Beatitude 19
Whipped
CHAPTER 19
Northmont University. Emerson All-Girl’s Residence Hall. August, 1984.
Charlene is curled up in a chair reading from my notebook, all comfy, wearing my Polo like a nightshirt. Normally I’d be gazing at her shapely legs, hoping for a glimpse of panty. But right now, I’m nervous. I just want to know her thoughts on my story. I really want her to like it, even though I’m not sure if it’s any good. Most of it works, I think, but--
"Beatitude?” she asks. "That's a Catholic thing, right?"
"It’s, um, it’s the state of extreme happiness,” I reply. “You don’t have to be religious to feel, you know, bliss. Or . . .blessed.”
Am I explaining or justifying?
She turns a page. “Sure.”
Charlene is smarter than me. Not just smarter, she has this thing her dad calls third eye insight. Something I found out about when she handed me the phone and said her dad wanted to talk to me. “You stick with Charlie,” her dad told me. “You’ll see colors you didn’t know existed.” I wouldn’t put it that way, and I’d like to avoid future conversations with her eccentric father, but I have come to depend on Charlene’s intuition. I’m not sure what I would do without her. God, I hate that. When did I become codependent?
Oh. I just thought of something else I need to say.
"The main character feels guilty because he’s like supernaturally lucky,” I say. “You get that, right?”
She nods, continues reading.
Was I always this insecure? I need to stop talking, just let her read.
“But he never makes any sacrifices,” I add. “He feels bad because he's cheating, not earning anything. But, you know, he doesn't want the party to end. Is that coming across, you think?"
Charlene looks up from her reading. "The, ah, the erotic bits are pretty vivid."
My cheeks are burning. "Sexist, you mean?"
I’m a pig. It’s a problem. Always thinking with the wrong head.
She raises her eyebrows. "When the breasts got plumper while he was touching them, that was –"
There it is — she thinks I’m a deviant. The shame is unbearable, yet here I am, wallowing in the depths of my depravity, still wondering if Charlene’s wearing panties. What’s wrong with me? I need help.
"I-I should fix that. Too much,” I say, ashamed. Eyes closed, nodding. “That was too much. I’ll fix it."
That bit might even be plagiarized. Bukowski, maybe?
There’s a concerned look on her face. “I don’t think you have to—"
"Look, I get it,” I interrupt, “the story lacks humanity. Or something. I guess I meant to create a commentary on society's decline into decadence or whatever–"
“Don’t be so down on yourself, Vinegar boy,” she says. “It’s close.”
That pet name is worse than Cornbread.
"For Dorian Gray, there were real consequences. For Faust, too.” I groan. “I should toss the whole thing, start over."
Charlene smiles at me. Sweetly. "When he peed on his boss' desk and got a raise, that was hilarious. Keep that part for sure."
This a power move? Is she showing me she’s the boss? Telling me what to do?
Maybe she should rewrite the story, make it hers.
Charlene picks out my clothes. Decides how my hair should be cut. Hell, she bought me that shirt she’s wearing.
Again, Charlene sweetly smiles. “It’s almost there.”
Why am I with this girl? She makes me question my choices. She makes me feel inadequate -- subtly, but still. Plus, she’s got me wrapped around her finger and we’re not even compatible. She’s a-- a hugger. For no good reason, she’ll wrap her arms around me and squeeze. And she wants to kiss all the time. We kiss before bed, we kiss in the morning, we kiss before we separate, and we kiss when we meet up again. Her parents are hippies from a little barter town. I guess everyone there is like that. A whole town, kissing all the time – doesn’t seem hygienic.
“I’ll fix it. I can fix it.” I’m trying very hard not to interpret her smile as condescending. Because, well, why would it be? She’s a nice, caring person. She didn’t crush me under her heel, she’s just being helpful. Constructive.
Charlene is not the enemy. She loves me, I’m whipped and I couldn’t be happier. I just act like I don’t enjoy all the kissing, and the hugging.
The haircut.
The clothes.
It’s ALL great. She’s great. Being with Charlene is the best.
She’s not my problem.
The real problem is this stupid contest. This rivalry. I really want to be Whitman’s assistant, and she does too. But only one of us can get the job. What’s killing me is that she deserves the chance more than I do. Killing. Me. Also killing me, I’m pretty sure, one day Charlene’s going to realize that I’m holding her back and --
“All right,” she says, closing the notebook, “my turn.”
If I was a good boyfriend, I’d stop being her adversary and help her get the summer job with Whitman. Team Charlene all the way. I mean, it makes sense. It’s not like I’m ready for this once-in-a-lifetime golden opportunity, I just selfishly want it.
She’s ready for it. So ready.
We were given an assignment, for the competition. To write a story based on the keyword we were given. Mine was Beatitude. Hers was Recovery.
My story sucks.
“Your story is great,” I tell her. It’s better than great. It’s perfect. Hell, I got so caught up, I teared up at the end of the damn thing.
“No. Really.” Charlene gives me sour face, like she thinks I’m copping out. “C’mon, Jack, I want some hardcore, rockum-sockum feedback. I can take it.”
“That was my feedback.”
My girlfriend is brilliant. I should be proud. Probably.
She slumps in her chair, arms dangling on each side, legs splay. “Are you still mad at me?”
Ha! I knew she wasn’t wearing panties.
She pouts. “Don’t be mad at me.”
How can this girl be brilliant, beautiful, insightful, sexy AND empathetic? And why is she wearing my one good shirt? Without a bra? Getting her sexy girl smell all over it?
Dammit, I love that smell.
I stategically toss the question back at her. “Are you still mad at me?”
“If I win this assistant job” -- Charlene hops out of her chair. – “you can’t be mad at me. Understand?”
This is gonna sound like an excuse, and it kinda is, but then again, it kinda isn’t. “Whitman’s a creep,” I say, feeling self-conscious about eye contact. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone for months with that lunatic.”
“Sweet.” Charlene approaches me. “But I can take care of myself, tough guy.” She unbuttons the Polo. “He messes with the bull; he gets the horns.”
“Yeh. Okay, sure, you’re a badass athlete and all that.”
“Cheer up, Vinegar boy,” she says. “I’ll write to you from the road every day. Smutty stuff, because, you know, you’re such a perv.”
I’m pretty sure Charlene’s joking, but I can’t manage a smile.
“Hey! Look at me. There’s a third candidate, remember?” she offers. “We could both crap out.”
Charlene slowly pulls the Polo over her head.
“You’re gonna win,” I say. “You should win.”
“I could win,” she says, tossing the shirt at me.
“I know.” Hate to admit it, but a fact is a fact. “You’re amazing.”
“That’s right.” Charlene smirks. “I’m a five-star meal and you’re just a street corner hot dog.”
“Funny.”
“I’m a golden goddess,” she tells me. “You’re a lowly mortal.”
I don’t care that the Polo’s wrinkled. I don’t care that my ass got handed to me. I don’t care about Whitman’s stupid job. I don’t care about anything, because my brilliant, badass, smack-talking, seductive girlfriend has dissolved my anxiety with the power of her nakedness.
“Smile for your goddess,” she commands, stamping a foot, jiggling breasts.
Of course, I smile.
“Good boy.” She leans down to kiss my cheek, then whispers in my ear, “You could win. Don’t give up.”
Three months is going to be a long time apart.
More Beatitude next Friday.
BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts