Tim shows Helen his new apartment, and realizes he has no bed
“My place is in the back,” he told her once they had parked, pointing to the brown-shingled garage. “I have to get the key first, though.” While Helen leaned against the hood and looked up into the sun lowering in the western sky, Tim bounded up the house’s wide steps two at a time.
A girl who introduced herself as Jenny answered the door. She gave him the keys and said "come by anytime, door's always open". After thanking Jenny and telling her would stop by some time, Tim returned to Helen and they started unloading his stuff. Tim carried his stereo receiver, looking overhead and seeing thick spider webs encrusting the metal pole that connected the sections of fence on either side of the driveway. As he did, he tripped and nearly fell, but somehow managed to stay upright without dropping his stereo. He looked down and saw that he had tripped on a place where the grass had created a crumbling hole in the concrete driveway.
“Okay?” Helen asked, smiling at him as she followed.
“Yeah, it’s just… not as level as I anticipated, back there.” Tim stopped, put his stereo down and opened the door with the key.
“This is really nice,” Helen said, leaning in. “Very cute.”
“It’s small,” Tim said. “Smaller than I remember.” He took in the whole room in one glance–it was hardly larger than the double room he’d had freshman year. He felt a sinking sensation, fearing he had made a huge mistake, that the place was ugly, with its coarse greenish-yellow carpet. Plus it had an odd smell, like wood left out in the rain.
“It’s awesome,” Helen said, walked past him and set down the box of books she had been carrying. “You’re totally psyched.”
“I am?” Tim said, and realized that he should be. “I mean, I am, yeah.”
“You should be. For four hundred dollars a month, your own place? I wish I had my own place,” she added darkly.
That surprised Tim, since he couldn’t see not wanting to live with Jessica and Alice, hang out and party all the time. But Helen was always saying things like that–Tim was sure she hadn’t really meant it. He followed Helen back out of the apartment to get more stuff.
Once they were done unloading the Volvo, Helen looked at the boxes, shelves, table and folding chair, then turned to Tim with her lips pressed together and eyebrows arched.
“What are you going to sleep on?” Helen asked. “There’s no bed.”
“No,” Tim said, drawing out the syllable to indicate that it was a problem that merited serious consideration. The thought that he had nothing to sleep on had crossed his mind a few days before, but he had dismissed at the time it as being too troublesome to think about.
Helen started giggling and shaking her head. “You should really get a bed,” Helen said. “Chicks dig guys who have their own beds.”
That was true. Tim’s dreams of what was going to happen for him that summer required he have a bed.
“I know, I know,” Tim said. “Maybe my mom has something I can borrow. I’m not used to living a place where they don’t give you a bed.”
Helen giggled more, then rubbed her hand up and down his bicep while she hummed through closed mouth, like a mother placating a child. Tim lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes to show he knew he was wrong, and felt ashamed.
“I’m sure she will. I have to go–Todd’s taking me to Reunion for dinner. Kind of swanky.”
Helen reminded him about the address for the party, promised him a ride home (he was taking the bus there), gave him a hug and left Tim standing in the middle of his apartment. Not having a bed was really a problem. However, he didn’t see anyway of solving it then, so he decided instead of set up the rest of his apartment. First, and most importantly, his stereo, since it felt weird to be alone in his own place with no music playing. He didn’t like quiet. Setting up his stereo was always the first thing he did when moving into a new place, just as disconnecting it was always the last.
Once Tim had his stereo set up, he put on Appetite For Destruction, since that seemed like an appropriate album to christen his new place with. He started putting books on his set of shelves. The first one he took out was one of his books for Romantic Fiction The Sorrows of Young Werther, an old-fashioned edition with a yellow, black and brown cover, no pictures, just words in a fancy script. Tim opened it to a random page near the beginning. He saw a quote he had marked with orange highlighter:
…when I see how all human activity is directed toward procuring satisfaction for needs that have no other purpose than prolonging our miserable existence.
He had highlighted the quote, but never ended up using it in his paper, since he had written it on Werther’s moment of decision to commit suicide, the balance that Goethe had struck between the inevitability and availability of Werther’s final act. Could he have been saved? Tim thought not–the seeds for his appetite for destruction had been laid long before, and the way he thought and expressed himself meant he had to do it, it was the logical end result of his philosophy of life. Though Goethe had presented evidence for both arguments, in the end, his suicide was as inevitable as it was traffic. Tim had done well on his paper, but then, he almost always did well on his papers for lit classes.
