Tim tells Michael the story of he and Amy almost getting together
One day, a hot day, the hottest so far of the spring, Michael and Tim again walked up the hill to Merrill College, as they had so many times before. Tim loved the warm air, didn't mind the heat, and already looked forward to the approaching evening.
As he walked, Tim anticipated how pleasant it would be--the sun remaining in the sky until well after eight o'clock, which with the time change of daylight savings and the approach of the sun to the solstice, would make the evening last seemingly forever. The college and the forest would be immersed in the golden light-Mediterranean light, filled with the mystery of evening, which is the instant when the day is most beautiful and we also acknowledge the inevitability of nightfall. Tim sometimes wished he could fly around the world and follow the sunset, staying in its dying light forever. In following it the course of decay would be surpassed and outrun.
When Michael and Tim reached the tower, Tim said:
—I have some wine in my refrigerator. Let's have some, sit on the deck.
Michael considered his studying, and like Tim, he felt the attraction of the evening-it seemed as one full of the possibility of revelation. It would be an opportunity for Michael to ask Tim some questions, about the things which had begun to haunt Michael since his friendship with the older student had begun. He wondered about the source of Tim's sometime descent into depression and the mock-serious tone he used in such moments, as if he were a veteran of a long-ago conflict, and experience which no one else could or should understand because it was so irrelevant to the present times. Michael felt that Tim was more serious in those moments than he admitted. Michael decided he had to talk about love, and not in general terms-he wanted Tim to tell the true story of his love.
—Tell me, Tim, about Amy.
Tim started, then smiled.
—What do you mean? What do you want to know about her?
—No, no. Not just her. You and her.
—Okay. Just a minute.
Tim went into his room. He felt caught short, a little scared. It would be difficult to tell Michael the story of him and Amy, and yet, a feeling of pleasant anticipation filled him with the thought of it as well. He would reveal to Michael how close he had come to true sexual experience, and thus reveal that he was not quite as pathetic as he might seem, or perhaps even more pathetic.
Tim took the bottle of wine from the small refrigerator and two glasses and exited his room. Out on the deck, Michael was leaning on the railing with his back to Tim. His hair was getting long. Tim thought this was funny. It was a typical reaction to life at Santa Cruz-grow your hair out, relax, wear your old jeans, and in many people Tim would have mocked this pretense of hippiness. But that was not his mood at this moment. He felt serious. He knew that for Michael to relax his guard in such a way carried a cost-he took the world he came from seriously, and to react in a symbolic way to Santa Cruz was a meaningful act, because Michael took symbols seriously.
Michael had nice hair, too. Hair was a very sexual thing for Tim, and his own flirtation with long hair in the previous year had been both a reaction from and contribution to his feeling of possible sexuality in his life. And, obviously, when he had it cut to a dramatic shortness, it had been as if he had castrated himself-either because he felt like he had been castrated already, or because he wanted to do it to himself before someone else had the chance. At the moment he thought of this, Tim felt it appropriate and just that his hair remained short while Michael's grew longer.
As Tim approached Michael with a bottle in each hand, he wished he could reach out and run his fingers through the curly black strands, but... such things are not to be, reader! We feel the possibility of so much, and do so little! Courage fails us, and perhaps, for good reason-society takes a toll on each and every person, limiting our desires and our possibility of action-for good or bad, I don't know. It might be best that much of what we might do is not to be; else the world might be riven to its foundations.
It would be a perfect moment to touch Michael's hair; a slight breeze rustles the trees, the sun still high on its diurnal course, but now just low enough to give a golden tint to all it is touching. Tim need only stretch his arm and-
No. He is holding a bottle in each hand, someone might see, convention restricts him. Perhaps someday, reader, Tim will find it within himself to bridge the gap (the impossible gulf) between what he feels and what he does, but now, it is still against his nature to do so. Not with any woman, or any man. While I tell you these things, everything with Tim and Michael paused, and now it is time for them to talk to you, and for me to remain silent-as silent as I may.
Michael turned around and smiled. He took the beer Tim held out for him, and opened it. They sat at an angle to each other on chairs which had been left out.
