Back to school

But when I arrived back home--that is, when I had called my mother, blushed into the phone as I recounted the story, and asked sheepishly if she could come up and get me--there was only one thing on my mind.

That was nothing new, of course. But things had changed.

'I'm going to get into Stanford,' I announced to my father and Mona as we sat around the dinner table.

'You only have a 3.1, and you've participated in no extracurricular activities,' my dad observed.

'I don't care,' I said. 'I'm getting in.'

I studied for five hours that evening, and did not think about beautiful women, or flowing hair, or bra straps showing. I thought about The Individual and Society--only The Individual and Society.

How not to date

I'd always been partial to the siren song of attractive women. It was just part of being Alfie Norton, I thought. And I'd never been able to resist it, until that talk in my hotel room with Ratione.

That night, as I looked back over the years and examined my romantic past, I realized that I always seemed to fall in with odious women. I began to think I might be masochistic.

Years later, I said to a girlfriend of mine, 'I'm dating you because I hate how happiness feels.' She gasped, and promptly slapped me.

(Her sister was an ever less sympathetic character than she, and so, needless to say, several weeks afterward I promptly began dating her.)

You mean she was you?

'Ratione?' said I.

'That's right,' averrèd he. 'I said my name was Victoria a bit earlier, but I lied.'

I stood stunned for a moment. 'So she was you?'

'That's right, sport.'

I said, 'Well, that was a rotten thing to do.'

Ratione's eyes sparkled and he let out a musty chuckle. 'I know how it may seem, Alfie. I knew you wouldn't like it, especially at first. But I had to.'

I looked bewildered at him. 'What?'

'I wanted to help you,' Ratione said. 'But before I did, I had to take on the only form you would understand.'

I furrowed my brow again, scratched my head. 'Um, how do you mean, sir?'

'Let's put it this way,' Ratione said. 'If I had come up to you in the lobby looking like this and said, "Excuse me, young man," what do you think you would have done?'

I looked at Ratione again, noted with a more critical glance the grizzled face, the fedora, the dusty suit. 'Probably gone to sleep,' I said, laughing for the first time that evening.

Ratione

When I regained consciousness, Victoria suggested that I come to her room at midnight. In the meantime, I could feel free to use the pool and treadmills, or pilfer yogurt and biscuits from the lounge.

But when I knocked on the door to her room at the stroke of twelve, Victoria did not answer the door. It swung open--slowly, of course--to reveal a weather-worn, stately figure.

I stepped into the dark room. The man was six feet tall, with hair greying at the fringes; he was clad in a dusty old business suit, held a fedora in his left hand, and wore a rugged visage bearing a crop of three-day grizzle. A vague, almost ethereal, air clung about him.

'Hello, Alfie,' said he.

'Uh. . .hello,' said I.

'You may be wondering who I am.'

I nodded. It had been a bit of a letdown to be greeted by this grizzled apparition, rather than by the comparatively comely young Victoria. I was wondering when she'd burst into the room in scanty lingerie.

'You should also have been wondering how I knew your name,' continued he. 'You were, however, much too busy picturing a certain "Victoria" prancing around the room in scanty lingerie.'

'How in God's name would you know, you intrusive septuagenarian?'

'It is really quite simple,' he said calmly. 'I am Ratione.'

No cause for concern

'I don't know, Victoria. I mean, are we talking about separate beds here?'

Victoria laughed. 'Oh, don't worry, Alfie. There's only one, of course. You don't have to be concerned about that.'

'What do you think I was concerned about?'

She laughed again: a pleasing cascade of giggly femininity.

'I'm on the pill,' said she. 'And I'm a virgin. . .you can even check.'

I eyed her skeptically. 'An attractive virgin, on the pill, who proposes sleeping with me (of all people) on the night we meet?'

'That's right,' she said.

'Are you sure you're not just a figment of my imagination?' said I.

A fire seemed to come into Victoria's previously calm brown eyes. 'Would a figment of your imagination kiss you like this?'

After the kiss, I said weakly:

'Why would a virgin have to be on the pill, anyway?'

Then I dropped to the floor.

Imagine that

'I propose,' she crooned--and I could feel her warm breath against my face--'that you stay with me in my room, tonight.'

I don't know, I thought to myself. This seems a bit promiscuous. Is she 'of loose morals'? Might she have a disease? Is she desperate?

. . .Am I?

I gently pried her fingers from my collar, tucked her hair back behind her ears, and tapped my fingers against the desk.

A pleasing proposition

'Let's put it this way,' said she. 'I'm someone who knows your situation. . .'

'Yes. . .'

'. . .and can do something about it.'

'Really?' said I. 'And what, exactly, would give you the power to remedy this predicament?'

Victoria ran a hand through her hair. 'You see, Alfie, my parents own this hotel.'

'Really? Well, I'm impressed. It's an excellent hotel. Four-star, well kept-up, nice jacuzzis--'

'And you're cute,' Victoria said. She grabbed a hold of the collar of my shirt and brought my face within an inch of hers.

I should have been used to this treatment. But no: my heart rate quickened; my veins dilated as usual; I felt a strong desire to increase our proximity still further. Outside, I said (with the glib air of a well-spoken board member in the midst of calm discourse):

'What solution, then, do you propose?'

Galaxies

I've said she looked like a twenty-something, this Victoria. Well, she did. This girl wore a hushed, majestic, worldly cloak of an attitude, though not flourishing it much. She also wore small, dark-framed glasses. They gave her the look of an old soul, who would perhaps venture far beyond her library if she didn't see all the traps. But she told me that, like me, she was only nineteen:

'I'm telling you, Alfie, I am really only nineteen.'

