sudden, Michael realized that he was stoned. He started to think about how his body felt and he became aware of something else, in the center of his belly, and also in his ears. He suddenly realized that there was a dripping faucet in the kitchen that he had been hearing the whole time, but now it seemed much louder. He smiled, and chuckled hoarsely for no reason, a chuckle that turned into a hacking cough. Grey smoke puffed out of his mouth.
Michael looked around himself and felt thoroughly ridiculous. What would Tim think of him? How had he ended up getting stoned?? His life had been completely the same and all of the sudden he was here, in a place he didn't know, with people he didn't know, thinking and thinking and not knowing. He was doing something he had never done before. This was the first time.
—Another convert, Tim's voice boomed from above.
—Have you talked to Helen? Jake asked Tim.
They were talking about Helen. So, Jake knew Helen as well.
—No, I haven't. But I heard the news.
Michael tried to concentrate on Tim and Jake's conversation, because they were talking about Helen, but it was hard. Their voices were loud and crystal-clear, but the words all seemed funny. Michael kept wanting to laugh and losing track of where they were in their sentences.
—Jessica said she was really bummed, Jake said.
—I'm sure she was. I really need to talk to her.
—I'm surprised you haven't.
—I've wanted to, but... it's weird. I will, now.
Giggles erupted from Michael's mouth. There were so many sounds. Beside the faucet, he could hear a radio upstairs, cars passing outside. A cat meowed. It's sounded like they were inside his head, like he was listening to them on earphones. The tingling in his stomach spread and as Michael concentrated on it the sensation changed from prickles to rhythmic throbs and aches that slowly bloomed in different parts of his body from his stomach down to his crotch. A chill suddenly ran up and down his back, and he felt like he had to change his body's position.
He lay down and looked deep into the shadows on the ceiling. As he stared, the shadows pulsed with color, vibrating in rhythm with his heartbeat
A nudge on his shoulder woke Michael. He opened his eyes and saw Tim crouching over him. He must have fallen asleep while he was looking into the ceiling and all the colors there. Now the overhead light was on and the ceiling was plain white. He felt ravenously hungry, and smoky, as if there was smoke saturating his entire body. He stood and rubbed his hair. He wondered how late it was.
—We should go, Tim said.
—Okay. I'm sorry I fell asleep. I didn't mean to.
—No problem. It's not too surprising.
—Here's the CD, Jake said from behind them.
Tim turned and took a CD from Jake's hand.
—Dog Collision, Tim said. The Gearhammer EP. Cool.
—Can I see it?
Tim passed him the disk and went over to the coffee table. He picked up a newspaper section. Sophie and George were gone.
—Charles Barkley, Tim said. 40 points.
—Yeah. He demolished the Warriors, Jake said. As usual.
—I like him. He's totally un-PC, but I like him. He says what he thinks and doesn't give a fuck who gets offended. He's just one of those cool people you can't admit liking in Santa Zita.
—No doubt. There are a lot of people like that. Clint Eastwood.
—Aerosmith. But no matter how intriguing or interesting you are, if you're not PC, you may as well not exist. Oh, well, that's life, Tim concluded.
Michael yawned and squeezed his eyes shut. The ceiling lamp was too bright.
—Well, Tim said, we're off. Say 'hi' to Peter and Mick for me.
—Sure. Call us about this weekend.
—I will.
—Nice to meet you, Michael, said Jake.
—Yeah, nice to meet you.
Michael followed Tim up the stairs and back out into the cold, foggy night.
v
The next day, Tim shouted to Michael just as he was leaving for his Latin class.
—Hey, Michael.
Placing his hand on the doorframe, Michael stopped and turned. He saw Tim, backpack dangling from his right shoulder, hurrying up the hall.
—Hey, Tim. Are you going to class?
—Yeah. At Sinclair Hall. Where are you off to?
—Fremont.
—Cool. I'll walk with you.
Tim went through the door first and held it open for Michael. Tim, Michael noticed, was dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.
—How do you feel? Tim asked as they crossed the bridge.
—Fine, I guess.
—How stoned were you last night? I couldn't tell.
—It was really intense for a few minutes, but then I fell asleep.
—An appropriate introduction to the claimstake.
—How did their house get that name?
—I made it up. Fall quarter, I was talking to Mick and I got tired of referring to their house as 'Mick and Jake and Peter and Roxy and Sophie's house' when I was talking about it, and I didn't want to just refer to it by one of their names, like 'Mick's house' because that wouldn't be fair to the others. So I was talking to Mick one night and all of the sudden I thought of this and I said 'claimstake' when I mentioned their house and that's what I've called it ever since. It's starting to catch on. Mick uses the name, and Jake and Sophie. Even Helen used it once, I think.
—That's funny. The name doesn't really mean anything, but people still use it.
—No, it's utterly and completely meaningless. Claimstake just seemed like what you might call a house, or a settlement. Like a mining claim, like the 49ers.
Michael and Tim had now reached Campus Drive, a road which arced over the UCSZ hill and, with Lewis Road, formed an 'X' superimposed on the campus. They crossed then walked along the side road which led to Fremont Hall. As they did, Michael saw someone he recognized approaching them-the goatee-wearing senior who had mocked him in Helen's section a few weeks earlier.
—You see that guy with the goatee? Michael asked in a low voice.
—Yeah. Walking right this way.
—He's the one who made fun of me in Helen's section. His name's Peak.
—I remember. I know him. He's a lit wanker. He's been in a lot of my sections. He's a snag.
