Beatitude 8
Magic Beans
CHAPTER EIGHT
Northmont University. June, 1984.
9:30 p.m. The second floor of Halliburton Hall is surprisingly quiet. Not totally, but still pretty quiet for a place stocked with mostly unsupervised wild boys. Something bacchanalian with a soupçon of Clockwork Orange would not be unexpected.
After three timid knocks, I cautiously unlock the door to 242. I feel like I’m breaking and entering, but I live here. Well, I live here according to the folks at Northmont Residential Services Student Housing. Terry, my assigned roommate, is not so keen on the idea.
I tried to find new accommodations, but there’s nothing available unless someone drops out. So here I am, ready to confront him, to take what’s mine.
Game for anything, I grit my teeth and step into the fray.
Crap!
Terry’s not here.
He’s probably with his ‘droogies’ knocking back ‘milk-plus.’*
But I can wait. I have to wait. Because tonight we settle this once and for all. I’ve got rights, I’m gonna fight for them and he’s gonna have to suck it.
Half of this matchbox is mine. And this bare, ratty mattress is my assigned mattress. Mine. Even though its quilted pillow top cover is flat and its paisley damask pattern faded with a creepy pink stain on it. What is that anyway? Looks like a Rorschach ink blot.
Doesn’t matter. It’s fine. Nasty as it is, this mattress is way better than the backseat of my car.
10:15 p.m. If I had my trusty Smith Corona with me I’d be furiously pushing keys about now. I could fill reams of paper just working out my feelings for the resplendent Charlene. Madly poetic. Sensual. Cathartic. Mostly sensual. Who am I kidding? Totally . . . X-rated.
10:33 p.m. Hoo boy! Okay, I’ve gotta stop thinking about Charlene. Definitely got to stop imagining what she might look like naked. If Terry walked in and caught me jerkin’ off that would be devastating. And it would give the bastard an opportunity for blackmail. I’d be stuck living in my car the entire semester.
Wish I had something to read.
Where are Terry’s textbooks? There’s not even a magazine lying around. How is that even possible?
10:46 p.m. Seriously, where did this asshole put all his reading matter? Right now, anything with words would be welcome – Cat Fancy, the Archie comic Megan was flipping through, flashcards, an extinct language dictionary …
10:55 p.m. I’d read the liner notes on Terry’s perfectly racked LPs, but I think he’d go berserk if he caught me breathing on his collection.
This is not your typical stoner crash pad. Terry is freakishly neat. All his possessions are nicely squirreled away. His checkerboard bedspread tucked up tight. White Italian loafers carefully placed under his bed. Stark, professionally framed Walt Jabsco artwork hung just so.
My side of the room is damn near austere. Except for the mattress stain, which is starting to look familiar – Two bats attached at the hip?
11:16 p.m. Since things are going to get tense very soon, maybe I should occupy my time preparing for battle.
No doubt there’s gonna be screaming. There could even be a fist fight.
Gotta prepare for the worst.
I really should.
Really, really should.
But I’d rather think about that transformational kiss by the lake.
11:30 p.m. Charlene has flipped a switch inside me and I’m really excited for what comes next. Almost as excited for the future as I was on my thirteenth birthday.
My uncle Glen’s gift, a mahogany lock box, was a revelation. He called it a survival kit. And it only contained three items:
(1) Portnoy’s Complaint. I read it cover to cover in a night, by flashlight. And I wasn't even tired the next day. Masturbation with an apple, with liver — that absolutely blew my mind. For a thirteen-year-old boy, that book was perversely comforting.
(2) Playboy (1979 Special issue). Playmate Candy Loving was my first crush. Truth be told, I'm still carrying a torch.
(3) A box of Durex condoms. My first instinct was to turn them into water balloons. Good thing I didn’t do that. They came in handy, but not until a year before they expired.
I should probably call Uncle Glen. I could use his special brand of advice about now.
11:52 p.m. What is wrong with me? I kissed Charlene. I like Charlene. Charlene is perfection. So why am I suddenly conjuring up visions of Megan lying on this mattress? Megan is bad news. She’s probably psychotic. I may be emotionally stunted, but I’m not Archie pining for Veronica. I want Betty. I mean, I want Charlene.
It’s high time I steered clear of girls that treat me like shit.
11:55 p.m. I’m pretty sure Charlene likes me.
In high school, I was involved in a . . . sordid liaison with a girl who actually hated me. Charlene kissed me in front of the world, but Audrey Turner barely spoke to me in public. That is, unless she felt the need to belittle me.
The sneaky, covert make out sessions were admittedly hot, but ultimately unsatisfying. “You’d be handsome if you didn’t talk” — that’s probably the nicest thing Audrey ever said to me.
Why am I dredging that up? I’m losing my mind here.
It’s so damn quiet.
Where the hell is Terry?
12:00 a.m. Hours of excruciating fish-out-of-water torture, with just a few dedicated to shut-eye in a cramped, loaded down Camaro has obviously taken its toll. I wanted a Volkswagon Vanagan, but dad had to get me a muscle car. He knew I wasn’t cool, but he thought a cool car might make me look cool. Like that’s all it takes.
12:18 a.m. Hrm.
Where
the hell
is Terry?
I can’t
keep
my
eyes
oo—
3:30 a.m. Huh? Wha...
“Hey! Cornbread. Wake up.” Terry’s scary face is hovering over me. His smile is much too wide, his dark eyes totally bloodshot. “Where’s your shit?”
“My…whaa?” I’m a little phlegmy. “Ahem. What?”
One of Terry’s cronies speaks. “It’s alive!”
“I know you had at least two suitcases,” Terry says. “I saw them.”
A female voice calls out, “He sold them to buy magic beans.”
Who said that? Mina? No. She hates Terry.
“Uh, yeah, in my car. It’s all in my car,” I tell him, eyes half open.
“All right, Cornbread,” Terry says, “let’s go get your shit.”
I’m really confused now. “You’re going to help me?”
“Megan vouched for you.” Terry chortles. “Let’s do this.”
“My keys.” A little woozy, I sit up, dig in my pants pocket and scan the room.
Terry’s two-tone crew are in their preferred spot near the stereo speakers. Mina and Lucy are sitting on the floor by Terry’s bunk, surrounded by girls I’ve never seen before. They’re passing a bottle and these new girls, they all have fiery red hair.
Three Megans?
Either I’m dreaming or I should consider a volunteer stay at a mental facility.
Another Megan appears behind Terry. She hands me a pink bong with downy feathers tied to it. “Trust me,” she says.
“He’s already in a stupor,” Terry barks, snatching the bong away.
After a vigorous head shake, I motion for Terry to hand me the bong. “I think maybe I need that.”
Terry obliges, sets me up, but not without a warning. “Akio's herb don’t kid around.”
Some Asian guy wearing a cowboy hat flicks a Bic lighter and fires up the bowl. “My man Cornbread.”
Thanks, Akio – if that's your name and you’re not just a figment of my imagination.
I lift the bowl, suck on the bong and take the smoke into my head, lungs, my entire being.
Hold. –snort, snort– Release.
I’m ready to get my shit now.
CONTENTS OF THE SURVIVAL KIT:
Portnoy’s Complaint/Miss Candy Loving/Durex Condoms
* From A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts
Apologies to the late Jack Kerouac for use of his “Belief and Technique for Modern Prose" tips.
Author factoid: 1980. When delivering a spot illustration for Playboy’s music section to my art director — Skip Williamson — at the Playboy building in downtown Chicago, I shared an elevator with Candy Loving. No idea why she was taking the public elevator.
Great pages. Terry the tool. Could go for an extra large milk-plus myself. Would be horrorshow