Tim began his story in an awkward and disorganized fashion:
—I guess it all started when I moved up here in the fall. Obviously, of course, I never would have met Amy otherwise... Anyway, I moved here for a change. Last year I lived in the apartments and it was boring, kind of. And to be honest, on some level I wanted to meet new people, or to be more honest, I wanted to meet a girl. I'd been hanging out in the same group for two years, and it had become pretty obvious that there were no romantic opportunities-they were all my friends, and we knew each other too well. It's funny, because that's not a problem for me, but I'm unconventional. So, for this very silly reason, I moved back into the dorms. To try and recapture the feeling of wonder of freshman year, of hanging out with a new group in the dorms-the formation of a new social order.
—And with that kind of goal, I got exactly what I wanted. I started hanging out on the hall, and people really seemed to like me. I was unusual, I guess. I was funny and that was enough. They seemed so in to me, especially Amy and Sarah. They were both very pretty, and smart. And they seemed to like me. Of course, I fell in love with them.
Tim paused. It was difficult to continue, to order all of the memories and associations into a story.
—I'm not sure I was really falling in love with any one person. Maybe I was in love with the whole thing, all of these new people, all hanging out together.
Tim paused again after this thought, wondering if he really believed it.
—What happened? Michael said. Exactly. I know you fell in love with Amy, but what did it mean to you?
—The whole world. I really mean that. But I know why you want to know the story. The story is important. I've never really told anyone. Helen doesn't know much about it. Neither does Jessica, though she asked me, and I wish she was here so I could tell her, too. It's my life, ultimately. Things happened before I was old enough to choose wisely, and it's arbitrary. But I have to live with it. I've come to even accept not having any hope in a lot of things. In January, when I really realized there was no chance with Amy and I, and that I had failed again, I really considered suicide. I'd always had this goal in my life from when I was in high school-someday I would be cool enough to have a girlfriend. To have Melissa, added Tim.
Michael's expression changed slightly when he heard this additional name, but he decided to say nothing for the moment.
—Arduously, I recreated, or attempted to recreate myself in a way that would be acceptable to her. Of course, I hadn't the slightest idea of what I was doing. But it gave a basic purpose to my existence. A lot of good things happened because I was aiming towards this goal-I learned about people, I dressed better, I actually started thinking seriously about what other people thought of me. Anyway, let met me get back to what happened with Amy. The most important thing was the party where Amy and I got together, or almost got together, or should have got together. I call it getting together, because that's what it meant to me. I'd only hung out with them for about a few weeks. For Halloween, they held a toga party. Sarah and Amy really liked the ideas of being hosts. I got there a little late, and when I did, both of them immediately rushed at me, saying: Tim, Tim, hey, what's up! and hugging me. They were so excited to see me. All I could do was sort of smile awkwardly, and try not to move backward so obviously, but the idea that these two attractive girls were so happy to see me-I was incredibly happy, joyous on the inside, but at the same time, I took pride in getting what I always wanted and almost rejecting it. Which is monstrous, and Michael-
Tim interrupted his story to lay his hand on Michael's.
—I deserved everything that happened to me. I don't tell these things for pity.
Michael nodded, and immediately wondered if what Tim said was really true-one some level, he believed it, and yet...
—That being said, Tim continued, the party was a lot of fun. I didn't wear a toga, because I was late and didn't know how to make one, anyway. I immediately started drinking heavily to catch up with everyone else. I remember all of the complex social stuff going on, and because I was drunk, I was totally in tune with it, seeing every person and knowing, or thinking I knew, the reason for their every movement and word in terms of how they related to other people. For a long time, right after I got there, I sat next to Brad, and talked to him. We were both drinking from this bottle of red wine, and just totally into the fact that we kept passing it back and forth between the three of us. Amy was sitting on the other side of Brad. At one point, Amy spilled a little, and her white toga had a red stain on the front that my kept catching when I was trying not to look at the rest of her. I was pathologically conscious of the exact position of our bodies. Brad liked Amy, and he was drunk, and he would put his arm around her. I watched, subtly, desperately wishing for them not to scam. I loved Amy without knowing her, and if they had gotten together that night, I would have been very depressed.
—I was punished, I think, for my arrogance. I wished for them not to get together. But when they didn't, and I had my opportunity, I rejected it proudly. or took pride in my rejection even though I did it for other reasons, for a lack of courage. In my drunkenly confused mind, I tried to make it noble.
Tim paused, and drank several swallows from his beer.