Peak, tall and imposing, came closer. Michael studied him. He was tall and loped along with long strides, carrying a leather satchel in one hand and a capped paper cup in the other, which he took a sip from him. When he lowered the cup, he saw Michael. His glance rested briefly on Michael then flicked away, over his shoulder, like he was throwing Michael on the wastepile of people too hopeless to save. A sneer stretched the skin over his cheekbones.
Michael looked away, feeling the shame and embarrassment again. He hated being judged, when people who considered themselves better than he was tried to put him in his place.
—Got more rhymes than Jamaica got mangos, Tim announced loudly just as Peak passed by.
—What do you mean by 'snag'? Michael asked after he had passed out of earshot.
—Sensitive New Age Guy. It's a word Helen & Jessica use a lot. It's a guy who comes off as really sensitive and liberal but is really a scammer in the end-he just uses pseudo-feminist jargon to seduce the woman.
—He does seem really fake.
—He is.
In front of them loomed Sinclair Hall, a three-story concrete and window box, a long grey plane behind a protecting stand of pine trees.
—Well, I'm off to west campus, Tim said.
—Will I see you at dinner?
—Yeah. My friend Mick might be there. I'll see you then.
Tim spun around on his heel and stroke away quickly, flapping one hand at Michael while his other gripped the backpack strap.
After Latin class, Michael returned to his room and looked at his Contemporary American Fiction syllabus. Having wrapped up The Joy Luck Club, they were next going to read a thin volume titled Grapplings, which, according to the blurb on the back cover, was "an astonishingly frank and open discussion of the male homosexual experience, as gays speak to gays in their own, uncensored voices about themselves." It didn't sound that interesting to him, so he hadn't bothered to read it before, especially since the book was so short it wasn't worth worrying about reading in advance.
Deciding to get it over with that afternoon, Michael sat down at his desk and opened the book. It has no table of contents or introduction, but started immediately after the title page. It took only a moment before he became very surprised. Much of the book's text consisted of extremely graphic descriptions of gay sex.
Michael was even more astonished when he started to get a hard-on from what he was reading. He closed the book and stood up, staring straight ahead at the wall. He looked down at the book's light blue cover. The words and phrases whirled through his mind: "long, hard"; "ran his tongue over"; "came in an exquisite torrent" over and over and his erection became longer and fuller as he did. He couldn't resist, he had to read more.
Still standing, Michael opened the book with trembling fingers and tried to find where he had left off. When he did, he sat and held the page open with his left hand. His right went down to his lap. Although he knew he shouldn't and that it meant crossing an invisible line, he began to rub himself. It only took one more page before he was overcome entirely; blood rushed through his body, his head exploded and he slumped forward, catching his head with his left hand. He rubbed his forehead and swallowed twice. His head spun and great waves of exhaustion washed over him. All he wanted to do was to sleep.
Michael closed his eyes and felt it coming out. He bent over and smelled the clammy odor. What had he just done? What if Andy had come in? Why had this book made him do it?
He needed to change clothes, and quickly, in case Andy returned, but he couldn't even keep his eyes open. Michael took three steps and flopped down on his stomach, grabbing the pillow with both hands. In moments, he was sleeping.
vi
The dining hall seemed especially loud and noisy that evening. Michael yawned and stared down at his plate. He had already eaten all his food and wanted to get more, but he couldn't deal with the line and the effort it would take. He was eating with Tim and Mick, who sat facing each other to his right. When they had sat down, their table had been empty, but they were now surrounded by crowds of loud, chattering freshmen.
One thing about Mick was that he ate a stupendous amount of food. When they had first entered the dining hall, Tim had gotten one plate of food and a glass of water, then sat down. It has taken Mick at least ten more minutes to get all of his food-one plate piled two inches high with rice, stir-fried vegetables and yellow corn, a bowl of soup, two pieces of bread, a bowl of yogurt mixed with sunflower seeds and a hot dog. Not only that, he had almost finished it all and was eating just as voraciously as when he had first sat down.
—What's this? Tim asked, placing a finger on a yellow sheet of paper which had been on the table when they sat down. Every other table in the dining hall had one as well.
—Some shit, said Mick.
Michael took it and read:
—Take back the night march and rally for women's issues.
—Another protest, Tim said.
—Just what UCSZ students need, said Mick. Another excuse to blow off classes.
—It's quite a complicated event, for something at UCSZ. Rally in front of Zimmer Library, then a march from downtown back to the campus, climaxing in a candlelight vigil at the Kane Hall fountain. I predict chaos. How can we expected to keep track of all that?
—It's ridiculous, Mick snorted. What are they protesting, exactly?
—I don't know, Tim responded.
Michael picked the sheet up again.
—It says 'to educate and inform on women's issues and empower UCSZ womyn with a display of strong, organized sisterhood.' Why is women spelled with a 'y'?
—Don't ask, said Mick, and shoveled another load of rice into his mouth.
—Because women with an 'e' is derived from Anglo-Saxon, Tim said. Linguistically it means that woman is less than man. However, I heard a convincing argument last quarter than to try and respell women just calls attention to the fact that men is a part of it in the first place. So, this alternative spelling is kind of a waste of time.
—Oh, said Michael. I never thought about it like that. I always just thought 'women,' and never realized that it's wo-men.
—Exactly. You were socialized to believe that men and women are equal. The problem with some feminists is that they think language creates reality. Which it does, but not in such a simplistic way.
