Amelia weeps openly as the fireflies rise above the funeral pyre. The odd snuffle undermines Eric’s attempts to maintain an image of stoicism.

“That was depressing all right.” Amelia blows her nose as the credits roll. “But it was the wrong kind of depressing.”

“Wait a minute, wait just one minute– what do you mean the wrong kind of depressing! You never said anything about there being different types of depressing.”

“Uh no, but I figured any guy who could come up with that Loneliness song would understand we’re talking love-lorn depression here. You know, star crossed lovers, like that. What my mom would call a tear jerker, and my dad would call mush.”

“Sorry, next time put on a qualifier. I guess this means it’s your turn?”

“Sure is, and I’ve got just the thing.” Amelia puts City of Angels in the machine.

Eric says, “You still haven’t told me who the guy is.

“Guy?” Amelia asks innocently. “What guy?”

“Your guy.”

“Oh, he’s not my guy. If he was my guy would I be here with you?” She laughs.

“Amelia?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t anybody tell me Elsie was fucking every guy she clapped eyes on?”

“Well.” Amelia clears her throat. He’s watching her expectantly, so she can’t dodge it outright. “Not every guy.”

Holding up his hands, Eric says, “Stop. I don’t want to know, really.” He slumps back in his corner of the sofa. “Just now that it’s too late everybody’s happy to fill me in on the gory details.”

“I haven’t.”

“Huh. No. You haven’t. Why haven’t you?”

“Would it help?”

“No.”

“And you might get back together with her.”

“No way. No how. Never.”

“Really?”

“Maybe. But why didn’t anybody tell me then?”

“Would you have listened?”

“Probably not. But I feel seriously stupid now. But even so I miss her. I’ll be laying in my room, all by myself and then suddenly I can smell her. Instant hard on.” Eric claps his hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I mean ….”

“Bodily functions happen to the best of us.” Amelia grins. “But I know what you mean, and they say scent memory is the worst. Maybe wash your sheets, any clothes she wore, like that.”

“That’s a good idea. But it’s so weird to be discussing this…”

“With a girl?” Amelia laughs. “So tell me, what guy can you discuss this with?”

“Uh. I guess there isn’t one. Jose would be closest, but really, we’re just drinking buddies. I haven’t really discussed her with him. I hooked up with Elsie in the first week and, well. I guess there wasn’t time for anybody except school and Elsie. Once in a while I’d maybe have a beer with the guys after class. Mostly I haven’t really been available to be friends with anyone.” He smiles over at her. “Until now.”

“Maybe that’s part of why nobody told you. Acquaintances aren’t usually willing to go out on a limb for you. It’s a big risk telling anyone they’re being stepped out on. Messengers do get shot you know.”

“Yeah, I guess. And in a lot of ways I’m still hung up on her, and sometimes I think if she just looked at me the right way, well maybe I would go back to her.

“Really?”

“Well. Maybe. I can’t get her out of my head.”

“Just take it easy, that’s all. Try to give it time.”

“Are you attracted to me?”

“Um.” Amelia purses her lips. “Maybe I shouldn’t answer.”

“Aw hell, Amelia, I’m not ‘the guy’ am I? I mean I like you a lot but I’m not remotely attracted to you.

“Oh that’s a relief.” Amelia bursts out laughing.

Eric frowns. “What?”

“I was worried you were eying me up for a rebound. I like you as a friend, and you’re not bad looking, and you are the kind of guy I ought to be attracted to. But I’m just not. Sorry.”

“So why wouldn’t you just say that before?”

“Because I figured you’ve had your heart stomped pretty good, I didn’t want to stomp it more. But I do like you and I’d be honored to be your friend. Just not your squeeze.”

Eric snorts. “Squeeze, who says squeeze?”

“If we’re gonna hang around together you better know up front that after Asimov my favorite author is Dash Hammett. I love anything noir but Dash is the man. So sometimes words like ‘squeeze’ and ‘gunsel’ just pop right out in my conversation.”

Eric looks at her and bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny about that?”

“That’s great. You talk like a Bogart character and we aren’t romantically attracted to each other. Great.”

“Does that mean we can be friends?”

“Sure. But only on one condition. You have to tell me who the guy is.”

Amelia glances around, making sure no one is lurking, listening. She puts in the DVD and comes back to sit beside Eric. Leaning close she whispers in his ear, “Jose.”

“Jose? You’re talking about Jose? You think Jose is a hunk?”

“Shhh!”

“But he’s, he’s, ordinary. He doesn’t even have muscles or anything. Even I probably have a better body than he does.”

“Most girls aren’t into the muscle man thing. That’s more a guy thing, to want to look like that, part of the whole alpha male deal. Not to say we don’t want a guy to have a good body, but that’s not the most important thing. But Jose’s body is pretty good.”

He looks at her in surprise. “Why on earth would you like Jose? I mean he’s a nice guy and all, but he’s… you’re really smart and, how do I say this… He doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together.”

“It isn’t his brains that get me hot.”

