Beatitude 2
Rude Boys
CHAPTER TWO
Dear Jack, Congratulations! On behalf of the Admissions Committee, it is my pleasure to offer you admission to Northmont University.June 18, 1984
A suitcase in each hand, I walk through a massive archway to enter the campus of the university of my choice. An impressive hunk of real estate loaded with 150-year-old gothic towers. This place absolutely stinks of intellectual discourse, musty tomes and timeless ritual. Feels like home.
You were identified as one of the most promising students in our very competitive applicant pool.When I first visited the school with my mom, I was drawn to the students with tortured expressions frantically rushing to class. They had so much pain in their eyes. I pointed to one. He was slumped over, trudging along like a defeated soldier. “That’s gonna be me,” I told her.
Mom put on a sad, sympathetic face. “Just for a few years, honey.”
Actually, I was looking forward to being pushed that hard. I wasn’t about to tell Mom though. Not in front of everybody, standing in the middle of the place I planned to spend the next few years. She would have gotten all proud, wanting to hug me. Or worse. No way I was gonna risk the embarrassment.
Your commitment to excellence makes you stand out as someone who will thrive within our academic environment.Halliburton Hall men’s dormitory looks like a set from some stuffy British melodrama. Stone gargoyles guard the entry steps. Ivy tendrils creep up the facade. It has everything but a proper butler and a line of domestic servants waiting at the entryway.
I’m welcomed by the muffled banging of Gang of Four coming from one of the rooms above. I sort of expected smart kids to listen to The Pat Metheny Group, or something jazz fusion-y like that. But it’s gratifying to know that I share the same musical taste as some of the other “promising students thriving in this academic environment.”
Inside the vestibule, it’s loud, a cacophony. Every room must be blasting tunes. GoF competes with XTC, Cheap Trick, Peter Gabriel and … Throbbing Gristle? There’s always an anarchist in the bunch. The Admissions Committee claimed I’d meet up with a ‘kindred spirit’. Could be him. Who knows?
A bulletin board by a wall of mailboxes catches my eye. I never expected invitations to teas, poetry readings, string quartet concerts or some other stuffy do. But there is something flowery and archaic among the scribbled notices, angry warnings and random penis sketches.
It reads:
–R– Like a pithy Sisyphus, faithfully struggle to elevate language (9)Whoever posted this has got to be a Lit major. Probably smokes a pipe. Yeah, it’s pretentious, but reading those lofty words, I know I’ve landed at the right school. I would never have come upon anything like this while dragging small town Main Street with a carload of seed-spitters. After many floundering years as a stranger in a strange land, I am delivered to a suitable planet where I can thrive. I come in search of the illuminati, to join with them. Who knows? I might look cool smoking a pipe.
Standing at the front door to my dorm room –242– I can almost make out the heated conversation inside.
Deep breath. Time to face my peers.
A billow of smoke escapes as I open the door.
The smell of marijuana is unmistakable. The burbling of a bong is also familiar. I may not have discovered a nest of enlightened scholars, but throughout my life, I have always somehow manage to find the party. It’s kind of a gift.
A cabal of dazed stoners in skinny ties, wrinkled cotton sport jackets and loafers, blankly stare at me. Only the one with the shaved head and pointy-sideburns ignores me. He’s the alpha, I guess.
This guy, the alpha, he has one helluva tan. Looks exotic. To me, anyway.
He fires up a bong. With a head full of smoke, he sets the pipe aside.
I drop my bags. According to how things go from here, this may be my prison cellmate. Should have packed a shank.
His nose fumes as he slowly glides towards me.
I don’t know anything about this dude. But the button pinned to his jacket tells me he’s a fan of The Specials. I may be subjected to a lot of third wave Ska this semester. Guess he hasn’t gotten the memo yet: that sound is comin’ like a ghost sound.
Those wild, dilated eyes are threatening. He is one snarly two-tone alpha dog and I have invaded his territory. Is he wearing mascara?
I don’t bother with a smartass greeting.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m —”
“Look” — the alpha snarls —“if you plan to bunk in here, you gotta be cool. Do you know what the fuck you're doing?”
I instinctively push my hand forward. “You, uh, Terry?”
It’s probably not the best time for a sales call handshake. The two-tone alpha stares at my hand as if it were smothered in bees.
What I’m thinking in this moment: My dad really screwed me good this time. I told him I needed to get to school early and settle in before classes. If I’d staked out the room first, I might have been able to mark my territory before the two-tone alpha arrived. Could have found new accommodations, even.
“Big deal,” Dad said. “My hardware stores pay for your education. If there’s a register open at my busiest store, you need to fill it. School can wait.”
