Four

“You can’t go in yet,” Bobby said. “Just wait outside a minute.”

Bobby unlocked the door to his dorm room and slipped inside, while Mark stayed outside with Annie and Charlotte.

“What’s he doing in there?” Charlotte asked, tossing back her willowy blond hair.

“Yeah, confess,” Annie said. “What’s Bobby doing?”

Mark shook his head. “That kid has always been a mystery to me.”

Just then Bobby swung open the door and smiled.

A deep, booming voice reverberated through the room. “Ask them to come in!” the voice said.

Bobby and Mark glanced at one another, shrugged, then took the arms of their respective dates. Charlotte and Annie stepped inside.

“Ask them to sit down!” the voice commanded. In the background the sound of sleazy-nightclub, piano-tinkling Muzak swelled. Mark and Bobby gestured toward the sofa, and the girls sat down.

“Ask them if they’d like something to drink!”

And in unison Bobby and Mark asked. Bobby gestured toward a punch bowl already filled with deep purple liquid.

Before the ladies had an opportunity to answer, the voice plunged ahead. “Ask them what their sign is!”

Like puppets on an audio string, Bobby and Mark asked the zodiacal question. Annie laughed and nudged Charlotte. This is going over pretty well, Bobby thought. Not bad for an hour’s work with a few records and a tape recorder.

“Ask if those are their real legs!”

Charlotte twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Really bizarro.”

The volume level increased about three times. “Have a good time!” the voice barked. At that instant the background music switched to a booming full orchestra, cannons included, frenzied crisscross of the 1812 Overture and Spike Jones. (It was John Williams’s score for 1941, actually.) The room seemed to shake. The music crescendoed, and Bobby pulled a cleverly concealed string that loosened the lightweight cargo net thumbtacked to the ceiling. Fifty red balloons came cascading down around Charlotte’s and Annie’s shoulders.

Annie screamed, then began to laugh happily. Charlotte appeared mildly amused.

Well, good. Bobby knew from experience the best double dates started out on a successfully insane footing. It was like a semaphore flag saying, “Look out, girls! This time you’re in for something completely different.” Creative dating was an art to be appreciated. Especially since it had taken them nearly two hours to blow up all those balloons and get that net thumbtacked to the ceiling.

“A round of passion, barkeep!” Mark bellowed. “On the house.”

Bobby obediently walked into the kitchen to get the drinks. Why am I always the serving wench? he wondered, for the zillionth time. Mark sits in the living room flirting with the increasingly drunken females, while I jockey purple passion to them. It just wasn’t right. With some of the others, it hadn’t really mattered, but tonight, well, the usual shenanigans were not appropriate.

He opened the kitchen cabinet and withdrew four Taco Hut souvenir Star Trek: The Motion Picture glasses. He glanced back into the living room. Mark was doing his sleight-of-hand routine – pulling a quarter out of Annie’s ear, making it seem to disappear again. Charlotte watched attentively. She seemed nice enough, but Bobby wasn’t going to get his hopes up. This was, after all, a date born of desperation. He took the ladle out of the punchbowl and began dispensing purple passion. What he really needed to be doing was studying for his physiology test. But there was no point in trying to explain that to Mark.

He presented the women with their drinks, then brought two more for Mark and himself. They had to appear to be drinking at the same rate as the young ladies. Mark was expending all his witty banter and energy on Annie, but Charlotte was nodding and smiling politely. She really wasn’t bad-looking at all, Bobby thought. Sure, maybe her nose was too big and she was underdeveloped in the chest area. But at least she clearly had a neck.

Bobby walked back to the kitchenette for the potato chips, pretzels, and other thirst-inducing edibles.

Mark followed him. “It’s going pretty well, huh?” Mark whispered. “The tape was a big hit. Fortunately, they don’t realize this is about the twentieth time we’ve used it.”

Bobby agreed. The key virtue of the tape was that it gave him an excuse to remain silent. Once everyone had experienced the tape, relaxed, and knocked back a drink, Bobby found it easier to talk without doing a Porky Pig impression.