'But you wear,' said I, 'such a hushed, majestic, worldly cloak of an attitude (though y' don't flourish it much). And those glasses,' said I, 'impart to you the look of an old soul, who would perhaps venture years beyond her library if she didn't see--'

'If you could drop the poetry,' she said, 'maybe you might get somewhere in figuring out who I really am.'

I read this as code for 'getting me into bed'; but perhaps I am crass.

'All right, Victoria,' I said. 'The poetry's all down. I'm tucking it in my back pocket, along with my dignity and temperance. Now tell me'--this time with her hand on my arm--just who' (looking deep into her eyes, those shadowed galaxies) '. . .exactly' (so so beautiful) '. . .you are.'

Victoria II

I walked up to the desk. I also did not smile.

'Hello,' said the young woman. 'May I help you?'

I found her tone opaque. Her eyes, though, supplied what the former didn't. I said, 'Yes, my girlfriend's just left me.'

'Oh,' she said, eyes almost imperceptibly wider.

'--here,' I finished. 'Left me here,' I said.

'Oh. You must be feeling. . .um. . .forlorn.'

'Rather,' said I. 'Of course, as far as she's concerned, we're still an item. See, she wouldn't give up our adventures in the sack for. . .'

The young woman regarded me rather more rubicund than before.

'No,' I said. 'The question isn't whether she'll forgive me. It's whether I will forgive her. How do you call yourself?'

'Victoria,' she said. 'I am Victoria.'

Victoria

I got up and dusted myself off from where I had fallen into the potted palm. I ran out into the parking lot, cursing and imploring and tearing my hair.

It was all to no avail, though: Sam gunned the motor of the red Civic, pulled out quickly, and sped away, shaking her fist (as well as making other less appropriate gestures) at me all the while. Though the parking lot was newly blacktopped, marred with not a hint of dirt or debris, the tires still managed to kick up a cloud of dust behind.

I filled my mouth with air, filled it with more, let it escape slowly. I ran my fingers through my hair. I looked out at the evening, clear and cold. Full of stars, it was. Beautiful. I'm screwed, I thought--screwed. Absolutely screwed.

I looked back at the lobby of the hotel. The entrance was all glass--funny I hadn't noticed that before. I looked in to find a pair of calm brown eyes fixed on me. The hair belonging to these eyes was also brown, and she flipped it, seemingly, at me. She didn't smile.

I started walking back to the hotel.

Doing this to me

'Wait, Samantha!' I yelled after her. 'You can't do this to me!'

'Can't do this? This is nothing!'

'Nothing?' I cried. 'Storming off without having paid for our room and stranding me in the middle of Saltmurf County with only five dollars in my pocket, sure to be kicked out of the only place I have to sleep? You call that nothing?'

Samantha's face took on a contemplative cast, but the expression soon vanished. 'Well, it's nothing compared to what you deserve, Alford J. Norton! Now I'm leaving!' At this point she had reached the end of the hall and rushed emphatically into the elevator. I got there just as it was closing. The stairwell echoed with my frantic footsteps.

By the time I reached the lobby, Sam was just getting out. She ran across the room, and I rushed desperately to cut her off, missing her by only a few yards. The twenty-something brunette at the desk flipped her head to regard the scene, and stared at us with wide eyes through her glasses.

Yellow as red

She had her shirt off and was plastered against me by the time I shouted, 'No! No, Samantha! I won't have it!'

Sam was tipsy and impassioned enough to take a moment to recoil. She didn't say anything. She just sat in the middle of the bed, nipples popping from her chest, eyeing the protruding sign of my waning arousal with a mixed, but ultimately inscrutable, expression. A second later she grabbed her bra, rose to her feet, and quickly whipped on her shirt.

'That's it, Alfie,' she said, pulling on her shoes. 'I'm leaving right now. You can stay here and fuck yourself, or whatever the hell you want. I'm out of here.'

She grabbed her bag, stuffed the remnants of her panties into it, and stormed out of the room.

Waterbedded

I nuzzled up next to Samantha in the king-size waterbed. She appeared almost asleep, but was still conscious enough to laugh at Conan's jokes emanating from the set.

'Oh, Alfie,' she said, rolling over and wrapping her arms around me. We shared a wet kiss, then pulled together closer. Then Sam reached down and I felt a twinge of discomfort. I pulled away.

'Sam, you don't love me.'

'Of course I do, Alfie.' She reached again, got her hand around it.

I pulled away again. 'Sam, I don't know about this.'

Sam put her hands behind my head, stroked my hair. 'Alfie, you worry too much. Just go with the flow; don't overthink it. Just. . .kiss me. . .and I'll put my hand. . .'

I looked at her eyes clouded with lust, felt the heaving dugs prodding my chest, the hand moving down. I wondered once again whether I should let this wedge slip in between me and my closest companion: cold, unflinching, scowling reason.

Wine, a jacuzzi, and thou

We were in a jacuzzi at a four-star hotel, drinking wine. The police car had been going after the Cadillac; apparently, they had been too intent on a drug bust to notice Samantha's weaving.

Now I was fishing around in the water for the portions of caviar I'd spilled. The task made looking for needles in haystacks appear decidedly elementary.

Sam said, 'Feed me another strawberry, will you?'

'Sure thing, sweetheart.'

Lips open. Strawberry is inserted. Voluptuous chewing ensues.