“Uh. This is a weird thing to be discussing with a girl.”

“Look, I have brothers so I doubt you could shock me.”

“Well I have a sister and you sure as shit can shock me.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. This is interesting. What do you see in Jose?”

“He may not be Einstein, but he’s not as dim as you think, he just keeps stuff inside.”

“You think so?” Eric asks thoughtfully.

“Yeah. There’s a lot going on behind his eyes. You know, the strong silent type. He may be sacrificing more brain cells than he can afford smoking up, but he has a few. That’s not the point.”

“But what is the point then? I don’t get it.”

“Because you’re a straight guy, Eric.” She closes her eyes a moment. “I think he exudes pheromones. And of course it doesn’t hurt he’s got great buns. What can I say, there’s something about the guy that makes me want to rip off his clothes. Maybe it’s his bedroom eyes. They are just so deep. And he’s got great eyelashes too, and yummy lips, you know. Kissable.

“Stop … no more. This is farther than I really wanna go here, okay? Jose is a friend, we eat lunch together and stuff. I really don’t need this picture in my head.”

“The only girl he even looks at is that Barbie bimbo.”

“Well.”

“Ahhh. I get it. You think she’s hot too.”

“Well, duh. I am a straight male.”

“Uh huh. One that doesn’t find me at all alluring.”

“Uh … well Barbie’s got …”

“Hooters. I get it Eric.”

“Not that I’d want to go there.”

“Because of Jose?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“The girl is drop dead gorgeous.”

“Sure, and she’d be fine in a wet dream but I just can’t see having a conversation with her.”

Amelia smiles. “I kind of feel sorry for her.”

“I thought girls were supposed to instinctively hate classic golden girls. You did call her a bimbo..”

“I admit I’d be happier if Jose wasn’t hung up on her. But that’s another urban myth. Beyond the odd loner like Elsie, women hang together. Sisterhood wasn’t invented in the 60’s. Historically women looked out for each other and built the community while the hunters wandered around hoping for something to kill.”

“So why do you feel sorry for her?”

“It’s that intelligence thing. I think she was bright once but hasn’t actually had to use her brain in so long she’s forgotten how. It’s easier to let everyone do for you than to do it yourself.”

“She seems to enjoy it.”

“I’d expect it seems fun at first, like getting something for nothing. But for me it’d get old awfully fast. There’s a rush you get from doing it yourself. First time I had a poem published in the paper I was eleven. It was cool, but it wouldn’t have been as good if somebody else had helped me, or heaven forbid, written it for me.”

Tweet

Jose sits across from Mouse at a table by the jukebox. “What I don’t understand, I mean, she likes me, she came onto me. So it’s not that I’m repulsive to her or anything.”

Mouse laughs, and reaches out and touches his cheek.
“Poor boy. Of course she likes you, Jose, you’re beautiful. But you are only an English major. Maybe you will be a teacher, yes? A good life, but Barbie expects more than an ordinary life.”

“That sucks, Mouse.” Jose sips his beer pensively.
“Maybe, but I think that has always been how the world works. Used to be the man would always pick, but now the woman gets to pick too.”

“So who do you pick, Mouse?”

She laughs. “I’m too young, I just want to have fun. Later. Maybe. Perhaps I will be a famous writer like Erica Jong first yes?”

“Maybe I’ll become a famous writer too. Win the Booker Prize, maybe even a Pulitzer.”

“You must be American to get that one.”

“Okay. The Nobel then.”

Mouse laughs “That’s the spirit. Maybe then she will regret. But Barbie wants to go places now. She doesn’t want to wait, has never had to because her beauty opens doors. She wants her power to find a star or a millionaire.”

“That lets me out.” Jose thumps his empty glass down and nibbles on peanuts from the bowl.

“Just relax and try to have some fun, Jose.”

“I guess.” Jose nods at the bar. “Hey, isn’t that Boris?”
Mouse says, “Boris has even worse trouble than you.”

* * *

Boris sits at the bar, staring morosely into his glass of beer. He’s depressed, not just because he’s been rejected by the girl he loves, or even that he’s been so publicly humiliated. What bothers him the most, the thing that has shaken his self image is that until now he hadn’t realized that he was such a loser.

He always thought girls liked him. That at least he was okay, they at least didn’t think he was repulsive. But maybe all these years when girls smiled at him they were really laughing at him. And he was too stupid to realize. Big dumb jock.

A couple of girls at the end of the bar are pointing and whispering. He knows they’re looking at his black eye. Eyes. Leave it to Natasha to give him two. Hadda catch him in the sweet spot at the bridge of his nose. Feeling his jaw clench, Boris tracks the whispering girls in his peripheral vision.

Classic “A” type personality, Natasha. She can’t just tell him to take a hike like any normal girl. No, she’s gotta make a laughing stock of him. Give him a double shiner, decking him in front of the whole world. Which has of course put him smack-dab in the middle of the kind of story that makes the rounds so often that even the people who weren’t there tell it as though they were.

