Peace Negotiations

found on a cold night
in lieu of darkness
over a hexagonal glass of whiskey.
I took off a boot
we discussed Faisal,
fingers in the middle eastern pie
that make it the shattered mirror
of lost lives

living in this universal crowd
of masked faces
where to touch one is tantamount
to sacrilege, violating
caste purity–
how could I pick your face
from the anonymous mass
contravening this unspoken
border between each individual country.

Such craving throngs to crescendo,
the wrangle between autonomy and harmony,
hands wanting to cross boundaries
minorities within perimeters
pan-identity beyond frontiers
and the sanctity of the solitary.
You reach across your wall
to my foreign hand
on a cold night
in lieu of darkness
passports no longer needed.

Sarah

She siphons smoke from her cigarette, hand draped like an old spider web over bare knees (summer time means the coat is hidden, like the long johns). She tells me about brawn, a jewel in her crown that turns relations into delicate barriers against war, a threadbare string keeping a pit-bull from its dinner. That’s why it all ends badly, she explains between drags. But I’ve seen her cream-thin hand kneading knots from brows and tired shoulders in her guest bed even been recipient to her chilled hand gathering the blankets affectionately to my chin. She deposits straws in juice cups, drips cheese over nachos,composes meals, assembles late night snacks. Hands dancing to supply. That’s why cigarette intervals puncture post-sunset giving. A time for her gossamer fingers to lay catnapping over the pacifying edge of a cigarette. I sit with her. Sometimes even taking a little smoke offered like her blanket tuckings. But I listen too. She is brawn, but the type that links–strong glue for misapprehension.

This Old House

crushed flower petals

frozen in dust-held grime

they clutch 

and quiver under

old tile counters and

showers of termite feces.

Some old houses 

keep people like cradles

in embrace of stasis

pretending that wood is not warping

professing that nails never rust

and can forever support

walls from foundations for floors

that sustain feigned banquets

cooing perpetually in an ancient embrace of decay

stitch the fallen threads

soothe warping wood

clean rusty nails

fixing at the same speed as dying.

When we moved to this house

the old faucet broke in the bath tub, 

greeting us with a flood which soaked

the hallway carpet and living room floor for days

We’ve still never cleaned it up.

What a homestead we made…

elderly before birth

a sunset perpetually ending,

strategies for escape

that never reached fruition

because we were essentially building a dying house

within a dying world

while dreaming of not dying.

You wanted me to keep you alive

you begged so often for just a few more seconds

to lap up hopes melting under a thousand summers suns

but all I could do was watch you 

expiring slowly over your rotting bedrock

you exposed me, paralyzed to your death,

and so we died together for a little while

in that dying house

within a dying world

while dreaming of not dying.

The Last Time

The last time I spoke with Harry McBride was really only half a conversation. The lesson he gave was meant for her, but I was the only one listening, so I was the one who received it. 

