All the Rage © 1998 by Eric S. Piotrowski


Chapter One: Susan

I knew "I'm sorry" would be the first words out of James' mouth, and they were. "I didn't even realize I had it" were second.

His face was ashen, his left eye swollen shut. The look he had was hollow, and lost. The shock was still coursing under the skin. He was avoiding my gaze. In fact, he hardly looked up at all, as if something was pushing his head down, forcing him to stare into the depths of what lay ahead. He was on the edge of his chair, and his hands were shaking.

My head was spinning — more like flexing, really. Shifting between a frame of mind telling me this was all something I was watching on television and a mindset of simple denial. But I knew from one look that James had collapsed himself into complete resignation. I'd never really understood what he thought hope was, but from the looks of things, everything resenbling it had fled with all haste.

"How much have you heard?" he asked quietly.

"Too little, too scattered," I said. "Tell me what happened."

So he did. Calmly, he recounted the events of the evening, picking up from when we had parted ways. There was no emotion in his voice, no hint at how he was feeling. No hint at how he felt. The way he told it, he hadn't been a major part of the incident at all, just a passive observer. His words were simple and piecemeal, but he hesitated, like saying too much would muddle the obvious. It reminded me of the sophomore year incident.

He didn't really tell me anything I didn't know — which I thought he might. He filled in a few details I was sketchy on, but the whole thing was pretty much the same story I'd heard down the hall. And in the bookstore. And on the way here.

I was at a loss for words for the first time in a long time. He went on, describing everything leading up to my coming in the room. When he finished, he just sat there, staring through the table between us.

As I tried to come up with something intelligent — or compassionate or relevant — to say, I felt my stomach tighten. It made sense; caffeine and sugar were all it had gotten for ten hours. Still, I didn't feel like eating.

I wanted this to be on television so I could change the channel, or at least expect a tidy resolution at the end of an hour. It wasn't something I wanted to watch; it was too realistic. And I had a feeling at the end of the hour, we would see the dreaded "To be continued…" appear on the screen.

Then he said, "Did you find any shoes?"

My convulsions were as much laughter as they were sobs. Nobody but James would have asked that. Nobody but him would ever be able to strike that dual nerve of joy through tears and pain through laughter. I wanted to smack him. But I wiped at my eyes instead. It occurred to me he was just looking for something to talk about.

"No," I said, half-smiling. I looked at him but his expression hadn't changed. I wanted him to smile. I wanted to see that this was still the same guy I'd known since our first year of college, a guy that wouldn't let anything draw down the curtain on what he knew was right. A guy who always brought a sense of hope — no matter how much gallows humor came with it. And during all the shit we'd been through, I felt like he would be that guy. But now I wasn't so sure. It didn't just hurt to see him like this — it was an acidic feeling, like something liquid eating me. This strong guy, on whose shoulder I'd rested my worn head many times, was either crumbling or had crumbled.

"So you haven't slept?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. He wearily shook his head. "Are you tired?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Not really," he said. "I doubt I could sleep if I tried, you know."

I nodded. "Eaten?"

"Yeah, I had a sandwich a little bit after I got here. Awful shit."

"Whatever works," I said. He shrugged.

"Has Jen heard?" he asked.

I nodded. "She was out with her sister for a while," I said. "But they left a message right after it happened. I think she's on her way down. They said she was pretty upset."

"I don't blame her." He sunk his head into his hands, like he was hearing the news for the first time. A low groan, only a little louder than a sigh, escaped him. If he was crying, he disguised it well. "How about Malik? Tony?"

I nodded. "Malik wasn't home, but Nate said he'd tell him. Nate wanted to come down, but I told him they probably wouldn't let him in to see you. He'll be by tomorrow. I don't know where Tony is, but I left a message for him to call me."

He nodded, took a deep breath, and sat up.

"So is he dead?" he asked all of a sudden.

I stammered for a second. I shifted my weight. "Uh, no," I said. "Well, I'm not sure. They said critical at first, but they didn't say how critical."

He nodded absently. Not that he didn't care, but I knew he asked mostly out of politeness. "What his parents must think of me," he said. I was silent. There was a long pause.

"You know," he said, leaning forward. "I remember the first time I ever tried to made pasta after I moved out of the dorms.

"This was when I was living with Peter, in that crappy little place near the library. I had put too much water in the pot but even so, I didn't expect it to heat up so quickly.

"I was. . . . I had gone into the other room to watch TV while I waited. You know Peter paid for cable so he could get ESPN. So I was watching something. . . ." He closed his eyes a second, straining to remember. "I forget what it was. And I heard the water boiling over.