The kind of story that will never die. Ever. They’ll probably be telling it decades from now. But in the here and now his whole university career will be a living hell.
And for what, because he likes her? Because he’s just another poor sap who wants to be more than friends? God. Every other girl in the world bitches about guys not wanting commitment. Not Natasha. She’d as soon knock you down as look at you. They could’ve at least stayed friends if it wasn’t for that stupid spectacle, but now? Just thinking of the flashing light in her eyes just before she knocked him down. Why couldn’t she have given him a chance?

Bitch.

Downing the rest of the beer he catches Billie the bartender’s eye, points at his empty. She nods and pulls him a fresh draught. Watching her set it in front of him with a smile, he realizes morosely Billie probably knows the whole story too. It’s bad enough being humiliated by one woman but two in the same day? Hell, Elsie sleeps with everybody, but nooo, not him. Not Boris the loser. Even Elsie the easy is too good for him.

Bitch.

Drinking more beer he asks himself, not for the first time, how could he live this long and not have known he was a loser? Talk about living in denial.

Maybe denial is a loser survival trait. If you don’t know you’re a loser you don’t jump out a window or slit your wrists. If you don’t think you’re a loser you can get out of bed in the morning and face the day. If you haven’t realized you’re a loser you can get on with your life, take your pictures, soak up some rays, pump a little iron, go out for a drink with your pal.

Except his pal Natasha decked him and in the process told him and everyone else what a loser he is.

What a fool, thinking you could be friends with a girl. Yeah.

The girls are giggling now, and he glowers over at them.

He can feel the giant “L” Natasha left imprinted in the middle of his forehead.

One of the girls looks guiltily away, the other meets his eyes defiantly. She smiles, then suddenly blushes a deep crimson. Hmm, maybe she’s … flirting? She still holds his gaze. Nah. Probably just fucking with his head, a popular pastime. Make this a new civic holiday, call it “Screw With Boris Day.”

He turns his attention to his beer and drinks more, watching bubbles float up without caring what causes them. Women. The cause of all the problems in the world. Maybe there is something in that Garden of Eden stuff Papa was always going on about.

He’d always just chalked it up to the fact that Mama left. Ran off with that Russian artist. Maybe Papa was right.
Boris knows he had been ready to fly in the face of family, not just any family, his family, to defend her. Even knowing they would never accept any girl who wasn’t Croatian.

He would have faced them for her.

And of all the non-Croatian girls in the world to bring home the absolute worst would be a Russian girl. It might even get him disowned. But he’d have done it for Natasha. Stood up for her. Because he loves her, damn it. And what does she do? She hits him. Disrespects him like that. Papa says women are the root of all …

Boris freezes as he feels a gentle touch on his arm. His peripheral vision tells him that there’s only one girl left at the end of the bar.

Great, they aren’t happy with tormenting him from afar. He turns to look at her. She looks nervous. Good. He gives her his best death metal glower.

What can she possibly want from him?

“Hi.” she smiles. “I’m Sarah. Would it be okay if I joined you?” Boris continues glowering but she just smiles again, nervously, and slides onto the stool. “You’re Boris, right?”
Boris just stares at her blackly. She glances away, then beckons the bartender over.

Sipping his beer, Boris waits for the punchline. He can see it now, she’s gonna order a Black Russian.

Because all the ignoramuses here at Christie think it’s a certainty that he’s a Russian because of his name. These university assholes are mostly too stupid to even know there’s a difference.

Billie the bartender comes over, “Help ya?”

The girl nods. “Tequila Sunrise please.”

Billie pours a shot of tequila into a glass, douses it with O.J. and deftly splashes grenadine over the top, then sets it on a cocktail napkin in front of the girl.

“And another for him.” the girl is rooting in her purse for some money, which she passes across the bar as the fresh draught arrives.

Boris watches as the grenadine sinks to the bottom of her glass, glancing from glass to girl. Trying to find the joke, the put down. This is some hot babe, slinky as all get out. She’s a lot softer looking than Natasha, is, that’s for sure. Boris is still wondering what the punch line is.

The bartender slaps the change on the counter before moving off to the other end of the bar, and the girl just leaves the coins lay, sipping at her drink. She sure is pretty. Not a tom-boy like Natasha, this girl is wearing a dress, even. Gold chain around her neck, hanging down and disappearing in her cleavage.

She looks over the rim of the highball glass, smiling mysteriously. She licks her lips and suddenly Boris is having a hard time catching his breath. This is like a classic femme fatale pick up scene straight out of film noir. This can’t possibly be happening. Not to him.
God this is making him horny.

A quick glance down the bar tells him that the friend has gone. Hmmm. Boris feels a light touch along his calf, and he glances down, startled. Sarah’s allowed her ridiculous red shoes –Natasha would never be caught dead in such absurd footwear– to slide off her feet, and the naked toes of one foot are curled around the stool’s lower crossbar, the other languorously rubs the inside of his leg.