—Amy was wearing a toga. She was very sexy, with the loose white fabric slipping down the skin beneath her shoulders, just above her breasts. And her long blond hair, falling near by. She was conscious too, of how the toga-which she had worn for the party and in a moment of daring, worn with very little beneath-of how much sexier it was than how she usually dressed, and women in general dress at UCSC. It was unusual-extraordinary, and that, of course, added to the effect. I kept looking at her and Brad, both to observe the precise gradations of their interaction, but also to see the curve of her Amy's arm and shoulder, and the way she would hike up her toga as it slipped down her body.
Tim stopped. He was aroused at that moment, telling the story, and he knew Michael was as well. Passion was slipping into his voice, and he felt the movement of blood in his body. His mouth was dry, and Tim drank more before he continued:
—As I said before, I was utterly conscious of the positions of our bodies. The distance, angle, movement-every detail I studied, to gain information, but for what? After Brad put his arm around Amy, I thought it was all over, and the same maudlin idea cropped up-I was the one always left out, always forsaken, who left the party alone. I withdrew into myself, started drinking from the bottle of red wine, since Brad had no need of if now. I slouched deep in my chair and watched everyone else sitting on the floor. I remembered everyone was younger than I was, and I suddenly felt that acutely. Minutes before, I had been into the fact that all of these freshman accepted me as one of their own, but now I hated myself, wondering if I was so pathetic that I had to make friends with people two years younger than myself because I felt so inadequate in the face of the ones my own age.
Tim paused, and smiled widely at Michael, because of the direction his story was about to take.
—Things could have gone on like this for a while, except that I looked back at Amy and Brad, and we started talking again. My attempt to withdraw didn't really last. So I started having a good time again, despite a part of me still wishing Brad didn't have his arm around Amy's body the whole time. And then, everything changed and I couldn't believe it. The whole time, I should have seen it, but I didn't because I was so intent on self-pity-I should have noticed that Amy was just not into Brad being into her. When she got a chance, she disengaged herself from Brad, who retired gracefully-he's a real nice guy, and I like him, Tim interjected. She sat on the chair, and I instantly moved over, way over, because I was unsure how to interpret her move. Was she more into me than Brad? Or did she figure that I was a convenient way of indicating to Brad that she didn't want to scam with him? I didn't know, and just the touch of her skin and loose toga, confused me to the point that I just sat there and smiled. I was really drunk by this time, too.
Tim paused. Once again, his story was all images, and he tried to order them and explain to Michael why his tale was so broken up-it was more a sequence of words than a story, Tim felt.
—My self kept getting in the way of figuring out what was really going on, and that made me uncertain and unable to act, Tim concluded. Sometimes when I'm really drunk, and I start thinking very hard about what I'm feeling, it all flows together. All color and light...
After a pause, Tim went on with his story:
—I guess that was the height of my drunkenness, because things were sort of a blur for a while. What I precisely remember next is ending up on the bed with a lot of other people, including Amy. I was furthest over on the left side, and Amy was lying next to me. We were all pressed close together, lying there and listening to music. Brad was up on Amy's bed, which she had set up high on her desk and dresser. Someone turned out the light. People would open the door and poke their head in, seeing all these drunk people sprawled on the beds and floor. They'd ask a bunch of questions, then disappear. I couldn't even talk. Just listen. I was suddenly conscious of how friendly Amy was being to me, that she was next to me and not Brad, who was up on her bunkbed. My heart raced. I couldn't speak.
Tim's voice took on a thrum:
—It's terrible. Despite my pretensions, at the root my life is cliché. I would trade everything I've ever lived to experience that kiss over again.
Michael neither laughed and cried in response to this, for either response, in his mind, was a failure of compassion and courage. And in yours, reader?
—Someone turned on the light, and when everything was illuminated, our faces visible, everything changed. The mood changed. It was like everyone realized it was getting late, the alcohol was exhausted, here were classes the next day and they needed to sleep. The momentum of the rest of the world asserted itself. I really needed to pee, as well. While Amy had been in my arms I had ignored it, but suddenly I felt too nervous and sick to my stomach. I was embarrassed, that with this woman by my side, I felt like a child-all I could think of was having to go to the bathroom.
I had to leave. I was afraid of Amy, afraid of her and me together.
Tim again paused to give form to his inchoate feelings. For a time he had only been conscious of Michael through his peripheral vision, a seated presence obscured by the sun, setting behind him. Tim held his hand up against the sun and looked at Michael in the eyes. He was completely silent and focused on Tim.
