No idea how I got there, but my brick dorm lodged in the hillside above the back parking lot is right front of me. Over the roof, the rising light on the horizon casts over the campus. Down the sloping sidewalk, I slip to the west wing’s side entrance. It’s unlocked for the first time in weeks. Cool air floods by as I trip inside. The heavy door slams behind me and seals with a thump. An echo bounces up the stairwell and lingers for a few unnatural seconds.
The grated steel tips of the stairs clack like tap shoes under my toes. A two part sigh descends from the second story landing. I whip a look up and Jack, the last person I want to see, is standing in the entranceway to my hall.
Hobbling up the last few flights, I lift my chin and stare at my RA Jack. Dressed in his Sunday best, arms bound across his chest, he glares through me.
My ears get hot.
“Joaquin, remember help is here. You’re a good guy who got caught up in things out of your control,” Jack says.
“Control is an illusion. You must have missed that philosophy class Jack,” I say.
With my last burst of energy, I bound up the last two stairs and stand face to face with him.
“I don’t believe that. You don’t believe that. We have control over our choices,” he says.
“Also illusion.”
“No, God gave man freewill, the ability to choose,” he says.
“I am not getting into the freewill thing. Why are you up?” I ask.
“I always get up at this time. If you ever happened to get up at a reasonable hour you might… I’m sorry. This isn’t the time for that,” he says.
“How very adult of you,” I say.
“Just wanted to tell you again, you’re a good person with tons of talent. I heard you and George play guitars. Don’t let it slip away,” he says, opens his arms and rushes forth to hug me.
He smells like mint toothpaste and I smell like a bar.
“Thank you Jack. Goodbye.”
The embrace ends with him stepping back wiping his eyes.
“Good bye Joaquin. Remember God has not abandoned you.”
Slipping by, hands in my pockets, I stumble to my room that only a few days ago was a laundry hamper. Cool fluid darkness greets me.
Along the bare walls, garbage bags filled with laundry huddle next to taped up moving boxes. Two suitcases by the door are packed and stacked. The copy of Less Than Zero is still in the cubbyhole. I fall face first onto my dented mattress as the coils cringe with metal creaks. My shoes won’t slide off. I reach for the sheet cowering at my feet. The sheet drapes across my back as I drill my head into my pillow.
Sleep cannot be denied.
Car doors slam out on the parking lot and stir me from my slumber in what seem like moments. After counting ten, I stop. The sheet is on the floor and my jeans are twisted cutting off the circulation to my groin. My beer stained t-shirt chokes me. Both dingy garments spin back into place as I roll out of the central pit of my bed and go investigate.
Through the bug splatter on the outside of the second story hallway window, I watch a mob of reporters assembling below. The parking lot is full of news crews running around battling for space. I wonder why they’re here now? Been a while since the shootings. My stiff neck cracks as I scan the view and spin my guitar string ring.
The hilltop campus cut out of the Appalachian foothills seems smaller. Surrounding the window frame, the ivy clasping the brick façade flutters in the breeze dappled by the delicate perfume of apple blossoms and honeysuckle in bloom.
I shield my face from the sun with my left hand. Images of when the dean called us to the conference hall invade me. As I raise my right hand to block the rest of the light, the window comes alive and acts like a movie screen replaying the events. The dean tells us about the murder and George slumps to the floor. The shock on everyone’s faces is as clear as my reflection.
The images fall away.
Everything changed so much with two shotgun blasts.
The voices of the news crews scampering down on the lot penetrate the window. I squint and lean in closer to watch. There is a media circus setting up but no tents or elephants just lighting reflectors and white news vans cramping the lot. Male reporters, tan as toasted almonds, battle for elbow room and the right shot. A solitary female reporter claims her area with a smile. They hold their microphones tight like lion tamer’s whips ready to crack the Big Top sky above.