The root chakra, at the base of the spine, is a primal life force. Next is the sacral chakra which many people equate with sexuality, although it has more to do with creativity. 
  Harry paused his explanation to show his diagram, sketched quickly on the back of a flier, to the object of his affection. She stopped briefly for a quick look on her way to refill the coffee machine with water. He continued.
The chakra around the solar plexus is very important and then going higher, we have the heart and throat chakras. At the very top is the third eye and the crown chakra, both related to functions of higher consciousness.
Not caring that I was second choice, I snatched up the crumbs. “I think Carlos Castenada must have written about a chakra at the solar plexus because when he goes into dream time he ends up with this weird sort of extra spirit arm that comes out of his stomach and attaches to things in the world around him.”
Harry paused, trying to remember, that sounds likely…
“So what do these do, how can they help you?” 
  He looked up with a forlorn tinge to his eye. Well I suppose you can focus on the chakras with specific yoga exercises or meditations, but I just know the basics, no practical applications.
Harry turned to gain her attention one last time as she dashed by with a carafe. His half wave didn’t even pause her work routine for half a second.
“If not chakras then what do you rely on?” 
  I was always partial to the spirit guide, but, of course, sometimes the only advice they can give you is to jump off a cliff. He ejected a raspy cough and a wry smile. 
My library is still filled with Harry’s books: a biography of Madame Blavatsky, a reference book of Celtic Gods and Goddesses, and a bushel of Charles De Lint novels. He’d filled everyone at the coffee shop with books on everything from the 19th century occult, to ancient Egyptians and hallucinogenic rituals. He was a desperate teacher, distributing lessons at an astonishing rate before the inevitable.
Six months before he stopped coming to the coffee shop, he appeared, wraithlike, at a workmate gathering at the bar down the street. 
She sat up rigidly, “what is he doing here?” she whispered not too covertly. 
Another co-worker and I stayed to chat with him while the rest of the group migrated away from the table. He only drank guinness.
“Do you regret any of it?” I asked him once.
  What, joining the navy, going to war? He smiled. No, that’s what needed to happen, and it did get me out of Pennsylvania. 
Everyday at about 3 PM he would leave the coffee shop for the little Eritrean market two buildings down and buy a cheesecake. Then he would smoke a hand-rolled cigarette and sit down to his afternoon snack, backpack placed carefully beside his seat.
  When I got out of the navy I was offered a job in the tech industry. If I’d taken it, I’d probably be much more wealthy. Choking laughter. But I made a decision then that I wanted to have an outdoor life.
This assertion was confirmed by an alpine-hiker look, a muted green hat that looked like a cross between a fedora and a fisherman’s cap, and khakis that hugged trim legs. Despite his looming expiration date he exuded virility. He who talked of third eyes, gnostic rituals, and the power of menstrual cycles. 
But he could only catch her full attention when she told him of her dreams.
After he was gone, I heard that his sister came to collect his scattered library. I wasn’t working at the coffee shop anymore. I kept his books.

Not Touching

last night i was up late. too late. when the morning came quickly, thoughts crowded like high school crushes. it’s been so long since i felt like that lightning…but i have been sharing my bed with someone who makes my vagina hot. The morning came too quickly and thoughts of guilt kept my shivers company. double titillation. double thoughts of double agents and my cunt must be hungrier than i thought. 

 

here i am, sharing your bed almost every night. two peas, used to the familiarity of rolling over next to the same log of human hair, skin, and excretions every night. i rolled next to mine for 5 years, you for 3. You sought marriage, i was afraid of it. but the same result came for both of us. we roll into our logged ruts. partners in kitchen cleaning. giving rides. i’ll be there for you, go to your doctors appointments, your court appearances, paying the cable. we eat together, clean together, pee together. There’s a comfort in there that is un-rut-like. I like it. Like leaning on a million year old boulder.

 

but is this how it should be? worried of returning to what felt like solitary slavery? but here, in this one, we can fuck for hours. but here, in this one, you hope to pee in as many butts as you have leg hairs. sometimes i think you want me for the gas i burn getting you from here to there. I will leave soon, oh don’t worry, i will be gone. and you will still be here. hoping for progeny with a lifestyle unfitting. i need to continue on. past this way station in the desert.

 

last night, i stayed up way too late. and when this morning came quickly i pressed send even faster so that he could see my smile behind my hand behind my tan-lined breasts. i looked at his manhood again. how exciting is the excitement of not touching. of the potential for touching. the thoughts of touching.  his promises of poetry and picture-taking make my thighs quiver. full of promises.

 

is forgetting this unforgettable way station a sin. perhaps judgement day is here. i judge myself with the tentative paw of a cautious kitty. you still make my vagina hot, but last night I stayed up way too late, not touching someone else. talking about not touching. smelling not touching. looking at photos of not touching. perhaps trying too hard is a sin. i can’t make you blush…although you send my cheeks flaming…and here i am blushing thinking of not touching.

Internet Isolation

I found an old friend today.
Through heavy haystacks of google
I sifted results–
too young,
too blond,
fat
wrong country
…but then:
“Best teacher eva”
“really funny but can be too smart, by far best Irish teacher”
“i tink she is a pain, she says wat she tinks!!”

I like to find stacks of friends
hidden amongst linkedIn, bebo and facebook
the most lucrative pages can be courtroom roll calls–
but sometimes Deans lists or academic journals.

the view from those stacks feels like a party
as though, if i had a birthday,
more than 3 people might show up.
That’s why—on cold nights
i’ve nestled up amongst those google haystacks,
keeping frostbitten limbs from turning
black and
stinking–
pretending has a certain pretense that can keep
you living one night longer.

