Michael sat on Tim's bed and watched him comb his hair. At the back of his neck, it curled slightly and frizzed. Tim ran a comb through his hair over and over. In between each pass, he smoothed his hair with his fingers.
—I need a haircut, Tim announced. Another thing to deal with. Also...
Tim trailed off and looked over his shoulder at Michael.
—I'm going to call Helen.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
—Hey, Helen. You're not home. Just calling to see what you're doing tonight. For some unearthly reason, I'm going to a deadhead party with Mick. I'll talk to you soon. Bye.
—She wasn't home? Michael asked.
—Guess not. Oh, well. Just have to wait another night.
Tim's clock read 8:39. They were going to meet Mick at nine. When Michael had come over a half hour earlier, Tim had taken a big green wine bottle out from under his bed and poured the last of it into two plastic cups. Tim had almost finished his, Michael was having trouble getting more than a trickle past his lips, it was so rancidly sweet.
—How's the wine? Tim asked.
—Uh, okay.
—It's actually more vinegar than wine, now. I don't know why I drank mine. You don't have to finish yours. I guess it's more of a symbolic act than an attempt to drink something that tastes good. This is all that's left of the wine from the last time I partied with Amy and Sara.
—It's a long story. I just decided to end things, let's put it that way. I'll tell you more about it later, when I understand it better myself.
Michael lifted the beige cup. He felt a little buzzed now and he liked the feeling. He put the cup to his lips and drank all that was left, forcing it down swallow by swallow. It took five, souring his mouth and almost making him gag. But he did empty the cup. Michael licked his lips and went out into the hall to fill his cup with water from the drinking fountain. He heard Amy and Sara laughing in their room.
Back in the room, Tim was putting on his brown leather jacket and closing his window.
—I'm ready, Tim said.
—So am I.
—Here we go again. Once more, into the city, into the other side of life.
Late the night before, after Tim and Michael had returned to the dorm, the fog again moved over Santa Zita and covered the sky. It had stayed there the whole day. As they walked down to Tim's car, the fog hovered, just touching the tops of the redwoods. The fog brought with it a fine misty rain which collected on Tim's windshield as they drove downtown. Tim followed the same route as he had the night before, but passed Helen's street, turning left a few blocks later.
—This is Gorky St., Tim said when they got out of the car. It's probably down that way.
They walked further while Tim looked for addresses.
—Good, Tim said. It is this way.
They continued down the narrow street, crowded with parked cars.
—That must be it, Tim said. People hanging out on the sidewalk. And it looks the kind of house Mick's friends would live in-low to the ground and really shitty.
Tim was right-the house was one-story with a flat roof, shielded by trees with long, drooping branches weighed down by bushy green leaves. Tucked into various corners of the front yard were other overgrown plants. A narrow driveway held a dirty white VW van and an old pick-up truck with Georgia plates and a bumper sticker with the confederate flag and the words 'Don't Tread On Me.' Both vehicles were painted white, but with large sections where the paint had flaked off, revealing gray metal underneath. It was difficult to tell where the house was exactly. There was some kind of a structure under the trees and behind the cars, but with so many branches and bushes in the way it was difficult to tell what it might be.
Tim had stopped walking while Michael studied the house. Michael looked for Mick, who was supposed to meet them outside.
—Mick must be inside, Tim said. Shall we?
They headed towards the house. Michael looked at the people gathered on the driveway, leaning against the van and going in and out of the narrow passageway between the van and pick-up. There were two guys, both tall, in blue jeans and t-shirts, drinking bottles of beer. One of them had his arm around a girl, who was much shorter than he was, wearing a tie-dyed shirt with a skull and a flower print skirt. As he and Tim passed them, Michael could feel them looking at him. He suddenly felt very small and young.
They slipped between the rusting vehicles, walking on piles of fallen leaves which had been crushed into a pasty green mat by all the people passing in and out of the house. From here, Michael saw the front door, a screen door held open by an upright brick.
—Got more rhymes than Jamaica got mangos, Tim breathed to himself as they climbed the house's front steps, gray wooden boards placed on cinder-blocks. Leaning on the screen door was another deadhead. This one was even larger than others. In his right hand he held a large brown bottle around the neck. When Tim tried to get around him to go in the house, he placed his hand on Tim's shoulder. With very little effort, he stopped Tim in his tracks. Tim grimaced and looked up.
—I don't know you, the big guy said to Tim.
—Yeah. But I don't know you.
—I'm a friend of Mick's. Mick Deal.
—Oh, okay, whatever.
The deadhead took a long swig from his bottle and looked out towards the driveway. Tim shrugged and went in the house, followed by Michael.
—That was weird, Tim said when they were safely through the door.
—I thought he wasn't going to let us in.
—I guess Mick's name counts for something, at this house.
A group of people came in, all holding bottles and talking loudly. Tim and Michael stepped to the side.
—Mick's old housemates, Pete and Davey, and a few other guys. I can never keep them all straight.
—No. Let's look around and find him.
The house smelled worse than any place Michael had ever been in, other than a porta-potty or the sewage treatment plant he had toured on an eight grade field trip. When he first came in it was so bad he wanted to stop breathing. A few minutes later, he got a little more used to it, but he still couldn't ignore it. The house smelled like a million different things-a hot, musty, sweaty odor that changed from minute to minute. Right now it smelled like urine left in the toilet bowl overnight, or dishes left soaking in water.
Glancing into the kitchen, Michael could see one immediate cause of the smell-every square inch of the kitchen was covered with piles of food-encrusted dishes. Adding to the smell was the fact that every window in the house was left closed, even though it was very warm inside.
There was one other smell Michael recognized. People getting stoned in the living room. leaving a gray haze hovering over them. Michael breathed it in, preferring the heavy, burning smell to the stench coming from the kitchen.
—No sign of Mick inside. He's probably out by the keg.
The keg occupied a corner of the house's backyard, a dirt and grass covered space surrounded by a high, wooden fence. As Tim predicted, Mick was there, his back to them as they approached. Michael recognized him by his jeans, gray sweatshirt and wavy brown hair-dressed exactly the same as the night before.
—Hey, Mick! Tim shouted.
Mick turned around slowly, then smiled and held out his hand.
—Hey... Tim. Hey, Michael, Mick said in a slow voice.
—Hi, Mick, Michael said.
He looked at the two guys Mick was standing with. They were both taller than Michael-one of them towered over everyone. He must have been at least six and a half feet tall. As Michael looked, the shorter one laughed hysterically and beat his friend of his shoulder.
—How long have you been here? Tim asked Mick.
—Not too long. Let me get you guys beers.
—Cool.
Mick stepped over to a bench in the corner of the yard and picked up a bag of cups. Michael looked back at Mick's friends. The shorter one, who had long brown hair and a thick beard, was still laughing at the taller one, and hitting him even harder. He started pushing back. Michael couldn't tell if they were playing around or whether it was about to turn into a real fight.
—Hey, fuck you, the tall one said.
—Fuck you, the other responded.
With that, the bearded guy put his arms around his friend and tried to knock him down. They grappled with each other and fell away from the keg on to a patch of dirt, pummeling each other.
—Oh, shit, Michael breathed, stepping back. He thought they were about to beat each other to death.
—Don't worry, said Tim. That's just Davey and Pete. They're not really trying to kill each other. I think.
Meanwhile, Mick filled two cups with beer, ignoring his two friends, who continued to wrestle, throwing punches and grunting ferociously. Davey's leg lashed out and hit the keg, rocking it slightly. Mick kicked him back.
—Watch it, Davey, Mick yelled. You nearly tipped the keg.
Mick filled the second cup and handed the cups to Tim and Michael.
—Thank you, Mick, Tim said.
—Yeah, thanks, Michael said.
—No problem, Mick responded. Just a minute.
Handing his beer to Tim, Mick walked over to Pete and Davey, bent over and threw Davey to the side. Davey immediately forgot about Pete and started in on Mick, pushing him back against the fence, shaking the loose boards. Mick put his hands down and crashed back into Davey. They exchanged punches until Davey stepped back, laughing.
—Enough of this shit, Davey shouted. Where's my beer? Where's my fucking beer?!
—Right there, Pete said.
Pete rose and brushed himself off. He, Davey and Mick, all laughing, went back to the keg and refilled their cups.
—Does that happen a lot? Michael asked Tim quietly.
—Pretty often, when Davey's around.
Mick came back to them.
—You're back, Tim said to Mick.
—Yeah, I just had to kick Davey's ass.
—You didn't kick any body's ass, Deal! Davey shouted from behind them.
Mick smiled conspiratorially at Tim and Michael.
—I'm cold, Tim said. You want to go inside?
—Sure, Mick answered.
