The Boy in the Tunnel

by Gardner Linn

 

43.

 

Renee hated frat boys with the kind of irrational passion usually reserved for first teenage loves (which was more apropos than Renee cared to admit, given where Danny Jillette ended up), the kind of passion that manifested itself in uncontrollable physical urges—to be on or in another human, by any means necessary. To rip right through whatever defenses there were, with whatever tools were handy. Fingernails, usually.

        

 

But the loathing Renee felt for frat boys was nothing compared to the hatred she had for their female hangers-on. Sorority girls, Little Sisters—any girl who ever ventured past the front porch of one of the big houses along Hollister Ave., essentially—they were all less than human in Renees eyes. She arrived on campus wanting to save these girls from their inevitable fates in the musty, Belushi-poster-bedecked rooms of roofie-equipped KA brothers, but it took less than a month for Renee to realize the impossibility of her quest. Now she just wanted to punish them. The blonde girl hanging off the shoulder of the impossibly (but all too probably) stereotypical frat boy here at the back of the Kangaroo was merely the next in line.

 

Renee bent her head to the ear of the blonde girl, who up close looked weird and fake—Asian features, maybe, subdued into bland whiteness by a thick stratum of makeup. Renee put her black lips next to the girls pink ear and whispered Ten dollars says you shit blood tomorrow. The girl opened her mouth as wide as it would go, exposing brilliant white teeth, the rabbit teeth in front large and prominent, and Renee could see cracks forming in the makeup around her mouth. The girl slipped off the shoulder of the frat boy, but it wasnt like she really slipped. It was like she did it on purpose. As she fell her right hand went to her mouth, and she spewed out a viscous pink liquid, but Renee was pretty sure it came from her hand—a hidden tube or something—and not her mouth. Renee had looked into her eyes. She was stone sober.

        

The frat guy didnt even try to help his latest jizz receptacle to her feet. Instead he glared at Renee, but his eyes didnt display the full force of contempt that she had felt so often from guys just like this one. They regarded her, a woman with no organizational affiliation, the same way she regarded them: subhuman. If no one could vouch for her or back her up, then she might as well have not even existed.

        

But Renee didnt see that in this guys eyes. He was looking at her, not at her chest, not at her legs, even in the Death Nurse dress. He could see her. What the fuck? he barked, but it was all an act. Fucking bitch.

        

The counter jockey was coming up the aisle with a baseball bat, but slowly—he wanted the situation to resolve itself before he had to get involved.

        

Owen couldnt see what Renee could. He stepped to the frat guy with instinctual chivalrous fury. Hey, he said. Hey. The fuck you doing? Owen placed himself between Renee and the frat guy.

        

Renee could see that Frat Boy didnt want any of this. But he played along. The fuck you doing, man? Look what your bitch did to my girl.

        

My bitch? Renee couldnt tell which word caused Owen more consternation. She could see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to express to Frat Boy that Renee wasnt his, per se, but he was going to do his best to protect her anyway, so maybe one day she would be. He appealed to Frat Boys own sense of chivalry. Arent you going to help her up?

        

Frat Boy looked down at his friend, her hands slipping in the puddle of what Renee was sure was fake vomit on the floor. Gawwwwddd, Dasssshhh, she slurred, almost real enough to pass. Renee stifled a laugh. Dash. How fucking perfect.

        

Dash grabbed Drunk Girl around the upper arm. Come on, Heather. Youre embarrassing yourself. He jerked her to her feet. An irregular splash of pink rimmed her lips, exacerbating her nightmare-clown appearance. She wiped at it with her red sleeve, succeeding only in smearing it up her cheek.

        

Dassshh. I think I had too much to drink. Heather took in Renees Death Nurse dress from hem to cleavage, then landed on her face with a sneer. Whos this bitch?

        

The counter jockey took another step up the aisle. He raised the bat to his shoulder. Hey, he said. You guys probably want to take this outside.

        

Heather raised a limp middle finger. Fugyou, muhfah. Talking. She swung her hand to Dashs chest and rubbed it. Kickiz ass.

        

Owen turned to the counter jockey. Its cool, Roger. We were just leaving. You want to ring up these cups and a couple bags of ice?

        

I cant deal with any shit in here, Owen Bean, Roger said. Gotta clean up that mess now anyway. Dont want any more shit.

        

Heather laughed, wild and vicious. Ownbean? Your names Ownbean? Huh? Mr. Bean? She stood on her tiptoes and bit Dashs ear. Hey Dassshh, kick Mr. Beans assss.

        

Lets go, Owen. Shes not even drunk. Shes faking it. Some kind of Halloween costume or something.

        

Fugyou say, bitch? Heather reached out a hand with fingernails so long they were more like talons and pushed Renee in the shoulder, knocking her into the fried-pie display. Thass right.

        

Renee hadnt been in a fight in eight years, ever since the day in P.E. when she wouldnt give the basketball back to Cheryl Wilkins (Cheryl had been held back twice, which meant she was both huge and stupid, and she had been missing free throws for like five minutes, but all the other girls were too afraid to take the ball from her; but when she finally made a basket, Renee figured that meant someone else could have a turn, a view that Cheryl did not share) and Cheryl kicked her in the knee, which prompted Renee to headbutt her right in her gigantic right boob (which boobs were a source of simultaneous pride and shame for the rapidly-developing Cheryl). Renee and Cheryl had both ended up in in-school suspension for a week, a week which they spent glaring at each other across the mobile classroom, which rocked in its chocks every time Cheryl set her girth upon it.