'Oh, Alfie!' gushed Sam. 'These strawberries are so fresh. . .so sweet. . .so juicy!'

'They're a metaphor for my love, aren't they?' said I.

'Not really,' said she.

In the rear-view

A minute later I was apologizing to her for asking her to put down the drink.

'That's more like it,' said she. She punched the radio on with her free thumb, let go of the wheel, and began unscrewing the lid of the flask.

The song that came on was Scandal's 'The Warrior.' 'Oh, I love this song!' Sam yelled, apparently so moved as to take her first swig.

I leaned over her from the passenger side and put a hand on the wheel. Meanwhile, my companion tossed her hair, sang along raucously to the stereo, and took her second and third swigs from the drink.

'Look, Sam,' I said, 'we'd better watch out.'

'What? Why? . . .You mean because we might have an accident or something?'

I looked over my shoulder. A Cadillac and a Suburban were gaining on us quickly, despite the fact that we were going at least ten miles per hour over the limit. I also saw something else.

'Well, actually, I have a more immediate concern.'

Samantha suddenly stiffened in her seat. 'No, Alfie--you don't mean. . .'

'Look in the mirror,' I said, snatching the flask from her and stuffing it in the glove compartment. 'And while you're at it'--shaking a box of Tic-Tacs I'd whipped from my pocket-- 'pop one of these in your mouth.'

'Oh, Alfie!'

'Don't worry, Sam. . .everything will be all right.' Yes--except for the fact that we're toast and probably won't get out of jail until we're too geriatric to do anything in bed besides piss ourselves, I thought.

Awaiting us had been a night at a cushy hotel with jacuzzis and wine--and now the lights flashed.

Up the wall

We'd been on the road about two hours when she pulled out the flask. Given the earlier filching of her mother's credit card, it probably shouldn't have come as a surprise. Still, I looked at her as if she were from Mercury.

'What?'

'What do you mean, "what"? What in God's name are you doing?'

She eyed me askance. 'I like to drink this, Alfie.'

'Yeah. . .that's bad enough,' I said, remembering one of our trysts. 'But you're driving a car, Sam--and you sure are going fast enough, by the way! . . .Are you out of your mind?'

'You're too uptight, Alfie,' Sam said. 'Relax.'

'Relax?' I said. 'Relax, when we're driving down a wet highway at eighty miles per hour and you pull out a goddamn flask? You might as well tell a bird in a crocodile's shutting mouth to relax. Put it down, Sam! Now!'

'No,' Sam said, and stepped on the accelerator.

She drives me. . .II

Samantha gripped the wheel tightly as we sped along the highway. It was dark. Every twenty seconds the sky flickered, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

'This is great,' Sam said in a low voice. 'I can't believe we got away with this, but here we are! Isn't this exciting, Alfie?'

'It's a blast,' said I, gripping the plastic handle of my door. 'The most vivid words could not express how I feel.'

'It'll only get more exciting from here,' she said, as a large bolt of lightning cracked the sky, illuminating the strange expression.

With some effort, I successfully avoided recoiling in horror.

'Your parents sure were quick to believe that we were heading to the Harrison Art Museum, Samantha,' said I, '--especially given the limited suitability of this weather to museum-crawling.'

'Harrison isn't even open on Friday evenings,' said she, 'but that says so much about our ability to convince.'

I devoted a moment to the consideration of certain other factors upon which our success might, in fact, have hinged. 'Yes,' said I finally, 'we're quite good at that.'

Sam looked straight ahead.

Now another surge of lightning flickered the sky; thunder rolled through the darkness. The highway glistened in the moonlight.

Yell 'No'

It's strange how much sway the glittering eyes of a young woman can hold over the judgment of even quite sensible young men. (I would rather not venture, of course, whether I fall into this last category.) If I could have it to do over again, I suppose I would squint my eyes shut, plug my nasal passages with cotton, and yell

'No!'

to the wind.

She drives me. . .

I looked in Sam's eyes (which glowed green amid the darkness), then down at the keys. I let my gaze rest there.

'You don't have a license,' I said.

'Yeah,' she said, a dangerous smile creeping its way across her face. 'So?'

'Just commenting, that's all.' I crossed my arms, pointed one foot toward home.

After tossing her hair copiously into the growing wind, Sam crept closer. . .closer. . .her lips coming nearly to rest on my cheek. 'It'll be more fun this way, Alford,' crooned she. 'C'mon.'

Why do they always have to call me Alford? I thought. And why does it always make me want to accompany them, without delay, to the nearest bower?

'Have you ever driven before, Samantha?'

'Once,' she said, torridly, arching her back and thrusting her chest forward, as if the mere question brought her near orgasm.

'What happened?'

'I hit a mailbox, scattered wild turkeys and a clump of hedgehogs, and ended up in Mr. Hanson's living room.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.' (Once again near climax.) 'He would have called the police,' moaned she, 'but I pleaded with him, and we ended it with me doing him a nice. . .um. . .favor.'

'Let me guess,' said I, '--you bought him a lifetime supply of semisweet chocolate?'

'Exactly. Now, c'mon, Alfie'--quickly resuming orgasm mode and fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly--

'Let's go.'

Midnight at noon

Samantha cut me off about three-quarters down Nottingham. She reached her arm over my shoulder and grabbed my torso. I started--but the initial terror quickly turned into something else.

'Hi.'

'Hey.'

Turning around, I drew the collar of the flannel around my neck. 'Cold weather, huh?'

'Yes. . .'

'And?'

