going with her on a triple date. Bristin was my girlfriend for a while, I suppose, although we never really did much except listen to Beatles albums and make out on her little sister’s bed. She would stop me whenever “Dear Prudence” came on, abruptly sit up, brush her hair, and try to hum or whistle. She never sang the words. If I was a shit to her, and I know I was, it’s probably because she couldn’t find the melody.
That night at the Gold and Silver, I did a lot of fondling and groping. I slobbered over all my dance partners like some wet and hungry puppy. None of this was discreet, but then everyone date swapped. That was kind of the point, I guess. You drank either vodka and orange juice or rum and Coke. You tried not to mix the two. After a certain blindness set in, you saw how many people you could mess around with. It was careless in the most deliberate way. Learning the fast art of infidelity. Most guys were proud and comfortable as they moved from date to date, but I felt clumsy. Like I was playing charades using somebody else’s hands. On top of that, I lived in constant fear of running into one of these girls again.
“Brizzey knows Jason.” Taze blazed a joint and tried to decide whom to pass it to.
“We went to the Gold and Silver.” She opened the top two buttons of her coat, revealing a swath of tanned skin.
Girls like Bristin never let you forget that you messed around with them. They’ll hold it over you, as though there’s some residual source of plea sure remaining to be paid. The wind blew my hair across my face. I wanted to be in my room unpacking.
“The Gold and Silver is très juvenile.” A girl in shiny black pajamas and pink ballet slippers strode over to us. She held a silver lighter in her hand and flashed the flame off and on as she approached.
Tazewell leaned over to me, his eyes glazed. “Diana’s got a body built for two.”
After four years of being co-ed, Bellingham still didn’t have many girls. Demand far outweighed the supply, and the economics of the situation necessitated that the guys trade off with one another. All of the girls lived on the top floor of Astor Hall—the only place that was off-limits for guys. We weren’t allowed to visit them in their rooms and I thought of the girls tempting us like so many Rapunzels, hanging out windows and letting down hair.
Diana had white eyelashes that glowed in the dark. She greeted Tazewell and Brizzey by kissing them on both cheeks.
“ Somebody was in France this summer,” Race joked.
“Ugly American.” Diana stood in front of Race, lifted her hand to his chest, and slowly wrapped her fingers around his tie. She pulled him in close, and then, before any of us could stop her, she set the point of his tie on fire with her lighter. The material didn’t flame so much as melt and smolder. Diana let go and jumped back.
“Crazy pyro bitch,” Race yelled. He pulled his tie loose, whipping it over his head and casting the thin snake of material to the ground.
Brizzey clapped her hands and laughed. “Synthetic meltdown.” Her laughter was infectious. With the exception of Diana, who calmly hid the lighter in her hand, stroking the igniter with her thumb so that a long lick of flame appeared to rise from her fist, we all began to laugh, not knowing why.
“Is someone going to control her?” Race unbuttoned his collar.
Tazewell sneered at Race. “Don’t be such a dick wagon. Go home. It’s past your bedtime.”
“You know she started it.” Race was already walking backward toward the pier. He hopped into a Boston whaler and geared up the engine.
Kriffo explained, “He lives across the harbor, on Powder Point. Throws a great party, so we keep him around.”
From there, things began to break up around the Flagpole. I was glad that I wouldn’t be the first to leave, but I didn’t want to wind up going to someone else’s dorm and hanging out. Most of the senior guys lived in Whitehall, but they were all heading over to
1802-1870 Alexandre Dumas