Mick finished chewing and gestured with his fork, speaking directly to Michael:
—This kind of thing is so stupid. Where else in the world do women exercise more power than at UCSZ? What more do they want? Why don't they go somewhere like the Texas or Iran or India, where they still burn brides, and protest something real? All they're going to do is sit in a circle and yell at each other, saying what everyone wants to hear. No one will learn anything, and no one will change.
Michael nodded, and was about to respond to Mick when Tim turned and said:
—It's preaching to the converted. But there is sexism at UCSZ. By other PC groups that can't be criticized. Like the AASA, which into all those black nationalist rap groups, which have some pretty misogynist songs.
—What's that one song: suck my cock, bitch, yo word, Mick said.
—Well, not that bad.
—Don't they all basically have the same ideals? Michael asked.
Mick leaned over and scooped a heap of rice into his mouth. With his mouth still full, he said:
—They say they do, but ultimately, everyone's in it for themselves. Each groups wants to get power, like all politicians.
—And if they do have similar goals, Tim said, human nature just makes them fight over whatever differences they do have.
—So nothing ever changes, Michael said.
Mick nodded and picked his plate up by the edge. Taking his fork, he gathered all of the remaining rice, mashed potato and one fatty cube of beef into one pile. He then tilted the plate and scraped it down into his mouth. He put the plate down on his tray and burped. He glanced over to the salad bar and climbed out of his chair.
—Time for more, Mick said. That stir-fry wasn't half bad.
Michael stared at Mick's retreating body. He wasn't fat. He wasn't that much bigger than Tim, and yet, he had just eaten two tray-fulls of food and gone back for more.
—Mick likes the food here, Michael said.
—Mick likes food.
—Where does it all go?
—Mick has the most amazing digestive system I've ever seen. It's like a goat's. He can eat as much as he wants-vast quantities of shitty food that would give you or I either constipation, diarrhea or bouts of vomiting. And then after he eats all that, he can drink ten cups of coffee, run five miles, drink a six-pack, sleep six hours and then go to class all day-and do really well.
—That's amazing.
—Mick is legendary. He has the kind of body you read about, that famous people have. He has a really high metabolism and yet he's not fidgety or nervous the way I am. I kind of envy him. Fall quarter I wanted to be like that: to eat junk food, drink endless coffee and get drunk every night, as much as I wanted, and never worry about the consequences. But my body, and my mind, couldn't take it. Couldn't even last a week.
—It's a really attractive idea, though. To do every to the fullest.
—If you're willing to pay the price. Or been freed from the price by some divine agency.
Mick returned with his tray replenished. On his plate was another helping of stir-fry and rice, but joining it now were diced steamed carrots instead of mashed potatoes.
—Almost time for coffee, Tim said. I'll get it this time.
—Almost, Mick said. But not quite.
Nodding, Tim took another bite of stir-fry. He was still eating his first plate of food.
—There's a party this Friday night, Mick said.
—Whose house?
—I don't know their names. Deadhead friends of Pete's. Downtown, on Gorkyk St.
—Okay. Do you want to go, Michael?
—Sure. Off-campus parties are supposed to a lot more happening.
—Yeah, they are, Tim said. Now it's time.
Mick grinned and stretched his arms. His plate was empty again. Tim stood and walked back towards the food line.
vii
After saying good-bye to Mick, who was going to study at the library, Tim and Michael went back to their dorm. As they mounted the first flight of stairs, Tim said:
—I really need to call Helen tonight. Maybe we should go to her house.
—That would be cool.
—Helen's house is the quintessential Santa Zita experience.
They entered the floor lounge. Michael saw two guys in there he recognized as friends of Andy's. They had come in their room on several different occasions, usually drunk.
—Hey, Tim, one said.
—Hey, Von, Tim responded. Hey, Kurt.
Tim stopped and went over to the center of the lounge. Michael didn't like either Von or his friend. They were both tall, tan and muscular. Von had brown dome-like hair, cut evenly in a circle around his head at ear level. They gathered around Tim like two large dogs, sniffing at something they think might be prey, but might also be too dangerous to attack.
—What's going on? Tim asked.
—Dude, Von said, we need some Old Milwaukee-
—No, dude, something better, Kurt interupted. Jenny and her roommate are gonna be there.
Tim rubbed his chin and nodded gravely, watching them both, as they haggled between themselves.
—Doesn't matter, Von said to Kurt. We just want to get wasted. Why should we spend our money so other people can drink good beer?
—I'll pay...
—Yeah, right.
—I will. I don't have the money on me, but...
Von rolled his eyes and faced Tim again, who stood with a neutral expression on his face, rubbing his chin a little faster.
—So, we need a case of Old Milwaukee-
—At least Bud, or no one will come.
—Dude, they'll come, Kurt. Now, shut up. Unless you have the cash on you right now, we're getting Old Milwaukee. I'm not spending any more fuckin' money. How much do you have on you?
—Five dollars.
Von stuck his hand out, palm up. Kurt pulled out a crumpled bill and dropped it in Matt's hand.
—Any change? Von said, keeping his hand out.
—Oh, come on, dude. You've got to be joking.
—Give it here.
—Fuck!
Shaking his head, Kurt dug his hands in his front pockets, and found two some coins, which he put with the five dollar bill.
—Anyway, Tim, we need a case of Old Milwaukee for this weekend. Did you hear about our party?
—I don't have time.
—Okay, whatever. Can you get the beer?
—No, I don't have time to get you guys beer.
—What do you mean? Kurt said.
Von stepped forward, closer to Tim and slightly obscuring Kurt.
—Why not? Von asked.
—What I just said. I have a lot of work to do. I have to study. I can't just drop everything and go downtown to buy you guys beer.
