When they arrived he was kind. His advice was freer, and certainly more insistent, than free-samples at a food store, “Yeah, don’t worry about it, freshman year is strange, no one knows themselves yet, just talk to people, ask them what their passion is.” He enjoyed watching them ramble around campus with a sense of schadenfreude as suggested by his lopsided half-moronic grin. He didn’t feel the need to conceal it. The campus itself wasn’t too bad; tidy and quaint, like an old British expat’s tea set, it made up for its geographical monotony with its sense of endearing permanence; we all came and went, but the same trees, roads and buildings remained. On their part, the freshmen just smiled back blankly, their lips twitching with fatigue. He recognized his obnoxiousness, but he liked talking far too much to help himself.
And for all his understated wisdom, he was no different than the freshmen. For one reason or another, ranging from city-dwelling dreams of musical stardom to familial distress, the majority of his closest friends had not returned this semester; he was just another lost penguin, ready to dawdle into the first wandering huddle of heat he could find. Speaking of which, the dude was thawing. Summer had been long and lonely and he missed the silky feel of someone else’s thighs. Like a widow makes peace with solitude, he had eventually made peace with this hiatus of sorts but he was back on campus now, and it didn’t take too long for his instincts to call wind of this.
Her name was Sophie and she reminded him of home because she smelt of vanilla and tasted like beer, the good kind. He met her at a party full of what’s-your-name-sorry-I’m-so-drunk strangers. Amidst the temporarily anonymous sea of heads she beamed at him like a lighthouse for three seconds—ten seconds in tipsy time. They bumped into each other while trying to get into a flimsy white house, lost by the previous owner due to gentrification, currently rented by four members of the school’s baseball team. “Oh I’m sorry, my bad,” she turned to face him “Oh don’t worry about it.” They pretended to make love when they fucked. “Why are you acting weird?” she murmured in the dark, “What? I’m not acting weird, I’m just, you know, resting, but I’m good, I just feel like resting,” he waffled, muffled by the pillow. “Where are you from again?” she inquired. “Umm, you know, from around,” he had trouble thinking; he was cross-faded still. She laughed and shoved him playfully. “I’ll go in a minute,” he reassured “You don’t have to leave,” he couldn’t tell whether she was being polite or sincere. He couldn’t tell whether it mattered or not. They parted amicably.
‘Bitches be bitches man.’ He found the bro-motto crass but the music of it had turned it into an involuntary earworm long ago, he couldn’t remember when. He disliked the word ‘bitch,’ not because it was degrading to women, but because it ruined the whole appeal of one for him; he was a cat person, dogs were too dirty and submissive. By this logic one might assume he enjoyed the word ‘pussy’ and its plosive pleasantness but the whole concept of an abstract universal vagina jarred his visual sensibilities too much. Rather than stand for an erotic synecdoche, the word conjured up ghastly visions of the giant and severed unknown flesh of the world.
Nonetheless, both words came to mind when he saw Sophie sauntering down the sidewalk. He waved and smiled forcefully—but not falsely—as he biked toward her direction. She made eye contact for a second, smiled nervously while looking away and waved without lifting her arm so that it looked more like a shush or away-with-you gesture. He biked past with the momentum of his last pedal, confused. The bro-motto took this bafflement as an opportunity to interject and present its argument. It was considered, then hastily discarded; there was more to this. Surprisingly it was ‘don’t think about it too much’ who won the argument. He was surprised because he considered himself and over-thinker. “I have to stop smoking so much weed,” he mumbled to himself.
He forgot things, people, because it was the only way to keep going, and because they forgot him too. And so he went to another party on another weekend. Things were going quite well at first, in the way that Lego pieces fit together; he had found himself fitting into a grind with a dancer who made him understand the sexual connotations of the sea; its relentless back and forth, back and forth. Unfortunately, he ran into a problem only men with uncircumcised members can relate to. Due to the inherent frottez of this modern dance move, he got hard. And while this in itself might be desirable, it’s worth mentioning that the head of an uncircumcised penis is highly sensitive to touch, and easily chaffed by fabric. And so, in efforts to accommodate himself, he would step back and try to pull his skin up above his pants in the split second before the girl took note of her abandonment and leaned back again. So on and so forth, a small audience to his right made the whole experience a tad bit more stressful. ‘Why the fuck is that guy fondling his crotch so hard?” their wide stare seemed to ask. He excused himself, “to go to the bathroom,” and didn’t come back. He felt too embarrassed and the girl was probably too drunk to remember him anyways.