Boris smiles, the black Slavic mood abruptly gone. This girl is not only buying him drinks, she is coming on to him. If it’s a joke, he’s willing to take it like a man. He looks over at her face, she’s watching him through veiled lashes, breathing shallowly.

Nervous, but not stopping. Mmmm.

Boris is feeling less like a loser and more like a lion as he slides the empty glass away, and picks up the glass of draught beer she bought him. He leans over to clink glasses with her. Sarah. She smiles, takes a sip, licks her lips. Boris smiles back.

“Maybe we’d be a little more comfortable in a booth? Quieter anyway.” he suggests.

“I think the one at the back is empty.” she replies. Then wiggles her toes. “Maybe you could get my shoes?”

Sliding off the stool, Boris drops into a squat and picks up the first shoe. The sharp edges and pointy bits on these things look painful. She extends her foot, pointing her toe, and he slides the shoe on. His smile widens. This is kinda sexy.

Boris picks up the second shoe and lifts it toward her foot but she snakes it around and down to run those toes across his groin. Oh boy.

Boris grabs the foot and slides the shoe over it, before awkwardly rising to his feet. He looks into the girl’s eyes, and they are smoldering. Oh.

She reaches out and rests her hands on his shoulders then slides off the stool, brushing against him all the way down. Then she turns and starts down to the aisle to the back booth.

Watching her walk Boris understands the point of those damned shoes. Swaying hips. Boris’ breath catches again.

Oh.

My.

Natasha never swayed quite like that. Boris tears his eyes away from the sultry undulation just long enough to grab their glasses off the bar so he can follow her.

Maybe girls do like him.

Tweet

The Untrue lyrics are like a knife slicing pieces off his heart, Eric thinks as he listens to the song playing on the CD player in the common room. It might have been written expressly for Elsie. God, that Amelia can sure pick depressing songs. He thinks he might counter with Queen’s Somebody To Love, but then he decides against it. That might be too cruel.

In the kitchen, the air heats up and the popcorn kernels begin to rattle, then explode one by one. Amelia tucks a bowl under the outlet to catch the popped corn shooting out. Eric tries not to let the Untrue lyrics get to him. The butter is exploding so he shuts off the microwave before it can beep.

Eric says, “So we listen to depressing music.”

Amelia nods. “Yup. I pick, you pick. Having fun yet?”

Eric wonders, is it just this song, or will every break up song rip out his heart out now?

It’s starting to get to him but Amelia’s popcorn machine is going nuts. The popping is picking up and shooting popped corn kernels into the bowl with such force they are bouncing out, landing on the counter or the floor.

Eric and Amelia scramble to catch errant popcorn, with little luck. The comedy inherent in being pelted with flying popcorn removes some of the sting from lyrics that are just a touch too close to home. The laughter they’re sharing isn’t exactly something he expected from Amelia’s description of a ‘depression party’.

Finally the corn is all popped so Amelia pulls the plug. “That was an exercise in stupidity.”

“I have to tell you, your popper’s design kind of sucks.” he says as he opens the broom closet and pulls out the whisk broom to sweep the mess from the floor.

“Only kind of? Try massive fail. This is the first time I’ve used it. My mom didn’t think I would actually go off to college again without one, so she bought me this hunk of junk new.”

Eric asks, “Popcorn junkie?”

“Oh yeah, the worst.”

“Me too.” He dumps the dustpan contents in the trash. “Do we decide what movies the same way, you pick I pick?”

“Yeah, and the best part is we can whine about our love lives as much as we want.”

Eric cocks an eyebrow, “You know all about mine, but I am at a disadvantage since I have no idea what your problem is.”

Sighing, Amelia says, “Just the usual, unrequited love. He doesn’t know I exist.” She opens the cupboard and she gathers up a half dozen spice bottles– popcorn toppings.

“This is for the popcorn?” he asks in surprise.

Amelia drizzles melted margarine over the popcorn. “We can do this one of two ways. Pick one flavor. Or if you’re boring we could just sprinkle it with the salt. But the other way we can go is to dump a bit of each topping into these Chinese tea cups and then dip as desired. Kind of like popcorn dim sum.”

Eric laughs. “Popcorn dim sum. I love it.” As they pour toppings into the little cups, Eric says, “Tell you what– next time we do scratch toppings.”

“Oooh. A connoisseur!” Amelia laughs, “Looks like I’ve uncovered another popcorn junkie.”

Eric stacks the desert bowls and carries them in to the common room. He sets them out in a semicircle on the coffee table by the sectional sofa.

As the song fades down he crosses to the equipment stack and opens the DVD player, popping in a disk while Amelia opens the wine. She carries it out and sets the bottle beside the wine glasses and the popcorn, then flops down on half of the sectional. Eric flips through his CDs, selecting one before returning the Tim Lewis CD to its case so he can put on his own choice, guaranteed to rip her heart out. Time to get depressing.

“What’ve you got?” she asks.

“An oldie but goodie.”