—I don't know why I ran away, Tim said. One part of me was hoping for sex, another was proud to reject her because it was so unlikely in the first place that she would like me, that it was even more absurd that I would refuse her. Except I don't think she really wanted me, so I was rejecting her before she did it to me, or making her rejection unnecessary and unspoken. Was my unconscious saving me or destroying me? I remember standing in the bathroom stall, the rightmost one, urinating for what seemed like forever. Everything was going through my mind-the kiss, the curve of her breast beneath her toga, the warmth of her hand, when I squeezed and she squeezed back. I started imagining myself describe it to my friend in Palo Alto-he of all people would understand what it meant-and also, I wondered what would happen next, although already everything seemed to have recede beyond my grasp. There was a moment when my life could have shifted and taken another course-but it was just an instant, and in that instant, my soul balked and said 'no.'
Tim paused and was suddenly conscious of telling the story to Michael and how serious he was listening to it-for someone to take the story so seriously seemed wrong. He felt like he had gone too far in a certain direction in telling his story, and retreated slightly to expand on other details.
—Back in Amy's old room, Brad had passed out on her bed. It was a complex issue of UCSC sexual politics. She wouldn't want to sleep in the same bed with him, since, although it was unlikely he would try to scam with her at that point, she didn't want to scam with him and didn't want to create the perception that she slept with him-as if she were claiming him for herself, or wanted to invite that possibility in the minds of others on the hall. She was close friends with Brad, and liked him a lot, so she didn't want to just wake him up and kick him out like he was some kind of asshole. She could sleep next to him in her clothes, but that would be a symbolic act, and as every woman knows, gestures like that are not to be played with lightly.
—So Amy took refuge with me. When I returned to her room, she asked me if she could sleep in my room. For a lightning moment, I thought she wanted me to make a move. But I didn't, because I read the situation, and like I just explained, I knew the reason. Even though I was drunk, at that moment everyone's actions and reasons I saw with uncommon lucidity. Everyone's reason, purpose and motivation was absolutely clear to me. Except my own, of course, Tim hastily added, not wanting to create the wrong impression.
—I went to my room. Amy lay down on my floor and went right to sleep. I got in bed and wished to the sky I had asked if she wanted to sleep in the bed with me. I don't know why-I guess I thought I would want her (and myself) to perceive such a request as an altruistic one, since, after all, the floor isn't very comfortable. But my secret wish was that sleeping together would lead to more, and so it was really a selfish one. If only simple kindness had motivated my wish! I lay there in the dark and just went crazy with desire and self-pity swirling together into blackness. I couldn't believe how frustrating my life was-to build everything up so close to a climax and then... nothing.
—I did it to myself, though. I must always remember that. I talked about this with Paul, because he and Amy got together once, as well. He said she made bad decisions when she was drunk. Maybe-but ultimately, the fault for everything lies within me.
—How? said Michael, because he wanted Tim to explicate his idea more precisely. He was inclined to think Paul had the right of it.
—Well. If I were a different person, Amy and I might have done something.
—That night?
—Yes.
—And after that?
—Maybe. We could have gone out.
—How can that be your fault, though? You can't blame yourself for not being something that you're not. What I mean is, you are yourself and no one else.
—I guess I don't mean blame, said Tim. I mean responsibility. I'm responsible for who I am, and if because of that, I'm unhappy, I at least know the reason why.
Michael tried to comprehend Tim's statement. He thought for a few moments and said:
—Responsibility is important. But it seems like that's another device for avoidance. A general sense of responsibility for everything just seems so nonspecific that how could you make that lead to anything. If what happened between you and Amy was just two people who shouldn't get together not getting together, what really is the point of being 'responsible' for that? It doesn't really make sense to consider that something you would ever need to be responsible for.
Tim began to sweat, feeling the strength of Michael's inquisition and wishing he could somehow make a joke. But nothing came to his mind except a sudden and inexplicable word-???
—Aren't I, though, Tim said, obligated to experience things? We could have gotten together, if only for that one night, and that would mean I would have experience which I don't. Was what happened to me a failure of character, or of will?
—What is the point of just one night with her?
—I don't know. Maybe that was my only chance for love, forever, said Tim and felt himself sliding into absurdity.
—I don't think so, Tim.
