Beatitude 12

The Dance

CHAPTER 12

Saturday morning. June 23, 1984.

A latch clicks. The door snaps closed and I open my eyes. "Charlene?"

Where’d she go?

I’m all alone, she left me alone, but it’s not like she can duck out on me. This is her dorm room. She’ll be back. She has to come back. I’m not worried. All her stuff is here. I’ll just wait in her nice bed, with its clean sheets and plump mattress. I never want to leave it or the sweet scent on her pillow.

My new favorite smell -- Charlene.

My car smells like gym socks. My dorm room smells like Terry's farts and stale bong water. THIS would be heaven, if not for the giant poster of Alain Delon. Frikkin’ thing takes up half the wall and his piercing eyes are pointed directly at the bed. It’s unnerving.

I guess what really bugs me is that he’s me, spitting image, but better. Poised. With great hair. Or maybe he just looks like that in this beautifully lit black and white photo. Have I ever looked that cool? Ever?

I flip back the tiger-striped comforter. Oh yeah, I'm naked. Well, not completely. I’m still wearing socks. Which is so not cool.

"Don't judge me, Delon."

My jeans and shoes are on the Persian rug beside the bed, mingling with her tartan skirt and black bra. But where's my shirt? My underwear?

Not tangled up in the sheets. Not anywhere in the bed.

I climb out, careful not to step on anything fragile. Like that’s easy. Who can find anything in this sty? She’s kind of a hoarder. Stacked magazines everywhere! Vogue, Paris Review, Vanity Fair, The Portable Lower East Side, The Face, Occident, NME, WhiteWalls, Atlantic Monthly, Cosmopolitan, etc. 

Ooh, a subscription. There’s a name and address on the back of this Rolling Stone. Charlie Smith? Who’s Charlie Smith? Is Charlene Charlie? Is Smith really her last name? I should probably know her last name. I know I like her, I know she doesn’t have tan lines, I know where her hidden mole is, but other than that I guess I really don’t know much about her. Probably should.

Or . . . maybe that’s how she wants it. She seems more experienced and definitely more confident than me. She obviously sunbathes in the nude. I wear a t-shirt in the pool. And that trick she does with her tongue is enough to let me know this girl’s no amateur. This thing that seems meaningful to me could just be a casual thing for her. Another Friday night.

That-that’s an issue I can deal with later. First, underwear.

They’re not under the bed. There’s a shit ton of bags and purses under there, but no underwear. Does she need all that?

A clothes rack on wheels rolls aside and I uncover Charlene’s bookshelf. Bingo! This tells me everything I need to know about the mysterious Charlie Smith. It’s chock full and overflowing. And – wow --there’s her record collection. As soon as I find my Jockeys, I need to poke around in these treasures.

I slowly scan the room.

I can’t believe she had a roommate. There’s no room for a roommate.

All those boxes on top of and underneath the extra bed — are they really full of shoes? That’s a lot of shoes. Does she need all those shoes?

Agh —I give up. I guess my underwear spontaneously combusted.

Light streams through the crack between sheer drapes. It spills out over a desktop, over an open book stuffed with bookmarks.

I step to the desk and pick up . . .

. . . The Elements of Style.

Akk — that’s the doorknob! Pleasepleaseplease don’t let it be her RA. Or her old roommate. Or her parents.

Charlene enters, wearing my t-shirt, carrying a shopping bag. "Morning." She pauses for a moment, then cocks an eyebrow. "Ooh, you must really like that book."

I don't remember covering my genitals with the book, but that's instinct for ya. "Haven't seen my underwear, have you?"

"You sling-shot 'em up there” — Charlene points to the light fixture above our heads — "not me."

Oh. Yeah.

“Jackie,” Charlene says, setting the bag aside, then moving to her dresser. “I've got a confession.”

Sounds serious.

I brace myself. “You do?”

She rummages through the pile of cosmetics, perfumes and lotions piled on top of her dresser. “I brushed my teeth.”

Still holding The Elements of Style over my junk, I cup the other hand over my mouth to check my breath.

Charlene snatches an embroidered bag from the dresser, spins around and waggles it in front of me. “There’s mouthwash in here.”

“Great,” I say. “Can I—?"

“I’ll give it to you, but you have to do a sexy dance with the book first.”

What?

“Oh no.” I point at the Delon poster. "Not while he's watching."

“Fair enough.” She opens the bag, digs out a travel-sized Scope and tosses it to me.

I drop the book and catch the mouthwash.

“You owe me a dance,” she says, removing her sweatpants.

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BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts

Apologies to the late Jack Kerouac for use of his “Belief and Technique for Modern Prose" tips.