Sam looked at me with her clear green eyes. 'You look really handsome with your collar turned up like that.'

'Why, thank you. You look sexy in those--'

'What?'

'Never mind,' said I, distant. 'So are we going to the room?'

'No. . .I have a better idea.' And, as the wind whipped the locusts overhead, amid this night-dark afternoon in which raindrops now began to fall all around us, Samantha reached into her pocket and, with a quiet, conspiratorial expression, brought a group of keys to my face.

A change of wind

'No,' said I. 'You're wrong. I'm reading this book for The Individual and Society, not for a shield as you insinuate. And, even more important, I don't regret turning Sharon down.'

Smiths seemed for a few moments to scrutinize my countenance for a possible absence of sanity. Finding no evidence of this, he looked away.

'I mean, it surprised me at the time, sure,' admitted I, 'but there was a reason for it.'

In the back of my mind, I said, 'Yeah. . .a five-foot-seven, long-haired, irresistible reason.' To Smiths I just smiled.

The continuance of the day brought darker skies, colder winds, and an ominous horizon. By seventh period the mountain-ashes were beginning to whip against the school. My trigonometry teacher didn't seem to notice, though; he was seventy and nearly deaf.

'Hey, Terry. . .do you have an extra windbreaker?' I said, twisting around in my seat.

'No, sorry, my boyfriend's using it.'

'Just my luck.'

Sudden storms bring cold walks; and, when the seventh period bell rang, I handed my assignment to the teacher, grabbed some textbooks from my locker, and set off quickly for home. The autumn breeze raised goosebumps on my arms, and I drew my flannel shirt around my torso to keep warm.

Supply closet

It was noon in the supply room. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, dappling the tables and desks clustered in the small space. Amid the disorder, Smiths was working on another peanut-butter-and-tofu sandwich, Terry and Cindy were debating the relative merits of dactyls and anapests, and I was reading Foucault.

After he finished his sandwich, Smiths gave a few impatient sighs. I glanced up at him, then went quickly back to my book. A few seconds later I felt something hit my shoulder. I looked down: a paper football.

'Hey, Smiths,' said I, 'what did you do that for?'

'You were asking for it, Alfie.'

'What do you mean? I was just sitting here.'

Smiths grinned. 'You were reading Foucault with a calm expression while subconsciously humming "Circle of Life." I had to do something.'

'Quit it,' said I. 'I have to finish this passage by next period. Go eat another sandwich.'

Smiths rose to his feet. 'Stop hiding behind your book,' pursued he, 'and admit it: You regret rebuffing Sharon.'

A brewing storm

The only constants I could set against this chaotic shift were two: my family--that is, my mother and father and cat--and the constant presence of Chilly Debby. Even though the latter was in Houston, her voice dwelt constantly in my mind: Alfie, you can't do this; Alfie, you'll be alone and unhappy all your life; Alfie, it is only with great effort that I care about you at all.

One night that fall, my mother knocked on the door of my darkened room. I had been writing a story for a creative writing class. I always liked to write in the dark.

'Yes, what is it, mother?' I said as she flicked on the light. 'I was writing. . .didn't you see the warning sign on the door?'

'"Dangerously creative work being done inside,"' she read. '"Do not disturb The Genius at any cost. Sincerely, A. J. Norton." Oh, that's cute, Alfie.'

'No, it's not cute,' said I, 'it's disquieting. To disturb a first-tier innovator is not something to be taken lightly.' With this, I rose to my feet and flipped the lights off once again.

Mother let out a sigh. 'I just wanted to tell you you left your kazoo on the steps,' said she. 'Also, the National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm warning until eleven o' clock. . .and Samantha called.'

At this, an immense bolt of lightning split the sky; the rumble of its thunder rolled out over the miles; the flicker of heat lightning turned the surrounding oaks to the claws of a wild beast.

Upperclassman

My junior year started with a cataclysmic air. I could feel it in the halls of the school that autumn; I could hear it in the voices; could see it lurking in the faces to which they belonged. Everything seemed darker: the formerly fluorescent hallways brooded with barlight dimness. . .Royce McGannigan and his cohorts had taken to wearing grey. . .the noontime air hung with smoke, as if a long-dormant volcano had clouded the schoolyard in ash.

The aftermath

I wasn't sure quite why I had done it. After looking at me as if I were from Pluto, Sharon turned around and walked off slowly, in a state of utter shock and disbelief. I hung my head, went back into the house, and fixed myself a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

The next few days I took long, sullen walks all over the city. 'Why?' I shouted silently to myself. 'Why? Why? Why?' I kicked my way past train tracks, through withered chicory and geriatric dandelion, amid tall stands of fertile ragweed. I could find no answers in my mind to explain what I'd done--just mental static.

By evening, I had given up all attempts at self-analysis. There's nothing that a little mobile technology won't cure, however. I dialed Terry's number.

'Terry, help me,' said I.

'Of course,' Terry said. 'What's the problem?'

I paused, considered for a moment some outrageous lie: I had gone to the zoo and been mauled by an escaped zebra; I had eaten shoes.

'Two days ago, I turned Sharon down for a date,' said I, 'and now I'm heading over to Samantha's, for the third time since Thursday, to "play."'

'Wow,' Terry laughed. 'You really are in deep.'

The one I always wanted

'What? Right now?'

'Yes,' Smiths said, 'and I just happened to be on my way out. See you later, Alfie.'

