Beatitude 7

Down the rabbit hole

CHAPTER SEVEN

Northmont University. June, 1984.

Five thirty. East Plex dining hall. I’m so captivated by Algren’s The Man with the Golden Arm I can barely finish my sandwich. It’s got morphine addiction, strip clubs, shady characters and murder.

Algren comes on like a hard guy with a soft heart. And he digs deep. It’s no wonder Simone de Beauvoir fell head over heels for him.

If I’d been Sartre and my best girl was writing love letters to a badass like Algren, I would have been jealous. I get that he was this lofty intellectual who believed in open relationships, but Simone wasn’t just screwing around with some random American she bumped into at a café. Or in Algren’s case, some gin joint. Sartre might’ve had the bigger vision, but Nelson Algren was pretty stiff competition.

Seems to me, Sartre treated love like a trifle. An amuse-bouche at best. I guess his philosophy, maybe his ego, kept him warm at night. But I think maybe he messed up. Missed out.

Dr. Whitman put a germ in my head and I can’t let it go. If believing in love, falling in love, committing to love, even losing at love can round out my character, give me a more mature narrative, transform me into a writer of substance, I’m open to all of it. Even the corny stuff.

Outside the Plex, I find another puzzle post tacked to a tree.

– I – Believe in the holy contour of life (1)

Things I want will eventually fall in my lap? Nah, that interpretation’s a little too Disney. I’ve probably got it all wrong.

Post added to my collection, I move on.

Seven o’clock. The “Lakefill.” I’ve joined the frisbee tossers, joggers, romantics, toe-dippers and bikers on the lakeside peninsula. There’s a totally different vibe here than on the rest of the campus. You can really lose yourself in this park-like setting. Everybody looks so damn carefree like they actually believe in the happily-ever-after holy contour of life. And that’s why I’m here, to soak up some euphoria.

It’s a nice distraction.

But it’s getting late and I can’t put off confronting Terry much longer. I need to get in my dorm room. I need a good nights sleep in an actual bed. I’ve got a full day of classes tomorrow.

On my way back to the dorms, I take time to admire a barefoot girl in a billowy sundress jogging on the lakefront path. She kinda looks like Charlene. And she’s heading my way. Waving. At me?

Her white blonde hair is slicked back, but, yeah, it’s Charlene.

Good thing I popped a mint earlier.

“Jack,” she says, slightly winded, slowing down as she gets closer. “I thought that was you.”

“Charlene.”

“You remembered.”

“Your hair’s wet,” I say, though I have no idea why. Duh.

She keeps coming at me, playfully close. Warm-breath-in-my ear-close as she quips, “I showered without a hat.”

That tingles. “Whitman may be on to something.”

Charlene backs away, but not too far. And she’s beaming. Glad to see me, I guess. What is it about this girl? She’s a force of nature. Maybe she doesn’t mean to, but she’s emitting some kind of pheromone that’s fogging my brain.

Snap out of it, Jack! Just act . . . normal. You’re never going to be anything more than her friend. Just be her friend.

“So,” I tease, “it looks like we have something in common.” We both like girls.

“We do?” She tilts her head. 

“I also showered. Second time today.”

Charlene leans in, sniffs me. “Oatmeal? Motel? Vegetable? Industrial? Glycerine? Something speckled and French?”

“Industrial?”

“Are you stalking me?” she asks, placing a finger on my chest. “Every time I turn around, you’re there. I don’t mind, just wondering.”

“Stalking you?” Exaggerated eye roll. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Poor, sad little stalker.” Her finger slowly slides to my waist. “I’ve had such a busy day. Hope I didn’t wear you out.”

“You are pretty active.” I don’t know, but this sure feels like flirting. I guess it’s not, but . . . jeez.

“We should sit.” With that, she spins around and heads for a lakeside bench.

Guess I’m supposed to follow. O-kay. Sure.

The puzzle posts I collected are tucked inside my backpack. On my way to the bench, I take them out.

Probably shouldn’t sit too close, so I place the posts between us. “Wanna see these?”

“Yes, please.” There’s a glint in her eyes. Her sparkly green, hypnotic eyes.

This friendship thing is going to be difficult, but I think I can make it work. If Charlene was an ugly dude with bad breath and Tourette’s syndrome, I’d still like her. Like him, whatever. She’s fun. And I sure could use a friend.

Before today, I had exactly one gay friend. I met Charles Stephens at camp when I was fourteen. He never tried to put any moves on me, he just wanted me to know the score. We never talked about it and I never saw a reason to tell anyone. We mostly bonded over Star Wars. I think he had a thing for Han.