“The purple passion will get things going,” Bobby said. “It’s psychologically suggestive, you know. Purple. Passion. Triggers the proper subconscious responses.”

“How intellectual of you.”

Bobby nodded. “Plus I put a ton of vodka in it.” He poured the potato chips into a bowl.

“Fortunately,” Mark said, “you’ve flavored it so heavily it tastes like Kool-Aid. With the chips and all, they’ll drink quarts of it before they know what hit them. Heh, heh, heh.”

Mark glanced at the ladies in the living room. “Hey, where’d you find this Charlotte chick, anyway?”

“Oh…in the Mensa directory,” Bobby said quietly.

“The what?”

“Mensa. The directory. You remember. We took the test, we joined the club, we went to a meeting. Part of our plan was to broaden our intellectual horizons.”

“I thought we went to meet girls.”

“Whatever.”

Mark drummed his fingers on the countertop. “I remember that meeting. A lot of geeks standing around being smart.” He reflected for a moment. “Wasn’t there some redheaded egghead you liked?”

“Shelby. She’s busy tonight. So is her friend, Marceline. Washing their hair or something.”

“So Charlotte was your third choice?”

Bobby’s glare was impossible to misinterpret. “What of it?”

“Forget I asked.” Mark grinned. “At least you didn’t put another ad in the personals. That was embarrassing.”

“I think Charlotte is cute. Nice trim figure. And how about that peekaboo blouse?”

“I guess a guy in your situation has to take comfort wherever he can find it.”

“Let’s change the subject,” Bobby said firmly.

“Sure.” Mark patted Bobby on the shoulder. “But first allow me to display my psychic gifts. I’m sticking my neck out here, but I’m prepared to scoop Jeane Dixon and predict that you will remain celibate for the rest of your life.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, jerkoff.”

Mark checked out his reflection in the window and ran his fingers through his hair. Every lock resumed its proper position. “How do you think I’m doing?”

Bobby shoved the potato chip bowl into his hands. “I’m sure you’re making time like no man ever did before. Casanova himself would undoubtedly bow down before you, awestruck.” He grabbed the pretzels. “How much longer you figure you’ll be here? Two, three hours?”

“Three hours?” Mark sneered. “O ye of little faith. I’ll have her in the sack in an hour and a half.” He glanced at his watch. “ETA, ten forty-five.”

Bobby started to reply, but he was too slow. Mark was already sitting beside Annie, hard at work. Mark took the empty space on the sofa between Annie and Charlotte, so Bobby sat in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table.

Annie looked great. Bobby couldn’t help but admire, once again, her perfectly arranged facial features – her smooth, aquiline nose, blue eyes, and thin, pretty lips. She was wearing some makeup, but not too much – it seemed just right. Everything about her did.

“Are you having a good time?” Mark asked, as he feigned drinking his punch.

“I’m having a spectacular time,” Annie answered. “I spent most of the day drafting an UOSA resolution condemning U.S. involvement in El Salvador. I think it’s vital that we make our positions on these issues known, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“But this is really fun, Mark. It’s the perfect way to unwind.”

“Beats spending the evening at yet another clone frat party, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, it does. After you’ve been to a few hundred parties watching thick-necked, thick-brained guys bragging about who can drink the most beer before succumbing to unconsciousness, or who can bash the most cars with a baseball bat without getting caught, having balloons dropped on your head is a refreshing change of pace.”

“You know, Annie,” Mark said slowly, “I don’t want to drag the party down with a lot of serious shit, but I don’t see how, when there’s so much important stuff going on in the world – hell, going on at this campus – you can be content to squander the prime years of your life on all that happy-go-lucky, fuck-you-I’m-rich, Izod shirt crap.”

Annie sighed. “Well, of course, I can understand the correctness of the non-Greek position. I’m not altogether unsympathetic.” She took another drink of passion. “I’m active in the Anderson campaign, you know.”

“Which did you spend more time at last month, Annie? Anderson pep rallies or sorority functions?”

“We’re required to attend three functions a week…” She frowned.