'Sure, see you later,' I said, abstractedly, suddenly beginning to perspire despite the chill morning air. I brushed a hand through my hair, put on a mask of suave assurance, and began rehearsing what I was going to say: 'Oh, this is just the moment I'd been waiting for all these years, Sharon; we were meant to be together; I'm yours!'; or 'Oh, darling, take me in your arms; I adore you; let's ride off into the sunset!'; or perhaps, 'I've been fantasizing about you, too. . .just let me put out my cigar, my dear, and let's go out on the town.'

I was still on the front porch, fretting back and forth, when Sharon finally came into view. She was wearing a rose-colored dress, tastefully cut, that rippled slowly in the cool autumn wind. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back like so much silk, teasing the skin of her supple shoulders. I could just imagine the many nights of warmth, companionship, and sensuality that lay beyond.

'Hello, Alfie,' she said as she drew near.

'Hello, Sharon,' I said slowly, as if not trusting my voice to speak.

'Alfie, I know you know why I'm here. I saw Smiths walk away as I came down the street.'

I stood looking directly into her deep, oaken irises. 'Yes. I know.'

'Smiths is out of my life, Alfie. I never liked him, though I said I did; it was always you I wanted. I'm a single woman, Alfie. . .and being here with you in this brisk morning air, I see the reason why. Will you. . .'

'No, Sharon,' I said. 'I won't.'

Breaking news

I eyed Smiths skeptically. He looked repentant, though. 'All right, sure,' I said. 'So why did you and Sharon break up?'

'Because I didn't like the brand of perfume she was wearing, and she wanted to continue wearing said perfume.'

'If you're going to play the jester, maybe you should just go home,' said I.

'All right, all right.' Smiths ran a hand through his scruffy hair. 'If you must know the truth, it was not exactly a mutual decision.'

'That's surprising.'

'Yes, it is.'

'--breakups generally being mutually negotiated decisions and all. . .'

'Will you be quiet?' Smiths said. 'Look, Alfie--Sharon broke up with me so that she could date you. The only reason she ever started dating me was to make you jealous; she never liked me at all! Is that what you wanted to hear, Alfie? Is that what you wanted to hear?'

I looked at my friend, regarding his exhausted and utterly desperate visage, and put a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry for being so irresistible to women, Smiths. I feel great remorse for it. I would surely inhibit my inherent desirability if it were within my power to do so. (But it is not.)'

Smiths looked at me as if I were a peacock.

'So is there anything else I should know?' I said.

'Yes,' he said, letting out his breath. 'She sent me here to tell you all this. She's on her way over here right now.'

Smiths turns up

On a chilly morning in late August, Smiths showed up at my door.

'Smiths--hi,' said I.

'Hi, Alfie,' he said. 'Nice hair.'

'Yes, Smiths, I know it's sticking out in all directions,' said I. 'Of course, it always is at six o'clock in the morning.'

Smiths put on an apologetic puppy-dog face. Then, a different thought darkened his visage, and he said, 'Sharon and I broke up.'

I was silent for a moment.

'Well, Alfie?'

'Well, what?' I snapped. 'What do you want me to say?'

Smiths paused, furrowed his brow, unfurrowed it. 'That though I've been a bad friend, you forgive me. That you, like me, are a fallible human being, and so you understand.'

A pause.

'Well, I'm sorry,' I said. 'I can't forgive you.'

I waited for Smiths to either vociferate or walk away. Instead, he stayed, with a fixed expression. 'Would it change anything,' he said, 'if I told you why we broke up?'

Come in, the water's fine

Once again, Sam and I crept along the fifty yards of wooded path toward the abandoned mansion. It was August now, and chillier this time; the brisk air raised goosebumps on my arms.

'Here it is,' Sam said.

'Yes, here it is,' said I.

'You have a rubber, right?'

'Of course.'

I wondered for a moment whether I really wanted to do this. Usually, Samantha was so aggressive that, by the time I got to actually thinking things out, she was already pulling me toward her, pinning me against her nippled chest, whispering, 'Come in, the water's fine.' I thought maybe she'd turned less enthusiastic this evening; but no, she lurked ten yards off, pants down and peeing in the woods. Then she came to me, pressed me to her chest, and whispered, 'Come in, the water's fine.'

Once again, I heeded the call.

Me, my girlfriend, and I

Samantha and I now regularly paraded through the neighborhood holding hands. We passed Smiths's house, expecting--and getting--no envy. Two streets to the west we passed Sharon's house, a spreading tudor mansion; Sharon regularly appeared in an upstairs window, nostrils flaring.

My girlfriend, my girlfriend. . .one of the greatest phrases I ever had the pleasure of uttering was my girlfriend. Now, when I gave excuses about why I couldn't watch car racing at Dustin's house, or take a mud bath with Harriet, I could say, 'Sorry. My girlfriend and I have plans.' (Then, my body would grow tingly all over, my eyes would cross, and I'd pass out--but that's beside the point.)

One evening, Sam and I were walking past Sharon's house, her arms wrapped around my waist. A lighted window on the second floor of the mansion stood out against the darkening sky. The silhouettes of a scruffy young man and maned young woman could be seen in the window. Kissing. (The scruffy young man was enjoying it. The maned young woman was distracted.)

I stepped on a stick. The maned young woman's head pulled away from the scruffy young man, and she turned her gaze on the street.

'Uh-oh,' Samantha said.

'What's wrong?' said I.

'Nothing. . .I just got a strange look from that maned young woman in the window. A very strange look.'

Naughty minds

The mulberry tree was thick, but I plunged myself into its foliage and it gave way. Samantha sat crouched in the hollow. She was wearing a white T-shirt that was not small, but nevertheless fit tightly against her chest. She smiled at me. I had to admit she looked all right.