The still lake mirrors orange sunset. She’s not paying any attention to that, she’s busy shuffling through the posts I found.

A breeze motivates Charlene to scoot closer.

-sniff- Is that French speckled soap?

“I can’t believe you found six,” she says. “That’s a lot.”

“It is, right?” What I really find unbelievable is that we’re caught up in this soft, glowing, movie quality twilight, all alone, two hearts thumping along, and —

Damn she smells good!

Being Charlene’s platonic friend IS the goal. But, right now, if she would just let me kiss every pale freckle on her shoulder I might find reason to believe in the holy contour of life. I definitely wouldn’t feel so pathetic later, when I’m sleeping in my car.

“How many more do you think?” she asks.

“No idea.”

Charlene studies the posts for a moment, then spreads them over her lap –my lap, too. “Ooh, I’ve got this,” she says, playing with the order. “This goes here, and this one goes here, and—”

Charlene snatches the post sitting squarely in my lap and grazes the area of my body I have the least control over. Stay down boy.

“Look,” she says, placing the –W– post on her left thigh. “Together they spell ... writer?"

“But we’re missing an –R–.”

“What else could it be?”

“I guess,” I say, a little skeptical. “But what about the numbers?”

“The first three are the local prefix.”

Pathway lamps ignite behind us.

A phone number! “You’re brilliant!” She really is Nancy Drew. “So, we either find that last post or we call until we reach the right number.”

“Not tonight.” She looks out on the lake, slumps her shoulders and sighs. “This weekend?”

“Sure.” She wants to see me again. Yes! Let’s do that. “This weekend.”

As Charlene gathers up the posts, I make a desperate attempt to get her to stick around a little longer. “Good practice today?”

Charlene hands me the posts. “Those girls are —” She heaves a heavy sigh, faces the lake and grips the edge of the bench.

“Yeah?” Talk to me. If something’s eating at you, I can be all empathetic and junk. Try me.

“Thing is, I joke around. A lot,” she explains. “I don’t have a filter, but I also don’t want to be misunderstood. You know?”

Her hair has dried and with little more than a shake looks perfect. At first I thought her unusual cut was hipster cute. Reminded me of Prince Valiant from the comics. Now, in this dramatic half-light, I’m seeing a glamorous 1930s bombshell.

“So what happened?” I ask, like I was never distracted.

“Nothing really,” she says, gripping the seat edge, lightly rocking. “I just need to keep my mouth shut. No more nasty jokes. No more teasing.”

Charlene’s a sharer. I have no idea what she’s trying to share, but it doesn’t matter. She can talk all night. I just don’t want her to leave.

“I mean everything’s cool and we all get along. Well… Karen’s kinda handsy.” She pauses, bites her bottom lip. “Aww, she’s all right. It’s just weird things go down in the locker room of a lesbian ball club. Not weird to them. To me. You know, me being the only straight girl and all.”

. . .

She whaa?

. . .

I think I heard that right.

. . .

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I say, and then I go with the obvious guy move and slide an arm behind her back. “I’m sure everyone thinks you’re great. I just met you today and I already think you’re pretty great.”

I do. I really do think she’s great. I probably shouldn’t have wrapped my arm around her—that was cocky—but I’m not just trying to get in. I like her. As a person. A friend. She’s someone I could hang with who happens to be beautiful and sexy and —

“Whenever a nasty joke pops up in your head,” I say, softly, “I’m here for you.”

Charlene grins. “You’re sweet.” After a bit, she adds, “For a stalker.”

“Hey, uh, you want to go out sometime?” I lightly squeeze her shoulder, bring her in closer. “Like a date?”

Eh, too soon. And that squeeze — too aggressive. She hasn’t shrugged off my arm yet, but I probably need to slow down a bit.

“Took you long enough.” Charlene nuzzles up to me. “I gave you my number hours ago.”

“Oh … yeah.” You mean back when I assumed you were a girl who preferred girls, not boys?

Charlene pulls at my shirt, urging me to drop down for a kiss.

And I thought I was being aggressive.

I barely know this girl and I don’t know anything about love. I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling right now is not the kind of highfalutin emotion that drives poets to spill blood on a page. It’s LUST, that’s undeniable, but it’s more than that. For me. I think.

Whatever it is, it’s good.

Tonight, here with Charlene,

so many stars above,

stars reflected on the lake,

shimmering,

my lips on hers,

taking in her breath,

I’m wide open to every possibility.

---

---

BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts

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