“I always see you biking around, don’t you have any classes?” the girl in line for coffee behind him asked tilting her head to the side. “Umm, I guess I have a good schedule this semester” he grinned stupidly, like a five-year old birthday-boy. Her name was Lauren and the gentle upward curve of her nose coupled with her proud cheekbones made him think of a time when pictures where taken in black and white, and modesty was a thing. He was glad that time was over. “Do you have a phone number?” she asked “Umm, I – I don’t think I have one at the moment” he stared absent-mindedly at the yellow light reflected on the warm rosewood counter. “I’m sure I’ll see you around then,” she said, her eyes narrowing through her polite smile. And then she was gone. He was still wondering why he blanked out on a girl like that when he left the café. He was probably just tired; ‘probably, yeah that’s probably it.’ He walked out into the familiar street.
He saw one girl at the library some time after. He couldn’t quite remember her name so he waved. She turned around as if suspecting he was waving at someone else, and finding there were several people behind her, turned back to continue printing her paper for an esoteric course on the back-up printer, for the main one was broken, yet again. She didn’t seem aware of his existence when she walked right past him. Overcome, suddenly, with the feeling of being watched—policed almost—he looks around to find half the library staring at him surreptitiously. He finds it odd, “fucking weird,” he comments to himself under his breath. He leaves through the glass door exit.
By the time he’s outside he finds himself trotting to his bike. He tries to unlock it but, by virtue of some sudden panic, he can’t remember the password. His mind is a white sheet. He scurries around to find an unlocked bike, bingo! Some idiot left their bike free for the taking. He takes it and pedals abruptly. There are a few people standing outside the library now, they’re looking at him. Their faces are blurred and all he can think is ‘Fuck, I left my glasses in the library.’ Never mind, they’re too wide for his head anyways, and he just needs to get out of there, breathe, just for a second, he feels the need to breathe somewhere else. He tries to slow down after he’s set a reasonable distance between himself and his head. He begins to slow-bike.
“Hey you, get out of here!” a fuzzy uniformed figure grunts behind him, “You shouldn’t be out here; this campus is for college kids only.” He doesn’t know this man. Startled, he tries to pedal in a quick escape but his foot misses the center of the right pedal and slides off to the side, nervously, he tries to move the left pedal forward in counterclockwise but this is not his bike, he doesn’t know it’s a fixed wheel bike—he’s pressing the brake. The figure is getting closer: it’s a bald, clean-shaven, hefty guard in his mid forties, looks more annoyed than angry. He stamps down on the right pedal again and he’s off.
His heart’s pounding constricts his lungs. He takes deliberate, slow, deep breaths. ‘Why is everyone acting so weird?’ He might not be a college student, but he was born in this goddamn town for fuck's sake. He needs to go back home. Home should be, home, he can’t remember, should be around, he’s confused, but he can still bike, his legs are strong, he’s been biking for a long time, ever since he was a kid. And he is disconcerted now, because despite the alarming amount of adrenaline in his blood, he feels nostalgic about something, about someone. But the theater in his head can only conjure up faceless mannequins. The more you access a memory the more you alter its chemistry, so maybe that’s what’s happening, yes, he knows this, but he can’t remember where he learnt it. ‘I’m just tired, I just need to rest, I’m good. I’m fine.’
He looks up; level geography coupled with industrial pollution can sometimes paint the sky with a beauty of literal unnaturalness ranging from phosphorescent pink to fluorescent orange. It’s getting dark now, but the sky insists on shinning like a young child refuses to give in to sleep.