How I Learned to Keep Secrets

I heaved the door open and dashed down the hallway, “Mommy! I just thought of something!”
“What is it honey?”
“Isn’t it really weird that God exists and he’s sitting in heaven and he created the world in 7 days?”
“What do you mean weird?”
“I don’t know, it’s just weird. Like maybe he’s not really in heaven and didn’t really make the world.”
“Well, God did create the world in 6 days and he rested on the 7th. He’s looking down on you right now and cares about you and how you act.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird sometimes too mommy?”
“No honey, God gives me faith so that I know what is real.”
The rest of the afternoon then continued in a typical 6 year old fashion with a my little pony village where a purple-maned mare lived next to the twin baby pegasus in the stable.

Like most housewives, my mother hid her turmoil well. She’d groan when my older sister decided to draw pictures of hands in the entryway closet or gasp when I fell and scraped my knee—coddling or punishing appropriately. But my youthful tendency to divulge every little thought must have been unnerving.
There is a formula that currently exists which is supposed to create cookie-cutter children who sing hymns and get baptized at an appropriate teenage age. My parents followed the recipe to a ‘t’ giving me a life of Cole Christian Community school, church, and Psalty the singing bible. I could count my friends who didn’t go to my church on one finger. I was to be part of The Family (with a capital ‘F’).
But there was a little catch in the formula. Although my sister was the one drawing on walls or throwing tantrums when she heard the word ‘no’. I was the one who came to my mom with little gems like “isn’t God weird,” “Is he really there?” or “why did Karen touch my weewee?” All of which she never really answered and brushed under the carpet with bible verses or a brusque, “get your coat on, it’s time to go to school.”

As I grew I still tended to blurt things out, although I’d started to keep in the puzzles I knew would be ignored. When I met my new public school friends I asked her, “Are they really going to hell? Julie’s catholic and Stacy’s Jewish, they believe in God, isn’t that good enough?” When I was customarily left out of the invitations to a big boy/girl party that most of my sixth grade class was attending I naturally vented my frustration to my mother by criticizing the presence of a ‘make-out’ room. 6 months later, when there was another party, I was finally invited but my mother would not let me go, citing the previously mentioned ‘make-out’ room. A light bulb turned on, my mother was actually listening to what I was saying. In fact, carelessly mentioned facts could count against me at a later date. It didn’t matter that I would never feel comfortable enough to make out with any of the little fresh-cheeked 6th grade boys or that any would even want to. But no matter what I said, my mother wouldn’t budge.

In 7th grade the subject of my faith began to crop up. The questions: “So, how’s your walk with God?” “What are you reading in the bible?” “Are you doing any bible studies?” The more frequent the questions came the less zeal I held until eventually I began to answer in monosyllabic “dunno”s or “fine”s. An offer for a parent-guided bible study on any question I posed, was designed to bring back a little zeal. I thought for several days and came up with a question that had been bothering me for most of the year.
“Why are using bad words a sin? Who decides what words are bad and why are they so sinful? Aren’t you just supposed to use kind words with others rather than being worried about these specific words?”
I had been thinking of this for months because the grandmother of a friend of mine liked to use the phrase, “oh poop!” The year before I had just learned that the word shit meant the same thing. So then, why was it bad to say oh shit, but not oh poop when they meant the same thing? I thought it was an honest question, but after showing me some vague bible verses about watching the words coming out of your mouth—which only proved my hypothesis—my parents were crestfallen that I didn’t automatically take their side. My father announced that I was immature in my faith and I was started on a beginners level bible study book that covered the fundamentals of the christian faith. At this point I vowed never to tell my parents anything again.

Diversions

I took the sheep out to pasture today.
They rushed across the early-summer wisps of counterfeit desert grass
tails tucked.
witless.
teensy bell songs.
I was an advancing carnivore,
with other things to do.
swiveling sprinkler handles
adjusting doo-dads
switching switches
bringing swathes of sod to the sod-less
dust of high altitude juniper.

I stop mid-stride of my celestial chores
recalling my finger tracing
the line of forehead to chin.