'Hey, Alfie,' she said. 'You look hot today.'

'Thanks,' I said, giving my best saccharine smile. 'So how are your clarinet lessons going?'

'Good,' she said. 'I like to blow long, hard objects.'

'That's nice to hear. And how about the Greek grammar, with your tutor?'

'Boring,' said Sam, 'except for one thing. . .do you know the etymology of the term "gymnasium"?'

I let out a sigh, exasperated. 'You have a one-track mind, don't you, Sam?'

'Yes,' she said, and smiled broadly at me. 'I certainly do.'

A short pause followed. Then, without warning, I pounced on her and pinned her body underneath mine. 'Good. I'm glad. Let's go.'

Through the trees

'See you later.'

I walked away, leaving the tennis ball in the short grass of Smiths's lawn.

The next day, I woke up at seven, under the influence of a nightmare whose content I couldn't quite recall when I awoke. Without eating breakfast or brushing my scruffy brown hair, I went out to the back yard--a long, thin field of grass, bordered by honeysuckle, that seemed to go back and back. I came here when I needed to think.

But this time, before I had gotten more than twenty feet into the yard, a voice said from the bush, 'Ha! Alfie!'

The words seemed to be coming from a mulberry tree that had pushed its way up through the surrounding honeysuckle. 'What? Who is it? Helen? Rebecca? Brunita?'

'I'll give you a hint,' the voice said. '"If you knew half the things I want to do to you. . ."'

'Samantha!' said I. 'What are you doing here?'

'No need to ask,' said she. 'Come in to this tree with me, Alfie. Come inside this tree, and I'll tell you more about those things I want to do to you.'

'Well,' said I. . .

A perfect triangle

Then, as if on cue, Sharon came walking down the street. Her thick auburn hair streamed in the wind.

'Hello, sexy,' said she, approaching.

'Hello, precious darling,' Smiths said. He embraced Sharon and began stroking her silky auburn hair.

Sharon eyed me conspicuously over Smiths's shoulder. It was a look that screamed, 'You could have your arms around me and be stroking my silky auburn hair right now, but you screwed it all up, you loser!'

I cleared my throat.

As long as it's not Sharon

Smiths and I spent a lot of time together that summer. Smiths ate peanut butter sandwiches and spoke of Russian history while I smashed a tennis ball against his garage.

'I have a girlfriend,' Smiths told me one day.

I turned around in such shock that the ball I had just whacked came back and hit me in the cheek.

'You're not supposed to be that surprised, Alfie,' said he. 'Come on.'

'Sorry, man,' said I. I well knew it shouldn't have come as such a shock; but Smiths was pasty, reclusive, and in the habit of snarfing sandwiches. How could he have a girlfriend and I not?

Of course, there was Samantha. We hadn't had a tryst in at least five days, though; I was burning for her, and she always seemed occupied.

'I'm happy for you,' I told Smiths. 'It was about time you got a girl.'

'Thanks,' Smiths said.

But I stopped. . .my blood suddenly ran cold. . .I turned my gaze back on Smiths.

I said, 'As long as it's not Sharon, that is.'

Summer's coming

After parting ways with Samantha, I stumbled home and snuck quietly into the house, only to find my mother perched near the doorway, reading a novel in the light of a reading-lamp.

'You're still awake, Mum?' said I.

'Yes, Alfie. Why's your hair so mussed?'

'Um. . .it's the style now, mother. Yes. . .it's square to look groomed. Ostentatiously casual is in.'

She looked up from the book. 'I understand, Alfie.'

I pretended not to notice the knowing quality of the look. She'd known about the dance, she'd once been sixteen herself, she understood young men in a sly way. I said, 'We danced good-naturedly for an hour and a half, drank non-alcoholic beverages such as water and V8, and split ways in the parking lot, well before any lascivious behavior had a chance to occur.'

The crickets chirped loud outside my window that night.

Tryst II

A small wooded path opened almost imperceptibly in the otherwise dense forest on the right side of the lane. We glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then plunged deep into the trees.

'I think you're going to like this, Alfie.'

'I do already,' I said, and she turned back and kissed me.

After traveling about fifty yards down the path, we came into a sort of clearing. It wasn't as dramatic, certainly, as it would have been in the daylight, but it was still almost thrilling.

'Here I show you the Abandoned House.'

'That's magnificent,' said I. 'Might there also be an Abandoned Bed somewhere within?'

'Not on a first date,' Sam said.

'I was kidding, Samantha.'

'I wouldn't mind any other activities we might do in a dark, abandoned house on a mysterious night, though,' she said, with a naughty look in my direction. 'We enter here.'

Tryst

'. . .would like to go back to your house with you.'

If Samantha's eyes gaped a little wider at this, her quick mind soon recovered from the surprise. 'But my parents would be home, Alfie. C'mon. . .I've got a better idea.'

She grabbed me by the hand, slinging her other arm around my waist, and we walked down Goosefluff Lane in the shimmering moonlight.

'The night is splendid,' I said, '. . .but where are we going?'

'Don't you worry about that,' said she, quietly. 'I have a place.'

I didn't know if that's what I had meant.

As we neared the far end of Goosefluff Lane, the houses grew larger, statelier, and more heavily shrouded in shrubbery. Around the houses a forest grew tall and wild; the architecture was, of course, Victorian; and the night was saturated with an air of mystery normally reserved for films based on books by Steven King.

