“I warned you, Paul. Remember that,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said and laughed quickly. My cup wasn’t even half-full but I handed the girl the tap anyway. “Wait, you warned me about what?” I asked. I could see Candice standing by the edge of End of the World, behind her and down, the Valley of Camden, lights in the town. I didn’t understand how he could prefer that because Mitchell was, admittedly, too good-looking for her. It was beyond my comprehension. I took a gulp of beer.
“I warned you.” He started walking.
“Wait.” I followed him. He stopped by one of the speakers. The Pretenders were coming loudly from them. A small group of people were dancing. He said something I couldn’t hear. I knew what he was going to say, but I didn’t think he had the nerve to say it. Had I been warned? Probably, but not in any verbal way. In the way he would recoil if I touched him in public or after he came. Or if I bought him a beer at The Pub and the way he would throw a fit and tell me that he’d pay for it and push a dollar across the table. How all he would talk about was wanting to go to Europe, take a term off, and then how he would always add, stress, alone. I had been warned and I hated to admit it to myself. But I followed him over to where Candice stood anyway. He gave her the beer. She looked so trashy or maybe she looked pretty and I was having a hard time accepting this. Mitchell was wearing a T-shirt (was it one of mine? probably) and an Eddie Bauer sweater and he scratched at his neck nervously.
“You two know each other?” he asked.
“Yeah, hi,” she smiled and he held her beer while she lit a cigarette.
“Hi,” I smiled, genial as ever. Then threw her a severe look when she wasn’t looking, hoping that Mitchell would catch it, but he didn’t.
The three of us stood there at End of the World, past that came the slope that headed down toward the valley, and then the middle of Camden. It wasn’t steep but if I was to push her, accidentally say, inconspicuously, over the knee-high stone protector, it would cause more than slight damage. The Pretenders turned into Simple Minds and I was grateful because I could not have stood there if there had been no music. Parties are, in their own right, perfect grounds for confrontation, but not this one. I had lost this one. I had probably lost it a long time ago, maybe even that last night in New York. Someone had strung dim yellow lights up and they illuminated Mitchell’s face, making it seem pasty, and washed-out. He was gone. The scene of us standing there was too real and too pointless. I wandered away.
SEAN The girl’s name is Candice. I’m standing by the keg with Tony who’s giving Getch a long speech on the effects of drinking too much beer and I watch her and block Mitch Allen out of my line of vision. She’s dressed too nicely for a Friday night party and out here on Commons lawn she looks classy, really nice, maybe too conservative and uptight in that Jappy sort of way, but also in a good, sexy way, like you look at her and you know she’d be wild in bed or something. At any rate she looks too good for Mitch, who isn’t really all that handsome as far as I can tell. He always reminded me of a high school dork who was trying too hard. I wonder if she really likes f**king him. Then I think maybe they’re not even f**king. Maybe I can just go over there and start talking to her and maybe she’ll accept my offer and tell Mitch that she’ll see him later. And thinking about all this is killing me, almost. Down another beer and another Jap, Roxanne, comes over to the keg, and stands next to me. Then this girl is walking away from End of the World, following him. They can’t be leaving, I’m thinking, it’s too early. But they aren’t leaving, they’re just walking away from someone. Too early for what? I wonder to myself. They’ll just go back to his room eventually (she probably has a roommate) and she’ll let him f**k her. I’m so horny I’m not even excited, just weak. I look at Roxanne, who I owe lots of money to. She’s wearing too much jewelry and looking okay. I wonder if she’ll f**k me tonight. If there’s even a slight possibility. She’s smoking a joint and hands it to me. “What’s going on?” she asks.
“Drinking beer,” I explain.
“Is it good? Are you drinking a good beer?” she asks.
“Listen,” I tell her, getting to the point, “Do you want to go back to my room?”
She laughs, drinks her beer, bats her thickly mascaraed eyelashes and asks me why.
“Old times?” I shrug. I hand her back the joint.
“Old times?” She laughs even harder.
“What’s so funny? Jesus.”