        

Renee had felt no urge to fight since then but now, fake drunk or no, the blood was rising up her spine to her head, telling her it was time to put it to use again.

        

Owen was about to lose it. Control her! he screamed at Dash.

        

Yo, brah, you know you cant control a chick.

        

Heather smirked and pushed Owen in the chest. You wanna piece?

        

Roger flexed his fingers around the grip of the baseball bat. I thought this was over, Owen Bean.

        

Yeah, its over. Lets go, Renee. Owen turned his back on Dash and Heather.

 

Heather shrieked out her shrill hyena laugh. Pussy! she shouted. Pusssssyyyyyy!

        

Heathers underwear-enhanced boobs made for a pretty easy target. Renee lowered her head and attacked.

 

*************

 

Dave glanced through the open back door toward the porch. Audrey was still there. We cant have Caveman Theatre without all three judges, said Avery. Its just not done.

        

Get somebody else. Taylor.

        

You know Taylors not here.

        

Dave glanced again at Audrey. She was checking her watch. Look, Avery, Ive got a real tenuous grasp on something here, and I cant take half an hour to deal with your Caveman Theatre bullshit.

        

The sides of Averys jaw flexed as he pushed down on bottom molars. Im not stupid, Dave. I know where those green footprints came from.

        

So?

        

So youre going to judge Caveman Theatre with me and Owen Bean. Is this not a reasonable request?

        

This was what Dave hated right here. This strict adherence to pointless rules and symbols. It only worked in your favor if you were in a higher position than one of the other Nine (which Dave was) and if you were an asshole (which Dave liked to think he wasnt). He could boss around Owen Bean and Taylor if he wanted to, but what was the point? Theyd just resent his authority the way he resented Averys. It is reasonable.

        

Great. Owen Beans not back from the Kangaroo yet, so you can go and flirt. Ill let you know when we need you.

        

Fuck Avery. Seriously.

        

Dave walked back out to the porch and sat down next to Audrey. Sorry about that. Avery takes Caveman Theatre way too seriously.

        

How old is he, anyway?

        

Hes only twenty.

        

For real? Audrey put her glasses back on. Now she was someone else, a third person: not Audrey, not the Baroness, merely a girl pretending to be something whose importance she couldnt fathom. He looks like my dad.

        

Mine too.

        

Hey, I read your stuff in the Ambassador. Do you really believe all that shit?

        

Not really. Thats just a character to sell papers. The last thing Dave wanted to talk about was Taddlington Taft. That guy was like an evil genie who only came out when Dave got to the bottom of a bottle. He had nothing to say about that side of his life. He did it because he had to. If he talked about it with anybody he might admit that he did it because he liked it. He liked ceding control to a side of himself he normally fought to keep hidden. But there was nothing to be gained from being that honest with anybody, particularly a girl he wanted to make out with.

        

Right. An Andy Kaufman thing.

        

Sure. Not as good as his stuff, but sure. Same kind of thing.

        

I dont believe you.
        

You dont even know me.

        

I think I do.

        

Dave didnt know how to respond. He wasnt sure if this was playful banter or not. He just let Audreys statement hang in the air between them until it was indistinguishable from her cigarette smoke, until it permeated his clothes and his hair, until he smelled like what she knew him to be.

        

Audrey pulled another cigarette from its pack and lit it from the one in her mouth. You want one? she asked. Dave nodded. She handed him the cigarette and lit another one for herself. Dave sucked on the cigarette, trying to draw the smoke as far into his body as it would go. He wanted to breathe smoke, like a dragon. Breathe in smoke, breathe out fire. Protect your hoard.

        

Why were you crying? Dave asked, punctuating his question with a cough.

        

Hey, you dont even know me.

        

More smoke for the lungs. Build up a good supply.

        

A Homer Simpson, yellow makeup smeared and blotched on his face and arms, stumbled around the corner and vomited into the Plastics recycling bin. He braced himself against the side of the house for a moment, letting the last remnants of acidic spittle hang from his mouth. When the strand finally broke, he looked up at Dave. A smile broke on his face. Hey Flanders! Hey Flanders!

        

Dave tried to ignore him.

        

Hey Flanders! Homer took a few shaky steps toward Dave. Say it! Say it, Flanders!

        

Dave blew out a cloud of smoke and watched Homer through it, the colloidal grey air blurring the human grotesquerie into something almost cartoony and real. Okely— said Dave.

        

Okely-dokely! Homer laughed, a violent eruption of noise from deep in his expansive belly, poking out pale and tumescent from under his white polo shirt. He laughed until the braying sound was all that Dave could hear or know.

        

He is laughing at you, Taddlington. You havent given anyone any reasons not to laugh.

        

Hey, man, said Dave. You mind leaving us alone? Were talking.

        

Homer just laughed. Droplets of saliva sprayed from his mouth. His arms rubbed against his shirt, leaving yellow smudges. He took another step forward and his foot hit a rock. Homer fell, laughing all the way to the ground.

 

                       

2006 Gardner Linn