—You always used to.
—That was then.
—Dude, whatever, said Kurt, stepping forward and angling his face down on Tim. We'll drive you. It won't take any time at all.
—No!
Tim jerked his head at Michael and walked out of the lounge. Michael followed, leaving Von and Kurt arguing.
—Why'd you tell me he'd get you beer? Michael heard Kurt say to Von. Now what're we going to do?
Tim stopped outside his door and grimaced.
—Very irritating, he muttered.
Opening his door, Tim entered his room and held the door open for Michael, closing it quickly behind him.
—I'll say, Michael responded. You'd think it was your job to buy beer for them.
—The sad thing is, fall quarter it almost was. Every Thursday night, I would go with Amy and Sara and buy shitloads of alcohol for them and the whole dorm, it seemed. Enough to float a battleship. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. So now I'm paying for doing them a favor. I didn't mind buying for Amy and Sara, because they were smart about it, but their friends, or not even friends, just party acquaintances-I never should have done that. I was just making trouble for myself. Let's go downtown tonight. I hate the campus.
—Okay.
—I'll come by your room in half an hour.
—See you then.
viii
—Helen lives downtown, Tim said.
He stepped on the accelerator and raced his car through the parking lot. Tim had parked way off at the end of the lot, his blue car alone in a flat expanse of white lines and dark gray pavement. There was at least a hundred yards of open space before another car could be seen. Tim raced across that open space until they were surrounded by full rows of cars on both sides, then he braked hard and drove slowly to the main road.
—What's it like downtown? Michael asked.
—It's...
Tim stopped to make the left turn on to Montrose drive, the road which connected the campus with the rest of the world.
—okay, Tim continued. There's some cool cafes clubs, movie theaters. It was much nicer before the quake.
—It's too bad. I never got a chance to see it the way it was.
—Yeah, I know. It's weird, because that's the way I'll always remember it. I guess.
—This is my first time.
—Wow. Well, if this is the first time, let's do it.
The night shuttle passed and Tim pulled out as quickly as he could, turn left and going downhill. The nightscape of Santa Zita, the bay and the cities on the other side opened up in front of them. The night was clear. No fog blocked the view and the lights across the bay were single points of light.
They followed the same route they had the night before, down the tree-lined boulevard and over the freeway, two lanes going both ways in a trench walled with iceplant. Michael looked up and down 101, saw the speeding cars, going north to the Bay Area and Alta Lara, and south to Santa Barbara, then to LA.
Just past the freeway, Tim turned left where he had gone straight the night before. After five more minutes of driving, Tim turned right from a busy street onto a dark, wide cul-de-sac lined with plain-looking one and two-story houses. The street didn't look as nice as the claimstake's neighborhood, the houses were closer together. Most had dead lawns and needed new coats of paint. Tim drove almost all the way to the end before parking. He turned off his car and pointed across the street, at a two-story house with a flight of wooden stairs stuck to its right side.
—There it is. Helen's house. On the second floor; it's a duplex. Let's go.
—I hope she's here, Tim said. The lights are on.
—Did you call her before we left? Michael asked as he followed Tim across the street.
—No, I didn't. I wanted to surprise and...
Instead of finishing his sentence, Tim hurried forward to the stairs, bounding up two at a time, leaving Michael behind. He stopped at the top and looked down the stairs. The moment Michael put his foot on the landing, Tim turned and knocked on the door. There was no answer for several seconds, but Michael could hear movement inside.
The door opened, revealing a guy about Tim's height, red-haired and slightly freckled on his cheekbones.
—Hey, Ellery, Tim said.
—Oh, hi, Tim.
Ellery seemed surprised to see Tim. He stood in the doorway, not opening the door all the way or inviting them in.
—Is Helen home? Tim asked.
—No, she's not.
—Oh.
Tim looked around himself, at Michael, then shrugged his shoulders.
—That's unfortunate, he continued. Could you tell her I stopped by?
—Uh, sure.
—Thanks, Ellery. See you later.
—Bye.
The door closed in front of them. Tim passed Michael and descended. Michael followed, disappointed. He had been looking forward to seeing Helen's house, and Helen herself, to be able to talk to her normally, not just as a freshman student in her section.
—That's too bad, Tim said quietly when Michael reached the bottom.
—Yeah. What do you want to do now? Go downtown? Michael asked, since Tim was walking down the sidewalk and not back to his car.
—Yeah, maybe. I'm not sure.
Tim seemed depressed. He was speaking in a low, breathy tone of voice, as if every sentence he said was a great effort of will. Michael found it hard to imagine Tim in this kind of mood-he seemed like a very upbeat, fun person, at least in the two days he had been hanging out with him. He must have wanted to see Helen even more than he did.
They walked to the intersection of Helen's street and Ash without saying anything else. Michael looked down at the sidewalk. It was old and cracked with tree-roots, bulging and deforming the once flat surface. In places the roots had reduced whole squares of it to rubble. When they reached the corner, Tim stopped and pointed to his right.
—Downtown is that way.
Michael looked and saw a gas station and stores further down Ash, as well as the dark, angular shapes of larger buildings lit by the yellow-orange street-lamps.
—I'm just going to get some coffee at the 7-Eleven. Do you want anything?
—No, I'll wait.
Tim looked both ways, then ran across the street.
ix
A shiver ran its way up and down Michael's spine. He felt a tremor and a tightening in his stomach and bowels. He wasn't wearing a jacket, only a light sweater, and the wind that blew down the street seemed to cut right through it. Cars rushed by, their headlights blinding Michael as he tried to see what Tim was doing in the 7-Eleven. Santa Zita seemed very desolate from where he stood.