Back in the house, the smell was even more overpowering. Tim and Mick walked into the living room and staked out an empty corner by the plate glass window. Tim grabbed a chair and leaned on the armrest, while Mick stood next to him. Michael went behind them and leaned against the wall so he could watch the rest of the room. It was getting packed, with most of the people sitting and standing around the coffee table. On that table was a bong, a much bigger than the one Jake and Sophie had at their house. Michael breathed deeply beginning to feel the dizzy high again and he sort of liked it.
He tried following what Tim and Mick were talking about, but it was about literature classes and books that Michael had never heard of. He looked at the rest of the people in the living room. Guys and girls were sitting on low wobbly couches covered with colorful wrappings. The couches themselves were tattered and decrepit, with bits of yellow foam dribbling from tears in their fabric skins.
Someone turned on the stereo. A tinny-sounding music began to play, with no singing, just chirping guitars and a shuffling drumbeat. As Michael watched the room, the music went on and on, never really changing but never the same, either. It seemed like endless varieties of the same idea, guitars wandering over the same beat.
Just below the high notes of the guitars, Michael listened to the low buzz of the party's conversations. More people were entering the party now, coming through the front door and either going in the kitchen, the living room or disappearing into the hall. Michael concentrated on the other people who were talking nearby, trying to hear exactly what they were saying.
After spacing out for a while, Michael started paying attention to Tim and Mick again.
—Who were you talking to when I got here? asked Tim.
—Zeke. He's a friend of Pete's. Just got back from Portland.
—The Dead, of course.
—Totally. Like, he was supernatural.
—Red Rocks seventy-seven, second set... Jerry was out there, man, all they way out. It was, like, religious.
Michael listened to Tim and Mick. He couldn't help giggling because they both sounded so spaced out.
—What are you talking about? Michael asked.
—The Dead. The only band that matters, Tim said. The Grateful Dead, Michael.
—I've heard of them, said Michael, but I don't really know anything about them.
Mick drank a large swig from his beer.
—The Dead are a rock 'n' roll band, Tim said. Their basic concept is that they always improvise on stage, never play any song the same way twice, to create one-of-a-kind music which they all cooperate in producing. Their fans are called deadheads, who live to follow the band-they form a self-contained community who migrate as the band tours the United States and the world. Thus, in some sense, the Dead exemplify all of the qualities which Santa Zita holds holy: a cooperative, nonconformist, self-created community in which everyone is free to be themselves and enjoy life in doing what they do, freeing themselves through communal, tribal dancing. At the same time-
Tim stared at Michael and shook his finger.
—Deadheads are the most un-PC thing in the universe-a bunch of drug-addicts who are basically petty capitalists who care only about art and nothing about changing the world. Nothing but self-indulgent hedonists being swindled by a sixties rock band who long ago ceased to be musically or politically relevant. The deadheads' lifestyles are sustainable only because most come from upper middle class backgrounds, and thus the entire community is merely the detritus of a brutal class structure. That, in a nutshell, is what the Grateful Dead, and deadheads, are. The Dead are a paradox.
—Death is a paradox, Mick said. Deadheads love the Dead, and in doing so, they get so stoned they're more dead than alive.
About an hour later, Michael found himself back inside the house with Tim. Earlier, they had gone back outside to get more beer. Pete and Davey had come over to them and started talking to Mick. After a few minutes with them, Tim had suggested that they go back in the house, which was fine with Michael, since Pete and Davey paid no attention to him, and seemed liable to knock him over accidentally as they wrestled with Mick.
—I can't take too much of Davey, Tim said when they came inside.
—He's very loud.
—Yeah. He's kind of overwhelming. He's nice but he's very unpredictable, and when he and Mick are drinking together, I kind of have to back off. Right now, self-control is not a top priority for them. Whatever they want to do, they'll do.
—Un oh, said Michael.
—Yeah, exactly. Bad things have a way of happening.
—Like right now.
Michael had been watching Pete and Davey for the past few moments through the living room's glass door. A guy about as tall as Pete but more heavyset, with a blond crewcut and wearing blue shorts and a tan windbreaker was shouting at Davey. Now he walked over, pointing, first at Davey, then at himself. Davey moved towards the bigger guy, shouting. Tim turned around and made an exaggerated grimace, twisting the corners of his mouth and stretching the skin around it.
—Uh, oh, Tim said. I have to admit I admire Davey-he doesn't pick on people his own size. They're always a lot bigger. Good thing Pete's with him.
—No...
As Tim said this, Pete and Mick pulled Davey away and dragged him into the house. Davey kept shouting back at the blond surfer, but Mick and Pete kept him moving.
—Crisis averted, Tim continued.
Once they were in the house, Mick and Pete let Davey go. They stood in the center of the living room. Davey started inching towards the door, but Mick distracted him with a bottle of whiskey. Davey took the bottle and started gulping it down.
—My, my, said Tim. I think that shows a lack of common sense. Maybe he'll pass out.
When he was done, Davey wiped his mouth with his flannel shirtsleeve and started shouting right in Mick's face:
—Man, those wannabees piss me off. Let me kick his ass.
—Relax, Davey. Have another drink.
—Whatever. Give me that fucking bottle.
Michael saw Tim giving Mick a half-smile. Mick nodded gravely.
—Where'd that surfer guy go? Tim asked Michael.
—He's out by the keg. I think he has some friends.
—You're right.
Both Michael and Tim stared out in the gloomy backyard. The blond surfer was talking to two of his friends, who were dressed exactly the same, only in different colors-one had white shorts and a blue jacket, the other ochre yellow shorts and a black jacket.
—It looks like they're coming inside.
—Oh, dear. How many doors does this place have, anyway?
—Just the front one and the screen door.
Most of the room was full now, except for a small ring of space left around Mick, Davey and Pete. The kitchen was also packed. The three surfer guys were now trying to get through the people who were standing in front of the sliding glass door.
—Let's move a little bit more towards the front door, Tim said. It's getting crowded in here.
—Good idea.
Tim pushed ahead, saying excuse me and slipping himself through a group of girls. Michael kept close behind, fitting into the space Tim left behind before it closed up again. When they were halfway across the living room, he heard a commotion behind him. Shouts and gasps erupted.
Michael turned his head as much as he could and briefly saw Mick, Pete and Davey throwing punches, brawling with the surfer guys. He could only look for a second, since he was then pushed from three different directions and had to use every muscle he had just to avoid losing his balance and being trampled by the crowd. He was now pushed up against Tim, his chin jabbing into Tim's back. He could feel his vertebrae under his sweater.
Everyone in the party was trying to get out through the front door, pushing, shoving and shouting. Michael heard a crash and shattered glass. He had almost reached the door. It was getting hard to breathe. Someone pushed him again, and he had the awful sensation of losing his balance but not falling because he was being crushed between two larger people. He reached out and grabbed Tim's arm so they wouldn't be separated.
At last he and Tim were squeezed through the doorway. Michael caught a whiff of fresh, cool air and bent his head upwards to take in as much as he could. A single line of people filed between the pick up truck and van, their feet squishing on the rotting leaves.
Michael finally reached the street, where he and Tim stood along with other people, catching their breath and talking about what to do next. They milled around in the street. Michael felt the damp spot in his armpit. Tim adjusted his jacket and took one last sip of beer. He had managed to carry it through the stampede. He put the cup down behind a parked car.
—Well, said Tim. Anyway, that was a deadhead party.
—What happened to peace and love? Michael asked.
—I'm not sure. I guess it's got to figure, that the one deadhead party I would take you to would be the one with a brawl. Let's go home.
xiii
Tim parked in the upper lot that night. They walked back through the path between the redwoods. Michael looked to his left and right, seeing strange shadows made by the moon. He kept thinking he saw something move, but when he looked in that direction, all was still. Mist rose through the branches, but the sky above was clear, as if all the fog were at ground level.
He started when he saw one tree. The moonlight made a dead tree trunk look like a gnarled old person.
—What did you see? asked Tim.
—That tree. It startled me.
—Oh.
They passed through the laundry room and up the flight of stairs to the moat. As they mounted the stairs, Michael saw bouncing red lights reflecting on the gray concrete of the building's foundations. Michael heard voices crackling on a two-way radio just as his foot hit the top of the stairs.
—Fire truck, Tim said.
Down the moat, by the other stairwell, was a fire truck surrounded by firemen, medics and other people standing around them in a larger circle, in small clusters and alone.
—I wonder what happened? Michael said.
They slowed their walk as they continued up the stairs, looking back every few seconds to see what was happening. Half a flight up, Michael could see that there was an ambulance behind the fire truck. Just as he saw it, he saw the paramedics load a stretcher on it.
