Beware of Love in Technicolor (24 page)

“Almost as big as your room in The Pit,” he smirked. “And still no phone. Awesome.”

“Get bent,” I replied, frowning. “The views are good,” I directed him to our large windows in between the beds.

“Tennis courts,” he smiled, more friendly and less sarcastically now. “Perfect.”

I introduced him to Gwen, who took an immediate liking to my funny friend. During our conversation they realized they had a class together. The three of us decided to order a pizza and hang out for a while.

“Where’s John?” Topher asked me, taking a seat on my bed. Gone was the purple and yellow floral haze from the previous year. It had been replaced with a more tasteful Bill Blass bedding set, in neutral colors of sand and earth.

“We decided to give ourselves a night apart, to get a feel for things again,” I told him as I arranged my stereo and CD collection on my desk. I may as well face it; I never did homework at my desk.

“Have you seen the house?” he asked curiously. I knew he was jealous of John’s situation. Of John falling ass backwards into desirable situations he didn’t deserve, he didn’t work for.

“Yeah, when I helped him paint his room.”

“He didn’t paint it black, did he?” he groaned. I had to laugh.

“No,” I replied. “A nice non-committal gray.”

The conversation flowed easily, and we three ate an entire pizza while laughing about some of the things we had done as freshmen. Afterward, I walked over to Topher’s dorm to see his room, and have some time alone with him.

***

“Where’s Patrick living this year?” I asked him as we made the short walk across one of the many parking lots separating my dorm from his.

“In the apartments,” he answered.

“That’s a long hike to class every morning,” I said, waving to a couple of people I knew from the recycling committee.

“So, have you met John’s new roommates?” he asked as we passed the tennis courts. The evening was warm, the start of another school year. Just beyond the eastern tip of the parking lot, Carl was pulling the silver food truck into place, and a new group of students were about to learn how to order snotties on the rag.

“Yeah, Aaron and Wayne. Aaron’s cool. Shy, with crazy curly hair. He looks like Sideshow Bob. Wayne is a douchebag.” I thought back to the day we painted, the day I sat on the worn pappasan chair in the corner while John and his new roommates bonded over cheap booze and cheaper cigars.

“Who is Wayne?”

“He went to high school, private school, with Ben. Nothing like Ben at all, though. Nothing.”

“Do I sense a little somethin-somethin’ for Ben?” he asked wickedly. He could read me like a book and I hated it. But I loved it, too. He was as good as a girlfriend, without all the maintenance.

“Yeah, right,” I said, thinking of Ben. Thinking of Ben and his tanned arms and faded, retro t-shirts that fit him just right. “Although he is quite yummy.”

“Yummy?” Topher sneered at my use of the cheesy word.

“You heard me,” I answered smartly, refusing to give in. “But don’t tell John I said that. God, that’s all I need.”

“Face it, the magic’s wearing off,” he joked.

“You wish,” I joked back. We walked quietly for a few moments and I began to regret what I had said, even if it was in fun.

“
You talkin’ to me?
” he suddenly demanded, his step taking on that bounce that told me his mood was still high, there was no offense taken. “
You talkin’
,” he stated even louder. ”
to me?
”

“
Well I'm the only one here. Who the fuck do you think I’m talking to?
" I demanded back in my best Brando. We fell into the front foyer of his new dorm, laughing.

And all was right again in my world for a second semester at college.

Chapter Thirteen

With classes underway, the first month back at school flew by. After waiting in line for what felt like two weeks just to buy my books, realizing that most of the girls (yes, girls) on my floor were freshmen, and shuffling back and forth between my life on campus and John’s house off campus, I was ready for the first official party of the year.

It was a Saturday and I had work to do, so John had dropped me off at the front door of Bristol sometime just before noon. Though he said he had no plans for the afternoon, he seemed in a hurry to place a perfunctory kiss on my cheek, with a promise to be back for me at six. When he drove away, I noticed he drove back toward campus, instead of away from it.

After gathering up my writing materials and a Diet Coke in my room, I made my way to the computer cluster. Topher was working a short shift at the cluster as part of his work study job, so I had company, which did not help in getting any work done.

“Are you going to trip with us tonight? I mean, if they get it?” he asked me at one point.               “What are you talking about?”

“Patrick and John, if they get,” he stopped and looked around the cluster. The four other people spending their Saturday afternoon doing schoolwork in the basement of the SUB were heads down in their own projects. He lowered his voice anyway. “If they get acid for the party tonight.”

“What?” I demanded loudly. “They’re getting
what
?”

“I thought you knew,” Topher said.

“That’s why he didn’t drive back to Cloud 9 when he dropped me off. He was going to Patrick’s,” I said, more to myself than to my friend. “Where are they getting acid?”

Topher shrugged.

“Cloud 9?” he asked.

“Yeah, Cloud 9. Um, long story short: their address is 9 Cloud Court. They live on Cloud 9.”

“That wasn’t a very long story.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” I replied.

We sat in silence for a few moments.

“Have you ever tripped?” I finally asked him.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, sitting back in his chair. Then his face scrunched up. “Well, maybe. Not really. I think it was just paper.”