Michael turned away from the street and looked at the dark house behind him, at its porch with broken floorboards, peeling grey paint and cardboard-covered windows. Overhead, a clammy wind blew the fog in; white wreathes followed by thicker banks that completely hid the sky.
Tim seemed to be taking a long time just to buy coffee. Michael wished he had gone with him. Santa Zita was a seedier place than he expected. How had he ended up down here? Without Tim he felt like he had no right to be there, away from the campus. He kept expecting someone to come up and ask him what he thought he was doing downtown. The houses all seemed so run down, their lawns scraggly and dead-looking, surrounded by overgrown bushes, swollen beyond their proper size.
He wished Helen had been home; that he and Tim were sitting in her apartment drinking beer and talking about whatever. He had really expected her to be there, because Tim obviously had. Tim seemed really disappointed by her absence. It just didn't seem as easy as it should have been. It was hard enough for him to be social-couldn't he at least have good luck when he needed it? Maybe fate was set against him.
Michael looked up and saw a bus roaring by. When it passed, he saw Tim standing on the other side, holding a paper cup with a straw in it. They looked into each other's eyes, each holding the other's gaze but not moving. Tim looked away first, snapping his head back and forth, then trotting across the street.
—I wonder what we should do now, Tim said when he reached Michael. I don't know, I just don't know.
—You said we could go look at the downtown, said Michael.
—Yeah, yeah, Tim replied, but he didn't start walking. Instead, he sipped his coffee and looked up at the sky now completely covered with fog, blocking the stars and reflecting the street-lights pale orange glow, making the night bright but more unnatural.
—It's cold tonight, said Michael.
—Yeah, I know. It's really too bad Helen wasn't home. I'm sorry, Michael.
—It's okay. How could you know?
—I couldn't, you're right.
Sipping his coffee, Tim looked back to where Helen's house was, peering intently, as if she might have returned when they're weren't looking. He turned back a moment later, folding his arms, still holding the coffee cup, carefully turning it so it wouldn't spill. Michael wondered what they were doing. There wasn't anything to do or see there, yet Tim made no sign that he wanted to leave, to either continue downtown or go back to his car.
Down the street, Michael heard a new sound when the traffic ceased for a moment, like rhythmic chanting. Tim heard it too, and took a few steps in that direction.
—What's that? Tim asked, sucking up the rest of his coffee with a gurgle.
A moment later, the chanting could be heard even over the sound of cars and trucks. Michael saw a group of bodies headed towards them from the direction of downtown on the sidewalk, some carrying signs. The voices were all women's.
—I know what this is, Tim said. It's that march we saw the notice for in the dining hall.
—Oh, yeah.
—Here they come. We better watch out. They may decide to trample us underfoot.
Tim stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and Michael followed suit, standing closer to him. The marchers were close enough now that Michael could see individual women. The march was led by three tall women, each clutching a large sign. One sign contained a large hand-painted V. The middle one read S.Z.W.A. The third carried a sign like the first, only it had two of the symbols inter-linked:
Michael moved back slightly as they got closer. The woman leading on the left wore a long, flowing print dress. Her curly brown hair billowed in the wind. The woman in the middle, had short shiny black hair, brown pants and a green fabric jacket. To her left was the tallest of the three, and the one who appeared the most deadset on whatever was in front of her. She stamped her boots on the sidewalk, wearing jeans that were neither loose nor tight. She shook her sign as the passed Michael, not quite looking at he and Tim, but Michael felt she chanted extra hard just for their benefit.
Behind them followed about forty or fifty more women, many also carrying signs. Michael and Tim were forced off the sidewalk on to the dead lawn to allow them room to pass. They continued to chant:
—What do we want? Change! When do we want it? Now!
Michael studied the signs as they passed: TAKE BACK THE NIGHT; WOMEN LOVING WOMEN; PATRIARCHY: NOT JUST A BAD IDEA, IT'S THE LAW; WOMEN GET PREGNANT, NOT MEN-MEN DECIDE ABORTION RIGHTS, NOT WOMEN-IS THAT FAIR?; RAPE IS NOT FUNNY, IF MEN GOT PREGNANT, ABORTION WOULD BE A SACRAMENT; SILENCE = DEATH.
Michael's eye caught a girl passing that he couldn't help staring at, she seemed so beautiful. She was a little taller than he was, slim, with intense red hair in long, tight ringlets which bounced and weaved as she shook her sign, which read: WAR IS MENSTRUAL ENVY. Michael felt his penis harden as he watched the way her hair moved above her shoulder. Ashamed, he looked away. It was bad enough that he got erections from looking at girls, like he was still a freshman in high school, but when it was a girl in a feminist march, it was even more lame.
A few minutes later, the women were gone and their voices faded back into the noise of the traffic.
—My, said Tim. I guess we were put in our place.
—Yeah... What's the SZWA?
—The Sizwah, Tim said, is the Santa Zita Women's Alliance. I guess, he said after a slight pause, we should get going.
—It's cold.
—It is cold. Not as cold as it could be, but cold nonetheless. I'm just not sure, Tim trailed of, mumbling a few more words which Michael couldn't hear. He made no sign of wanting to leave. Instead, Tim put his hands in his pockets and tucked the coffee cup under his arm. He stared down the road in the direction of downtown, looking back and forth at different buildings.