I check the pond level,
ensure the pump survival.
I’ll need the pole spinning valves
working the primitive mechanics
of an aging artist’s hand-dug irrigation

I’m looking for your graying eyes
flashing blue in the leaden shallows
your chin jutting with perplexion
as you absent-mindedly place your hand
on the inside of my thigh
below my…

I just need to turn two off
and two on
and the pleasant hum of
machinery ejecting water–

the sound of me
when I hold down your hands
and sheets slung to the fringe
when I gasp at the astounding nature
of…

I’m looking for your greying eyes
flashing blue,
the quiver of my day
filled by your arrows

Asshole

Robert failed miserably to explain the character we were about to meet, “He dated a friend of mine. She was into dirty guys or something.”
When he’d said dirty, I somehow assumed this indicated a fetish. I imagined a polished L.A. man with perfectly moussed hair who obsessed over smelling feet or some other more unmentionable thing I’d seen on a Japanese video once. Regardless, I didn’t give the meeting too much thought because I was most interested in our excursion to see the Show. We skipped down the road exhilarated by both our expedition and the backpack full of beer we hauled with us.
Our pristine cheeks reflected the star-flecked sky, perfunctory friends, in the tradition of incoming college freshman. Petit Robert with his incongruously lengthy nose and hair all shaved besides the black tendrils that he shaped into little devil horns. All his pretended villainy couldn’t cover up his darling little rib cage and French accent. Devin was another small guy trying to make up for it in attitude. An angel-haired dual citizen of Israel and Southern California. Both made out like they were intellectual giants, but, I’ll just put it this way, 18 year olds are hardly ever intellectual giants. As for me, the most important thing to remember is that I was naïve enough to be spending one of many evenings with these two characters.
We emerged from the dark neighborhoods below Telegraph Avenue into the plentiful streetlights of Shattuck and crossed the dead thoroughfare without a problem. Berkeley, although wild and crazy in its own right, certainly was not what you would call a “happening hang out.”
“There he iss!” pointed Robert. I followed his finger and saw the back of a tall vagabond with a navy blue beanie pasted to his head and greasy jeans hanging from his hips. He was hanging out in the midst of the usual BART station derelicts.
As we approached the man turned around with a rotten grin, “It’s my little friend Robbie!” and wrapped one large, fuzzy arm around Robert’s narrow shoulders. “who’s your little friends Robbie, college buddies?”
“Yes, my friends from Berkeley: Lena and Devin.”
After the introduction our new friend extended a simian hand to Devin and I in turn, “Nice to meet ya, Lena, Devin.” He grinned at us through chunky lenses, looking almost menacing. “My name’s Asshole… ’cause I’m an asshole!”
“Well, helloo Asshole!” I proclaimed. He smiled. We immediately got along. Somehow fitting like a Eunuch and a harem.
“so we’re goin’ to the Show, who’s been before?”
“I’ve been, een L.A.” Ricky said.
“I’ve never been,” I said, having no idea what I was getting myself into. “I’ve watched it lots of times but I’ve never seen it live.”
“Devin?” Asshole looked at him poignantly.
“He’s nevair been! He’s nevair been!” Robert bursted with merriment.
“What, no, no, I have been!” Devin stuttered to no avail. Asshole gave him a magnified glare through his glasses. “Ok, fine I haven’t been to see it!” Devin rolled his eyes.
“We’ve got a couple virgins here!” Asshole whooped.
“Virgin? What do you mean virgin?” I cocked my head, still not comprehending what was in store for me.
“It’s just something we call people who haven’t seen it.” Explained Asshole.
“But I have seen it before!”
“Not live!” Asshole’s eyes glimmered. “Don’t worry we’re just gonna put a little ‘V’ on your face so people will know they need to help de-virginize you.”
“What the hell are they gonna do?”
“ Oh, some people just may come up and give you hickies or something.”
I immediately relaxed. “Oh, well I can handle some hickies, de-virginize me!!” A vagrant approached me with a large, black tagging marker. First he drew a V covering my forehead. Then he began to draw something vigorously on both my cheeks. “OK! OK! Enough already!” I pulled away. I turned towards Rob and Devin; they immediately gushed with laughter.
“You’re a fucking idiot!” Devin told me, then turned to the drifter, “You are not coming near me with that marker.”
“Ok, fine I’ll just yell really loud and tell everyone you’re a virgin.” Asshole wagged his head at him.
“What?! Well, if I let you put a little ‘V’ on my forehead you better not breathe a word to anyone.”
“Ok, my lips are sealed.”