As he walked, Tim anticipated how pleasant it would be--the sun remaining in the sky until well after eight o'clock, which with the time change of daylight savings and the approach of the sun to the solstice, would make the evening last seemingly forever. The college and the forest would be immersed in the golden light-Mediterranean light, filled with the mystery of evening, which is the instant when the day is most beautiful and we also acknowledge the inevitability of nightfall. Tim sometimes wished he could fly around the world and follow the sunset, staying in its dying light forever. In following it the course of decay would be surpassed and outrun.
When Michael and Tim reached the tower, Tim said:
—I have some wine in my refrigerator. Let's have some, sit on the deck.
Michael considered his studying, and like Tim, he felt the attraction of the evening-it seemed as one full of the possibility of revelation. It would be an opportunity for Michael to ask Tim some questions, about the things which had begun to haunt Michael since his friendship with the older student had begun. He wondered about the source of Tim's sometime descent into depression and the mock-serious tone he used in such moments, as if he were a veteran of a long-ago conflict, and experience which no one else could or should understand because it was so irrelevant to the present times. Michael felt that Tim was more serious in those moments than he admitted. Michael decided he had to talk about love, and not in general terms-he wanted Tim to tell the true story of his love.
—Tell me, Tim, about Amy.
Tim started, then smiled.
—What do you mean? What do you want to know about her?
—No, no. Not just her. You and her.
—Okay. Just a minute.
Tim went into his room. He felt caught short, a little scared. It would be difficult to tell Michael the story of him and Amy, and yet, a feeling of pleasant anticipation filled him with the thought of it as well. He would reveal to Michael how close he had come to true sexual experience, and thus reveal that he was not quite as pathetic as he might seem, or perhaps even more pathetic.
Tim took the bottle of wine from the small refrigerator and two glasses and exited his room. Out on the deck, Michael was leaning on the railing with his back to Tim. His hair was getting long. Tim thought this was funny. It was a typical reaction to life at Santa Cruz-grow your hair out, relax, wear your old jeans, and in many people Tim would have mocked this pretense of hippiness. But that was not his mood at this moment. He felt serious. He knew that for Michael to relax his guard in such a way carried a cost-he took the world he came from seriously, and to react in a symbolic way to Santa Cruz was a meaningful act, because Michael took symbols seriously.
Michael had nice hair, too. Hair was a very sexual thing for Tim, and his own flirtation with long hair in the previous year had been both a reaction from and contribution to his feeling of possible sexuality in his life. And, obviously, when he had it cut to a dramatic shortness, it had been as if he had castrated himself-either because he felt like he had been castrated already, or because he wanted to do it to himself before someone else had the chance. At the moment he thought of this, Tim felt it appropriate and just that his hair remained short while Michael's grew longer.
As Tim approached Michael with a bottle in each hand, he wished he could reach out and run his fingers through the curly black strands, but... such things are not to be, reader! We feel the possibility of so much, and do so little! Courage fails us, and perhaps, for good reason-society takes a toll on each and every person, limiting our desires and our possibility of action-for good or bad, I don't know. It might be best that much of what we might do is not to be; else the world might be riven to its foundations.
It would be a perfect moment to touch Michael's hair; a slight breeze rustles the trees, the sun still high on its diurnal course, but now just low enough to give a golden tint to all it is touching. Tim need only stretch his arm and-
No. He is holding a bottle in each hand, someone might see, convention restricts him. Perhaps someday, reader, Tim will find it within himself to bridge the gap (the impossible gulf) between what he feels and what he does, but now, it is still against his nature to do so. Not with any woman, or any man. While I tell you these things, everything with Tim and Michael paused, and now it is time for them to talk to you, and for me to remain silent-as silent as I may.
Michael turned around and smiled. He took the beer Tim held out for him, and opened it. They sat at an angle to each other on chairs which had been left out.
Tim began his story in an awkward and disorganized fashion:
—I guess it all started when I moved up here in the fall. Obviously, of course, I never would have met Amy otherwise... Anyway, I moved here for a change. Last year I lived in the apartments and it was boring, kind of. And to be honest, on some level I wanted to meet new people, or to be more honest, I wanted to meet a girl. I'd been hanging out in the same group for two years, and it had become pretty obvious that there were no romantic opportunities-they were all my friends, and we knew each other too well. It's funny, because that's not a problem for me, but I'm unconventional. So, for this very silly reason, I moved back into the dorms. To try and recapture the feeling of wonder of freshman year, of hanging out with a new group in the dorms-the formation of a new social order.