—Damn, said Tim.
They stopped walking and watched. The two paramedics stepped back and slammed the doors shut. One lowered his arm emphatically. The ambulance pulled away, siren blaring into the still night.
—I wonder if someone got alcohol poisoning, said Tim. That happened freshman year. Someone drank too much and they had to have their stomach pumped.
Down in the moat, the crowd began to disperse. The outer ring of people, who were mostly students, returned to the dorm. The firemen began loading equipment onto their truck and preparing to leave. Michael and Tim watched for a few more minutes, until the fire truck drove away, leaving the moat empty again.
—Weird, said Tim.
They moved up the stairs, neither saying anything. When they entered the floor, Michael saw several of his hallmates gathered their, sitting and looking serious. Amy and Sara sat on one couch. Opposite them were two guys Michael recognized but who didn't live on their hall. Another girl stood by the sliding glass door, looking out. When Tim and Michael entered, everybody turned to them.
Tim stopped and made a small wave.
—Hey, all, he said after a few seconds. What's going on? I saw an ambulance in the moat.
—This guy on 2nd floor, said Amy. Tried to kill himself.
—Fuck. Are you serious? Tim responded.
He took a deep breath, leaned against the wall and folded his arms. Michael watched all the people. The girl by the door paid no attention to them.
—Why? Tim asked.
—His girlfriend broke up with him, Sara said.
—Dumped him, Amy added.
—2nd floor, said Tim. Who?
—Andy Rice, Amy answered.
Tim shrugged and said:
—Don't think I know him. Maybe I did. I probably met him and never remembered his name. How is he?
—I guess he's going to be all right, said Amy.
—He tried to hang himself, one of the guys said.
Michael remembered his name-his name was Todd, and he was good friends with Amy and Sara. Tim's eyes widened.
—His roommate had put a hook in the ceiling to hang a mountain bike off of, Todd said. He took the bike down, and tied the noose to it. Luckily for him, his roommate didn't do a very good job. When he jumped off the chair, the hook fell out.
—He fell and hit his head on the desk, said Amy. Knocked himself out.
—Oh, well, said Tim, shaking his head. That's kind of funny. It's really awful, but it's funny.
—I know, said Amy. He had it perfectly set up, and then... Oops.
She giggled. The girl standing by the door turned around.
—Can't you guys take this seriously? she asked. She walked past them and around the corner, back to her room.
—Oh, God, said Amy. He's alive, that's what counts.
—But why exactly did he try? Tim said. Just because he got dumped?
—He was really in love with this girl all year, Sara said.
—Julia, from third floor, said Amy, and rolled her eyes.
—He was obsessed with her, Sara continued. Finally, they started going out two weeks ago. Then yesterday, she told him she to break up. Then Andy caught her with his roommate.
—She's a mindfuck, Todd said.
—Damn, said Tim. I didn't hear about this at all.
—You haven't been around, Tim, Amy said.
—No, I guess not.
—It's totally Julia's fault, Todd said. What she did was so harsh. Dumping a guy when he's completely in love with you, then getting together with your roommate, in front of everybody. That's cold.
—Yeah, but Todd, Amy said. Committing suicide over that? That's an over-reaction.
—Well, I still think it's her fault, Todd said. She totally fucks with people.
—She fucked with you, Amy said.
Amy smirked and narrowed her eyes at Todd. Sara giggled.
—So that just proves my point, Todd responded.
—I don't think you can blame Julia, Amy said. Sure, she can be a bitch, but Andy must have been fucked up already. What happens to him happens to everybody. Most people don't kill themselves over it.
—Yeah, said Tim. He should have just listened to the Smiths' first album and fantasized about it.
—Would you ever kill yourself? Amy asked Todd and Paul.
—No, said Todd. It's a sin. I don't believe in hell, but it's still something I grew up to learn that it was the worst thing anyone could do.
The guy sitting next to Todd spoke for the first time:
—I would, said Paul. If you have no hope, and you know it, then you should. People say that you can rise above any situation, but that's bullshit.
—How could you know? Tim said. I don't completely rule out killing myself, because I never say never, but it's hard to know when you should do it.
—No, said Amy. You should be smart enough to know when your life has no value, and get yourself off the planet-make room for someone else.
—My, said Tim. Amy, you definitely should never work for a suicide hotline. 'Hi, this is Amy Mulligan... You want to kill yourself?... Tell me why... Okay, you're right... You should kill yourself. Bye.'
Tim chuckled hoarsely. Amy laughed.
—I don't think suicide is ever a good idea, Michael said, looking at the redwoods on the other side of the moat, towering above the college. Even if you think there's nothing you can do, you should hang on. Why prove the people who are against you right? Try something different, or just wait. Things will get better.
—That's true, Sara said.
—Very inspiring, Amy said.
—Well, said Sara, Time for bed. It's been a strange night.
—Yeah, it has, Todd said. Good night, all.
They all said good night to each other. Amy, Sara and Todd went off to their rooms, as Paul exited by the door to go back to his own hall. When they were gone, Tim went over to the sliding glass door and opened it, slipping his body through and going out on the porch. Michael followed, opening the door wider, then shutting it behind him.
—It's so weird, said Michael. I've never seen Amy and Sara so subdued.
—Yeah. I have, but you're right. Especially Sara. This isn't a mood she likes, and she tries to avoid it. Tonight was the first time I've actually talked to Amy and Sara since that party in January.
—Amy thinks you're funny. She's friendly to you.
—Yeah. I could always make her laugh, but I could never make her happy.
Tim sighed.
—It's so sad, Michael said. He must have been broken-hearted.
—Things like that happen in freshman dorms. Everybody plunges into this incredibly intense life, and some people can't handle it. They succumb. It could easily have been me, Tim said, looking away from Michael and down the moat.
—Really?
—Well, I don't know, said Tim and he faced Michael. Who knows what anyone is capable of doing. I'm glad Andy survived, though. This has been a weird enough year at Kane, without that.
Tim opened the door and gestured for Michael to go ahead of him.
—No, thanks. I'll stay.
—Good night, said Tim.
He disappeared into the hall.
Michael turned and faced the trees. Even here, six stories above the ground, the redwood trees reached higher.
Michael angled his head back and looked for the stars, but they were blocked by clouds. When he turned and looked across the gulf to the rest of Kane College, he saw why-the fog was taking over the campus. Pieces of building could be seen through the trees standing like brown spears stuck in the earth. The earth the college rested on was sculpted and contained by the walls of the trench separating the two towers from the rest of Kane. Tendrils of white were enveloping the dark trees around the buildings painted adobe red and covered with blue crenulated roofing.
At that moment, the fog seemed to Michael to be an oppressive force as it shrouded the college structures and dampened everything with mist. He wished he could look at the stars like he had the night before.
Michael filled his lungs with the moist, cold air. He thought about what Tim had said. Could he ever see killing himself over Helen? Or would he kill himself if he thought he could never love someone like her and be loved back. He might be able to meet her, through Tim. Just by luck, he had the opportunity. Was it only chance that had saved him from loneliness?
xv
After dinner, Michael agreed to meet Tim and Mick at the college cafe. He walked down the library, wondering what Helen was doing at that exact moment, if she were having fun or working, or feeling bored and lonely. He hadn't seen her since section the week before. She hadn't been in the last two lectures of American Fiction. He briefly fantasized about meeting her and them getting along really well, of her being impressed how thoughtful he was for a freshman.
A few hours later he was sitting with Tim and Mick at the cafe coffee shop, occupying one of the large circular tables, slices of immense redwoods. Four of these tables filled the cafe's floor. The one they occupied that night had a large hole in it, between he and Tim, a disconcerting sight in a table. It kept catching Michael's eye and confusing him. Michael again saw himself talking to Helen, and it made him say:
—Hey, Tim. Have you talked to Helen?
—No, I haven't. I keep wanting to, but then I don't. I've got to find out what she's doing this Friday night.
Tim extended his arms over the table and stretched them.
—Study break, he announced. Mick, cease your study of that infernal language.
Mick looked up, smiled and closed his book.
—Hey, Mick said, I heard about another party, from Jake.
—Mick, the last time I went a party you told me about, a brawl broke out.
—Yeah, it was awesome.
—It was not, Tim said. It was traumatic. Especially for Michael. He's now afraid of deadheads. It took me an hour to convince him just to come to dinner. Anyway, where's this new party you're talking about?
—Up in Blythe Canyon, off highway eleven.
—Wow. That's a long ways away.
—It'll be worth it, though. This house has legendary parties. Ten kegs of Sam Adams.
—They say, and then you get there and they're like 'oh, there's one keg of Old Milwaukee, and it's already dust, sorry.'