He thinks of where he is and how he came to be there but he can’t get very far, he can only pedal. He tries to remember something—anything. He tries. He really does. He’s at the outskirts of town now. He bikes into a cornfield. He staggers and falls. At least it’s quiet here. He needs to rest and the earth is warm. He’s good. He’s fine. We just won’t be seeing him again, that’s all.
And for all his understated wisdom, he was no different than the freshmen. For one reason or another, ranging from city-dwelling dreams of musical stardom to familial distress, the majority of his closest friends had not returned this semester; he was just another lost penguin, ready to dawdle into the first wandering huddle of heat he could find. Speaking of which, the dude was thawing. Summer had been long and lonely and he missed the silky feel of someone else’s thighs. Like a widow makes peace with solitude, he had eventually made peace with this hiatus of sorts but he was back on campus now, and it didn’t take too long for his instincts to call wind of this.
Her name was Sophie and she reminded him of home because she smelt of vanilla and tasted like beer, the good kind. He met her at a party full of what’s-your-name-sorry-I’m-so-drunk strangers. Amidst the temporarily anonymous sea of heads she beamed at him like a lighthouse for three seconds—ten seconds in tipsy time. They bumped into each other while trying to get into a flimsy white house, lost by the previous owner due to gentrification, currently rented by four members of the school’s baseball team. “Oh I’m sorry, my bad,” she turned to face him “Oh don’t worry about it.” They pretended to make love when they fucked. “Why are you acting weird?” she murmured in the dark, “What? I’m not acting weird, I’m just, you know, resting, but I’m good, I just feel like resting,” he waffled, muffled by the pillow. “Where are you from again?” she inquired. “Umm, you know, from around,” he had trouble thinking; he was cross-faded still. She laughed and shoved him playfully. “I’ll go in a minute,” he reassured “You don’t have to leave,” he couldn’t tell whether she was being polite or sincere. He couldn’t tell whether it mattered or not. They parted amicably.
‘Bitches be bitches man.’ He found the bro-motto crass but the music of it had turned it into an involuntary earworm long ago, he couldn’t remember when. He disliked the word ‘bitch,’ not because it was degrading to women, but because it ruined the whole appeal of one for him; he was a cat person, dogs were too dirty and submissive. By this logic one might assume he enjoyed the word ‘pussy’ and its plosive pleasantness but the whole concept of an abstract universal vagina jarred his visual sensibilities too much. Rather than stand for an erotic synecdoche, the word conjured up ghastly visions of the giant and severed unknown flesh of the world.
Nonetheless, both words came to mind when he saw Sophie sauntering down the sidewalk. He waved and smiled forcefully—but not falsely—as he biked toward her direction. She made eye contact for a second, smiled nervously while looking away and waved without lifting her arm so that it looked more like a shush or away-with-you gesture. He biked past with the momentum of his last pedal, confused. The bro-motto took this bafflement as an opportunity to interject and present its argument. It was considered, then hastily discarded; there was more to this. Surprisingly it was ‘don’t think about it too much’ who won the argument. He was surprised because he considered himself and over-thinker. “I have to stop smoking so much weed,” he mumbled to himself.
He forgot things, people, because it was the only way to keep going, and because they forgot him too. And so he went to another party on another weekend. Things were going quite well at first, in the way that Lego pieces fit together; he had found himself fitting into a grind with a dancer who made him understand the sexual connotations of the sea; its relentless back and forth, back and forth. Unfortunately, he ran into a problem only men with uncircumcised members can relate to. Due to the inherent frottez of this modern dance move, he got hard. And while this in itself might be desirable, it’s worth mentioning that the head of an uncircumcised penis is highly sensitive to touch, and easily chaffed by fabric. And so, in efforts to accommodate himself, he would step back and try to pull his skin up above his pants in the split second before the girl took note of her abandonment and leaned back again. So on and so forth, a small audience to his right made the whole experience a tad bit more stressful. ‘Why the fuck is that guy fondling his crotch so hard?” their wide stare seemed to ask. He excused himself, “to go to the bathroom,” and didn’t come back. He felt too embarrassed and the girl was probably too drunk to remember him anyways.