“You know,” Mark said softly (Bobby recognized this as his mellow voice), “I think this whole commitment-peer-pressure-conflicting-goals dilemma relates to a song we wrote the other day.”

Bobby resisted the temptation to gag. Surely Annie was not so gullible.

“Do we write songs?” Mark grinned at Bobby. “Bobby, tell the woman. Do we write songs?”

Bobby shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, sort of. Mark and I play around some…”

“I think that’s terrific,” Annie said. “Would you play something for us?”

Mark winked at Bobby. “Well, as fate would have it, I just happen to have my guitar here.”

“Do you mind?” Bobby asked Charlotte. “I don’t want to bore you.”

Charlotte blinked her eyes rapidly. She was probably astonished to find someone finally talking to her. “No, I think it sounds cool,” she said. “Please play.”

Still shrugging, Bobby walked over to the piano and struck the G below C. Mark strapped his guitar around his neck, pulled the kitchen stool over by the piano, and tuned his guitar to Bobby’s G. It was unlikely that either instrument had gone out of tune in the two hours since they last rehearsed this routine, but Mark felt this ritual gave them an aura of professionalism.

After Mark tuned all six top strings, Bobby played the intro chord pattern. “This is the song we just wrote,” Mark said.

We just wrote, huh? As I recall, Bobby thought as he played the first verse, I brought the finished, completed song to Mark’s attention this afternoon, and all he did was add some clichés to the lyrics that would make Annie feel, in his words, “guilty, superficial, and morally obligated to sleep with me.” And now it was a song we wrote.

Bobby struck a wrong chord. Mark eyed Bobby sternly but continued playing and singing. The women didn’t seem to notice; they were focusing on Mr. Guitar and Vocals. It just wasn’t fair, Bobby thought. I’m doing most of the work here; Mark is just strumming a few simple chords I taught him. But all four eyes were trained on Mark.

There was something inherently unfair about pairing a guitarist with a pianist, Bobby reflected. The piano is by far the more complex, more demanding, more versatile instrument. But the guitar is sexier. It was portable; it was romantic; and it didn’t remind people of the lessons they hated as a kid. It allowed the musician to face his audience while he played. Girls went into orgasmic frenzies over guitarists; girls merely appreciated piano players. Springsteen posters were in every other room in the girls’ dorms, but no one wanted to sleep with Van Cliburn.

They finished the second verse and went into Bobby’s solo bridge, solo principally because Mark hadn’t learned the chords yet. Bobby played a fast, intricate progression he had practiced for days. If anyone noticed, they didn’t let it show. Mark was scoring more points with the girls just by sitting there making moony eyes at them.

Mark started the final verse: “It is the place where Stevens’ blue guitar is strumming/It is the place where that different drummer’s drumming…”

Mark probably didn’t even know what these unadulterated third verse lyrics meant, Bobby thought, but he damn sure knew how to sing them. His voice was more than just mellow—it had the suggestion of tragedy, the plaintive I’m-so-sensitive-my-life-is-so-unhappy-don’t-you-think-you-ought-to-go-to-bed-with-me undercurrent. Mark could inject all that into a song and more.

They finished the song in perfect synch. Mark waited a calculated moment, then asked, “Well, what do you think?”

Annie’s eyes were noticeably glassier than before. “It’s probably the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. Played for me, I mean.”

“Written for you too,” Mark said quietly.

Bobby bit down on his lower lip.

Annie’s voice trembled slightly. “Play something else, would you?”

Mark nodded. He gave Bobby a quick wink and suggested they try that Cat Stevens number they’d been tinkering with.

 

*****

 

After “Father and Son,” they played “Your Song” and “Alone Again (Naturally),” two more ballads of the pity-me sort that was Mark’s specialty. They sounded pretty good; they’d been practicing a lot lately, getting ready for the Crystal’s audition. For a change of pace the “Theme from Rawhide,” with Bobby making cattle calls and whip noises in the background. Then they played a Harry Chapin number, “Mister Tanner,” the only tune in their repertoire on which Bobby sang lead vocal. Mark made several distracting mistakes throughout, then he stopped playing altogether during the crucial final verse. Mark apologized profusely, pleading failure of memory. Bobby suspected otherwise.

