Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 02:33:06 -0500 From: Mustapha Mond Subject: Very Little Fanfare - Chapter II Very Little Fanfare Chapter 2 Mustapha Mond Disclaimer: Suffice it to say, you have been warned. The mystery letter in the library stuck in my brain so, naturally, I made a point of staying the hell away from that place. Happiness, even in the dimmest, most remote conception, had me like a steak to a starving vegan: it might just save my life, but after so long without it, I couldn't imagine sinking my teeth in, tasting that blood like it was a new thing. The days got warmer so I went down by the river instead; there's a running path that starts at 125th and stretches down further than you can see; in the northern sections slate gray boulders climb out of the water and into the manicured grass. I would perch myself among these and read. Joggers, bikers, strollers, lovers, all invisible behind me. My eyes were full of endlessly inked words, and the sober river beyond, and Jersey yet further, apartments climbing over that hill there, factories hidden just beyond but for their chemical plumes like puffy cowlicks over the crest. When the sun sank its light caught in the troughs in the water and burned magenta, plum, neon intense and blinding. That was my signal to go home. I switched the lights on each time to find the same glovebox room, chipped paint, dusty surfaces, darkness in between my books, under my desk, between the splintering slats on my bed... Once a week I ate with my friend Steph, who was maybe my only real friend. And it wasn't really once a week - only once a week when she wasn't too busy, or hung over, or strung out to leave her room. We got lucky a few days after the library incident; our schedules checked and so I walked down to an Eritrean place we both knew. Days were getting longer, which was a curiously mixed feeling: it was unburdening, but at the same time it annoyed me that everything should be revitalized while I was mired in languorous purgatory. Regardless, it was well nighttime by the time we convened. Steph had a table by the window. I watched her for a second through the green glass before I went in. Her face looked sallow, her hair was dirtier and wilder than usual, and she was holding her fingertips over the small candle's flame until she winced and had to draw them back. I was going to tell her she looked like shit but she beat me to it. "You look like shit. Worse than I've ever seen you. What's eating you, Gilbert?" "Can we just eat? I don't feel talkative. And you look like hell yourself, darling. Aren't there any damn waiters in the place? I don't know why we come here." "I already ordered." She gave me some smug grin. Her lips cracked. "So let's have story time while we wait." "It's nothing. Just some bullshit." "Whatever you say, mon amor." Her cell phone went off but she didn't answer cause I was there. But she also didn't shut it off; we had to wait the full cycle, and then a second time when whoever tried again. If there had been anyone else there they would probably have been pissed. Steph never noticed. That's why I hung out with her sometimes. "So," I said. "Yeah." "It's just some little thing, you know. Not even worth a story." "I'm all ears." "So I'm in the library. Studying. Last Saturday, probably midnightish." "You poor thing," she said, just as a soft Eritrean rock song came on the speakers. "You should have called me, I had a little extra coke that night and was feeling generous. We could have had a party you and me, got trashed, watched some Fulci. Would have taken the edge off." "Yeh, well, I like my pain. Biggest and best thing this body will ever birth. Drugs would be like killing my children." "So then." She poured some wax onto the table and we both dipped our fingertips in really quick. We both breathed deep, once, then that little pain was gone too. "So then. Christ, it's nothing really. I guess I fell asleep, and when I woke up there was this note." Steph looked at me suddenly sharp and poised, her left eyebrow hiked up. Her hands were spread like she was going to cast a spell, but it was really to let the wax dry. "A note, huh." "Note, yup." "So, this note says what, now?" "Just, you know, blah blah blah. You're in my space, fucker, something. Oh and that I was really cute and whoever hoped to see me again." "Awwww," she said, reaching over and grabbing my hands. "You poor fucker, moping around like this. And nothing worse than a creepy stalker chasing you down in the library." "Fuck you." "Seriously though. If losing all hope is freedom, then you just got some chains clamped down, son. Still, James was a looong time ago." I glared at her, until we saw the waitress coming with our huge platter, swaying her hips and singing lightly to the music. Then wax fingertips were hurriedly rolled off and swept onto the floor; even the jaded get embarrassed when caught misbehaving. We tore hunks of sour pancake bread and dipped in into pools of mystery goo, and let the conversation move on. It was cold by whatever time I began walking home, and whatever warmth the food and company had filled me with fled down alleyways and into the bitter wind, blown among scraps of newspaper, candy wrappers, napkins, plastic packaging, cigarette packs. I retreated into my hood and watched the ground as I walked. I had already decided to skip school the next day. School was itself too many excuses; doing things, getting out, was just closing my eyes to the rusty cogwheels sparking in my mind, grinding their gears down, wearing out. I passed one of my roommates but pretended like I didn't hear his greeting. All those kids are fucking scoobs anyway. The elevator was broken; climbing up the steps, I stomped on a cockroach and felt a burst of joy. And then, there, on my whiteboard. I recognized the handwriting immediately, such is the way of memory. Ugly, playful letters, like cursive but more just sloppy script, vertical lines stretched to the breaking point: Sorry for the stalking bit, but I got bored with waiting at the library. I can't get you out of my mind. Lord, I hope you're into guys. R I looked around. "R" wasn't there. I opened my door slowly, at arm's length, like they do when they know the killer is in the house, but it was quickly, painfully obvious that he wasn't hiding in my closet. Or in my bed. How nice that would have been. And for a moment I dropped my resistance and let my imagination take hold, saw the shadows fall such that there was almost a lump in the center, man sized, rising and falling with gentle breath, then stirring, rolling over even in sleep, and then his eyes open, those golden, beautiful eyes... I lay in bed but couldn't sleep. My skinny college mattress never seemed so big: it was like a desert, stretching on miles past my fingertips, bare and lonesome, not even a polished cattle skull to gleam in the sun...or the nighttime... Then somebody knocked on my door. Nobody ever knocks on my door. All I could see was a green glowing 3:30. A.M. Jesus. "Coming," I croaked, hopped out of bed, fished around on the floor until I found some pants, and finally answered the door. Standing there was a boy I had never seen before. I didn't understand the look on his face until he spoke. "Hi," he said. "I'm Rich. As in, the creep who left the message on your door. I was gonna let it simmer for a while, but a few minutes ago I said, fuck it, I can't sleep anyway..." "Oh," was all I could think to say. *** Mustapha sez: Well isn't this exciting! I sure can't wait to find out what happens next! I gotta say, though, don't expect this kind of speed in the future. You'll be lucky if I get one installment out a month. Anyway, thanks to all you guys who wrote me (however brief said comments may have been...*cough*); without such inspiration, I get bored writing pretty quickly. Fortunately, it looks like my recent boy-related bizarreness (read: absolute dearth of boyfriends, sigh) has been augmented by losing one of my oldest and dearest friends (not death, just loss), so there'll be plenty of angst to go around. Comments and platitudes are welcomed at XmustaphamondX@hotmail.com. I wonder if any of you scholarly gents get the quasi-scholarly reference...