The quote reminded him of something Shek would say, of his constant complaints about his hatred of maintenance-bathing, eating, brushing his teeth, washing his face. Why not just not do it then, Tim wondered? Shek washed his face obsessively–but he didn't have to. Tim only washed his face twice a day–while he showered, and before he went to bed. He didn’t obsess about it, he just did it.
Thinking of Shek reminded Tim that he was supposed to meet with Shek tomorrow night, and that he hadn’t written anything new on their movie project. Tim resolved to try and come up with something the next day. He was too excited now, and he had to leave soon for the party.
Tim snapped the book closed with two hands. Werther was silly. He had taken his feelings too seriously, forgotten the fact that everything is, ultimately, a joke, and that if you don’t realize it, then the butt of the joke you. Either you were laughing with eternity or it was laughing at you. Helen hadn’t liked Werther at all. She said he was a self-absorbed narcissistic asshole who didn’t care about all the damage he caused with his impossible infatuation. Tim had told Helen he agreed, though secretly he was a little bit more sympathetic to him–he had really felt what he did, even if it did cause chaos and, eventually, his own death. But feelings without self-awareness was a dangerous combination. If Tim had not been more aware of the danger of his feelings for Helen, he might not still be friends with her now. He might have followed the same path as Werther to the same dark end.
By the time Appetite For Destruction ended, Tim had set up his apartment as much as he could. He switched his stereo to FM and spun the heavy brushed silver knob until the red vertical line rested between 98 and 99 and all five of the signal strength lights were green. Some time during his freshman year, KUMM had invested in a new transmitter for the Terra Nueva bay region–reception had be spotty from his first-floor dorm room but now it came in load and clear all over Santa Zita. He pressed the grey switch on his Mac Plus to make sure it still worked after being moved around for two weeks. The blue screen flickering to life, jiggling a bit on the edges as it had ever since Tim had dropped it freshman year. The external hard drive in its powder blue milk-create enclosure whirred and clicked and its icon appeared on the screen beneath the smiling Mac face.
Tim set up his new computer and imagined himself working on it, staying up late to finish short stories for his class; stories which were met by accolades and the teacher’s suggestion that he try to publish them. They were, and his career took off from there. Once he was famous, it was easy for him to bring Shek in and have him direct the scripts he wrote, and they became a famous director and screenwriter team.
Satisfied that his computer had survived the move, Tim walked to the Taco Bell one block away on Church St. as the sky over the city darkened to indigo. He got three Taco Supremes and a large Mountain Dew, ate them next to his Mac Plus while he read the Sporting Green. Rickey had been on fire ever since he rejoined the As, acquired in a trade while Tim had been in finals. He was Tim’s favorite player, and he had been crushed when the As had traded him to the New York Yankees. Now that they had him back, Tim and Peter agreed they he might be the last remaining piece they needed to Win the World Series, instead of getting crushed by the Dodgers, like they had the previous fall.
Tim opened the Alarm Clock on his Mac and saw that it was almost 9pm. Time to rally. Including the bus ride and the walk across the river to the east side, it was going to take him about an hour to get there. On KUMM, the Saturday Night Metal Zone had begun. DJ Dennis Young kicked it off with Winger, "Seventeen" and Tim turned the volume up. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and combed his hair. He debated whether to wear it up or down. He decided he didn’t like how the long strands were curving upwards at the end, and decided to retie his ponytail. After a few ties, he got right, with no loose strands hanging off the side of his head. He looked at himself in the mirror and decided he looked as good as could be expected–at least no zits marred his face. Perhaps his complexion was finally calming down, after the horrible acne he’d had during high school and freshman year of college.
Tim didn't have high hopes for the party, but a party was a party, nonetheless, and you never know what could happen. He grabbed his black leather jacket and headed out the door to Church Street to catch the bus downtown. In a way, he felt like tonight was the real beginning to his summer, now living in his own place after the interim period living at Holly Street. He hoped it was a good party. He hoped the love of his life was waiting for him there.