I admit we received plenty of stares on our way to University Avenue, especially my colored face. But of course, Asshole will always elicit glances wherever he goes, all six dirty feet, two gimpy inches of him. Our destination was an art house movie theater just west of the Berkeley campus. When we arrived the whole front sidewalk was a heap of people waiting to get in. Some were t-shirt and jeans folks but most were dressed up for the occasion. A couple cross-dressers and a handful of Goths, all pierced and dyed black, wearing fancy ruffly dresses.
A goth girl made a bee line for Devin’s neck and began to suck intensely. He was surprised but soon his face relaxed in pleasure.
I laughed as I looked on the delighted Devin distracting myself from an enclosing predator. She lunged at my neck. I recoiled slightly, but sat still like an obedient girl, hoping for the best. Unfortunately the pressure increased and her mouth began to feel like a high-powered vacuum cleaner. I don’t think this is what it’s like for Devin. I thought as I glanced over at him. The goth girl had finished and now he was obviously enchanted by her. What’s the matter with this girl, when is this going to be over? Right as I was reaching the end of my endurance I felt the carnivorous edges of her teeth on my skin. Oh no! I thought as she made sharp, stabbing contact. I leapt away belatedly. My neck felt soggy and numb. Every member of my party erupted in unrestrained laughter, and I could tell my face bloomed in embarrassment.
“Damn, that chick bit you hard!” said Asshole.
“Am I bleeding?” I asked him.
“There’s a little bit of blood but not much,” he said looking down at my neck. “You certainly have a set of teeth marks though.” He grinned. “Looks like you got your fair share of the virgin greeting!”
“Man, that hurts!” I dabbed delicately around the wound, “Jeeze am I gonna have to get rabies shots?”
Asshole just laughed, “Oh, you’ll be fine after you drink some beer, come on, let’s go inside.”
The doors had been opened and people were streaming inside, so we meandered down to the row of seats that our group had lain claim to. Devin and Robbie were there, still chuckling at my misfortune, so I disappeared into a plush-red seat at the opposite end of our row.

I heard a soft crack as the lights began to dim and Asshole pressed a cold beer into my hands; it was—I soon learned—his favorite, Henry Weinhardts; cheap and…well…cheap. I chugged thankfully to forget my insecurity and palpitating wound.
The curtains covering the screen opened and Rocky Horror began to play. I looked on in dismay, all this just to see the movie again, I thought. Then two actors dressed as the unsuspecting young couple came walking down the aisle to the small stage that was in front of the movie screen. As the song played they began to lipsync and act out the movie below the real thing. Can’t they at least sing for real, I continued with my thoughts of disappointment. There was nothing left to do but put out my hand for another Henry Weinhardts.

Shitty’s Pillow

A group of motley sneakers made their way down Telegraph Avenue on the age-old quest for beer. Only this evening the quest was made easier for this crew by the presence of legal-age drinkers; subsequently all the youth’s faces were donned with expectant grins. 

We were quite a disparate sight, fresh-faced hippies with various nose piercings, a half Japanese boy with a red tri-hawk, all led by the most perplexing sight of all, an over six foot tall homeless man with thick coke-bottle spectacles, known as Asshole. Not far behind him was another older, although much shorter, man, Jason, who attempted to flirt enthusiastically with the hippie girls of the group. He was dressed in black with a bulky black backpack and a matching rotten tooth when he smiled. Skipping around the group was a young redhead, Ravyn, who didn’t quite look homeless but, well, there was definitely something not quite normal about him.

Asshole shook his head, “We’ll never get beer with this lot of youngsters, especially with you. Stop skipping!” Ravyn momentarily calmed down but then took off across the street to a median where he saw a person he knew, another Telegraph derelict. Asshole sighed, “he better not invite anyone else along.” 