'This way,' Sam said.

A walk in moonlight

'So. . .did you have a good time, Alfie?' Sam said.

'Spectacular,' I said, rubbing my cheeks with cold fingers. The cool night spread out around us. . . stars twinkled down. . .the entire galaxy was dripping with light. For a moment I almost let myself think, 'it really could have been.'

'Are you. . .feeling. . .all right,' Sam said. . .and, as if I had spoken the sentiment out loud, shot me a conspicuously knowing glance.

Glib young men, though, are utterly impervious to such looks. 'Wipe that conspicuously knowing glance,' said I, 'off that visage.'

'Say "face," Alfie,' Samantha said. 'And, darling. . .can you tell why mine's so flushed?'

'I honestly have no guess.'

'Let me help.'

Sam grabbed my hand, kissed it twice or thrice, and drew it to her chest. Despite myself, I felt a twinge in my stomach. In the moonlight she looked almost beautiful.

'Sam, I. . .'

The heat is on

'Well, here we are,' Samantha said, nudging me hard in the ribs. It hurt, but I pretended it didn't. As I was striving to maintain this husk of toughness, she leaned in and kissed me on the mouth, right in front of the chaperones stationed at the entrance.

'Stop it, Samantha!' protested I. 'Cut it out!'

'Ah, if you knew half the things I'd like to do to you,' she said, shooting me a flirtatious look that almost made up for her pimples, but not quite.

As we entered the dance hall, the buoyant rhythms of Glenn Frey's "The Heat is On" pumped through the darkened room. Samantha and I slipped our way into the thick crowd, fighting through the mass of writhing bodies, saxophone riffs, and the flashing lights that pulsed through the surrounding darkness.

Finally, we found a pocket of empty space amid the chaos. In this strangely intimate setting, Sam suddenly drew me forcefully toward her, breathing hot breath against my neck as she pulled me to her bosom. At this point, an impassioned kiss was inevitable.

At the end of the song, the room grew lighter for an instant; and, as I pulled away from Sam's kiss, I glanced across the room, only to set eyes on an utterly dumbfounded Sharon. Her green eyes were pulled as wide as I'd ever seen them; she stood there, drop-jawed, as if she had completely forgotten Claude Reeves's arm around her waist.

Banter

With Samantha's clammy hand in mine, the two-mile walk to the school was disturbing. Nonetheless, we did maintain some semblance of conversation.

'So, Samantha, do you take showers often?'

'I'd like to take one with you,' she said, licking her lips.

'That's nice,' I said, as calm and unruffled as if she'd been discussing philately. 'So how is advanced geometry?'

She seemed inflamed by this inquiry. Arching her back and thrusting her large chest forward, she said, 'It would be much better if you were in it.'

I straightened my tie with my free hand, and coughed twice or thrice. 'Look, Sam. . .could we please talk about something other than how fervently you desire me?'

'Well,' replied Sam, 'we could talk about how cute you are.'

'I suppose,' I said, despondently, 'that that's an entirely different matter.'

'Yes,' Samantha said. 'Your cuteness, and my visceral desire for you, are totally unrelated.'

'Thanks for clearing that up,' said I.

A hot night. . .

'You're late,' Samantha yelled up the stairs.

'It's a matter of policy,' I said, adjusting my tie as I descended them.

'Policy?'

'Yes,' said I. 'I always make it a point to be late for dates I shall not enjoy.'

The girl tore at her greasy mop of brown hair. 'Alfie,' she said, 'you may be cute, but you're so mean!'

'Be fair, now, Sam,' said I. 'I haven't mistreated you. I've only implied that I do not see myself enjoying our forthcoming date. That is all.'

At this, my mother entered the front hallway to adjust my collar. Then, after a short and awkward attempt at frivolous conversation between the three of us, Samantha and I left hand-in-hand.

The dance

When the sophomore dance rolled around, I didn't go with Sharon. I was asked by Samantha Beesley, a greasy-haired brunette, a real noodle of a girl. I said 'yes' right away, before I had time to think about it.

'You're going with Samantha?' Smiths said to me at lunch.

'Yes,' I said. 'Sadly, yes.'

Smiths bit deep into his peanut-butter-and-tofu sandwich. 'I just don't get it. Why wouldn't you just ask Sharon, like a normal guy? I even think she might be into you.'

I bit into a section of my orange. 'I thought about it, Smiths--I really did. Claude Reeves beat me to it, man.'

'Well, you're a fool,' Smiths told me. 'Timing is everything. You've got to go right out and grab a woman or she'll slip away.'

'At least I've got Sandra,' I said.

Smiths looked at me as if I belonged in a sanitarium.

'I sure do dislike that Claude, though. . .'

Chilly Debby departs

I awoke to find I'd coated my pillow in drool. The harsh light of my room glared into my eyes, quickly giving rise to a headache that would last all day.

'Sleep well?' my father wondered from the hall.

'Wonderfully,' said I. 'When is Chilly Debby visiting?'

'You slept through the visit,' said he.

'I may be a heavy sleeper,' said I, 'but this is ridiculous.'

'Of course,' clarified he, 'she only stayed for an hour.'

'An hour? That's ridiculous. She lives in Houston.' Even my relief that I would not have to spend endless hours in the same room as Chilly Debby was, admittedly, a bit dampened by the insult.

Mona, our cat, wandered into the room, swishing her furry white tail. 'Chilly Debby has her ways,' she seemed to say, 'Chilly Debby has her ways.'

The scene

'Hello, Sharon.'

'Hello, Alfie.'