“I always see you biking around, don’t you have any classes?” the girl in line for coffee behind him asked tilting her head to the side. “Umm, I guess I have a good schedule this semester” he grinned stupidly, like a five-year old birthday-boy. Her name was Lauren and the gentle upward curve of her nose coupled with her proud cheekbones made him think of a time when pictures where taken in black and white, and modesty was a thing. He was glad that time was over. “Do you have a phone number?” she asked “Umm, I – I don’t think I have one at the moment” he stared absent-mindedly at the yellow light reflected on the warm rosewood counter. “I’m sure I’ll see you around then,” she said, her eyes narrowing through her polite smile. And then she was gone. He was still wondering why he blanked out on a girl like that when he left the café. He was probably just tired; ‘probably, yeah that’s probably it.’ He walked out into the familiar street.
He saw one girl at the library some time after. He couldn’t quite remember her name so he waved. She turned around as if suspecting he was waving at someone else, and finding there were several people behind her, turned back to continue printing her paper for an esoteric course on the back-up printer, for the main one was broken, yet again. She didn’t seem aware of his existence when she walked right past him. Overcome, suddenly, with the feeling of being watched—policed almost—he looks around to find half the library staring at him surreptitiously. He finds it odd, “fucking weird,” he comments to himself under his breath. He leaves through the glass door exit.
By the time he’s outside he finds himself trotting to his bike. He tries to unlock it but, by virtue of some sudden panic, he can’t remember the password. His mind is a white sheet. He scurries around to find an unlocked bike, bingo! Some idiot left their bike free for the taking. He takes it and pedals abruptly. There are a few people standing outside the library now, they’re looking at him. Their faces are blurred and all he can think is ‘Fuck, I left my glasses in the library.’ Never mind, they’re too wide for his head anyways, and he just needs to get out of there, breathe, just for a second, he feels the need to breathe somewhere else. He tries to slow down after he’s set a reasonable distance between himself and his head. He begins to slow-bike.
“Hey you, get out of here!” a fuzzy uniformed figure grunts behind him, “You shouldn’t be out here; this campus is for college kids only.” He doesn’t know this man. Startled, he tries to pedal in a quick escape but his foot misses the center of the right pedal and slides off to the side, nervously, he tries to move the left pedal forward in counterclockwise but this is not his bike, he doesn’t know it’s a fixed wheel bike—he’s pressing the brake. The figure is getting closer: it’s a bald, clean-shaven, hefty guard in his mid forties, looks more annoyed than angry. He stamps down on the right pedal again and he’s off.
His heart’s pounding constricts his lungs. He takes deliberate, slow, deep breaths. ‘Why is everyone acting so weird?’ He might not be a college student, but he was born in this goddamn town for fuck's sake. He needs to go back home. Home should be, home, he can’t remember, should be around, he’s confused, but he can still bike, his legs are strong, he’s been biking for a long time, ever since he was a kid. And he is disconcerted now, because despite the alarming amount of adrenaline in his blood, he feels nostalgic about something, about someone. But the theater in his head can only conjure up faceless mannequins. The more you access a memory the more you alter its chemistry, so maybe that’s what’s happening, yes, he knows this, but he can’t remember where he learnt it. ‘I’m just tired, I just need to rest, I’m good. I’m fine.’
He looks up; level geography coupled with industrial pollution can sometimes paint the sky with a beauty of literal unnaturalness ranging from phosphorescent pink to fluorescent orange. It’s getting dark now, but the sky insists on shinning like a young child refuses to give in to sleep.
He thinks of where he is and how he came to be there but he can’t get very far, he can only pedal. He tries to remember something—anything. He tries. He really does. He’s at the outskirts of town now. He bikes into a cornfield. He staggers and falls. At least it’s quiet here. He needs to rest and the earth is warm. He’s good. He’s fine. We just won’t be seeing him again, that’s all.
( Matias Berretta )
www.ChordsAZ.com