The Rules of Attraction

SEAN There is no way I’m driving the dude to the bus station. I can’t believe he even asked me. I’m hungover as hell and feel like I’m going to throw up blood and I woke up on the floor of someone’s room and it’s cold and I’m in a bad mood and I owe Rupert five hundred bucks. He’s pissed off supposedly, and has threatened to kill me. I can’t believe I’m up this early. I bought an onion bagel at the snack bar and it’s cold but I’m still wolfing it down. He’s standing there already, with his bag and sunglasses and long coat, reading some book. I mumble a good morning.

“Just get up?” he asks, smirking.

“Yeah. Missed my guitar tutorial. Shit.” I climb on the bike and try to start it. I hand him the onion bagel. I turn the ignition. I decide to just fake it; pretend the bike won’t start. He won’t be able to tell.

“You shaved,” I say, trying to make conversation; get his attention away from the bike.

“Yeah. I was getting a little scruffy there,” he says.

“Doing it for Mom? That’s real nice,” I say.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

“Nice,” I say.

“Can I have a bite of your bagel?” he asks.

No way. I don’t want to give him a bite of my bagel. I say, “Sure.”

I start the bike up, jiggle the keys, then let it die again. Put my foot on the accelerator; turn it off with a flick of the wrist. Then start it up again. The bike makes a sputtering sound, the engine dies.

“Oh shit,” I say.

I pretend to try it again. The bike, of course, just won’t start.

“Shit.” I get off the bike and lean down. He’s watching me closely.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I don’t know what to say so I say, “Needs a jumpstart.” Smile to myself.

“Jumpstart? Christ,” he mutters, checking his watch.

I get back on the bike and do the trick again. The bike just will not start.

“It’s not gonna start,” I tell him.

“What do I do?” he asks.

I sit there, look out over Commons, finish the cold bagel, yawn. “What time is it?”

“Eleven,” he says.

He’s a liar. It’s only ten-forty-five. I go along with it. “Your bus leaves at eleven-thirty, right?”

“Right,” he says.

“That’s enough time to find someone who’ll give me a jumpstart.” I yawn again.

He’s looking at his watch. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll find someone. Getch’ll do it.”

“Getch has Music for the Handicapped now,” he tells me.

I knew that. “Does he?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say. “I didn’t know Getch took that.”

“I’m taking a cab,” he says.

Thank God. “Okay,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“Sorry guy,” I say.

“It’s all right.” He’s irritated. He gets off the bike and tucks the copy of the book he’s reading in the dufflebag, straightens his sunglasses.

“I’ll see you Sunday, okay?” he says, asks.

“Yeah. Bye,” I say.

Go back to my room and drink some Nyquil to get to sleep. I heard that junkies use the stuff when they can’t find any heroin or methadone. It does the job. The only problem is that I dream about Lauren, and she’s all blue.