—And with that kind of goal, I got exactly what I wanted. I started hanging out on the hall, and people really seemed to like me. I was unusual, I guess. I was funny and that was enough. They seemed so in to me, especially Amy and Sarah. They were both very pretty, and smart. And they seemed to like me. Of course, I fell in love with them.
Tim paused. It was difficult to continue, to order all of the memories and associations into a story.
—I'm not sure I was really falling in love with any one person. Maybe I was in love with the whole thing, all of these new people, all hanging out together.
Tim paused again after this thought, wondering if he really believed it.
—What happened? Michael said. Exactly. I know you fell in love with Amy, but what did it mean to you?
—The whole world. I really mean that. But I know why you want to know the story. The story is important. I've never really told anyone. Helen doesn't know much about it. Neither does Jessica, though she asked me, and I wish she was here so I could tell her, too. It's my life, ultimately. Things happened before I was old enough to choose wisely, and it's arbitrary. But I have to live with it. I've come to even accept not having any hope in a lot of things. In January, when I really realized there was no chance with Amy and I, and that I had failed again, I really considered suicide. I'd always had this goal in my life from when I was in high school-someday I would be cool enough to have a girlfriend. To have Melissa, added Tim.
Michael's expression changed slightly when he heard this additional name, but he decided to say nothing for the moment.
—Arduously, I recreated, or attempted to recreate myself in a way that would be acceptable to her. Of course, I hadn't the slightest idea of what I was doing. But it gave a basic purpose to my existence. A lot of good things happened because I was aiming towards this goal-I learned about people, I dressed better, I actually started thinking seriously about what other people thought of me. Anyway, let met me get back to what happened with Amy. The most important thing was the party where Amy and I got together, or almost got together, or should have got together. I call it getting together, because that's what it meant to me. I'd only hung out with them for about a few weeks. For Halloween, they held a toga party. Sarah and Amy really liked the ideas of being hosts. I got there a little late, and when I did, both of them immediately rushed at me, saying: Tim, Tim, hey, what's up! and hugging me. They were so excited to see me. All I could do was sort of smile awkwardly, and try not to move backward so obviously, but the idea that these two attractive girls were so happy to see me-I was incredibly happy, joyous on the inside, but at the same time, I took pride in getting what I always wanted and almost rejecting it. Which is monstrous, and Michael-
Tim interrupted his story to lay his hand on Michael's.
—I deserved everything that happened to me. I don't tell these things for pity.
Michael nodded, and immediately wondered if what Tim said was really true-one some level, he believed it, and yet...
—That being said, Tim continued, the party was a lot of fun. I didn't wear a toga, because I was late and didn't know how to make one, anyway. I immediately started drinking heavily to catch up with everyone else. I remember all of the complex social stuff going on, and because I was drunk, I was totally in tune with it, seeing every person and knowing, or thinking I knew, the reason for their every movement and word in terms of how they related to other people. For a long time, right after I got there, I sat next to Brad, and talked to him. We were both drinking from this bottle of red wine, and just totally into the fact that we kept passing it back and forth between the three of us. Amy was sitting on the other side of Brad. At one point, Amy spilled a little, and her white toga had a red stain on the front that my kept catching when I was trying not to look at the rest of her. I was pathologically conscious of the exact position of our bodies. Brad liked Amy, and he was drunk, and he would put his arm around her. I watched, subtly, desperately wishing for them not to scam. I loved Amy without knowing her, and if they had gotten together that night, I would have been very depressed.
—I was punished, I think, for my arrogance. I wished for them not to get together. But when they didn't, and I had my opportunity, I rejected it proudly. or took pride in my rejection even though I did it for other reasons, for a lack of courage. In my drunkenly confused mind, I tried to make it noble.
Tim paused, and drank several swallows from his beer.
—Amy was wearing a toga. She was very sexy, with the loose white fabric slipping down the skin beneath her shoulders, just above her breasts. And her long blond hair, falling near by. She was conscious too, of how the toga-which she had worn for the party and in a moment of daring, worn with very little beneath-of how much sexier it was than how she usually dressed, and women in general dress at UCSC. It was unusual-extraordinary, and that, of course, added to the effect. I kept looking at her and Brad, both to observe the precise gradations of their interaction, but also to see the curve of her Amy's arm and shoulder, and the way she would hike up her toga as it slipped down her body.