A girl who introduced herself as Jenny answered the door. She gave him the keys and said "come by anytime, door's always open". After thanking Jenny and telling her would stop by some time, Tim returned to Helen and they started unloading his stuff. Tim carried his stereo receiver, looking overhead and seeing thick spider webs encrusting the metal pole that connected the sections of fence on either side of the driveway. As he did, he tripped and nearly fell, but somehow managed to stay upright without dropping his stereo. He looked down and saw that he had tripped on a place where the grass had created a crumbling hole in the concrete driveway.
“Okay?” Helen asked, smiling at him as she followed.
“Yeah, it’s just… not as level as I anticipated, back there.” Tim stopped, put his stereo down and opened the door with the key.
“This is really nice,” Helen said, leaning in. “Very cute.”
“It’s small,” Tim said. “Smaller than I remember.” He took in the whole room in one glance–it was hardly larger than the double room he’d had freshman year. He felt a sinking sensation, fearing he had made a huge mistake, that the place was ugly, with its coarse greenish-yellow carpet. Plus it had an odd smell, like wood left out in the rain.
“It’s awesome,” Helen said, walked past him and set down the box of books she had been carrying. “You’re totally psyched.”
“I am?” Tim said, and realized that he should be. “I mean, I am, yeah.”
“You should be. For four hundred dollars a month, your own place? I wish I had my own place,” she added darkly.
That surprised Tim, since he couldn’t see not wanting to live with Jessica and Alice, hang out and party all the time. But Helen was always saying things like that–Tim was sure she hadn’t really meant it. He followed Helen back out of the apartment to get more stuff.
Once they were done unloading the Volvo, Helen looked at the boxes, shelves, table and folding chair, then turned to Tim with her lips pressed together and eyebrows arched.
“What are you going to sleep on?” Helen asked. “There’s no bed.”
“No,” Tim said, drawing out the syllable to indicate that it was a problem that merited serious consideration. The thought that he had nothing to sleep on had crossed his mind a few days before, but he had dismissed at the time it as being too troublesome to think about.
Helen started giggling and shaking her head. “You should really get a bed,” Helen said. “Chicks dig guys who have their own beds.”
That was true. Tim’s dreams of what was going to happen for him that summer required he have a bed.
“I know, I know,” Tim said. “Maybe my mom has something I can borrow. I’m not used to living a place where they don’t give you a bed.”
Helen giggled more, then rubbed her hand up and down his bicep while she hummed through closed mouth, like a mother placating a child. Tim lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes to show he knew he was wrong, and felt ashamed.
“I’m sure she will. I have to go–Todd’s taking me to Reunion for dinner. Kind of swanky.”
Helen reminded him about the address for the party, promised him a ride home (he was taking the bus there), gave him a hug and left Tim standing in the middle of his apartment. Not having a bed was really a problem. However, he didn’t see anyway of solving it then, so he decided instead of set up the rest of his apartment. First, and most importantly, his stereo, since it felt weird to be alone in his own place with no music playing. He didn’t like quiet. Setting up his stereo was always the first thing he did when moving into a new place, just as disconnecting it was always the last.
Once Tim had his stereo set up, he put on Appetite For Destruction, since that seemed like an appropriate album to christen his new place with. He started putting books on his set of shelves. The first one he took out was one of his books for Romantic Fiction The Sorrows of Young Werther, an old-fashioned edition with a yellow, black and brown cover, no pictures, just words in a fancy script. Tim opened it to a random page near the beginning. He saw a quote he had marked with orange highlighter:
…when I see how all human activity is directed toward procuring satisfaction for needs that have no other purpose than prolonging our miserable existence.
He had highlighted the quote, but never ended up using it in his paper, since he had written it on Werther’s moment of decision to commit suicide, the balance that Goethe had struck between the inevitability and availability of Werther’s final act. Could he have been saved? Tim thought not–the seeds for his appetite for destruction had been laid long before, and the way he thought and expressed himself meant he had to do it, it was the logical end result of his philosophy of life. Though Goethe had presented evidence for both arguments, in the end, his suicide was as inevitable as it was traffic. Tim had done well on his paper, but then, he almost always did well on his papers for lit classes.
