Beatitude 11
Alain Delon
Chapter 11
Friday Night. June, 1984.
Pepper and Akio quietly confer as they make their way outside the Pusan Palace. When Charlene and I join them, Akio makes an announcement. “Time to get hammered.”
He points at me. “You comin’?"
"Like I told you before” — I’m a punk, a kid, just a baby —“I’m not legal.”
"Aw, hell, Cornbread,” Akio says, shaking his head, “nobody cares around here."
"I'm eighteen,” Pepper admits. “Never been carded. At least, not in this neighborhood."
“The Ann-Margrets are playing at The Penny Jar,” Akio says. “You don’t want to miss that. Ol’ Megan’s a hoot.”
I turn to Charlene. We stare into each other’s eyes and, as usual, I get lost for a moment. Until a half smile creeps up her face.
“That sounds great,” Charlene says, taking charge, “but we’re already late for a thing.”
“Oh, yeah.” I play along. “The thing.” We don’t have plans, but she’s the boss.
Charlene takes hold of my arm. "Maybe next time,” she tells them. “Definitely next time.”
“Aww.” Pepper harrumphs. “That sucks. You guys suck.”
“Let it go, Pep,” Akio winks at me. “They got a thing.”
Charlene slides her hand down my arm, slips her fingers between my fingers.
"You kids have fun." Akio teases. “At your thing.”
“We gotta do this again,” I say.
“Hope so,” Charlene agrees. Then, seeing Pepper rush towards her, she releases my hand.
They hug like old friends.
Akio adjusts his hat. “Giddy-up, girl!”
“Bye, guys,” I say, watching them walk away, hanging all over each other.
Akio raises a fist in the air. “Adios, amigos.”
Pepper also raises a fist and yells, “Get on that thaaaaang!”
“They’re on to us,” I say.
"You didn't want to go with them, did you?" Charlene asks.
I shake my head.
"Good,” she sighs.
"I left the puzzle posts in my room,” I tell her. “I could—“
"I'd rather just walk."
"Okay.” I shrug. “Yeah."
My hand feels empty, so I reach out for her. We reconnect, cos it’s that easy.
Hand-in-hand we walk back to campus.
Horns honk.
Bursts of laughter.
Flashing lights.
Pop music gets loud, then fades.
Center street is alive with merrymakers, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not distracted by any of that. I’m mostly thinking about the bench, our bench, the one where we first kissed. I want to go there.
We stop under a streetlight and face each other. She’s still holding onto my hand and I’m not letting go. This would be a perfect time for a kiss.
Or . . . a request.
She takes my other hand, looks into my eyes and says, "Do that thing with your eyebrows again.”
"What thing?” I ask. “I did a thing?”
"Cranky face."
I furrow my eyebrows. "Like that?"
"Ever see Purple Noon?" she asks, studying my face.
"That's a ... movie?" Does she mean Purple Rain? I don’t think it’s out yet.
"Plein Soliel.” she says. “That’s the French title. It's French."
"Never seen it.” I like foreign films okay, but I can never lose myself in one -- too busy reading subtitles. “S’good?"
"I absolutely loveLOVElove it,” Charlene gushes. “It's adapted from the novel The Talented Mr. Ripley, which is also very good.”
"What made you think of it?” I ask. “Is it playing somewhere?"
She’s still staring at my face with fascination, like it’s changing colors or something. And all I can think about is how much I want to kiss her. But I guess what I really want to do is please her. "We can go see it. I have a car."
"It's not playing anywhere,” she says, squeezing both of my hands. “It's really old, like before we were born old."
"Okay.” I really, really need to kiss her. But she’s trying to tell me something and I don’t want to interrupt, even with a kiss.
"You look like Ripley." She lifts one of my hands to her chest and holds it there. "Alain Delon, I mean. The actor.”
My hand is so close to her breasts, but my mind is elsewhere. “Is that a good thing?"
"A very good thing. The eyes, the lashes, the eyebrows, that sexy jaw. You’re a hunk and if you had a French accent, I'd –" She stops herself, quickly blinks.
"What?" I look like who? A hunk? Is she blind? I’m so skinny, I still buy pants in the boys section. I’m hardly—
She lifts my other hand to her lips, kisses my palm.
“Wow!” It suddenly dawns on me, Akio’s right. I feel, I dunno, objectified.
"You look angry."
"I'm not,” I say. “I just thought—never mind. I’m good."
A little flattered. A little horny. A little hurt. I don’t know.
This girl’s going to CRUSH me. On the other hand, when she does I’m probably going to spill my heart out on the page. I guess we’ll both get what we want. I might even wind up writing unrequited love letters to her. I could totally humiliate myself and create art in the process. Which is perfect. Painfully. . . perfect. Perfectly painful?
"When I first saw you, in class, I wanted to jump you right there,” she confesses. “Also, you had this musky odor. It was intoxicating and I knew if I sat by you I wouldn't be able to concentrate."
"You just say whatever's on your mind, don't you?"
"Pretty much.” She pauses. “I have no filter, remember?"
"So, let me get this straight,” I say, stepping back. “I’m helping you fulfill a fantasy? That it?"
"Shut up," she says, letting go my hands. “I like you. You can tell, right?”
“I’m hardly hunky." I shrug. "And I can’t speak French.”
She repeats, “I like YOU.”
"Zis is zee best I kin do, mon amour.”
Charlene grabs my shirt, pulls me closer. “Embrasse-moi bébé.”*
Well, fuck it. I take her face in my hands and kiss her, passionately. Feels - um -cinematic. Fuck you, Alain Delon. Fuck you and your fucking sexy chin. Get your own girl.
This got intense awfully fast. Both of her hands are under my t-shirt and she’s backed me up against a wall.
A couple of guys carrying solo cups stroll by. Under breath, one of them says, "Get a room."
Thanks, fellas. That’s not a bad idea.
“We could go someplace, you know” – I gasp – “private."
Her hands slide to my waist. Kinda tickles.
"My dorm room is private," she whispers.
"What about your roommate?"
"I don't have one."
"You said you were late” —I can't stop kissing her—”because . . . roommate drama."
"She transferred to Yale.” Charlene takes my earlobe in her mouth, lightly tugs, then releases a slow sigh before lightly poking her tongue in my ear.
Shivers ripple throughout my body.
"Oh.” This girl owns me.
Charlene shoves her hands in my back pockets and pulls me even closer. “You want to come up, don't you?"
"I don't want you to get in trouble or anything, but” —I pull away—“do I want to come up? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"This girl next door to me, Jane, her boyfriend Ed has completely moved in." Her lips on my lips, she adds, “And Steph, her roommate, never complains.”
I pull back again, because, seriously, that sounds kinky weird. "They, um, share him?"
Charlene's eyes widen. "No, not like that. Stephanie is cool about it because Ed’s nice. And, well, she’s got a thing for one of his friends."
"Still, they're, you know, in the bed, going at it, ri-right next to her an—"
"Steph has earplugs."
That makes it okay? I gotta meet these people.
*Kiss me baby
Alain Delon in René Clément’s Plein Soleil (1960)
BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts
Apologies to the late Jack Kerouac for use of his “Belief and Technique for Modern Prose" tips.
Good times. Fun stuff