|Freshman Year, 2001: Part six
I continued, “The best thing about knowing you was probably when we’d leave a party and pretend like I was going to drop you off at home and then park the minivan a block away from your house and do our stuff. And that one time the dude went walking by the car and for a second we thought it was your Dad and then we realized it wasn’t your Dad but it was your neighbor. But those were good times.”
Her blue eyes stared at me. “Why didn’t you want to be ‘official’?”
“I hate official things.”
“Well it was kind of annoying.”
“Officialness is terrible. Like officials in games, like in football, everyone hates ‘em. And in baseball too. Same in hockey. The officials suck. I just didn’t want to suck. Well, not that I didn’t do a little of that in certain regions but I didn’t want to blow, you know?”
I finished the last gulp of my forty, stood up, and felt the room reel a bit. I liked it. Everything was sharp and fast. I started dancing (not really dancing but bouncing a little, up and down to the beat) while I continued talking to Heather, sitting on the couch. I saw Allen across the room talking to a girl.
“Heather, what I like so much about college is that the whole reason we’re here is for college. I mean, there’s no other reason to be existing here except for the purpose of existing at college. We’re having this experience to have this experience, is what I mean. It’s not like high school where you do it because it’s the law and your parents make you but it’s totally different. Out of the nest. The reason I’m a little drunk is because I’m in college and I’m experiencing college, it feels good.”
Heather stood up from the couch and her face was close to mine and I wanted to swallow her whole and she tapped me on the stomach and she was tired but she smiled and asked me to walk her home. We found Allen talking to a girl, a different one from before, and we said goodbye.
The walk was quick, since I was drunk and never stopped talking, and also since she lived fairly close. We were outside her dorm, I was in the middle of a drunken soliloquy,
“But before he ever made it back from the store we left for the baseball game because we thought he was never coming back, and how were we supposed to know? We couldn’t wait a whole ‘nother hour for him to get back, ‘cause otherwise we’d miss the game. He’s such a lazy son of a bitch. So we’re at your dorm, are you inviting me to see your room or are we hugging and saying goodbye, not that I care either one, but it would be nice to see your room since I’ve never seen it, of course without any intentions aside from looking at your dorm room which I imagine is as interesting as pie.”
She smiled her tired drunken smile, “Yeah, come to my room.”
I gleefully walked up four flights of stairs and gleefully went to the men’s bathroom, making transient friends with a faceless voice from one of the stalls.
“Man, do other people like pissing as much as I do or am I freak?” I asked as I let the lizard drain.
“Dude,” came the wary voice, “pissing is almost as good as drinking. It’s almost as good. But not quite as good.”
“If I couldn’t piss,” I went on, “life would be all shit.”
“All shit,” he said, “all shit and no piss makes Jack an angry boy.”
I finished up, washed my hands, and wished him a pleasant evening.
“Fuck all motherfuckers and their motherfucking shit,” he replied.
I walked into Heather’s room and the bright ceiling light was on and she was standing looking into a mirror. I smiled and stepped in the room, closed the door and went straight for her lips and we kissed, and I couldn’t quite feel very much, but liked that we were kissing anyways.
Her four-fingered hand occurred to me again, as it had throughout the night, but I forgot about it in her lips which I was trying to taste but failing and gaining horniness.
We stood kissing for a little. Then we went on her bed, lying on our sides. Then I lay on top of her. And then her on top of me. And then I began reaching under her shirt to touch her back and then slowly around to her breasts. We were dry humping, and dry humping always hurts but I was drunk and it felt fine.
And her shirt was off and her glorious breasts were out. And then she took off my shirt and caressed my muscles and I looked at her right hand with four fingers, and I looked away. And tried to pay attention to the caresses but was too drunk for nuance and I looked at her four fingered hand again and then looked away. And I think she noticed and she pressed her breasts up against my chest and we kissed and she began to reach into my jeans and I saw it was her right hand and I pushed my lips onto hers again. And I felt her hand reaching closer, teasing, and reaching closer, and I pushed my lips onto hers and didn’t feel the kiss but thought of her hand and then felt her grab it but didn’t feel much and felt her stroke it and didn’t feel much but just thought of the four fingers on it, with the little tree stump of a pinky. And I realized I was soft. And I pulled my face away and sat up and let her hand slip out of my pants.
“I think I’m really drunk,” I said, in a haze.
“Yeah, me too.” She said.
Her four fingered hand had been stroking my flaccid guy.
I threw on my shirt and said, “It was good talking to you. Thanks for inviting me to the party. I want to go to sleep.”
“You can sleep in my bed,” she said.
“I really want to sleep in my bed. My bed’s a really comfortable bed and there’s a lot of room for me and I want to use my toothbrush and just get home in general.”
She looked at me, covering her chest with her blanket, her blue eyes dull and her mouth sad.
“Thanks for the party,” I said.
I walked home drunk and felt confused as I’d ever been and arrived at three in the morning. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom. Looked in the mirror at my face, which didn’t look great. And I went to pee in a urinal and examined my dick to make sure it was okay. I went to my room and slept soundly in my bed until ten the next morning.
Waking up wasn’t difficult. I was still a little drunk and I felt fresh and limber. I threw on some workout clothes and walked to the dining hall and had some eggs and potatoes and milk and cereal. The food made me less drunk but still felt good.
I walked back to the dorm and lied in bed and listened to my headphones, “Third Eye Blind.” I got up, groggily, after the CD finished, packed up my bag with books and headed to the library to study. Didn’t get anything done. Beginning to feel better though, and then went to lift weights, which was more difficult than usual.
On Tuesday morning I was lifting weights. The radio station programming was interrupted. I was benching and didn’t notice. I didn’t feel particularly strong that morning, but for a weak morning I was doing oka. Within weeks I’d pass the 205 mark.
I finished the set, pushing it real hard. It took a second to wrap my brain around what the frantic announcer was talking about. It was one of the world trade centers. Was that in Chicago or New York? New York. The announcer was real excited. I felt shook. Who could bomb America? No one.
I laid back down on the bench and put up another 8 reps of 200. I sat up and heard that another plane flew into the second tower. I didn’t know there was another tower. Again I felt shook. Who could bomb America? Someone, apparently.
The announcer continued on. I did the peck deck, dumb-bell curls, reverse curls, forearm rolls with a bar, incline and decline bench, and then I was out of there.
I walked across the fields towards the dorm, still feeling a little shook. It all really dropped quite a bit of perspective on life. I had been thinking way too much about Heather, and when I watched that footage for the next couple of weeks, over and over and over, of those planes crashing into those towers, I understood that life is short and unpredictable. I couldn’t waste my time thinking about bygones. Life is for today.
I conquered my freshman year. Decent grades, about a 3.5 all around. Good parties. Good lifting, good pickup football and hockey games. Real good women, and willing.
Life can’t be worse than you make it and it can’t be better than you make it. And if something happens to you, like if you lose a pinky, then you just have to keep on living. I ran into Heather on the street in November. She was with a dude. He wasn’t very good looking but he seemed alright. Heather’s a survivor. The most beautiful woman who went to my high school lost a pinky, but that didn’t stop her from living life to the fullest with the assets that she had.
If you don’t seize the day it’ll pass you up and find you lying dead stiff in a coffin and having failed to have any fun at all, with all the short sweet time that you once had.
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