Michael looked back up the hill, towards campus. He saw a girl in jeans and a heavy grey sweatshirt biking downhill. She looked at Michael briefly, then over at Tim. She braked and came over to them.
—Tim! Hey, Tim!
Tim whirled around and raised his hand in greeting. The girl stopped and placed her foot on the curb for balance.
—Hi, Jessica, Tim said.
—Where have you been, Tim? No one's seen you for weeks. What's up?
—A lot of things. But I'm here, now. I just stopped by Helen's house. Are you going there?
—No. To Mina's house, to study.
—Mina? I don't know her.
—She's in my Spanish class. So, Helen and I really miss you and we think it's really lame that you've been going home so much.
Tim spread his hands helplessly between them.
—I know, I know, he said. I'll call you.
—Good. I've gotta go.
—By the way, Jessica, this is Michael.
Jessica turned her head and smiled. She took her small hand off the handlebar and squeezed Michael's.
—Hi, said Michael.
—Nice to meet you, Michael. I'm late. Call us, Tim!
She pressed her left foot down on the peddle and pushed away with her right.
—Bye, Tim. Bye, Michael, she called to them as she biked away.
—Cool, said Tim. That was Jessica. She's one of my best friends.
—She seems really nice.
—She is. Okay, I'm ready. Let's go. I want to go to Cafe Nightingale after all.
Tim and Michael started off down the sidewalk. After a few blocks, Tim led Michael across the street, past a small park with basketball lit by one dark yellow light. A black man in tan corduroys and blue satin jacket stood under the basket, tossing up a silver beer can, then catching it after it fell through the wire rim of the basket.
Parked on the side street that bordered the park was a repainted schoolbus. Once, it has been covered with bright red, yellow and green paisleys, but these had faded and coated with orange-brown dust. Through the windows, Michael saw boxes, mattresses and other junk, stuffing the bus to the roof.
x
Before going Cafe Nightingale, Tim took Michael a few blocks over to see Santa Zita's Main St. mall, which had been badly damaged by the earthquake the previous fall. About a month into fall quarter, an earthquake had rocked California's central coast, causing little damage to UCSZ's campus, but devastating Santa Zita's downtown, which had many old brick buildings, as well as some other towns to the south. Michael had seen the pictures in the newspapers, but had never gone down to see the damage in person.
It now seemed like a wasteland. Most of the collapsed buildings had been razed, leaving blank lots and excavated holes with crumbling basement walls. A few damaged buildings had been deemed important enough to salvage. One, bearing the name 'Davis Hotel', was nothing but a red and gold-painted facade. Behind it the rest of the building had been torn down.
The earthquake had been capricious in its damage-one intact buildings housing a record store occupied a block which was otherwise empty. Ten-foot chain link fences cordoned off the vacant lots and closed buildings. Down the street, Michael saw what he thought was a policeman patrolling.
—Rent-a-cop, Tim said. They hired them to protect against vandals and souvenir hunters.
In one of the holes, someone had built sculptures out of wooden boards and other junk, painted them and written encouraging words. In the dark, they seemed sad, like abandoned broken toys.
—Where were you when it all came apart? Tim asked as they walked down the center of Main St.
—In my room, wondering if I should go to dinner. I was standing in the middle of the room when I heard a roar. I thought a bus was driving through the moat for a second, then I knew it was something much, much bigger. That's when I stopped really thinking. Everything was shaking crazily, and it wouldn't stop to let me think about it and figure out what to do. I couldn't even keep my balance enough to get down on the floor. I just fell from side to side, just feeling the vibration and the noise. When it was over I knew it was an earthquake, a really big one. I walked out of my room. By the time I got out on the bridge, the world started shaking again.
They walked for another half-block, when Tim veered to his right.
—Cafe Nightingale is over on Prince St, Tim said.
Michael followed Tim down the street, past a Chinese restaurant. To their right was another vacant lot. This, however, had once been a store. Michael could see pale green tiles, the remnants of the floor.
—Hey, Tim, Michael heard someone say.
Looking up, Michael saw a guy with cropped black hair, round and tapered in the back, coming towards them.
—Hey, John.
—What's going on? John asked.
—Going over to Cafe Nightingale, Tim answered.
—I was just there.
—Was it crowded?
—Yeah.
Tim nodded his head. John said nothing, looking at Tim, smiling and paying no attention to Michael.
—Still hanging out with Helen? John asked.
—Yeah... actually, I stopped by her house tonight, but she wasn't home.
—Don't know if I'll see her much, anymore.
—Yeah, I don't know...
—Well, gotta jam. Good to see you, Tim.
—Yeah, good to see, John.
Tim and John clasped hands, then began walking from each other. Michael wondered who John was, and whether he was a friend of Helen's, too. He was good-looking, as well as seeming very nice.
—That was weird, Tim muttered after they'd gone half a block.
—Weird? Why?
—He's a friend of Todd's. Helen's now ex-boyfriend.
—Oh. I heard you and Jake talking about him.
—Yeah. They just broke up two weeks ago. They'd been going our for a long time. Did she seem different in section?
—Not that I saw. She never seemed that happy in section. but I thought it was just the way she was-really serious about it. She seemed thoughtful, not depressed.
—Hmh. She probably wouldn't want to show it too much, but I heard she was really broken up about it. Not that I've talked to her about it. Anyway, John was one of Todd's friends-the only one I liked, actually. The only one who would really talk to me as an equal. He's a little bit noble, you know, he has class. Todd never had any class–he had money but no taste.
—I guess you didn't like him.