The fair Ravyn had a mind of his own that fluttered as close to the sun as possible. He slept around various places on campus, and who knows where. Sometimes I would catch him at Hate Circle in Sproul Plaza where you could push the Hate man for a cigarette and the commonly heard greeting was, “fuck you!” Sometimes Ravyn claimed to be 17 and a runaway sometimes he claimed to be almost 30 and that his parents had taught him to do an anti-aging spell on himself. It was always hard to tell truth from imagination with Ravyn and I didn’t really care. That’s how good story tellers are.

“Alright you guys, for this to work you’re gonna have to at least wait on the corner,” Asshole motioned and we obediently halted. We had already given him the money, so he and Jason went to the liquor store.

“So where are we gonna go?” I asked Hughie, the Japanese tri-hawk, and Sama’a, my fellow fresh-faced hippie. “We could always go up the hill behind Clark Kerr.”

“With all these people, I don’t think so,” Hughie’s limp tri-hawk shook has he glanced furtively to make sure Asshole couldn’t hear him.

“My roommates are gone this weekend…” Sama’a started.

“Hell yeah! We got a place to drink,” Hughie practically high fived. Sama’a looked slightly trepidatious. 

“There’s not much space and Shitty will kill me if she knew. You have to promise not to touch her pillow.”

“Sure…I’ll only hold her pillow for ransom!” Hughie laughed and so did Sama’a. After trying to spend the least amount of time in her dorm room as possible throughout the semester she seemed happy at finally getting the chance to have her own space, especially as you can see, at least one of her roommates was neurotic.

The relationship had started out ok. Sama’a was in a triple room–a tiny dorm room with three people. Shuti, her Indian roommate had gotten along with Sama’a at first. They both had close-knit eastern style families and plus Shuti partook of Sama’a’s favorite herb with her. However, Sama’a could first tell something was not normal when they were smoking a bowl in a grove of trees on one of the Berkeley hills. She invited Shuti to sit down next to her on the ground as they were smoking. 

Shuti’s answer, “no thanks, I don’t want to get dirty.” 

Sama’a’s response, “oh don’t worry about it, we can change when we get home.”

“NO thanks, I really don’t want to get dirty.”

“Oh come on, it feels good to sit on the ground and hang out under these trees.” Shuti eyed her nervously, “I totally dig what you’re saying but you  don’t understand…I can’t get dirty.” 

As Sama’a’s clothes pile grew and grew, her and Shuti got along less and less. Sama’a began sleeping on Hughie’s floor and sometimes my floor, although my roommates eventually forbade it. Hughie came up with the idea of twisting Shuti’s name and we all began to call her Shitty. Shitty got mad at her grandmother for stepping on the little carpet she put out next to her bed. Shitty was livid when her mother touched her pillow. Shitty told Sama’a to never ever ever sit on her bed, the only lower bunk in the room. Naturally this made Sama’a never want to be in the room while Shitty was there, so tonight was the perfect opportunity to finally hang out in the forbidden dorm room even at risking the pristine state of Shitty’s bed. 

 

Asshole and Jason returned toting a case of henry weinhardts and a couple forties “Where are we goin’?” 

“Back to the dorms!” said Hughie.

“The dorms, eh? They won’t be scared of an Asshole like me?” He chuckled, “Alright, let’s go…lead the way, I’m ready for some trouble!”

“Wait, what about Ravyn?” I asked.

Asshole grimaced, “Who cares, let’s go.” 

So we took off to Sama’a’s room, beer and motley crew in tow. First, we had to pick up Robert and Devin. After 15 minutes walk, we approached what looked to be Dracula’s castle, the ‘all boys dorm.’ A quick knock on the door and Robert joined us, accompanied by his constant companion Devin. I call them companions not so much because they were romping together, if you know what I mean, but because they were best friends with similar tastes, similar attitudes, and constantly around each other. In fact, despite differing physical features, somehow it was hard to differentiate between the two of them. I don’t think I had ever hung out with one without the other. Our destination was just a short hop and a skip from the boys dorm. 

 

We entered Sama’a’s dorm room amidst plentiful admonishments to not fuck with her roommates bed.  We cracked open some beers and sprinkled ourselves around the room. 

“We need some tunes!” Asshole growled.