Amelia begins to eat popcorn but it’s not long before she’s captivated by the lyrics of the song ‘Loneliness’, and stops eating, her hand poised above the bowl, staring up into nothingness as she listens to the words.

“Oh, this is good.” Amelia closes her eyes to feel the music.

Eric drops onto the adjacent sectional section.

“Told you.” But when he looks over at Amelia he is suddenly uncomfortable. There are actual tears trickling out of Amelia’s closed eyes. He wants to pat her shoulder or something. Watching Amelia’s tears flow as the words about hopelessness and the darkness in your heart pour out of the speakers, Eric wishes he’d chosen something else.

Finally unable to stand any more, Eric asks, “Are you Okay?”

Amelia sits up and shushes him and they sit in silence as the song plays out.

As the last note fades he says, “I’m so sorry I should have picked something else, I didn’t mean to.”

“No, that was perfect.” She brushes her eyes with her sleeve and says, “You did good. That’s the point!”

“What? I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Shut up and hand me a tissue.” Eric passes her the box.

Amelia grabs a wad and blows her nose. He watches as she scrubs at her blotchy face and mops her eyes, then gives him an unexpected smile through her tears. “You surprised, me that’s all, Eric. Guys aren’t supposed to know about the really good depressing shit like this.”

“But I thought that’s what you wanted?”

“God, it was perfect. Whining about people we love, crying our eyes out, maybe interspersed with a bit of hysterical giggling– THAT’s what a depression party is for, it’s cathartic. You’re an English major, you know what cathartic means right?”

“Yes, I know what cathartic means.”

Munching on popcorn Amelia asks, “Who’s the singer?”

“Annie Lennox. She writes awesome lyrics. Hang on.” Eric jumps up and gets his PDA out of the CD box, passes it to her so she can read the words of the song they just heard.

“You’ve got all your favorite the lyrics on this?”

“Not all, but a lot. There are tons of lyrics online.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat there stopping and starting a CD to get down all the words to a song I love. I mean look at this, they’re brilliant.”

“Yeah, powerful imagery. Sometimes I toy with the idea of writing song lyrics, ’cause lyrics are like the poetry of today.”

“I never thought about it before but that makes sense. ‘Poetry’ used to be huge but it sure doesn’t come across as being ‘cool’ nowadays.”

“Guys can’t admit we read or write poetry, but writing songs is acceptable. Only thing is, I’m not very musical.”

“If you’re good at picking songs with great lyrics, you might be good at writing them.”

“Thanks. So what do you think, isn’t it time? I think so.”

“Time for the first movie?”

“No, time to tell me why you are depressed.”

“But you’ve got a movie ready to go.”

“And it’ll stay ready. I’m not letting you off so easily. What’s getting you down?”

“It’s just the usual. Unrequited love shit.”

“Maybe you could get it requited?”

“Don’t be such a man.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trying to solve my problems. That’s a man thing.”

Eric says, “What I can possibly say to that? I hate to have to tell you this, but I am. A man, I mean.” His words just hang in the air for a minute.

Amelia nods. “Uh, I will admit that I have noticed you are in fact a man. Thing is, what I’m really looking for is a friend.” Amelia sees the frustration written on his face and tries again, “Look I’m not trying to drive you nuts, really. It’s just, how do I explain a depression party? It’s about just sharing feelings. We’re not trying to fix them, just to process the feelings and let them out.”

Eric says, “Wallowing, you mean.”

“Yes! Exactly. Except it sounds better when you call it catharsis. The thing is, it It helps make it easier to cope with all the crap. That’s why blubbering is good, though you don’t seem comfortable with that part.”

Eric says, “That would be a man thing.”

“I’m not trying to–”

“Yes you are, but it’s fine. I have an older sister. And she never actually talked to me about anything. The only time I ever saw her cry was when I think she’d just been dumped.”

“Oh, that’s so sad.”

Eric holds up a finger. “Just let me finish, Okay?” Amelia nods so he continues, “I heard her crying in her room. So, you have to understand, the rule was I wasn’t supposed to go in without permission but she was crying, and so I went in to give her a hug. But she threw her radio at my head, but I ducked and it hit the wall and smashed into a million pieces, which was apparently my fault too. My allowance was docked for months to pay for the new one.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well she told our folks that I broke it, and I didn’t realize until years later that it really wasn’t my fault. I mean, I made her mad, right?”

“How old were you?”

“First or second grade, I think. What’s that, six or seven or something? Guess I still don’t know how to deal with girls.” Seeing Amelia start to open her mouth he self corrects. “Women. You know I don’t do so well in the girlfriend department.”

“Oh, Eric, no one’s keeping score. It’s just, well, you can’t ‘fix’ feelings. You just have to live through them. And besides, your sister sounds like a bitch.”

“You got that right.” Eric grins. “So. What do I do to help?”
“Just listen, it works wonders.” She looks over with brows raised and he nods. “Okay. I’ll tell you. The guy wouldn’t know who I was if he tripped over me. But for some stupid reason, well, I just fell hard for him. I mean, he’s not even really that bright, which is unusual for me. Usually I get all hung up on brilliant geeky guys who don’t know I’m alive.”

