The Rules of Attraction

PAUL My damn radio went off accidentally at seven o’clock this morning and I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I stumbled out of bed, immediately lit a cigarette and closed the windows since it was freezing in the room. Even though I could barely open my eyes (if I did I was positive my skull would split open) I could see that I was still wearing my tie, my underwear, and my socks. I couldn’t figure out why I was only wearing these three articles of clothing so I stood for a long time staring into the mirror trying to remember last night, but couldn’t. I stumbled into the bathroom and took a shower, grateful that there was some warm water left. I dressed hurriedly and braced myself for breakfast.

Actually it was quite nice out. It was that time of October just when the trees were about to lose their fall foliage and the morning was cold and crisp and the air smelled clean and the sun, obscured by graying clouds, wasn’t too high yet. I was still feeling awful though, and the five Anacin I popped weren’t anywhere near doing their job. Bleary-eyed, I almost put a twenty in the change machine. I passed the post office but there was nothing in my box since it was too early for mail. I got cigarettes and went up to the dining hall.

There was no one in line. That cute blond-haired Freshman boy was behind the counter not saying a word, only wearing the biggest pair of black sunglasses I’ve ever seen, serving the wettest looking scrambled eggs and these little brown toothpicks which I suspected were sausages. The thought of eating nauseated me to no end and I looked at the boy who just stood there, holding a spatula. My initial horniness gave way to irritation and I muttered, “You’re so pretentious,” cigarette still in mouth, and got a cup of coffee.

The main dining room was the only one open so I went in and sat down with Raymond, Donald, and Harry, this little Freshman who Donald and Raymond befriended, a cute boy who was concerned with typical Freshman questions, like Is there life after Wham!? They had been up all night doing crystal meth, and they had invited me, but I had followed … Mitchell, who was sitting at another table across the dining hall, to that stupid party instead. I tried not to look over at him and that awful fucked-out slut he was sitting with, but I couldn’t help it and I cursed myself for not jerking off when I woke up this morning. The three fags were huddled around a sheet of paper composing a student blacklist and even though their mouths were moving a mile a minute, they noticed me, nodded, and I sat down.

“Students who go to London and come back with accents,” Raymond said, writing furiously.

“Can I bum a cig?” Donald asked me absently.

“Can you?” I asked back. The coffee tasted atrocious. Mitchell, that bastard.

“Oh, do be real, Paul,” he muttered as I handed him one.

“Why don’t you just buy some?” I asked as politely as someone who’s hungover and at breakfast possibly could.

“Anybody who rides a motorcycle, and all Deadheads,” Harry said.

“And anyone who comes to breakfast who hasn’t stayed up all night,” Donald shot a glance over at me.

I made a face at him and crossed my legs.

“Those two dykes who live in McCullough,” Raymond said, writing.

“How about all of McCullough?” suggested Donald.

“Even better.” Raymond scribbled something down.

“What about that slut with Mitchell?” I offered.

“Now, now, Paul. Calm down,” Raymond said, sarcastically.

Donald laughed and wrote her name down anyway.

“What about that mean fat trendy girl?” Harry asked.

“She lives in McCullough. She’s taken care of.”

I couldn’t stand this twisted faggy banter so early in the morning and I was going to get up and get more coffee but I was too tired to even do that and I sat back and didn’t look at Mitchell and soon all the voices became indistinguishable from one another, including mine.

“Anyone with beards or facial hair of any kind.”

“Oh that’s good.”

“How about that boy from L.A.?”

“But not really.”

“You’re right, but put him down anyway.”

“Anyone who goes for seconds at the salad bar.”

“Are you auditioning for that Shepard thing, Paul?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“That part. The Shepard play. Auditions today.”

“Anybody who waits to get braces after high school.”

“No, I’m not.”

“People who consider themselves born again.”

“That rules out the entire administration.”

“Quelle horreur!”

“Rich people with cheap stereos.”

“Boys who can’t hold their liquor.”

“What about boys who can hold their liquor?”

“True, true.”

“Put down girls who can’t.”

“I’ll just put down Lightweights.”

“What about David Van Pelt?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I slept with him.”

“You didn’t go to bed with David Van Pelt.”

“Yes I did.”

“How?”

“He’s a Lightweight. I told him I like his sculptures.”

“But they’re awful!”

“I know that.”

“He’s got a harelip.”

“I know that also. I think it’s … sexy.”

“You would.”

“Anybody with a harelip. Put that down.”

“What about The Handsome Dunce?”

