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.'