Two-tone alpha leans in inches from my face. I detect the distinct aroma of Cheetos and beer. Observation: He seems oddly aggravated for a stoner.
“You a Narc?” he asks.
Neither one of us is making a good first impression here.
The other stoners cackle, but quickly resume their deadpan bong party.
“I'm sorry?” This is not an apology. I think maybe I misheard his question. I genuinely have no idea why he would think I’m a Narc. Am I not wearing the same uniform of disaffected youth as the rest of these pop punk wannabes? My black Joy Division t-shirt speaks to my anxiety, man. My fun, funky, lopsided hair shows duality. I may prefer a used bookstore to a video arcade, but I’m no Narc. Dammit, I’m way more complicated than that. Why can’t he see it?
“Sorry don't cut it around here,” he grumbles, then adds, “country moph.”
“I'll come back later,” I say, picking up my bags to leave. Where am I going? I have no idea. I just have to get out of this place and come up with a new plan of action.
Two-tone alpha snaps his fingers. “Hold up, Cornbread.”
I glance over at what I assume is my mattress and that’s when I see her – a stoner girl with luminous pale skin and mussed red hair. She’s lying on her belly, a leg kicking the air as she flips through what looks like an Archie comic. Archie? I can’t believe they still make those. Also, I can’t believe I didn’t notice her the moment I stepped into the room. I take a moment to admire her magnificent curves.
Two-tone alpha demands her attention, her obedience. “Megan!” He repeatedly snaps fingers in her direction. “Megan!”
“Bite me, Terry,” she says. And hearing all this, I immediately learn three things. (1) The two-tone alpha is Terry, my roommate. So that sucks. (2) Megan is the name of the shapely stoner girl. Good to know. (3) Megan is not one of Terry’s shake and bake followers. Ka-ching. However, if she turns out to be his difficult girlfriend, I’ll be crushed.
One of the other stoners hands an envelope to Terry.
Terry, in turn, hands the envelope over to me. “You’re Jack Zowie-whatever, right?”
It’s pretty obvious the contents of this ravaged envelope has been thoroughly inspected by everyone in the room, even though it is clearly addressed to me. I should be angry, but when you’re wandering lost on a battlefield, you keep it frosty. “Sure.”
The letter is from Julian Ivan at Tinker Literary Agency – coveted agent, the representative for all my favorite authors.
“It was in my mailbox.” Terry waves me off. “Don’t want to see any more of your crap in my mailbox. Understand?”
After metaphorically beating on his chest, Terry the two-tone alpha rejoins his herd. Unthreatened, but not quite satisfied, Terry spins around to face me again. His raccoon eyes and menacing smile are unsettling. “Knock when you get back. Got me, Cornbread?”
When I was “worm”, I avoided confrontation. When I got older, the worm turned. I became a loud mouth that never backed out of a challenge. I actually encouraged multiple bruises, a black eye and one intense Alabama ass whuppin’. But something in this new situation has disarmed me. With each jab of his stiff finger to my forehead I allow Terry to push me from the room without uttering a word. The worm returns.
“Buh-bye,” he says.
The door slams in my face.
I am standing outside my assigned dorm room, banished, with nowhere to go overhearing the two-tone, tinpot, pot-head dictator as he addresses his minions.
“Didja hear that accent?” Terry says. “I'm rooming with a hillbilly.”
I set down my suitcases. The letter falls to the floor.
I lean down to pick it up and the door to 242 opens again. But not to welcome me back inside to join in their skanking reindeer games. A pillow is tossed out into the hall.
Once again, the door slams shut.
I park my ass in the hall to sulk and to figure out my next move.
Might as well open the letter and complete my humiliation.
Thank you so much for allowing me to read and consider your query, THE BIG FLIP OFF. After carefully reviewing your submission, I've determined that this particular project isn't the right fit for me at this time.Shlip! Shlop! Shlip! Shlop! Shlip! Shlop!
Spindly, overly hairy legs in flip flop sandals approach me. I look up to see a mostly naked skinny guy wrapped in a floral beach towel. He’s pointing a shaving kit at my rejection letter.
“Poor delusional schmuck.” He tightens his grip on the slipping towel. “Thinks he can write. It's sad really.”
Skinny, mostly naked guy clomps off. The towel droops just enough to show his crack. Like I needed to see that.
Once again, the door to 242 opens.
Terry calls out, “My guard dog still out there?”
The sleepy-eyed stoner that opened the door gazes at me for moment, then responds. “Still here.”
“Don’t pet him,” Terry yells. “He’s got fleas.”
The door slams shut.
BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts
BEATITUDE Illustrations by Jay Washer