I vaguely wanted to know who The Handsome Dunce was for some reason but couldn’t bring myself to muster the interest to ask. I felt like shit. I don’t know these people, I was thinking. I hated being a Drama major. I started to sweat. I pushed the coffee away and reached for a cigarette. I had switched majors so many times now that I didn’t even care. Drama major was simply the last roll of the dice. David Van Pelt was disgusting, or at least I used to think so. But now, this morning, his name had an erotic tinge to it, and I whispered the name to myself, but Mitchell’s came instead.

Then suddenly they all cackled, still huddled around the paper, reminding me of the three witches from Macbeth except infinitely better looking and wearing Giorgio Armani. “How about anybody whose parents are still married?” They laughed and congratulated each other and wrote it down, satisfied.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “But my parents are still married.”

They all looked up, their smiles fading quickly to deep concern. “What did you say?” one of them asked.

I cleared my throat, paused dramatically and said, “My parents aren’t divorced.”

There was a long silence and then they all screamed, a mixture of disappointment and disbelief and they threw their heads on the table, howling.

“No way!” Raymond said, amazed, alarmed, looking up as if I had just admitted a devastating secret.

Donald was gaping. “You are kidding, Paul.” He looked horrified and actually backed away as if I were a leper.

Harry was too stunned to speak.

“I’m not kidding, Donald,” I said. “My parents are too boring to get a divorce.”

I liked the fact that my parents were still married. Whether the marriage was any good was anyone’s guess, but just the fact that most, or all, of my friends’ parents were either divorced or separated, and my parents weren’t, made me feel safe rather than feeling like a casualty. It almost made up for Mitchell and I was pleased with this notoriety. I relished it and I stared back at the three of them, feeling slightly better.

They were still staring, dumbfounded.

“Go back to your stupid list,” I said, sipping my coffee, waving them away. “Stop staring at me.”

They slowly looked back at the list and got back into it after that short, stunned silence, but they resumed their game with less enthusiasm than before.

“How about people with tapestries in their rooms?” Harry suggested.

“We already have that,” Raymond sighed.

“Is there any more speed left?” Harry sighed.

“No,” Donald sighed also.

“How about anyone who writes poetry about Womanhood?”

“Bolsheviks from Canada?”

“Anyone who smokes clove cigarettes?”

“Speaking of cigarettes, Paul, can I bum another one?” Donald asked.

Mitchell reached across the table and touched her hand. She laughed.

I looked back at Donald, incredulous. “No. You cannot,” I said, my hysteria building. “Absolutely not. That infuriates me. You are always ‘bumming’ cigarettes and I won’t stand for it anymore.”

“Come on,” Donald said as if I was only joking. “I’ll buy some later. I’m broke.”

“No! It also infuriates me that your father owns something like half of Gulf and Western and you always pretend to be broke,” I said, glaring.

“Is it such a big crisis?” he asked.

“Yeah, Paul, stop having a grand mal,” Raymond said.

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Harry asked.

“I know why,” Raymond said slyly.

“Wedding bells?” Donald giggled, looking over at Mitchell’s table.

“It is such a crisis.” I was adamant, ignoring them. I’m going to kill that slut.

“Just give me one. Don’t be bitchy.”

“Okay, I’ll give you one if you tell me what won best costume design at the Tonys last year.”

There was a silence that followed that I found humiliating. I sighed and looked down. The three of them didn’t say anything until Donald finally spoke up.

“That is the most meaningless question I have ever heard.”

I looked over at Mitchell again, then slid the cigarettes across the table. “Just take them. I’m getting more coffee.” I got up and headed out of the dining hall. But then I had to stop and duck into the salad bar room because there was the Swedish girl I was with last night, showing her I.D. to the food service checker. I waited there until she walked into the serving area. Then I ran quickly downstairs and headed for class. I thought about trying out for that Shepard play, but then thought why bother, when I’m already stuck in one: my life.

I sat at a desk not listening to the drone of the professor, glancing over at Mitchell, who looked happy (yeah, he got laid last night) and who was taking notes. He looked around the room, disgusted, at the people smoking (he quit when he came back — how irritating). They probably looked like machines to him, I imagined. Like chimneys, spurts of smoke rising from that hole in their heads. He looked at the ugly girl in the red dress trying to look cool. I looked at the graffiti on the desk: “You Lose.” “There Is No Gravity. The Earth Sucks.” “The Brady Bunch Slept Here.” “What Ever Happened to Hippie Love?” “Love Stinks.” “Most Cab Drivers Have Liberal Arts Degrees.” And I sat there feeling like the hapless lover. But then I remembered, of course, that now I’m only hapless.