Mark reclaimed center stage with two James Taylor ballads, “Shower the People” and “Fire and Rain.” After the last song, Mark walked over to the sofa, knelt beside Annie and whispered something in her ear.

“Want to hear some Billy Joel?” Bobby asked.

“I hate to be the party pooper,” Annie said, “but it’s time for us to go.” She stood next to Mark, slid her right arm gently inside his and clasped his hand.

Mark smiled. “Robert, my man, it’s been a blast, as always. Enjoyed meeting you too, Charlotte.”

Charlotte nodded politely.

Mark put his arm around Annie’s shoulder and escorted her out the door.

Lucky bastard, Bobby thought. It’s written all over her face. Thanks to the song he wrote for her. The song I wrote. A stream of unanswered questions raced through his head. Couldn’t she see through…? Doesn’t she realize…? Won’t she…? Would she…?

Damn. It just wasn’t right. Sure, he was used to this sort of thing from Mark; hell, he expected it. But Annie deserved better. She deserved—

“Yoo-hoo. Hello.”

Bobby looked up, startled. Charlotte was sitting on the couch, waving at him.

“Earth to Bobby. I’m still here, remember?”

Bobby kicked himself. “I’m sorry. I was somewhere else.”

Charlotte looked as if she thought this was not a satisfactory excuse for ignoring her.

“How about another glass of passion?” he asked. “I could use a drink.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Bobby refilled their glasses and sat on the sofa. At least now, he mused, I get to sit next to my date.

“You play very well,” Charlotte said.

“Yeah, well…” He supposed she had to say something.

“I mean it. Mind if I get comfortable?”

Bobby’s head jerked to attention. There were certain phrases he never heard on dates. One was “My God, your biceps send me into orgasmic frenzy.” Another was “How about some quick and dirty oral sex?” And he absolutely positively never heard that touchstone of seduction: “Mind if I get comfortable?”

“N-No. Of course not,” he answered, suppressing his stammer. “Please do.”

He leaned back against the sofa and tried to act casual, as if he were not particularly interested in watching her, which of course he was. Ripples of kinetic energy raced across her body as she reached back, unsnapped her bra, slid the straps off her shoulders, pulled the bra through her sleeve, and tucked it away in her purse.

She kicked off her high heels and smiled. Bobby tried his best not to stare at the tiny nipple peaks in her blouse. He felt his heart beating ever so much more quickly. There were possibilities here. Unexplored parameters.

He considered his next move. Carefully. Carefully, because he knew this was what he always blew – by saying or doing something stupid, by being too analytical, or by being too shy. But this time he wouldn’t. This time—

“Excuse me. Have you gone back to Mars or something?”

Bobby gave her a goofy smile. “S-Sorry.”

“How long have you been writing songs?”

“C-Couple of years.”

“Think you could write a song for me?”

He resisted saying he already had. “Sure.”

“Really?” She was obviously taken with the idea of being immortalized in song. “Nobody ever wrote a song for me before. Cool.” She leaned forward and began kissing him on the lips.

A fierce trembling shot through Bobby’s body. He was stunned, breathless, unprepared. He didn’t know what to do. Several seconds passed before it occurred to him that perhaps he too ought to be an active participant in this exercise. He began moving his mouth around in ever wider circles. He placed his hands upon her back. Another trembling sensation shot through his body, as his hands reminded him of her braless condition.

The kiss broke off. Bobby took a deep breath, then coughed, practically in her face. When he turned to apologize, his nose went into her ear. Get a grip, he told himself.

She was still smiling at him. Bobby decided to take that as a sign of encouragement. He leaned forward and initiated a second kiss. This one lasted even longer.

Upon the third try, Charlotte placed a restraining hand against Bobby’s chest. “Let’s go in there,” she whispered. She cocked her head toward the bedroom.

Bobby’s heart thumped at a pace that couldn’t be conducive to long life. There was no mistaking this invitation. Who would’ve expected the Girl from Mensa to be a sure thing? He tried to think clearly – he needed to say something reassuring, something romantic, something that would sweep her off her feet.