—We got along okay. For Helen's sake. Or, to irritate her, too, I'm not sure. Cafe Nightingale is just down the street. Look at that line.
A ragged stream of people in blue, black and beige clothes led out of the front door, on to the porch, then down the lower flight of stairs. Cafe Nightingale was housed in a three-story mansion with a wraparound porch.
—Normally I'd say shine. But it's something you need to do, so it's worth standing in line just this once.
After a ten-minute wait in line, they finally got to the marble counter, where three people Michael and Tim's age hid behind huge silver coffee machines. Tim ordered coffee, Michael tea.
The cafe was jammed inside, so Tim led Michael back out on the porch. Tim went around the corner of the house and found an empty table next to two men in their early forties with graying ponytails, playing chess.
At the outermost corner of the porch Michael saw a crowd of people, younger than Tim, laughing loudly and smoking cigarettes. All wore at least some black, a little white and touches of orange and magenta, except for one guy on the edge in blue jeans and brown plaid jacket. His head was topped with slicked dome-like hair and he wore a pair of black thick-rimmed glasses. One of the girls, who wore striped tights, black miniskirt and blazing red hair, met Michael's gaze frankly and shrugged.
Michael looked back at Tim, who was holding his coffee up to his face and taking quick sips as his eyes scanned the porch.
—If I drank that much coffee, I'd probably explode, said Tim.
—What?
—See that guy.
Tim pointed behind Michael. He turned and saw a guy in a South American sweater, red, light brown and white, made from alpaca or llama. He sat alone reading a book, moving only to turn the pages, drinking from a tall glass of black coffee.
—Look at that-sixteen ounces of black coffee. I came here last quarter with Amy and had two of those-I couldn't sit still, I couldn't even sit down at all I was so wired. I babbled for half an hour straight about The Joys of Motherhood while Amy sat there and took notes.
—Do you like this place? Michael asked.
—Yeah. I make a lot of fun of it, because it's so pretentious, but I do like it. It really feels like a social center, a meeting-place, like the cafes in Europe. Even if I think a lot of the people are lame, I have to give it credit for that, Tim concluded.
Tim drank another large swallow of coffee.
—It seems clique-ish.
—How so?
—The people don't seem that friendly. Everybody sits by themselves, not paying attention to each other.
—Well, this is Santa Zita. Most people stick to their own group.
Tim pointed to the table nearest to them, where the two women were closely speaking to each other over a small round table on three thin legs.
—They're lesbians-radical ones, since they dress so adamantly according to their stereotype. The two guys there-
Tim pointed to the right.
—playing chess, are old guard Santa Zita radicals. Aging political hippies-they moved here in the sixties and never left. They were probably part of the first graduating class of UCSZ, when everyone lived in trailers on the upper field and classes were held in groves of redwood trees.
Michael smiled.
—The kids in black, in the corner, are local. They don't like UCSZ, but they like the byproducts of the university lifestyle, so they hang out here. The woman next to them drinking tea is not quite an earthmother...
Tim paused and rubbed his chin vigorously between his thumb and forefingers.
—More of a new age sibyl. See, she has a whole mess of crystal around her neck. Up by the front door is the more standard UCSZ activist crowd. In fact, I think that's Jim Chambles-he's big in campus politics. Some of the other cliques found at Cafe Nightingale are the Che-Guervas, Hispanic radicals; the ubiquitous Deadheads; the mainstream gay contingent and occasionally even Porter artsy types if they're extremely bored-tired of photographing their own genitalia or nailing dead rats to canvases.
Michael moved back in his seat. Tim smiled at him.
—The only thing they have in common is that they're all alternative types, and don't want to hang out on campus, in bars or at the Reactor. Other than that, they have little reason to talk to each other. A lot of it is political.
Tim paused, and Michael leaned forward in his chair, settling his arms on the table.
—The problem is every group has completely different levels of political awareness. The lesbians, the radical ones, will have nothing to do with any other cliques, except possibly with the gays or feminists as a matter of political expediency. Everyone else is too patriarchal. The younger activists consider the older city radicals to either be plain sellouts or mainstream liberals who work too much within the system. The local kids think everyone else are crazy sixties burnouts. They're apolitical and proud of it. And everyone feels superior to the Deadheads, who, after all, only care about the Dead, the ultimate example of apolitical art-the worst sin in Santa Zita.
—So the reason everyone sits by themselves and doesn't talk to anyone else is politics?
—In Santa Zita, politics occupies the same structural position in interpersonal relations that money does in the real world. Everyone in Santa Zita has pretty much the same amount of money, so something else has to be used as a framework of social status, to set people apart. And that thing is the level of political consciousness.
—That's weird, said Michael. I didn't know there was so much division. It always seemed like everyone agreed on everything.
—It only seems that way because people pretend because no one hurt anybody's feelings. But amongst themselves, they spend all their time complaining about how lame everybody else in Santa Zita is.
Michael nodded. Halfway through, a huge yawn erupted from his mouth.
—I'm sorry, said Michael. Suddenly I'm really tired.
—That's okay. I'm ready to go if you are.
—Okay.
Michael stood, followed by Tim. They picked their way through the crowded porch.
xi
Tim parked his car in lower remote, he explained to Michael, because he didn't want to risk getting a ticket by parking further up on campus. He parked in the same place, so that his car was again alone in the far end of the lot.
—I want to walk up to the south field. It's a perfect night for stargazing. Clear and cold, no fog, no moon.