“What do you mean? Just paper?”

“I mean, my buddy bought what he thought was acid from some dude at a Grateful Dead show over the summer. I mean, it just looked like, it just was, paper, with little telephones printed on each little square. But it was supposed to be dosed. And I don’t think it was. I mean, it wasn’t. Definitely wasn’t.”

“You sure about that?” I grinned at him. I had to hold back laughing at him.

“Get bent, Bennett,” he replied.

“No, that was really clear. Thanks,” I was just barely holding back laughing at him now.

He leaned over and smushed his hand over the keyboard of the computer I was using, sending a random stream of letters and characters across the short story I was working on.

“Take that,” he said.

“Ha!” I cried out, really laughing now. “Joke’s on you. That actually makes this story better.”

“My shift is over. Let’s get out of here,” Topher said to me when we had caught our breath and I had fixed my ailing story. He gathered up his backpack and we headed out to get ready for a party that night.

***

             
John picked me up at Bristol at six that evening. Topher was still with me, and as we approached the car, we saw Patrick was already in the front seat. I hopped in the back and we drove to The Claw to get some dinner before heading to Cloud 9.

             
“Did you get it?” Topher asked them when we all sat down at our booth in the corner. The hustle and bustle of Saturday evening in a college town was palpable. The Claw was hopping with students flooding in to line their stomachs with greasy food before tying one on in any number of ways as the night progressed. Most kept it to beers on Frat Row and the sports teams’ houses just behind that in what appeared to be a quiet, suburban neighborhood. But we weren’t like most people.

             
“Mission accomplished,” Patrick grinned, his eyebrows raised in mischievous pleasure. He looked like an overgrown Leprechaun in a yellow Polo shirt.

             
“At least those hippies over in the mini dorms are good for something,” John said sarcastically.

             
“Hey now,” Topher said. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds.”

             
“Are you talking about acid?” I asked naively. I hated when they treated me like such a girl, not telling me anything. Assuming I was just along for the ride, no matter what it was. So sometimes I went out of my way to be exactly that.

             
“Shhhhhh...,” they all hissed at me. I looked around. Nobody was paying attention. I rolled my eyes, and began salting my plate of half-eaten food. I had my limits when it came to fried food, though almost zero will power. If it was in front of me, I’d eat it, unless I ruined it first.

             
“Hey!” Patrick cried out when he saw me dump half the salt shaker over my food. “What the hell are you doing?”

             
“I don’t want any more,” I said, innocently.

             
“Maybe we did,” he said.

             
“Ok, Stoner, eat your own food,” I teased.

             
“It’s best to look the other way when it comes to Greer and food,” John advised the others. “She defies logic in some of the weirdest ways.”

***

             
A year earlier, and I would have been mortified. A year earlier, and I would have been indignant. A year earlier, and there is no way I would have stood there in John’s gray-walled room with three guys, waiting for my small square of paper printed with a tiny purple elephant to deliver me to a new and strange world I was now eager to explore.

             
What a difference a year can make.

             
“Why do I only get one and you guys get two?” I asked John as he doled out the LSD.

             
“Because you have never done this before,” he said to me with a grin and a hand on my shoulder.

             
“But Topher has never,” I started to say, until I saw Topher shoot me a look that said the guys thought that, indeed, he had done it before. I shut up, and he smiled at me. Patrick and John were oblivious to the exchange.

             
“Everyone ready?” Patrick asked.

             
We all placed our paper on our tongues, grinned at one another, and waited for it all to happen.

***

             
It is tempting, as a writer, to delve into the gratuitous realm of uber-imagery, pumping my reader full of goofy, LSD-laced visuals of melting clocks and hidden messages in the music of Pink Floyd. But the truth of the matter is this: if you have ever experienced life from the hallucinogenic side of the tracks, you don’t need me to explain a trip. And if you have been a good sheep, and not strayed too far from the psychic barn, nothing I say will really describe what your head does when steeped in psychedelic chemicals.

             
Taking acid is sort of like taking your brain to Disneyland. You spend the entire time moving from one surreal ride to the next, with a lot of waiting in between. You finally understand why the Cheshire Cat can’t stop smiling.

             
There are a few moments from that night, however, that I will dredge up. Gratuitous or not.

Chapter Fourteen

              The guys of Cloud 9 learned that night that they needed to communicate a bit more effectively in the future regarding the types of soirees they intended to throw. While John had come home handing out LSD to interested takers, Wayne had visions of kegs and girls. Jared and Ben were looking for some sort of combination of the two. And Aaron, well, Aaron was unaccounted for, as usual.

             
It was still early when John’s bedroom door flew open and standing there was Wayne, his dirty blond hair pulled into a long ponytail. Following close behind him were three girls, with big, hairsprayed hair and excessive, poorly applied makeup. They stepped inside, the girls looking around nervously.

             
We had probably been tripping for about an hour, so I was still trying to get accustomed to the rhythm and cadence of an acid trip. My mind felt only loosely tethered to my body, everything seemed sharper, in some way, and the walls had a subtle way of breathing in and out, in and out.