“I-If you w-wanna,” he said, his voice cracking.

They stood up. Bobby took her hand and led the way to the bedroom. Walking through the doorway, Bobby turned on the overhead light. As she passed through behind him, Charlotte turned it off. Bobby’s heart beat faster and harder.

Bobby sat on the near side of the bed, both feet planted firmly on the ground. Behind him he saw Charlotte, silhouetted by the moonlight through the window, lifting her blouse over her head. She lowered her arms and her breasts bounced back into place. She unbuckled her skirt and pulled it and her panties down and around her feet. Then she slithered under the covers and curled up in a ball next to Bobby.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

Bobby hoped he was. Breathing in short, deep gulps, he crawled under the covers. He pressed his lips against hers, and this time she responded like a hurricane. She rolled over on top of him and ran her hands all over his body. She was out of control, a thousand places at once. He felt her hands ripping loose the buttons on his Levi’s 501 jeans. She yanked his jeans and shorts down to his knees. Bobby reached underneath and tried to get the stiff, pressed jeans over his feet, all while the hyperdrive kissing, touching, and wriggling continued. She unbuttoned his shirt, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed every exposed inch of epidermis she could find, her hands wringing his shoulders like pizza dough.

Bobby ran his fingertips up and down her spine. Charlotte reacted immediately, twisting like a kitty cat in response to every touch. Bobby worked her back, then moved his hand down and around to the perimeter of the danger zone, the wide outside of her left breast. He stayed on the outside for a tantalizingly long period of time, cupping and stroking, drawing little fingertip circles around the nipple. After several seconds of this Charlotte took Bobby’s hand and placed it squarely atop her breast. Bobby thought he was going to die.

She pulled closer to him and slid between his legs. Bobby was having difficulty breathing, and it wasn’t because she was on top. He knew they could only be seconds away from the main event. He put his arms around her and pulled her firmly against him. Charlotte was spreading her legs, placing her free hand on his hips, positioning herself, and then, all at once, she sighed loudly and withdrew. She exhaled, then rolled over on her back.

Colored lights seemed to pop before Bobby’s eyes. It was as if someone had cut his parachute moments before impact. “What’s the matter?” he whispered, doing his best to sound sensitive, not urgent.

Charlotte gazed out the window. “I’m sorry. I tried. I really did. It’s just not happening for me tonight.”

Bobby pressed his hand against his forehead. He felt a throbbing in his temples, his groin, and several other parts of his anatomy. “I—I don’t understand.”

She blew air through her teeth. “Jesus Christ,” she said sharply, “don’t take it personally. What did you expect? I barely know you.”

“I-Is there anything I can do?”

Charlotte shook her head. Then, after a moment, she rolled over next to him. Her hair tickled his nose. “I dunno. You got any cocaine?”

“Cocaine?”

“Yeah. Got any?”

Bobby blew her hair out of his face. “Have I got any cocaine? Yeah, it’s in my dresser drawer next to the Krugerrands and the Saturday Night Specials.”

Charlotte rolled away. “Excuse me. I just asked.”

“I don’t believe this,” he said, his voice rising. “Are you telling me you need cocaine just to get – “ He stopped himself. He couldn’t even think it, much less say it.

Charlotte fell out of the bed and began dressing. “Forget I said anything. It was just a suggestion, okay? Obviously this was a mistake.” She pulled on her skirt, then buttoned up her blouse.

Bobby lay inert and motionless on the bed. “What, you’re just going to leave me like this?”

“I sure as hell don’t see much point in staying,” she said bitterly. “You know, you have a hell of a lot of nerve. You’ve been coming on to me all night, playing your little songs, trying every trick in the book to make me hot. You get me drunk, seduce me, practically undress me, feel me up, and then, at the first suggestion that this might not be heaven on earth for me, you get indignant and go flying off the deep end. God save me from the male ego.”

She finished dressing and stomped out of the room. Bobby heard the front door slam. He lay there for a long time, not moving. His head still throbbed, along with everything else.

Maybe Mark had some psychic gifts after all.