—No, I've been to this house. It sounds like a crock, but it'll happen. It'll be worth the trek.
—Cool. We're there. By the way, any gossip from the claimstake? Tim asked.
—Oh, Jake's been seeing this girl. She's really weird. I don't like her-she's really pretentious and stuck-up. She has an attitude.
—Does Jake like her?
—Yeah. He's letting her push him around, of course. He's whipped.
—How's their sex life?
A huge grin lit up Mick's face.
—Now, there's an interesting little tidbit. Apparently, she wants him to do her up the ass, but Jake refuses to do it.
—Well, well. Why?
—I guess he's just not into it.
—Isn't the regular way enough for her?
—No, it's not. She likes it there, but she wants it in the other hole, too.
—Looks like Jake needs to be more adventurous.
—It's lame, Mick said. And listen to the excuse he gave her: he's afraid of hurting her.
—I think that's very gentlemanly of him.
Michael tried to continue reading his book, but he couldn't concentrate. Tim and Mick's conversation was too interesting to ignore.
—It's bullshit, Mick said. It doesn't hurt that much, I told him. Anyway, the pain is more than worth it.
—How would you know? Tim asked.
Mick shrugged.
—Well... Tim said. He smacked his lips and giggled.
Bending his head, Mick returned to his book, muttering words to himself. Michael saw that the pages were written in Japanese characters.
—Speaking of which, Tim said, Helen told me something funny last quarter. One of the books her professor for the class she's TAing was planning to use is this crazy, homoerotic book-it's basically all gay porn.
—Really? Mick said.
—Yeah, she showed it to me. She and Gretchen couldn't stop reading it out loud. It was incredible. No holds barred, everything laid out in black and white.
—That's hot, said Mick. Although I question the professor's motives for including the book in a lit class.
—Wait, Michael, Tim said, turning to face him.
Michael looked up like he hadn't been listening, trying to stop the tinge of red he could feel at the end of his ears.
—You must know the book I'm talking about, Tim continued.
—I'm not sure, Michael said.
—Hmh. You must not have gotten to it yet. Have you bought all the books for the class?
—Yes, I have.
—When you get back to your room, look for it. I think it's called Grapplings. It's not very long. You might learn something.
—You might learn to like it, said Mick.
—Now, Mick, please, said Tim, angling his hand like he was making a speech. Let's not go too far.
—Experience is good, said Mick. The more the better.
Michael nodded, not knowing what to say. He put his head down and pretended to be so fascinated by his astronomy textbook that nothing else mattered to him. He didn't know what to make of Tim and Mick's banter. Especially Mick's.
He looked across the table and studied Mick, again locked in concentration, muttering rhythmically to himself. Suddenly, he looked up and smiled at Michael challengingly for a second then returned to his book as if he had never moved.
Was Mick really saying to Tim what Michael thought he was? Or was it all a big joke? If they knew that he had read Grapplings and what happened, they would have been very surprised. Mick didn't seem different. But he might be.
xviii
The heavy wooden door swung open slowly as Tim pushed it with all his might, revealing a long, wide hallway filled with people. The hall, which appeared to be as long as the entire house, reached two stories, topped by domed skylights along its entire length.
Halfway down, a banistered bridge also filled with people crossed the hall connecting the two halves of the house on the second story. Just as Michael and Tim entered the hall, someone in the crowd threw a beer bottle up to the bridge. A guy leaned over the railing, just catching it by the very top of the neck. Cheers erupted.
—Damn, said Tim. This is quite a place.
—I'll say. Who actually lives here?
—I don't know exactly. UCSZ students, I guess, but it's hard to believe.
Tim and Michael threaded their way through the front hall. As he looked to his right and left, Michael realized that the hallway's walls were actually covered with full-length mirrors, making it seem larger than it was. Between the mirrors were open doorways leading to other rooms, but it was difficult to tell which were doors and which were mirrors. Everywhere he looked, there were hordes of people, shifting and moving into and out of their reflections. With a start, Michael saw himself and Tim, appearing out of nowhere. The mirrors weren't straight, but slightly angled, distorting everything.
By the time they passed underneath the bridge, Michael felt completely disoriented. Tim stopped and put his hands on his hips. Michael looked up, through the skylights, and saw the black sky. He felt as if he had fallen in a pit and he was staring hundreds of feet above where he had fallen from.
—This house confuses my party instincts, Tim said. Where's the beer?
—Thataway, dude, came a voice.
Michael saw a pointing finger.
—Oh, thanks.
Tim followed the finger through what Michael had thought was another mirror, but turned out to be a square entryway to another mirrored room, which was completely empty of any furniture or decoration, except for a lamp hanging on a gold chain.
—I see the kitchen, Tim said.
The kitchen was a long room with windows all the way around, which showed the dim outline of trees outside. Below the windows ran a counter space, covered with row upon row of empty dark green and brown bottles. Tim headed for the opposite corner, where Michael saw three silver kegs in tubs of ice.
—Ah, said Tim. No line.
Tim took two plastic cups and filled beers for himself and Michael.
—Mick was right, for once, Tim said, after he took his first sip. This is good beer.
—Do you think Helen is here yet?
—I didn't see her. Then again, she could be anywhere in this architectural nightmare. It's hot in here. You want to go outside?
—Sure.
Tim went back to the room with the hanging lamp and back into the hall. At the end of the hall were sliding glass doors leading outside. They came out onto a large deck, shaped like a pentagon, and lined on four sides with wooden benches. Michael followed Tim to an unoccupied space on the edge.
—I haven't been to a party this big in a while, Tim said. I hope I remember what to do.
Michael sat on the bench and sipped his beer. Once got over how different it tasted from the beer he'd had at Mick's friends' house, he realized that he liked it. Although it was more bitter, it had more flavor, vaguely nutty. He looked down in his cup. The beer was amber-colored, not gold.
He wondered what kind of UCSZ students were at the party. A lot of different kinds, but they all had one thing in common-they were all older than he was. Michael looked at one guy standing with his back to he and Tim. His hair had formed itself into thick ropes. It looked like he hadn't washed his hair in months, but he was talking to a girl who was pretty attractive.
—Wait, Tim said, there's Jake and Sophie. Hey, Jake!
Jake touched Sophie on the shoulder and waved. They came over to their corner of the deck. Sophie put her arms around Tim and hugged him.
—I'm so glad you're here, Sophie said to Tim. We didn't see anyone we knew.
—It's quite a place, said Tim.
—It's fully and completely a pad, Jake said. This house must cost half a million, at least.
—It's really weird, said Sophie. I got dizzy just walking through it. What's up with all those mirrors and trippy angles?
—I'm sure someone won a contest for this house, Tim said. That's the only thing that can explain it.
—It's very 70s, Jake said. With all the glass and natural wood. There are even potted ferns.
—How are you, Michael? Sophie asked.
—I'm fine. How about you?
—Okay. Did you have a good time at our house, when you came over?
—Yeah, I did.
—That's good. I'm sorry we were so burnt.
—I had a good time. Thanks, he added.
—Of course. You're welcome any time. Jake, I'm going to get a beer. Would you like one?
—Yeah, Sophie, that'd be awesome.
—I'll be back soon! Sophie said, and walked back in the house.
—Dude, Jake said to Tim. How are you?
—More importantly, how are you? Tim responded. I hear you've been seeing someone.
—Sort of.
Jake reached into his leather jacket and withdrew a cigarette.
—She's this trippy girl, Jake continued. I'm psyched for her, but... I don't know if we're compatible.
Tim nodded gravely, until his face broke out in a grin. Jake lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, blowing out two smoke rings, which floated above them, dissipating into the cool, moist air.
—How did you meet her? Michael asked.
—In my French class, actually. She asked me to study with her.
—I'm back, Sophie said from behind Jake.
She handed a beer to Jake and took her place between him and Michael. Music began to play, coming from speakers that had been set up on the deck.
—"Houses of the Holy," Tim said. It's just not a Santa Zita party unless someone plays Led Zeppelin.
—What could be more burnt? Jake said, taking another puff.
—I remember Uncle Jimmy, when he used to come to my house for Christmas when I was a kid, Tim said in a nostalgic tone. It was always a big event. My mother would get out the good china, and we'd sit in the parlor, which we only used on very special occasions. Jimmy would put all his little nieces and nephews on his lap and play songs for us. I remember when he did "Stairway to Heaven" except he changed it to "Stairway to Legoland" because he knew I liked Lego so much. After dinner, he'd always sneak off to his room and shoot up. That was the only part of Uncle Jimmy's visits that my mom didn't like-cleaning up all the used needles in the guestroom after he left.
Sophie giggled, then looked around, as if she were embarrassed.