“But not this time?”

“No this time I’m just hung up on a drop dead gorgeous guy who doesn’t know I’m alive.”

“I can see where that might be a problem. So,” he glances over at her, “I’m not allowed to ask why you don’t ask him out?”

Amelia giggles. “Am I that bossy?”

Eric nods, “Understatement.”

Amelia laughs. “It isn’t gonna work that way. If we’re gonna be friends I guess I can’t give you a hard time for being a guy. Do-over. You can do or say whatever you want to do or say.”

“Gee thanks.”

“Da nada.”

“So why don’t you just ask the guy out?”

“Because he’s carrying a torch for someone else. And it is huge, his torch, I mean. For me, well, I’ve got a crush. Unrequited, the oldest snub in the book. A couple of depression parties and I’ll be over him. But he’s just so fixated on her he doesn’t even see any girls except her. And here I am still hung up on the guy even knowing that. I mean how pathetic is that?”

“Let me grab the chocolate and we can watch a movie.”

“Chocolate? You know about chocolate?”

“Oh yeah, you need chocolate at a depression party. Gotta keep those endorphins flowing.”

Tweet

The darkness of the night is emphasized by the flashing lights of the police car angled across the parking lot behind Fyfield House. Jake’s stomach drops as the worst case scenario catches his throat and he hurries over.

But wait. This isn’t it. This is something else. Quentin spread eagled against the car in the time honored tradition of TV cop shows. Why is the cop frisking Q like they do on TV? This is bad too. Just a different bad.

As Jake approaches he realizes it isn’t a real police car, it’s campus security. “Hey, what’s the problem?” he asks.

The burly guard dismisses Jake with, “Move along son.”

Jake moves in closer, ignoring Q’s warning head shake. “You’re making a mistake here.” says Jake firmly. Facing up to this beefy guard is nothing compared to dealing with Elsie.

Planting his hands on his hips to maximize his chest inflation, the guard glares down at Jake, irritated at the skinny kid’s challenge. “I caught this guy lurking around down here, but that isn’t any of your concern kid. So just move along.”

Jake crosses his arms. “Q wasn’t “lurking”, he was waiting for me. Now just let him go.”

“Just piss off kid.”

Righteously indignant, Jake says, “Didn’t you hear what I said? You have no call to harass him.”

“Oooh, are you a lawyer, boy?”

Quentin is shaking his head more emphatically, trying to get Jake to stand down, eyes wide, trying to will Jake into silence.

“I live in Fyfield House, he lives in the cottages. We’re both Christie students, boy, so that means we pay your salary. Now are you gonna let him go or do I call a real cop?”

Quentin is aghast, now worried that young Jake’s heroics are gonna get them both killed.

Quentin says, “It’s OK, Jake, really,” when the guard rounds on him with raised fist.

“You. SHUT UP,” shouts the guard as Elsie comes out of the building and barges into the tableau lit by strobing cruiser lights.

Elsie says, “Just get into the car, I’ll tell you where to go.”

“What the hell are you talking about girl?” The guard is not about to take any more crap from these snotty rich kids.

Elsie shifts the large cloth bag she has over her shoulder so she can whip out her cell phone. She punches a single digit then says, “We’re having a problem, can you come out to the lot?”

Elsie snaps the phone shut and tucks it in her coat, folding her arms and glowering up at him. “I’m sorry, I mistook you for someone with a brain.”

“You aren’t making it any better for yourself, bitch,” bellows the guard, “I don’t know what you smart ass kids think you are up to but I’m going to take you all in, and then we will get it straightened out.”

The guard is startled by a very large hand clamping itself on his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” says the owner of the hand, who wears the same uniform but with a bit of gold braid on the shoulder boards. Val Thompson, the campus security chief, has a physique roughly equivalent to the Incredible Hulk’s. “I think you’re about done here, Connor.”

“Uh, sir, but I was on my rounds and these people were behaving suspiciously.” Val fixes him with a look; Connor pales and shuts up.

“This is what we’re gonna do. You are going to give me the keys to this car and then you will go inside and cover the main desk until I get back. You will be polite. And deferential. Think you can handle that Connor?”

Connor swallows, “Uh, sir,” carefully avoiding looking at anyone but Val, “I’m not sure what deferential means.”

Val pins him with a laser glare. “Deferential means you kiss ass. Do you think you can handle that Connor?”

Wearing a poker face Connor executes a military precision salute. “Yes sir.”

Val holds out his palm and Connor digs the car keys out of his pocket and hands them over before marching back to the building, head held high.

Disgusted, Val gets into the driver’s seat. “Guys, if you’ll get in back, please, Elsie will ride shotgun.”

Quentin and Jake pile in although they have no idea what is happening. After belting up, Elsie twists around in her seat to tell them, “Liz found Natasha and she’s hurt. When we get there you’ll need to stay on the path to flag down the ambulance.”