Tim stopped. He was aroused at that moment, telling the story, and he knew Michael was as well. Passion was slipping into his voice, and he felt the movement of blood in his body. His mouth was dry, and Tim drank more before he continued:
—As I said before, I was utterly conscious of the positions of our bodies. The distance, angle, movement-every detail I studied, to gain information, but for what? After Brad put his arm around Amy, I thought it was all over, and the same maudlin idea cropped up-I was the one always left out, always forsaken, who left the party alone. I withdrew into myself, started drinking from the bottle of red wine, since Brad had no need of if now. I slouched deep in my chair and watched everyone else sitting on the floor. I remembered everyone was younger than I was, and I suddenly felt that acutely. Minutes before, I had been into the fact that all of these freshman accepted me as one of their own, but now I hated myself, wondering if I was so pathetic that I had to make friends with people two years younger than myself because I felt so inadequate in the face of the ones my own age.
Tim paused, and smiled widely at Michael, because of the direction his story was about to take.
—Things could have gone on like this for a while, except that I looked back at Amy and Brad, and we started talking again. My attempt to withdraw didn't really last. So I started having a good time again, despite a part of me still wishing Brad didn't have his arm around Amy's body the whole time. And then, everything changed and I couldn't believe it. The whole time, I should have seen it, but I didn't because I was so intent on self-pity-I should have noticed that Amy was just not into Brad being into her. When she got a chance, she disengaged herself from Brad, who retired gracefully-he's a real nice guy, and I like him, Tim interjected. She sat on the chair, and I instantly moved over, way over, because I was unsure how to interpret her move. Was she more into me than Brad? Or did she figure that I was a convenient way of indicating to Brad that she didn't want to scam with him? I didn't know, and just the touch of her skin and loose toga, confused me to the point that I just sat there and smiled. I was really drunk by this time, too.
Tim paused. Once again, his story was all images, and he tried to order them and explain to Michael why his tale was so broken up-it was more a sequence of words than a story, Tim felt.
—My self kept getting in the way of figuring out what was really going on, and that made me uncertain and unable to act, Tim concluded. Sometimes when I'm really drunk, and I start thinking very hard about what I'm feeling, it all flows together. All color and light...
After a pause, Tim went on with his story:
—I guess that was the height of my drunkenness, because things were sort of a blur for a while. What I precisely remember next is ending up on the bed with a lot of other people, including Amy. I was furthest over on the left side, and Amy was lying next to me. We were all pressed close together, lying there and listening to music. Brad was up on Amy's bed, which she had set up high on her desk and dresser. Someone turned out the light. People would open the door and poke their head in, seeing all these drunk people sprawled on the beds and floor. They'd ask a bunch of questions, then disappear. I couldn't even talk. Just listen. I was suddenly conscious of how friendly Amy was being to me, that she was next to me and not Brad, who was up on her bunkbed. My heart raced. I couldn't speak.
Tim's voice took on a thrum:
—It's terrible. Despite my pretensions, at the root my life is cliché. I would trade everything I've ever lived to experience that kiss over again.
Michael neither laughed and cried in response to this, for either response, in his mind, was a failure of compassion and courage. And in yours, reader?
—Someone turned on the light, and when everything was illuminated, our faces visible, everything changed. The mood changed. It was like everyone realized it was getting late, the alcohol was exhausted, here were classes the next day and they needed to sleep. The momentum of the rest of the world asserted itself. I really needed to pee, as well. While Amy had been in my arms I had ignored it, but suddenly I felt too nervous and sick to my stomach. I was embarrassed, that with this woman by my side, I felt like a child-all I could think of was having to go to the bathroom.
I had to leave. I was afraid of Amy, afraid of her and me together.
Tim again paused to give form to his inchoate feelings. For a time he had only been conscious of Michael through his peripheral vision, a seated presence obscured by the sun, setting behind him. Tim held his hand up against the sun and looked at Michael in the eyes. He was completely silent and focused on Tim.