“I’ll take care of that.” Hughie’s tri-hawk was the clue to his musical tastes and he was not tolerant of other types. Sama’a handed him her CD book and he flipped through it. “Cat Stevens??” He asked incredulously. “Do you listen to anything besides hippie music?”

After another couple pages, “Great…all we need is more of the Doors and Janis Joplin.”

“Hey, I love Joplin!” Asshole quipped, “Put her on.”

Hughie sighed as he placed the CD in the stereo. This party finally had a soundtrack. Before long, we found ourselves observing college students from the comfortable window view. When nobody was walking by Hughie spit out the window and watched it fall two stories with a satisfying splat. 

“Hey let’s throw water balloons at people when they walk by!” Hughie was always the trouble-maker. “I’ve got some water balloons in my room…”And with that he rushed out of Sama’a’s room.

“Hey is this yer freaky roommates bed?” Asshole asked as he sat down on it. 

“Yes,” Sama’a sighed, “not like she’ll notice if anybody’s been sitting on it. And she can’t stand anyone touching her pillow, not even her own family.”

“ Jeeze, no wonder why you never want to stay here.” I said as I sat down on Shitty’s bed too, I sort of bounced up and down as the effects of the beer started to hit me, “I’m sitting on your bed Shitty!” I called. Sama’a laughed nervously.

Then Robert decided to join the bandwagon. He grabbed Shitty’s pillow and threw it on the dorm floor and then hopped up and down on it. Devin, as usual, joined in.

Sama’a was laughing but added through gritted teeth, “Just don’t get it dirty.”

Like a magic word, this set Robert off in a misguided fit of rebellion and he really began to molest Shitty’s pillow. “Fucking dumbasses,” He said in his delicate French accent, “Sama’a’s worried about getting in trouble.” He mocked. I’m still convinced that little Robert always overdid his rebellious attitude to make up for his petite stature. Although, his Father being an asshole may have something to do with it…

Anyways, Robert really twisted up Shitty’s pillow and even chewed on it a little bit. Sama’a  started to get pissed.

“Shut the fuck up Robbie give me back the pillow!”

Robert just laughed as he and Devin began to play a game of keep away. Sama’a finally grabbed the pillow back from them amidst a chorus of laughter.

“Why do you even care about your stupid roommate?”  

“I don’t.” She said firmly as she put the pillow back on the bed.

At that moment Hughie returned with water balloons. “Hey, are you going to tell Shitty that Asshole was sitting on her bed!” He said with a grin. Sama’a even laughed at that one.

“No way…”

“Hey, what’s the matter with an ol’ dirty asshole?” With that, Asshole grabbed the pillow and rubbed it down the back of his pants. The room erupted in giggles.

 

My God, how little it takes to entertain some college Freshmen, or 6 dirty feet, two gimpy inches of Asshole.

 

Unfortunately, at that point Sama’a’s third roommate, Lisa, came home early from her party. She stood aghast for a second until she noticed the plethora of beer in the room and then she smiled and relaxed. 

“Hey Sama’a, Laura, Hughie, who are your friends?” She asked. 

“Um, this is Robert from the boys’ dorm, Devin lives up at the top of the stairs. And this is Jason and Asshole.” Sama’a held her breath for Lisa’s reaction.

“Hi! Can I have a beer?”

Asshole opened up a Weinhardts and handed it to her. She hesitated, with a deer in the headlights expression but after a couple seconds, her desire for alcohol outlived her fear of dirty homeless people and she took the beer tenderly from Asshole’s dirty paw. It seemed as though Lisa had been momentarily placated with alcohol.

However, the boys weren’t cute enough for a drunk Lisa so a limit was unknowingly placed on the tranquility of the evening. At some point Lisa left the room and came back with Shitty in tow and a sordid tale of pillow molestation red on her lips. Some of us had been in and out of the room for cigarette breaks out at the ’smoking circle’ and I plea innocence through smoking absence. However, whenever Shitty returned all hell broke loose, well, hell for Sama’a at any rate. I don’t think she ever slept in her dorm room again after the verbal lashing Shitty gave her, and I don’t think Shitty ever used her pillow again, in fact I believe she threw it away right then and there. Perhaps a water balloon or two was thrown, perhaps not, I plead innocence.