—That was a heartwarming reminiscence, Jake said. Thanks, Tim.
Tim hoisted his cup and took a long drink. Michael looked at Sophie, who seemed lost in her own thoughts now. Maybe she was stoned again. Michael wished he could think of something to talk about. He drank more beer. He was starting to get used to it. Instead of sipping it gingerly like he used to, he was actually taking real drinks like everybody else he saw. Michael smiled to himself.
—It's good beer, Sophie said to him.
—Yeah, it is.
—I love good beer.
—Hey, everybody, Tim said. Don't look now, but I just saw Todd.
Jake casually turned his head and looked for a second.
—Yeah, you're right.
Michael was already facing the house, so he was able to look at Todd without being obvious. However, he couldn't tell who Todd was from the three guys who were standing by the door.
—What does he look like? Michael asked Tim quietly.
—My height, short blond hair, five o'clock shadow.
Looking again, Michael spotted him, talking to one of his friends, who were both taller than he was. One of them Michael thought was the guy he and Tim had run into downtown.
—Is Helen here? Tim asked Jake.
—I haven't seen her. She's going to be bummed if she runs into him.
—Yeah, Tim agreed. If I see her, I'll have to warn her. How exciting. Real social intrigue. I'm going to need more beer to deal with it. Michael, do you want get more beer? We can try and find Helen, too.
—Sure. See you later, Jake, Sophie.
—Bye, Sophie said.
Tim crossed the porch in long strides and slipped through the door without opening it wider first. Michael followed him into the warm, hazy house. The windows were starting to fog up. The house was every more packed than it had been when they arrived. To his right, Michael heard a thumping sound in the wall. A few more steps and he realized that it was someone hitting a drum, playing several different beats, then crashing the symbols. After a few second, someone strummed an electric guitar once. As he followed Tim, Michael listened to the sound reverberate as the chord echoed and lessened in volume, becoming lower and lower, but widening as well, as if it spread out after it left the guitar and penetrated the walls. As he listened, he also scanned the crowd for signs of Helen.
Ahead of him, Tim dodged around a knot of partiers just as someone else joined it, blocking Michael's way. He had to go further down the hall and double back. He couldn't see Tim. Just as he was about to look for him in the dining room, the drummer began playing again. This time the beat stayed, and was joined by the guitar and bass, throbbing together. People began streaming out of the dining hall, headed for the music, and forcing Michael to go along with them, or be trampled underfoot. He tried to slip to the side, but larger and heavier people surrounded him on both sides, and before he knew it, he had been swept into the living room.
Once everyone got inside the living room, they immediately began to jump up and down and crash into each other, shaking the floor so much Michael almost lost his balance. A body flew at him, which Michael barely dodged. However, this opened up some space on the floor, as people avoided the thrashing person. Michael scurried over to the wall and caught his breath. For the first time, he could actually see the rest of the room.
A vaulted room, with a ceiling two stories above him, with thin long skylights. In between the jumping bodies, Michael saw the band members play; there were three of them, set up in front of the stone fireplace. More and more people came in every second, blocking the doorway and the area in front of it.
Deciding that he wasn't going to get out of there anytime soon, Michael leaned against the wall and tried to see what he could around and in between the bumping bodies. In the center of the floor, just in front of the band, several guys were intentionally crashing into each other. An open space formed around them, as they crashed into one another and bounced off the ring of people surrounded them.
As this space widened, everybody else backed away and it became even more crowded. The crashing, out of control dancing continued, drawing more people inside until the whole front half of the room was a roiling sea. It reminded Michael of somebody shaking a tray full of marbles. The musicians continued to play, seeming oblivious to the pandemonium. When one of the dancers shot out of the center straight towards the singer, the singer smoothly stepped out of the way and pushed back at him with his hands, sending the flannel-shirted guy back from where he came.
Michael looked down, at people's moving feet. Many of them kept losing their balance, and had to scramble to find a space to plant their foot and stay upright. The white carpet was stained with black footprints. The music continued, with the same beat, the same guitar riff, the same hoarse, roaring singing; chanting, every word bitten off and spit off. Michael couldn't hear himself think, started to feel ill, an ache in his left temple and a hollowness in his stomach. He edged along the wall, away from the band. In the gloom of the living room's corner, he realized that there was another door beside the one he came in, hidden behind a section of wall that jutted out from the side of the room.
Hoping to find a way back into the main hall, Michael entered. Unfortunately, the room he came to had no other doorways. It was supposed to be a library, Michael guessed, because every wall was covered with built-in bookshelves, but there were no books in the room now.
The only light came from a bright floorlamp in a corner, which created strange shadows. He saw what the room's main attraction was: a pool table, which two guys now circled, each studying the positions of the three balls remaining on the table.
As Michael's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that there were a few things on the shelves. He saw several paper-mache sculptures of grotesque faces painted gaudy colors. Hanging from a nail right across from Michael was a stolen no right turn sign. Another shelf held a row of beer bottles with long German names.
After the sweat and heat of the living room, the air in the pool room felt good, but it was still quite hazy and choked with cigarette smoke. Michael went around the pool table and stood by opposite wall, by the white rectangular sign. Michael touched the cool metal. Next to it was one of the paper-mache faces, which Michael, trying to look like he had something to do, pretended to admire. It was a face, painted orange and yellow, twisted in an expression of either agony or ecstasy. He wondered what he should to next. He knew he should go back out and try to find Tim, but the idea of trying to traverse the dancefloor exhausted him. He heard the two guys playing pool speaking.
—Your shot, one said.
—Let's bail on Jeff and that other dude, the other responded as he set up his cue stick.
—We're their ride, though.
—So what. He fucking annoys me. I want to go down to the south side. You know, maybe check out Lori's place. But not with Jeff.
He thrust the cue stick, knocking the white ball against a green one. It slowly rolled towards a pocket, but stopped just in front of the edge.
—That would mean leaving them.
—They'll deal. There's plenty of people who can give them rides.
—Okay. I don't care.
The second guy shrugged and bent over, looking down his cue-stick. He crooked his arm and thrust it forward, knocking the white ball gently towards the orange one. With a click, the white ball nudged the orange into the corner pocket and then stopped, just on the green lip of the felt.
As he listened to their conversation, for some reason Michael felt sorry for "Jeff" whoever that was. Of course, if he didn't find Tim, he might suffer the same fate. It was a long walk to campus. And for a moment, he wondered if what happened to Jeff could happen to him. Might Tim decide that Michael was too much trouble, and go off with Jake and Sophie? No, Tim seemed nicer than that. In any case, he needed to find him.
Looking through the door, it seemed that the living room was slightly less crowded now. Michael was about to leave and try getting through when he heard a girl's voice on his left:
—Having a good time?
Michael turned and faced the source of the voice. A girl, about his height, stood there, holding a cup of beer, leaning slightly towards him, smiling dreamily. Michael was about to respond, wondering what he should say, when he looked closer at her eyes. They were out-of-focus, almost crossed, with incredibly dilated pupils, looking almost like a cat's. She smiled again, seeming very happy, almost too happy to be talking to him, like he were her best friend and not just some random person at a party.
—Yeah, I guess. I lost the people I was with. We got separated.
—You're with me, now.
—Yeah.
—What were looking at?
—This sculpture. It's weird.
—It is. It's cool, though. Anything different is.
She put her face right up against the sculpture's, putting her lips near the flaming, crooked orange lips on the sculptures. For a moment, Michael thought she might try to kiss it. She stood up and placed her hand on the top, rubbing it.
—What's your name? she asked. I'm Fiona.
—Michael.
—I've been here a long time.
Michael nodded. She was a strange girl. She must have been stoned. He desperately wanted to get away from her and he didn't know why. Something about her just didn't feel right, like she was on a completely different wavelength. But she was sort of pretty.
—What year are you? Michael asked.
—Oh, I don't know. It doesn't matter right now. That's a nice shirt.
Fiona reached out and rubbed her finger on his shirtsleeve; rubbing him hard, so Michael could feel her fingertip pressing into his skin. He didn't know what to do. His arm went rigid at the contact. He felt ridiculous, but she was paying no attention to him, just kept rubbing his arm with her eyes closed. It felt good, and a tingle emanated from where she touched him and ran up a line in his arm, into his shoulder.
After what seemed like an eternity, Fiona withdrew her finger and smiled at him. Michael tried to look back in her eyes, but he couldn't-her eyes seemed like they were gazing at him, and yet looking a million miles away.
—Thanks, Michael.
The music stopped, people yelled and cheered.
—Fuck, yeah, one guy yelled above everyone else.
—Sure, Michael said. Look, I'm out of beer.
He held out his cup and showed her that it was empty.
—I'm going to get more, he continued.