Elsie says, “Val, this is my roommate Jake, and his friend …”

“Quentin Bradbury. I live in the cottages.”

Val nods, carefully backing out, doing a three point turn onto the footpath, then driving slowly. “Tomorrow I’m gonna want to talk to you about what was happening with Connor.”

“He was acting like a Nazi thug.” protests Jake.

Quentin nods, “No problem, I’d love to come by and give you a statement.”

“Sorry. Our budget doesn’t buy us the cream of the crop. I’ve had suspicions about him but suspicion isn’t grounds for termination. That’s why I’d like to talk to you both. Later.”

“Elsie, what happened to Natasha?” asks Jake.

“Liz said she was attacked. She’s probably been out there most of the day, and she’s hurt, so it’s really lucky Liz found her.”

Quentin mutters, “Luck, my ass.”

The campus security car arrives at the fork in the path. Val makes the tight turn and drives toward the parking lot.

“Please keep your eyes open for…”

“There!” yells Jake. As the car approaches they see Ethan standing at the side of the road, shivering in a T shirt. Val stops the car, and Elsie is first out, handing Ethan a large sweatshirt.

He starts “They’re in here.”

Elsie shakes her head. “Put it on, you’re freezing, then you can take me.” Ethan nods and pulls it over his head, while Jake climbs out and hands Elsie his brightest flash light, then one of the penlights to Ethan. Elsie flashes Jake a non-predatory smile and follows Ethan into the woods.

Quentin climbs out of the car and positions himself with Jake just off the path, and they watch Val take the campus car down the path to the parking lot. Sirens wail in the distance.

Elsie’s light bounces along the path, variously skidding off trees and shrubs until it lands on Liz kneeling at the side of the path, cradling Natasha’s head in her lap.

Elsie bites back an admonition; a lay person should never move a head injury. Blood encrusted in her hair clearly indicates Natasha has one. She has also been bundled in Ethan’s voluminous pea coat. Elsie fleetingly hopes the rescuers haven’t done more damage than good as she passes the big flash to Ethan and she opens her bag. Ethan fiddles with the flash light until it slides open, transforming into a lantern.

Elsie pulls out a gray felt blanket and kneels beside Natasha’s supine figure. Ethan goes around and crouches beside Liz, one hand holding up the lantern for Elsie, the other arm slipping protectively around Liz’s shoulder.

Elsie can see matted blood on Natasha’s head, quite a lot of it, clotted into her hair. Reaching out to gently touch Natasha’s neck, Elsie deftly takes her pulse. “Getting her warm was good, and her pulse is strong.” she tells Liz matter-of-factly. “May I have the light please?” Ethan hands it over silently, and Elsie lifts the corner of the coat and shines the light in.

Liz asks, “Is she going to be okay?”

Natasha’s clothes are ripped and bloody, the beginning of heavy bruising forming on her thighs. Looks like blood and semen. Elsie lightly probes her arms and legs.

“Nothing seems broken”.

“But there’s so much blood.”

“Scalp wounds bleed a lot. Doesn’t have to be serious. I can’t tell about the head injury, it could be bad or she might be fine. I’m just here for first aid. We are not even going to try to move her, we just keep her warm until the paramedics arrive. I’d say she’s in damn good shape for someone who’s been laying out here for hours.

She passes the light back to Ethan, and settles the heavy wool blanket over the unconscious girl. “I think they’re here.”

The thrum of the ambulance engine slows and stops out on the footpath. Doors open and close and lights strobe as Val leads the paramedics through the trees.

With practiced ease a portable gurney is set up, and Elsie gets up and steps out of the way. The paramedics squat on either side of Liz, expertly sliding a board under the unconscious Natasha smoothly transferring her to the gurney.

Ethan gets up, and Liz tries to as well, but she’s shaky from squatting so long. Ethan encircles her with his arms and pulls her to her feet. Liz rotates one ankle and flexes her knee, to restore circulation, then the other. She leans back into Ethan, and they watch the gurney being carried out.

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The computer club members spread out in Kate and Nick’s married student bungalow. Although the same size and floor plan as Tamara’s, Kate has dispensed with a dining room, merging the intended dining area with the living room to make one larger living space. Sofas anchor either end with two folding tables down the middle. Oscar and Maggie sit on junk shop easy chairs flanking the Jelly Belly bowl; Krystal and Adam sit along the side on two of Kate’s vintage vinyl and chrome tube chairs.

Kate sets a bowl of ChedACorn beside Krystal before curling up on the window sofa. “I thought Jake was coming.”

Krystal nods, “Me too. He was gonna try and bring along some other photography students.”

Oscar very formally announces, “The Christie Computer Club Is Now In Session. Hear ye hear ye hear…” When they start pelting him with jellybeans and ChedACorn Oscar shuts up.

“Who died and made you president?” asks Maggie.

“No one,” answers Oscar as he picks jellybeans out of his lap and pops them into his mouth. “I assumed possession of the biggest mouth and the largest ego made me a shoo-in.” Lifting a ChedACorn from his shoulder he sends it after the jellybeans.