The quote reminded him of something Shek would say, of his constant complaints about his hatred of maintenance-bathing, eating, brushing his teeth, washing his face. Why not just not do it then, Tim wondered? Shek washed his face obsessively–but he didn't have to. Tim only washed his face twice a day–while he showered, and before he went to bed. He didn’t obsess about it, he just did it.
Thinking of Shek reminded Tim that he was supposed to meet with Shek tomorrow night, and that he hadn’t written anything new on their movie project. Tim resolved to try and come up with something the next day. He was too excited now, and he had to leave soon for the party.
Tim snapped the book closed with two hands. Werther was silly. He had taken his feelings too seriously, forgotten the fact that everything is, ultimately, a joke, and that if you don’t realize it, then the butt of the joke you. Either you were laughing with eternity or it was laughing at you. Helen hadn’t liked Werther at all. She said he was a self-absorbed narcissistic asshole who didn’t care about all the damage he caused with his impossible infatuation. Tim had told Helen he agreed, though secretly he was a little bit more sympathetic to him–he had really felt what he did, even if it did cause chaos and, eventually, his own death. But feelings without self-awareness was a dangerous combination. If Tim had not been more aware of the danger of his feelings for Helen, he might not still be friends with her now. He might have followed the same path as Werther to the same dark end.
By the time Appetite For Destruction ended, Tim had set up his apartment as much as he could. He switched his stereo to FM and spun the heavy brushed silver knob until the red vertical line rested between 98 and 99 and all five of the signal strength lights were green. Some time during his freshman year, KUMM had invested in a new transmitter for the Terra Nueva bay region–reception had be spotty from his first-floor dorm room but now it came in load and clear all over Santa Zita. He pressed the grey switch on his Mac Plus to make sure it still worked after being moved around for two weeks. The blue screen flickering to life, jiggling a bit on the edges as it had ever since Tim had dropped it freshman year. The external hard drive in its powder blue milk-create enclosure whirred and clicked and its icon appeared on the screen beneath the smiling Mac face.
Tim set up his new computer and imagined himself working on it, staying up late to finish short stories for his class; stories which were met by accolades and the teacher’s suggestion that he try to publish them. They were, and his career took off from there. Once he was famous, it was easy for him to bring Shek in and have him direct the scripts he wrote, and they became a famous director and screenwriter team.
Satisfied that his computer had survived the move, Tim walked to the Taco Bell one block away on Church St. as the sky over the city darkened to indigo. He got three Taco Supremes and a large Mountain Dew, ate them next to his Mac Plus while he read the Sporting Green. Rickey had been on fire ever since he rejoined the As, acquired in a trade while Tim had been in finals. He was Tim’s favorite player, and he had been crushed when the As had traded him to the New York Yankees. Now that they had him back, Tim and Peter agreed they he might be the last remaining piece they needed to Win the World Series, instead of getting crushed by the Dodgers, like they had the previous fall.
Tim opened the Alarm Clock on his Mac and saw that it was almost 9pm. Time to rally. Including the bus ride and the walk across the river to the east side, it was going to take him about an hour to get there. On KUMM, the Saturday Night Metal Zone had begun. DJ Dennis Young kicked it off with Winger, "Seventeen" and Tim turned the volume up. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and combed his hair. He debated whether to wear it up or down. He decided he didn’t like how the long strands were curving upwards at the end, and decided to retie his ponytail. After a few ties, he got right, with no loose strands hanging off the side of his head. He looked at himself in the mirror and decided he looked as good as could be expected–at least no zits marred his face. Perhaps his complexion was finally calming down, after the horrible acne he’d had during high school and freshman year of college.
Tim didn't have high hopes for the party, but a party was a party, nonetheless, and you never know what could happen. He grabbed his black leather jacket and headed out the door to Church Street to catch the bus downtown. In a way, he felt like tonight was the real beginning to his summer, now living in his own place after the interim period living at Holly Street. He hoped it was a good party. He hoped the love of his life was waiting for him there.
Works
Recent Writing
- 1989 A Novel: Tim, Helen and Jessica go to a surfer party
- 1989 A Novel: Tim shows Helen his new apartment, and realizes he has no bed
- 1989 A Novel: Helen drives Tim to his new apartment
- 1989 A Novel: Tim walks back to Holly Street
- 1989 A Novel: Tim and Caleb go to get coffee