—Okay. I'll be around.
Michael hurried out of the room. The band was between songs, and people were filtering in and out of the living room. Michael followed right behind two girls and a guy loudly talking with their arms around each other and followed them out. With great relief, he made it into the front hall, breathed in the fresher air and wondered where Tim would be.
He went to the porch and looked there. After going through a few more rooms, looking in reflections of himself and feeling like he were lost in a maze, he found himself in the kitchen. Just as he was about to leave, he saw a black leather jacket in a corner. When he approached closer, he saw Tim standing with his back to him, as well as Jake and Sophie.
While he was gone, Michael saw that they had been joined by another guy, standing between Jake and Sophie. Michael came around Tim, stood next to him. Neither Jake nor Sophie noticed his return, since they were wrapped up in conversation with the new person. Tim saw him, did a double-take and said:
—Hey, Michael, you're back. What happened?
—The band started playing and I got caught in the crowd. I ended up in the pool room.
—Really? They have a pool room in this house. Hey, Jake.
Jake turned and said:
—What?
—This house has a pool table.
—No way.
—So, what was going on there?
—Not much. I met this weird girl.
—Weird. How weird?
—She was being really friendly. She was rubbing her fingers on my sleeve.
—My. Damn, Michael. You were having fun.
—Not really. I couldn't figure out what she was saying. She just seemed like she was in another world. She was too happy.
—Exstacy, Jake said.
—Yeah, you must be right, Tim said quickly.
—What's that? A drug?
—Yeah, Tim said. It makes you very happy and sensual. Or it supposed to. I took it once and I got really depressed-I can never do anything right.
—Wish I had some, Jake said, shaking his head.
—Go find that girl, Tim said. She'll give you some.
—Was she fine? Jake asked Michael.
—Sort of. Not that much. I mean, she was kind of pretty, but...
—Uh, shine, Tim said.
—What are you guys talking about? Sophie broke in.
—Nothing, Tim said. Just chicks.
—You guys stop. Don't corrupt Michael. Michael, I want you to meet Robert.
Robert, with what seemed like a lack of enthusiasm to Michael, extended his hand. Michael shook it, feeling Robert's soft, slightly damp palm. He didn't flex his muscles after Michael grasped it.
—Hi, Michael said.
—Anyway, Sophie, Robert said. Just talking to you now, I feel like we could connect on a lot of levels. You're really intelligent, but not pretentiously. You have a nice, down to earth perspective on things.
—Oh, thanks.
Sophie drank her beer and glanced at Michael. Robert bent his head towards Sophie and began speaking in a lower tone. Michael definitely got the feeling that Robert wanted him out of the conversation. Tim and Jake were talking to each other in quick, enthusiastic tones about something Michael couldn't follow. He felt awkward. Sophie moved a bit away from Robert, towards Michael.
—Thanks, Robert, she said again. What about your quarter abroad?
—Oh, it went really well. But I want to hear more about your plan to go to Argentina.
—Well, I've always wanted to go there, Sophie said. It's such a huge country-there's an amazing variety of different areas, like beaches, the pampas, huge cities, jungles. It has almost every kind of place you'd like to visit, and it's cheap, too.
—Wow, said Robert. That's really great. I think you're great, for wanting to see something outside of your own American, middle-class background, for really wanting to see a very different culture and people, and actually learning the language, too. That's really amazing.
—Well, I mean, I love to travel.
—I like people who love to travel. Who love adventure.
—Cool, said Sophie. You're really nice.
Tim nudged Michael in the side.
—Hey, Tim said. Let's go look for Helen. I'm sure she's here by now.
—Okay with me.
Michael and Tim walked away from Jake, Sophie and Robert. When they were out of the kitchen, Tim said:
—What was up with that guy who was talking to Sophie?
—He was laying it on thick.
—Very much so. Trying way too hard. And it's lost on Sophie.
—She doesn't seem to mind.
—No, she's very nice. I don't know, she may find him attractive. What an idiot. Every single thing he said was like some kind of canned generic UCSZ party chatter. Like he'd bought "The Guide to Partying At UCSZ" and memorized every page. Disgusting. Absolutely fucking disgusting. Thank God you came and saved me.
Tim stopped by the bottom of the spiral staircase.
—Well, I didn't see her downstairs. Did you?
—Maybe she's in the living room.
—Maybe, but I don't feel like dealing with the crowd. Let's try upstairs.
Upstairs, however, proved just as empty of Helen. Tim shrugged.
—Oh, well.
Tim went to the top of the stairwell. A line of people were coming up, some wobbling unsteadily, gripping the railing with one hand and bottles in the other. They had to wait as they came up. Just as they were past, Tim said in a rush:
—Wait, I think I see her. Maybe not... Yes, there! She's with Gretchen, her housemate.
Pointing, Tim indicated the back of the hall, just in front of the double doors which led to the porch. Michael spied her long blond hair first. He realized why he hadn't recognized her before, even though he had looked right where she stood; tonight her hair flowed and plunged over a scarlet band of fabric, down her neck and back. She looked even better than she did in section, in a black skirt and black tights. As he studied her, she turned in their direction, but didn't look up. She then followed the other girl (whom Tim said was her housemate) into the dining room. Michael looked into the mirror across the hall, and caught a glimpse of her hair and her behind before she disappeared entirely.
—Come on, Tim said.
But in the time it had taken them to see Helen, more people had crowded the staircase. For what seemed like forever, they crept upwards. At last, they were able to descend. When Michael began trying to hurry down after Tim, he realized how drunk he felt, trying to keep his feet on the narrow steps. He had to concentrate on every motion he made, each step and grasp of his hand on the railing.
Even so, he slipped halfway down. Only by gripping the railing with every ounce of his strength did he avoid plunging downwards. Tim was faster and stopped at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.
Just as Michael got both feet down on the floor, he heard the booming sound of the band playing again after their break. Tim, who had been about to start up again, stopped. A wall of people flooded towards them. Just before they were engulfed, Tim dodged to the right, followed by Michael, and flattened himself against the wall. They were able to inch along the wall for a little ways, but then had to stop. A couple were making out, the guy pressing the girl up against the wall, their heads at right angles as they kissed. There was still a crowd coming the other way, so they couldn't get around.
—Shit, Tim said in Michael's ear. We're trapped. Trapped by desire, as always.
The guy and girl continued to kiss, oblivious to everything but themselves. Michael found himself studying their interlocking mouths, the creases where their lips met. He wondered what it felt like, to have someone else so close to you. A hot rush went through him, from watching the couple's lips, the smell of sweat and the roar of the band, hammering his ears and vibrating the spaces in his chest. It was all so intense, he could hardly believe it. What if did meet Helen; what would he say, what could he do?
—Come on, Tim said.
The rush of people had thinned, allowing Tim and Michael just enough space to slip past the couple. As Michael went by, he had to avoid someone's out-crooked arm, and he brushed the guy's back. In that brief moment of contact, he felt the electricity and tension running through him.
After a great deal of struggle, Tim and Michael made it back to the kitchen, but there was no sign of Helen. Tim's friends were still in the same spot.
—Hey, you guys, Tim said.
—Hey, Tim. You just missed Helen, Jake said.
—Where'd she run off to?
—Out that way, Jake said, pointing to a dark doorway at the back of the kitchen.
—I told her Todd was here, Jake continued, and she freaked. She and Gretchen went to check to see if he was still around. She said she'd come back.
—Let's go look for her, Tim said.
—Cool with me. Sophie-
Sophie had her back turned to them, listening to Robert. The instant she heard Jake, Michael saw her touch Robert lightly on the hand and turn around.
—Yes? Sophie said.
—We're going to go check out the rest of the house and see if we can find Helen.
—I'll come with you, Sophie said. It was nice meeting you, Robert. Maybe I'll see you around.
—Sure, said Robert, nodding. It was really great talking to you. I'll see you soon.
He took Sophie's hand and shook it, then turned and walked away. Michael saw him go to the keg and grab a cup. He didn't seem happy. But now they were leaving, and Michael forgot about Robert. Jake took the lead, followed by Sophie and Tim, then Michael behind Tim. They entered the doorway Jake said Helen had gone through.
—Sorry about that, Jake said to Sophie when they were out of the kitchen.
—It's okay, Sophie said. He was nice.
—I had no idea he was that cheezy. He seemed cool in class.
—How do you know him, Jake? Tim asked.
—He's in my French class. I thought he and Sophie might hit it off.
—It never seems to work out for me when I'm set up, Sophie said. I don't know why, it just never does.