—I don't know why I ran away, Tim said. One part of me was hoping for sex, another was proud to reject her because it was so unlikely in the first place that she would like me, that it was even more absurd that I would refuse her. Except I don't think she really wanted me, so I was rejecting her before she did it to me, or making her rejection unnecessary and unspoken. Was my unconscious saving me or destroying me? I remember standing in the bathroom stall, the rightmost one, urinating for what seemed like forever. Everything was going through my mind-the kiss, the curve of her breast beneath her toga, the warmth of her hand, when I squeezed and she squeezed back. I started imagining myself describe it to my friend in Palo Alto-he of all people would understand what it meant-and also, I wondered what would happen next, although already everything seemed to have recede beyond my grasp. There was a moment when my life could have shifted and taken another course-but it was just an instant, and in that instant, my soul balked and said 'no.'
Tim paused and was suddenly conscious of telling the story to Michael and how serious he was listening to it-for someone to take the story so seriously seemed wrong. He felt like he had gone too far in a certain direction in telling his story, and retreated slightly to expand on other details.
—Back in Amy's old room, Brad had passed out on her bed. It was a complex issue of UCSC sexual politics. She wouldn't want to sleep in the same bed with him, since, although it was unlikely he would try to scam with her at that point, she didn't want to scam with him and didn't want to create the perception that she slept with him-as if she were claiming him for herself, or wanted to invite that possibility in the minds of others on the hall. She was close friends with Brad, and liked him a lot, so she didn't want to just wake him up and kick him out like he was some kind of asshole. She could sleep next to him in her clothes, but that would be a symbolic act, and as every woman knows, gestures like that are not to be played with lightly.
—So Amy took refuge with me. When I returned to her room, she asked me if she could sleep in my room. For a lightning moment, I thought she wanted me to make a move. But I didn't, because I read the situation, and like I just explained, I knew the reason. Even though I was drunk, at that moment everyone's actions and reasons I saw with uncommon lucidity. Everyone's reason, purpose and motivation was absolutely clear to me. Except my own, of course, Tim hastily added, not wanting to create the wrong impression.
—I went to my room. Amy lay down on my floor and went right to sleep. I got in bed and wished to the sky I had asked if she wanted to sleep in the bed with me. I don't know why-I guess I thought I would want her (and myself) to perceive such a request as an altruistic one, since, after all, the floor isn't very comfortable. But my secret wish was that sleeping together would lead to more, and so it was really a selfish one. If only simple kindness had motivated my wish! I lay there in the dark and just went crazy with desire and self-pity swirling together into blackness. I couldn't believe how frustrating my life was-to build everything up so close to a climax and then... nothing.
—I did it to myself, though. I must always remember that. I talked about this with Paul, because he and Amy got together once, as well. He said she made bad decisions when she was drunk. Maybe-but ultimately, the fault for everything lies within me.
—How? said Michael, because he wanted Tim to explicate his idea more precisely. He was inclined to think Paul had the right of it.
—Well. If I were a different person, Amy and I might have done something.
—That night?
—Yes.
—And after that?
—Maybe. We could have gone out.
—How can that be your fault, though? You can't blame yourself for not being something that you're not. What I mean is, you are yourself and no one else.
—I guess I don't mean blame, said Tim. I mean responsibility. I'm responsible for who I am, and if because of that, I'm unhappy, I at least know the reason why.
Michael tried to comprehend Tim's statement. He thought for a few moments and said:
—Responsibility is important. But it seems like that's another device for avoidance. A general sense of responsibility for everything just seems so nonspecific that how could you make that lead to anything. If what happened between you and Amy was just two people who shouldn't get together not getting together, what really is the point of being 'responsible' for that? It doesn't really make sense to consider that something you would ever need to be responsible for.
Tim began to sweat, feeling the strength of Michael's inquisition and wishing he could somehow make a joke. But nothing came to his mind except a sudden and inexplicable word-???
—Aren't I, though, Tim said, obligated to experience things? We could have gotten together, if only for that one night, and that would mean I would have experience which I don't. Was what happened to me a failure of character, or of will?
—What is the point of just one night with her?
—I don't know. Maybe that was my only chance for love, forever, said Tim and felt himself sliding into absurdity.
—I don't think so, Tim.
Works
Recent Writing
- 1989 A Novel: Tim and April walk to the liquor store
- Volume III: Helen meets Roxy for coffee at the Fremont College coffee shop
- Volume III: Tim walks back from Contemporary American Fiction
- Volume III: Helen conducts section, can’t prevent Michael from being dissed
- Volume III: Helen conducts section (HSZ version)