The Rules of Attraction

VICTOR New York was a real hassle. I ended up staying with some girl who thought her mail was coming from Jupiter. She had no hips and was a Gitano jeans model from Akron, but still it was a drag. She caught me going out with Philip Glass’s daughter anyway, and kicked me out. I stayed at Morgan’s for a couple of nights and split without paying the bill. Then I stayed at some Camden grad’s place on Park and unplugged all the phones since I didn’t want the ’rents to know I was back in town. Tried to get a job at Palladium but some other Camden grad got the only job left: coat check. Got into a rock band, dealt acid, went to a couple of okay parties, went out with a girl who worked at Interview and who tried to enroll me into Hunter, went out with another model, one of Malcolm McLaren’s assistants, tried to get back to Europe, but decided on a cold partyless night in November to head back to New Hampshire and Camden. Got a ride with Roxanne Forest, who was in town for some movie premiere or the opening of another Cajun restaurant and I stayed with her and Rupert Guest Drug Dealer at their place in North Camden, which was cool since he had unlimited supplies of great Indica pot and Christmas Tree bud. Besides that I also wanted to get in touch with Jaime. When I called Canfield, a girl with an unfamiliar voice answered the phone.

“Hello? Canfield House.”

“Hello?” I said.

There was this pause and then the girl recognized my voice and said my name, “Victor?”

“Yeah? Who is this?” I asked, wondering if it was Jaime, pissed off that she hadn’t been in Manhattan when I got back.

“Victor,” the girl laughed. “It’s me.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “You.”

Rupert was on the floor trying to glue a beer bong he’d made back together, but he was wasted and kept cracking up instead. I started cracking up too, watching him and said to the voice on the phone, “Well, how are you?”

“Victor, why haven’t you called me? Where are you?” she asked. Either that or I was seriously tripping.

“I’m in New York City where the girls are pretty and life is kinda shitty and the birds are itty bitty—” I laughed, then noticed movement on Rupert’s part. He jumped up and put Run D.M.C. on the stereo and started rapping along with them, singing into the Kirin bong.

“Give it to me,” I said, reaching for the bong.

“I’ve been…” the voice stalled.

“You’ve been what, honey?” I asked.

“I’ve missed you badly,” she said.

“Hey honey. Well, I’ve missed you too.” This girl was looney-tunes and I started cracking up again, trying to light the bong, but the pot kept falling out.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re in New York,” the voice said.

“Well maybe I’m not,” I said.

The voice stopped talking after that and just breathed heavily into the phone. I waited a minute and then handed the phone over to Rupert, who made pig noises into it, then turned on the VCR all the while rapping to “You Talk Too Much.” He bent down and said, “You never shut up,” into the receiver, then “Sit on my face if you please.” I had to put my hand over the receiver to keep this girl from hearing me laugh. I pushed Rupert away.

He mouthed, “Who is it?”

I mouthed back, “I don’t know.”

I get a hold on myself and then finally asked this girl what I called for in the first place, “Listen, is Jaime Fields in? Room 19, I think.” The bong dropped against the table. I picked it up before it rolled off the table and shattered.

“You shithead! Be careful,” Rupert screamed, laughing.

The girl on the phone wasn’t saying anything.

“Hello? Anyone there?” I tapped the phone against the floor. “I’d like to buy a vowel, please.”

The girl finally said my name, really whispered it, and then hung the phone up, disconnecting me.