They entered a room empty of anything except a lamp, empty beer bottles and cups, and people, both sitting and standing. Against one wall rested two surfboards. Just as they were about to leave, someone shouted Jake's name. It turned out to be a friend of Jake and Sophie, but not Tim's, Michael guessed, since Tim made no sign of greeting. After waiting for a few minutes, it seemed obvious that Jake and Sophie were going to be involved in a long conversation.
—Let's continue the search ourselves, Tim said to Michael.
xix
Michael and Tim searched the upstairs, the downstairs and porch, but in vain. They even ventured into the living room, almost getting sucked into the slam pit, but Helen did not appear. They did, however, see Todd, along with a large group of his friends.
—She probably saw Todd, and left, Tim shouted above the band as they crossed the hall. Sorry, Michael.
—Guess it was just not meant to be.
—No, Fate had something else in mind for us. Let's find Jake and Sophie. If Helen is to remain hidden from us for a little longer, than I'm ready to leave.
They found Jake and Sophie in the same room they'd left them in, but not with their friend. Instead, they sat against the wall, Sophie resting her head against Jake's shoulder.
—You guys are burnt, Tim said.
—I'm so spent, Sophie said.
—Do you guys need a ride? Tim asked.
—No, Jake responded. I have my car.
—Ah, Tim said. Well, we're ready to go if you are. Are you guys going to pick up some beer on the way?
—Yeah, said Jake. I've got my ID.
Jake held out his hand, palm up.
—Okay, okay, Tim said. He took his wallet out and gave Jake three dollars. Michael followed Tim's example.
—Cool, Jake said.
—And we'll get some food, too, Sophie said.
—Alright, said Tim. But first, I need to pee. I hate driving when I have to pee.
—I need to go, too, Sophie said.
—So do I, Michael said.
Tim led the way upstairs. Tim went first, then Michael, then Sophie. While Sophie was in there, the three of them looked into the bedroom next to the bathroom. Inside, a few people sat on the bed, talking. A tall lamp, basically a pipe with a very bright, cold bulb on top, illuminated the room's white walls and carpets. On the walls were several large paintings in gold frames.
—Those paintings are pretty cool, Jake said. I like the way they're framed.
—Yeah, Tim said.
—They must be actual reproductions, not posters, to have such nice frames.
—Expensive, Tim said.
—Nice stereo, Jake said. And that rug is very sweet.
Beside the paintings, the only other color in the room was provided by an oval rug, with bright, intricate designs of maroon, turquoise and pale yellow.
—Basically, Tim said, the guys who live here must be loaded.
—They are, said a voice from behind.
—Hey, Tad, Jake said, turning.
—Hey, Jake. Checking out the decor?
—Sure am. So what's up with this house? Did they rob a bank? Do they deal?
—Not the first, Tad said. Not sure about the latter. And some of the loot is from their parents. But some of it is honestly earned, believe it or not.
—What's the scoop, then? Tim said.
—Two of the guys who live here started a t-shirt company. One of them, Will, spent all this money from his trust fund. At first they just made tie-dye shirts, and tried to sell them at Dead shows. They didn't make much money. But then, after that whole thing with the vice-president and family values, and then his daughter being busted for pot, they just added the phrase "I smoked the kind with the VP's daughter." They sold them out in like half an hour. Made $200. So, now, they have a whole racket going. Whenever there's something in the news, or some local thing, like the quake or the Latin American College Night at Kane College, they immediately design something, with something funny about whatever happened, and start selling it the next day. The key thing is that they're fast. They sell them all before people forget about it.
—And they make money? Jake asked.
—They make bank, Tad said emphatically. They've made almost ten thousand dollars this year.
—That's pretty sweet, Jake said. In fact, that's very sweet.
—I'll see you around, Jake, Tad said, and went in the bedroom.
The bathroom door opened and Sophie appeared.
—Hi, guys. What'd you do while I was gone?
—Guy talk, Tim said. Business.
—Oh, okay, Sophie said. I understand.
—I can't get over that, Jake said. Ten grand. Damn. That is just too sweet.
—I think it's really silly, Tim said. I mean, they're pretending to support PC politics and beliefs by making these shirts, making fun of the president and the administration, but then they turn around and spent the money they make off it on stereos and paintings, and shit like that-all the classic accouterments of status.
—Yeah, but... Jake said. It was their idea. They deserve to be rewarded.
—I could respect it if they gave the money to charity, Tim said, or to benefit the causes they're supposed to be supporting, but they don't. And, of course, Santa Zita people totally fall for it. "Oh, I think the university administration is so corrupt-I think I'll pay twenty dollars for a t-shirt to prove it."
Jake laughed.
—It is kind of weak when you think about it. Oh well. Let's blow this joint.
xxii
A few minutes later, after putting on jackets and baseball caps (Michael borrowed one from Jake which said Confederated Trucking) and waiting as Jake loaded the beers into a blue knapsack, they left the claimstake.
That late at night, Michael could hear the waves from Jake and Sophie's house, as well as a hoarse yelping that Michael thought was a pack of dogs at first, but then realized were seals. The night was clear and cold, smelling strongly of sea salt. It took about twenty minutes to walk to the ocean.
When they got there, Michael saw that they were fairly far above the ocean, and that separating them and the beaches were steep cliffs. Along the cliffs were wooden fences across treacherous places where erosion had made crevices out of the dry, crumbly earth.
Michael looked out at the bay and saw Santa Zita's pier, with its irregularly spaced yellow lights and revolving cold white lamp at the end. Far away twinkled the lights of the city at the bay's southern end. Reflected moonlight danced on the waves from the shore all the way to the horizon, like a pathway leading to infinity. As his eyes slowly traveled along the light, he suddenly heard a staccato buzzing, followed by a distorted voice, reciting a series of numbers and street names.
Michael turned in the direction of the voice. About a hundred yards, he saw revolving blue and red lights.
—I smell bacon, Jake said.
—How un... fortunate, Tim said.
—They're pretty far away, Jake said.
—What should we do? Sophie asked.
—Head the other direction, Jake said. Act natural. We're not doing anything wrong.
—Yet, Tim said.
They walked along the cliffs, their backs to the bay.
—How do we get down to the beach? Michael asked.
—There's a staircase down to Natural Arches up this way, Tim said. There's a few other beaches you can get to before them, but it's a sketchy climb in the dark.
—Looks like it, Michael said.
He could see one tiny beach, just a patch of sand two yards by two yards between two projections of land. From the top of the cliff it looked like you could conceivably scramble down the eroded face, but the earth looked crumbly and uncertain, barely held together by scraggly scrub grass roots. Michael could easily see it giving way while you climbed, at which point you would unceremoniously slide the rest of the way down.
—Anyone want a beer? Jake asked.
—Not yet, Sophie said.
Jake opened the knapsack and withdrew a can. He pulled the tab, raised it and drank several large gulps.
—Ah, he said, smacking his lips.
Ahead of them, Michael saw a sign reading NATURAL ARCHES STATE BEACH. As he might have guessed, among the list of prohibited activities at the beach was the drinking of alcoholic beverages. Not only that, but the sign also said no one at all was allowed on the beach after sunset.
—Where are the cops? Jake asked.
—Still in the same place, Tim answered.
—I've never seen them down here before, Jake said. Damn pigs.
—What should we do? Sophie asked.
—I think, Tim said, that we should go down on the beach, and go to that part on the right, around the arch and back this way. They won't be able to see us from up there, and we'll be hidden from the rest of the beach.
—Okay, said Jake.
They proceeded quickly down the staircase, which was constructed of brittle, sun-bleached wood, splintered and covered with loose flecks of gray paint. Michael touched the railing gingerly, worried about getting slivers of paint driven under his fingernails. He didn't look at the beach in front of him until he reached the bottom.
Natural Arches Beach was formed by a gap in the sea-cliffs about two hundred years wide at the mouth. Emptying into the beach was a small stream which ended in a dark, scummy pool. A rise of sand separated it from the waves. Michael followed the others as they skirted the left side of the beach, along the sandstone cliff. As he walked, Michael looked around for the natural arches that gave the beach its name. He didn't see any.
—Where're the arches? he whispered to Tim.
—For one thing, there was only ever one, Tim answered. And it was destroyed in the great storm of '82. When I was in high school. You can still see the stumps.
Sure enough, out at the end of a spit of sand, stood a twenty-foot high sandstone projection. In the cliff, he saw the other end of what was once the arch. He felt disappointed. He would never be able to see the arch, now, in person. His family has never liked the beach much, and neither had Michael himself, but now he would never be able to see it whether he wanted to or not.
—Did you see it before it got washed away? he asked Tim.
—Sure. Lots of times. My dad used to take us to the beach a lot, me and my sister and my step-siblings.
—I never did.