The fog that Michael had seen earlier that night had receded far out to sea. They walked up a dirt track which ran from the parking lot to where the hillside steepened dramatically. Wind blew down the hill. Michael jammed his hands deep into his pockets. Tim walked quickly past him, seeming to go faster the steeper the trail became, taking deep silent breaths and bending at the waist into the wind. He disappeared over the top.
When Michael came over the rim, he discovered where they had climbed to. They were now on the other side of the athletic fields which they had earlier walked along. A few feet in front of him was the running track which circled the fields, a vast grassy expanse broken only by two white soccer goals. Beyond were the lighted buildings of the gyms and swimming pool. Above and to the right were the dorms, library and dining hall of Fremont College. Michael turned and looked out in the other direction, where Tim was standing at the outermost corner of the track.
He saw what Tim saw, a vast nightscape of city lights below and constellations above. In front of them were the immediate lights of Santa Zita: car headlights, street-lamps and neon signs. Beyond, all of these lights merged into one stream, a necklace which widened and thinned as it ran around the bay, encircling the black nothingness of the ocean.
—Tonight, Tim said, the moon has hidden herself and the bay is invisible.
Above the cities hung the night sky. Michael lifted his eyes to the heavens, amazed by how many stars he could see. Constellations which he had previously seen only as diagrams in books leapt out at him. He could almost see the thread-like lines connecting them. The stars were not all same-sized dots of light, the way they were in Alta Lara's sky. In Santa Zita the stars twinkled and wobbled; they seemed alive. Not only that, they were different colors, too; white, yellow and some that seemed for a moment to almost be blue or red, until he looked again and they became something else.
As Michael stared into the stars, feeling his neck crick, he became aware of smaller stars in between the larger ones. The deeper he looked, the more of them he saw. He got dizzy, feeling like he wasn't staring up, but falling into an infinite sea of stars rushing up to envelop him.
Michael straightened his neck, not able to stand the ache any longer and afraid that he might fall over. Tim stood a few feet in front of him, his hands in his front jeans pockets, looking back and forth across the sky, never letting his gaze stay in one place for more than a moment. Michael went over and joined him.
—It's amazing how many stars you can see tonight, Michael said.
—Yeah. This is one of the best nights for stargazing I've ever seen. Look at Orion.
Tim turned around and pointed up.
—That's my favorite constellation, Tim continued.
A moment later, Tim spoke again:
—I'll never forget the night of the earthquake. I came back on campus and found out that our dorm had been declared unsafe. I went in, collected my bedclothes and got out, terrified the entire time, seeing the huge hairline cracks running through the building. I didn't know anybody on campus at that point-all my friends were off-campus and I knew it was not time to try and find them. I decided to go way out on the field, near where we're standing now, and spend the night alone. I walked out here and saw one of the most amazing things I've ever seen.
Tim swept his hand across the bay from left to right.
—The power plant in Carillo had been knocked out by the quake. Power was out for two hundred miles around. You don't understand what a power outage means until you see one that big from a place like this. The lights were gone. Where we see city lights, cars, signs and all that other shit, there were just the scattered lights of cars. The rest was blackness. If you ignored the cars, looking out at the bay was like seeing it the way the Indians did. The stars were clear and bright, not out-shined by man-made light. And it was dark-true darkness. We never really see true darkness, unless we go camping, in which case we're in a completely different place, so it doesn't mean the same thing. This was complete and utter blackness in a place where hundreds of times before, I had seen light. It's strange to see the place you live completely swallowed by darkness. And while I watched, I had this feeling, that I was seeing something that was only once in a lifetime. Only one night, out of the hundreds that I've spent in Santa Zita, would I be able to see the view this way-the way it always was for the Indians, and the Spanish, or even the ranchers. Everyone for the past 10,000 years except for the past one hundred.
—Wow, said Michael. It's cool that you were able to appreciate it.
—Yeah. I guess I was able to because I felt so disassociated from the disaster after I came up on campus. I mean, I was downtown when in happened, and saw buildings collapsed, cars smashed by rubble, people wandering around in a daze-it was like a war zone. By the time I came up here I had already survived and done what I had to. I was worried, too, but there was nothing I could do. And I wanted to appreciate what happened. You hear people say 'nothing ever happens that's real, that's important, it's all just bullshit.' Well, that night was real.
—Did you mind being alone?
—Well.. I would have rather been with someone, sure. But most of the most important moments of my life I've faced alone.
—That night made me realize how close everyone in the dorm was, Michael said, and how I wasn't a part of the hall. I took my sleeping bag out on the green, and saw Amy and Sara, and everybody else from our floor, in little groups, talking to each other. They were clustered around me, and I felt very alone. And I didn't know what to say or how to become a part of what was happening around me. It seemed weird to go up to people and start talking to them even though I didn't know them, but that's what I wanted to do. Instead, I read a book and tried to sleep.
—That's too bad. I knew if I stayed with all the other people from the college, that's how I would have felt, too. So I walked down here.
Tim reached out and seemed to lean forward into the night, as if he were trying to grab the stars and pull himself up into them. He turned and smiled widely, then chuckled, as he held out his hand. After a few moments holding this pose, Tim dropped his hand and thrust it in his pocket.
—Let's go back. It's cold tonight.
As they walked across the field towards the lighted buildings of Fremont Hall, Michael asked:
—Thanks for taking me downtown.
—Sure, no problem. Actually, there's much more to see that I could show you. I really want to go to that party Mick told me about. I don't know why-usually I hate parties like that, but suddenly I want to go. I warn you, it's going to be quite the scene.
—Will it be raging?
—Oh, my. Raging and maybe even some good old-fashioned rage to go along with it.
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