'I've been fantasizing about you.'

'I've been fantasizing about you, too.'

I approach her slowly. I've been smoking a cigar in the shadows of my office. I am Alfie Norton, private eye.

'You look really handsome in that fedora,' Sharon says.

'You look sexy in those heels,' I say.

I blow the smoke casually into the shadowy room. Everything is silent. And then. . .

Desire

Every day when I came home from school, I sat in my room and desired Sharon. I would imagine that we were in a basement, crowded onto a loveseat, watching an old thriller. Then, without warning, Sharon would take my warm hand in hers; I would reach over and run my fingers slowly through her silky hair; and we'd lean closer, closer, finally pulling together for a passionate kiss. She would place her hand at the back of my head and pull me closer, as if she were feeding and could not get enough. Afterwards, we'd discuss biology and chemistry and the history of Western thought, and. . .

Then I'd scold myself: 'God, Alfie. . .Even your fantasies are nerdy.' And, of course, they could never come true. A little, wiry, greasy-haired geek like me could never hope to lock lips with a beautiful woman with silky auburn hair. Beautiful women with silky auburn hair liked the captain of the football team, other assorted Hercules-types, and billionaires. Then I'd realize I had been drooling on my biology homework, with my right hand clutching a ball of Play-Doh so hard that it was squeezing through the cracks of my fingers. My grades were starting to slip; I'd better forget Sharon until summer. Then I'd call her.

The visit

'Alfie,' my mother said, 'stop reading The Fountainhead and do your math homework!' I looked up from my perch at the window, dazed. 'And, by the way,' continued she, 'Chilly Debby is coming to visit.'

A deep shudder ran down the length of my spine, but I kept a calm exterior. 'Is that right,' said I, 'is that right.'

'Um. . .yes. She's coming in May, with Cousin Dirk.'

'I'll remember to come down with the flu, then,' said I.

Mother stopped short. 'What's wrong with Chilly Debby?'.

'She doesn't like Oasis,' said I, 'and her eyes are frosted with. . .' (a pause for drama) '. . .the Winter of the Soul.'

'You're silly,' Mother said, and left the room.

I returned to my book, where I had seen visions of Sharon's mane in every word. Now my mind had frozen stiff, like a shallow pond in the cold of December. There would be no rest on this night.

Sharon and Alfie

'Hello, Sharon,' said I, staring at her lush auburn hair and glossy lips.

'Oh, Alfie!' said she. 'You said 'hi' back! I'm so relieved; I was so worried as popular a boy as you would simply ignore me.'

Inside, I screamed, 'Earth to Sharon! Earth to Sharon! You are the most beautiful, most widely-admired girl in the tenth grade, and I am a total reject!' Outside, I said calmly, 'Indeed.'

'So, Alfie,' she crooned, leaning close and breathing her hot breath against my exposed neck, 'do you know you're so attractive, I can hardly resist myself?'

'Is that so?' said I.

'Yes, Alford--yes!' said she.

Now my world started to spin. 'Uh, hold on, Sharon. . .let me get my inhaler,' said I, teetering.

'Actually,' said she, 'on second thought, I have a math class to get to.'

By this time I had passed out and was lying sprawled on the stone floor of the hallway, mouth open. But I was to return. . .

Girls

I was still awkward with girls. On the rare occasions when a nice-looking one happened to look at me--and perhaps even smile--I generally managed to prove myself a geek pretty quickly. My growth spurt, I noticed, had lately given me more opportunities to exercise my nerdiness. Sharon, a beautiful, popular girl with auburn hair, even said 'hi' to me once in the hall.

High school

But I had friends--a few. They were a bit odd; I don't think Chilly Debby would have approved. My friend Smiths ate tofu-and-peanut-butter sandwiches and talked about how dumb vegetarians were. Terry came from a farm. Cindy worshipped her own cerebral cortex. And I sat there and patiently listened to everything they had to say. I myself had nothing. I wanted a second girlfriend, I suppose. . .but fat chance of that coming to pass. . .

Solitude

I was alone, and now I realized just how cold the world--against which her warmth had buffered me--had always been. Before, men had been expected to be urbane, and perhaps a bit handsome, if that was feasible--I always think of Fitzwilliam Darcy, somehow. But now we were expected to be a lot more, and at the same time a lot less. I wanted to be Kurt Cobain, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Tom Cruise, all rolled into one. Instead, I was a wiry teenager who bore a strong resemblance to anemia, personified.

Adolescence

My adolescence was fraught with difficulty. It was hard to tell what view Chilly Debby took of this; she was busy sitting on couches reading books on economics and social history. And I--I was cute once. . .I was adorable once. Even at fifteen I might have been adorable. My girlfriend sure thought so. She was soon to dump me, however. I was possessed with the desire to explore her in ways only a man can explore. Unfortunately, I was still a boy. She peeled my arms back from around her neck and threw them back at me, like so much rubber.

Chilly Debby

Once upon a time, there was an aunt named Chilly Debby. When I was just a boy, and content with just feeding the ducks down at the pond, or throwing a frisbee back and forth with my little friends, Debby didn't seem to mind me. (She could even--gasp!--be almost nice!) But as I grew older, and became interested in more Serious, Important things--the Outer World and its Great Happenings, for instance--and even deigned once in a great while to pick up--gasp!--a Book--Chilly Debby began to grow a little uncomfortable. I was still just a boy. . .but I had sprouted a little spot of fuzz on my upper lip: the sign that soon I was finally, at long last, to become a Grown-Up.