They passed between the two stumps, and Michael imaged the span soaring above them. Past there was the part of the beach Tim had described. It was a thin stretch of sand, about fifty years long before the cliffs closed in. During high tide, Michael guessed, there wouldn't be a beach here at all.
Halfway down the stretch of beach, Jake stopped and set the backpack down on the sandstone. Opening it, he took a can of beer out and handed it to Sophie. They sat next to each other on some worn dark gray rocks. Tim withdrew two more beers and gave one to Michael, who joined Tim on a portion of sandstone which formed a natural bench.
Michael carefully opened his beer, not wanting to make too much noise. With a soft whoosh, the can opened. Icy beer foamed all over his hand.
—Whoops, he said.
He shook his hand off and took a drink. He wondered if it would be a good idea to drink this beer. He'd already had three that night, or was it four? Tim, Jake and Sophie, experienced partiers that they were, seemed to be able to drink as much as they wanted, but Michael could feel his senses starting to swirl again after he took that last sip, and a tremble in his stomach. He decided to drink more slowly. The problem was, he never felt like he had anything to say, and to avoid looking awkward, he would end up taking a drink instead.
It wasn't that he felt ill, he just wasn't used to feeling so different. He stared out at the ocean, watching the moonlight bounce off the waves and scatter into the black water. He wondered why sometimes he could see edges of white on some of the waves while other parts of the ocean remained dark. The light didn't seem to act right. It should have come down, reflected and disappeared, instead of staying in some places, vanishing in others. It seemed to playing tricks on him. He watched one patch of light swing back and forth many times before it finally disappeared in a blink. He found another one to look at.
Michael felt his stomach grow queasy. With great effort, he turned his head away from the ocean and looked at Tim.
—Hey, Michael. How are you feeling?
—Okay. The moonlight is cool.
—Yeah, it is. Too bad it's so cold at night in Santa Zita.
Tim huddled over and vibrated himself, rubbing his hands together.
—Look at the moonlight, Sophie said. It's so pretty.
—It dances, Michael said. Like it's alive.
—Yeah, exactly, Sophie answered.
—Uh... Tim said. Conversation's turning a bit stony.
—Speaking of which, Jake said, Sophie; you didn't bring your pipe, did you?
—No, I left it at home.
—Too bad.
Michael reached down for his beer from where he'd left it half-buried in the sand. His hand hit the side, instead of the top, and he nearly tipped it over. Only a lucky spasm of his hand saved it. Michael decided he'd better hold it in his hand, even if it did make his fingers numb.
—The moon, Tim said. Is it waxing right now, or waning?
—I have no idea, Jake said.
—When was it last full? Tim asked.
—A while ago, Sophie answered. I remember it, because I was home in St. Galena. That was almost a month ago.
—So it's waxing, Tim said. Sophie, we have to go to your parents' house again.
—I know, she said. They're going away in May. I was thinking of having everybody up for Memorial Day weekend.
—That, Jake said, would be so sweet.
—Yeah, it would, Tim confirmed.
They fell silent again. The waves gently rushed up the beach, receded. Michael listened and tried to keep the waves' sounds straight, but he couldn't. The sounds of the waves seemed like one noise until you listened closely. Then you realized that it was made of all these different sounds, of the waves crashing offshore, slamming the rocks further down the beach, the water whooshing up the sand, hissing, bubbling and rushing away.
His hand was shaking now, from the cold. Michael stared down at the can, into the dark hole, watching it shake.
—Hey, a commanding voice cut in.
—Oh, shit, Jake said.
Michael froze. He looked where the voice was coming from, but all he saw was a bright light.
—I want all of you to stand up, slowly.
The light moved towards them. Michael blinked repeatedly, blinded. When he could finally keep his eyes open, he saw the figure holding the flashlight. Light flashed off an object on his chest. A badge. His heart pounded and he didn't know what to do. He looked down at the beer still in his hand. He realized that he wasn't twenty-one, that it was against the law for him to drink. Living on the campus, going to the party and being with Tim's friends, it had been easy to forget this, but it was still true.
The cop came up to them and shined his flashlight in each of their faces.
—Okay. Pick up your stuff, follow me.
—Sure, Jake said.
They followed the cop down the beach. Michael tried to walk normally, but trying to stay stable on the sand while keeping up with everyone else made him realize how drunk he was. He was still carrying the beer. He didn't think he should throw it away, but it seemed crazy to keep carrying it. The cop led them all the way back to the main beach, up the stairs to the road.
—Okay, he said. Stop here. You, he said to Michael. Dump your beer out on the sidewalk.
—Yes, sir.
Michael poured the beer out. It splattered on the sidewalk.
—Looks like you've got something in your backpack, the cop said to Jake.
—Yes, officer, I do, Jake said.
—Wouldn't happen to be more beer, would it?
—Why, yes. But I have an ID.
Jake took it out and showed it to him.
—No alcohol on the beach.
—I stopped by the store on the way over here. I forgot I was carrying it.
The cop sighed and appeared extremely tired and frustrated.
—Well, you'd better leave the beach, before I think of something else I can bust you for. Uh, except for you.
He turned and looked at Michael.
—You had the bad luck to actually have a beer in your hand. You're going to have to come with me.
Michael, who's knees had already been trembling, felt the pit in his stomach swell until he was afraid he might vomit on the policeman's black leather boots. He had been singled out. He saw himself in jail; a small, trembling boy surrounded by drunks, criminals and unsavory types, amused at how such an unlikely person ended up with them; someone they could all safely abuse.
—Y-yes, sir, Michael managed to mutter.
—The rest of you, I want you off the beach.
—But, Sophie said.
The cop pointed at Michael and jerked his thumb. He began walking quickly, and Michael almost had to run to keep up. He walked the hundred yards back to the cop car, the same terrible images flashing through his head; of jail, arrest, torment, humiliation. What would happen to him? The familiar sequence of events from TV shows went through his head: Miranda rights, being booked, questioning, the holding tank, the trial. But the cop hadn't even read him his rights. Did that mean his arrest was invalidated? But he hadn't even put him under arrest. Did he have to do that in his car?
—Wait, here. I assumed you're smart enough not to try to run away.
—Yes, Michael said.
He surveyed the scene. There were two police cars, a van and five cops, standing in a loose group. Four of them had coffee cups in their hand, and were pulling donuts out of a white cardboard box on the hood of one of the cars.
—Did you get me coffee? the policeman who arrested Michael asked when he joined his colleagues.
—Uh, sorry, Joe, one of them said. Forgot. Here, have a donut.
—Fuck that. I hate donuts.
—How can you be a cop and hate donuts?
—I hate donuts, Joe repeated. Pick anyone up?
—Three young spic males-
—Pete, the other cop said in a deep, warning voice.
—Sorry, young Hispanic, he said, males, armed with knives. Possibly a gang.
—Where are they?
— In the van.
—Who'd you get, Joe? Looks dangerous. There might be a medal for you in it, considering you brought him in all by your self.
—Shut up. He was with his friends, drinking on the beach. UCSZ student, I'm sure.
—Christ, why'd you pick one of them up? His mommy'll be here tomorrow, threatening to sue if her little baby's hurt. Good thing he's white, or we'd really be in deep shit.
—Pete, Joe said, you've got a really big mouth and it's really late and I'm really sick of your shit. Don't tell me how to do my job.
—Hey, I realize you're new to the whole beach detail, so I'm just filling you in. I realize...
—Pete, the deeper voiced cop said. Pete immediately stopped talking, which told Michael that the cop with the deep voice must be in charge. What was going to happen to him? Would he have to stand there in the cold all night, listening to the policemen arguing? At least he wasn't shaking so badly. He wasn't nearly as frightened, now. Somehow, listening to the cops' conversation made him less afraid. But he was getting very cold, and the need to urinate suddenly asserted itself, a painful ache right in the tip of his penis. He wondered what Tim, Jake and Sophie were doing. Had they just gone home, or would they wait for him?
—When's our relief coming? one of the cops asked.
—Two am.
—Fuck, said Joe. I need coffee.
—So, go get some.
—I got to deal with Mr. Michael Sullivan.
Joe walked over to Michael and blew air out of his lips loudly.
—Look, you can go. But... If you're not twenty-one, don't drink. Don't go to the beach after dark. That's the law. Got it?
—Yes, sir.
—You're lucky they didn't get me a cup of coffee. Otherwise I'd probably have to write you a ticket.
Not knowing what else to say, Michael said:
—Okay.
—Have a good night, Joe said and went to one off the police cars.
Michael walked away, sweet relief flooding through him. He was free! He had escaped. But where was Tim? He didn't see him. Not knowing what else to do, Michael went in what he thought was the direction of the claimstake. He turned right off of the cliff-side drive at the first corner he could.
—Michael!