I place my palms on the window warm as sex. The ammonia vapor from a recent cleaning burns my eyes. Down on the curb, a few crewmen stand arms crossed while lit cigarettes dangle from the corners of their mouths. The others sit and fan balmy air on their flushed faces with fleshy hands. Most look as if they are in various stages of heatstroke. It’s way too hot for early May.
“GO!”… “GO!” comes from below as two crews break off and race around the side of the dorm.
Nothing back there but Collin’s field.
My stomach braids up in knots upon knots. A cold tingle wrenches my spine. I bang on the window with my right hand and give them the finger.
“Hey you bloodsuckers! Get the fuck out!”
One reporter looks up at me with molten disdain in his eyes. I pound the window. It wobbles under my fist.
I slide back and close my eyes to clear away the ammonia sting. When I open them, hundreds of flashing red dots appear on the surface of the window and zip back and forth. Some dots pop and others stop and bleed. Another attack claws at my mind. The world around me warps, walls twist and melt as the widow bubbles and expands. The air becomes heavy in my lungs. My chin drops.
“Damn it!”
I take a deep breath and exhale in staggered pulses. My body shudders and the red dots vanish. The attack stalls. At least now I can go see what the news crews are up to behind the building. I look back to the handprints left on the glass and pivot around with my thumbs hooked in the belt loops of my jeans. The soles of my shoes scuff the polished floors.
As I enter the lifeless north-south corridor connecting the halls, I lift my right arm straight out. My hand brushes across the red and green construction paper fliers taped to the white wall advertising tutors and house rentals. They fall to the ground like autumn leaves. Greeting me in the east wing is a fog of fumes. The thick scent of bleach seeps out from under the bathroom doors beside me.
Before reaching the windowsill covered with dead flies, I gaze up to the clock hanging above. The WES of WESSEX COLLEGE is gone and a deep crack crawls across the protective plastic casing. The hands are frozen at noon.
Through the window, I see the reporters on the field wiping sweat from their brows. Cameramen stabilize their footing, stepping back and forth, side to side. The sound of choppy engines starting up rolls off the brick building and the noise builds. One reporter with neatly quaffed blonde hair gives the cut signal across his neck as a campus grounds crew pass behind him on riding mowers.
I hunch over, tail between my legs, and make my way back down the barren hallways. As I walk by a bathroom, I bump into a cluster of black garbage cans. A copy of the last college paper, The Wasp, sits on a mound of trash. I stop, look around, and stretch the collar of my white t-shirt falling across me like a sheet on a broom handle. With a snatch, I skim the front page.
The paper scatters as it floats down to the floor.
“At least they did not write anything about her. Tim you sure pissed people off, but you were never afraid. Stood up to Rascal and never flinched. How did you and Erin get in so deep?”
The rubber soles of my shoes send chirps down hall as I lumber forward and a low pitched bark echoes back from around the bend. My eyebrows lift.
With heavy steps, I make the corner and see two cops and a golden retriever in front of my door. Why are they here? I answered their questions.
My back cracks as I straighten up. I look the taller cop in his mirrored sunglasses. As I reach them, my hand extends so the dog can sniff it. The front rows of dagger teeth become vis
ible as it growls and spits a hard bark at me. Hot spikes of adrenaline course through my blood and a bead of sweat begins its journey from my forehead down to my nose.
My hands shake.
“No,” the stout cop commands and jerks the leash.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
“Mr. Chandler, we want to verify that the information you gave us is correct,” the tall one says.
“Nothing has changed,” I say.
“Can we talk in your room? Don’t want any pesky reporters eavesdropping from around the corner.”
“Sure.”
I look at the graffiti sprawling across the door in black marker as it squeals open. They enter the darkness with dubious grins and I realize what they are doing. A drug dog is now in my room. I see it sniffing like a coked up demon. They are looking for evidence to connect me to Tim and Rascal. Holy shit. The letter.
My body becomes light as if filled with helium as I enter and flick the switch on the painted cinderblock wall. The dog is in a sniffing frenzy.