“Well,” suggests Kate, “Far as I’m concerned if you’ve got an agenda you can have the job. I have no idea how to run a club.” Gesturing toward the snack food array,’ “Parties yes, clubs no. Whose idea was this anyway?”

Kate looks at Maggie who says, “Uh. Yeah, that’d be me.”

“What is on the agenda today, Maggie?” Adam asks.

“That’s the problem,” says Maggie. “I don’t have one. This meeting is to figure out what we want the club to be for.”

Adams says, “Why not evaluate and compare software?”

“That’s a great idea. Give us a focus right off.” Oscar nods. “A ratings website. We could post software and hardware reviews.”

“Not bad,” says Maggie, “Call it Computer Science Department. It should be easy enough to do it for our coursework web pages.”

Krystal says, “It would be fun to have something besides celebrity gossip to tweet about. I could plug the website.”

Kate shakes her head. “Identi.ca is better than Twitter for security issues, especially if you host your own instance.”

Maggie says, “I signed up to Twitter for Stu, but we hardly ever use it; we’re more likely to just text each other.”

Oscar shakes his head. “I can’t believe you lot call yourselves computer geeks.”

“Wait just a minute, there. Oz, microblogging is social network than a geek haven.” says Kate.

“I prefer the term ‘nerd’.” Maggie grins.

“Depends on who you hang out with, doesn’t it now.”

“There are plenty of geeks and nerds on Twitter.”

says Krystal. “You guys just gave it up without giving it a chance.”

“I connect to Twitter through Identi.ca” says Oscar. “All the better to be anonymous.”

Krystal’s eyes widen. “Are you in Anonymous Oz?”

Oscar smiles, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Twitter is simply too frivolous.” says Adam. “If I want to connect with programmers I’ll go though IRC.”

Krystal frowns. “What’s that?”

“Internet relay channel. Live chatting without that ‘following’ business, so everyone can see the conversation.

Maggie laughs. “It’s what Sheldon Cooper would use instead of Twitter”.

Krystal asks, “Who?”

Oscar says “To live chat with Moss and Roy no doubt.”

Krystal frowns. “Now what are you guys talking about?”

“Geek sitcoms.”

Krystal shakes her head. “There are Geek sitcoms?”

Maggie says, “Oh yeah. I’ve only seen bits of I.T. Crowd on YouTube but I told my folks I want the boxed set for Christmas. Oz and I have a running argument about which is better, Big Bang Theory or I.T. Crowd. My favorite I.T. Crowd clip is where the cops break down the door and gun down the girl.”

Krystal says, “Uh huh. Sounds real funny. Not.”

“No really, you have to see it. I didn’t explain it very well,” Maggie says. “It’s a take off on those theatre piracy ads.”

Adam says, “I am sick of being lumped in with criminals. All computer people are not pirates. I wish pirates would stop downloading and making me look bad. It is illegal after all.”

Kate says, “But all downloading isn’t illegal, and an awful lot doesn’t even infringe copyright. They’re trying to make it sound as though all downloading is illegal.”

Oscar adds, “You should look at the laws they’re pushing before you judge. The worst of them require no conviction nor evidence. You don’t even have to download anything to get barred from the interwebs. Accusations can evict you, and not just you, but everyone at your address, innocent family, flatmates.”

Adam says, “That doesn’t sound right. Are you certain?”

Kate says, “I thought it was to stop copyright infringement.”

Oscar says, “That’s what they want you to think, Kate. But in this brave new world you’re guilty until proven innocent.”

Adam says, “But they have to do that to stop the pirates.”

“You mean like at our terribly depraved Ubuntu release party with all of those torrents.”

“That’s not what I mean,” says Adam.

Maggie says, “I hadn’t thought of that, Oz. That means when they throttle torrents it means they target Ubuntu parties.”

“Of course that’s wrong, but that’s not what I mean though. What I’m talking about is people who steal music and movies.”

Oscar says, “Lets think about that a minute, Adam, shall we? How are people stealing music exactly?”

“People download it then share it with other people.”

“Have you ever watched a movie on TV Adam?”

“Of course.”

“Was that stealing?”

“No, but we pay for cable.”

Kate reaches for the remote and switches on the TV. “You know what? I pay for cable too.”

Adam says, “Of course you do. I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t. I mean …”

It’s the new House episode. Adam trails off as he notes that Kate isn’t really listening, she’s intently watching the Chase wheel out the crash cart and shock the patient until she’s stable.

Oscar says, “Is that why we didn’t recruit anyone new? I didn’t realize it was a House conflict. We’ll never get any new members at this rate. Better pick a new night.”

“Or include House watching as a bonus.” says Krystal.

When the show breaks into a commercial, Kate mutes it, then turns to Adam. “How is watching my cable broadcast different than if we shared a download?”

Adam opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again, frowning. Then, “I will have to think about that, Kate.”

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