"So I jump up and go running in there, and I grab the pot. But it was a lot heavier than I remembered. I was tilting it to the side, losing even more of the water. It sizzled and smoked. Some of the spaghetti fell out. At first I put my other hand out to steady the thing, but realized how strupid that was. All the steam and bubbles and stuff made it all seem a lot more maddening that it was. My arm was straining. And the whole time, I kept thinking: What would happen if I dropped it? I pictured all that boiling water and sticky pasta falling into the burners, soaking the electrical circuits, you know. Just thinking about the fire and the sparks. It was so hard to keep it steady." He sighed and stared at his hands.

"So what happened?" I asked.

"Oh, I made it to the sink," he said, "and it fell in as soon as I got there. I had to throw the stuff out." I nodded. "But it was a lot less messy than it could have been."

I nodded again. As the silence became unbearable, I deliberately cleared my throat. It was getting harder to ignore my stomach. I wanted to be somewhere else. I wanted to be someone else. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not to us. Someone else. Somewhere else.

"Is there anything I can do from here?" I asked, knowing how futile it was as soon as it left my lips.

He shook his head slowly. "Jen will take care of all the legal stuff," he said. "You should probably get some sleep."

"Yeah, I should," I said. As if on cue, a guard opened the door in the wall and walked toward James. I put my hand to the glass. James followed. His eyes were wet.

"It's gonna be okay," I said.

He gripped the phone with white knuckles and looked up quickly, fiercely. "I wish I could believe that," he said. The guard stood him up and they walked away. I listened to the dead phone, silence all around me.

Chapter Two: James

I can't really describe the way the mall smells, but I hate it. And I hate that I can't describe it. It's not really stale, because nothing in the mall is stale. The mall's essence is one of perpetual freshness — fresh shoes in the shoe stores, fresh fashions in the clothes shops, fresh ice cream in the food court, fresh coffee at the little island beverage stand, fresh music in the record store, fresh bestselling paperbacks at the bookstore. But still, every time I walk into the place, I walk into the same odor, just sitting there. It seems to say, "I'll always be here. And you can't remember a time when I wasn't here."

And I can't. Ever since I was a baby, there was the mall. Going to the mall has always been a big deal. We used to go as a family, and the measure of my happiness was what I brought back from the Land of Shiny New Things. When it was at the mall, it was something amazing, a must-have. The second I got it home, of course, it became just another toy (or book, or tape, or shoe, or whatever). There was an aura around mall merchandise, you know. And the mall had a definite smell.

That smell hit me as soon as we walked in, Susan and me. It was a Friday evening, just after the brink of sunset. I wanted to wait a while before going in, to watch the colors a bit. But we were on the wrong side of the mall and I could tell she wasn't with it.

But I didn't know for sure, and I didn't ask. Knowing her as I did, I felt like there were some things I just knew without asking. Maybe I was wrong, but I thought not. So we went inside.

It wasn't as crowded as I thought it would be, but I still didn't feel like being around so many people. But I was trying to push all of that aside. So what if I was feeling shitty? So what if the world sucked? So what about Mike? Didn't mean I couldn't have a good time. Susan brought me here to cheer me up, so let the cheering begin. I zipped up my jacket and sunk my hands into my jeans pockets. There was something in one of the jacket pockets, but I couldn't remember what it was.

Susan turned to me. "Is it allright if we go to Camelot first?" she asked. "They might have that Tracy Chapman disc I've been looking for."

I nodded. "Whatever," I said. I was determined to let her navigate the trip. We made our way past the bath shop, past the Hallmark store, past the Spencer's Gifts, past the earring shop, past the organ store with the clerk hanging out in front providing free boring entertainment for all the passers-by. His decidedly uninspired rendition of "Singin' in the Rain" mixed with the mall's loudpseakers' offering of "Have You Ever (Really) Loved a Woman" like pig bile and sulfuric acid.

Camelot didn't have the Tracy Chapman disc. They had plenty of copies of the new Spice Girls record, and the front rack displayed the collected works of Hanson. The albums in the "Listening Station" were the latest pop, R&B, and country picks of the week, each bland and without much material that could, in any sense of the word, be considered "unmarketable." Plenty of Pearl Jam, Prodigy, and Puff Daddy. But they did not happen to have a copy of Tracy Chapman's first album in stock.

"Did you really think they'd have it?" I asked as we passed the organ performance again.

She half-shrugged. "Sometimes they have stuff I want."

I smiled just enough to know I was smiling. "They never seem to have what I want," I said.

"Yeah, but you're such a musical nihilist."

I laughed. "And what is a 'musical nihilist?'"

"You're so down on music all the time. Everything on the radio sucks. Everything on MTV sucks."

"Everything on MTV does suck."

"So why do you watch it all the time?"

"Because one song out of six hundred thousand doesn't suck. You know."

"You only like what you own."

"I only own what I like."

We were getting into our discussion swing. This had developed over the five years I'd known Susan, through a series of late-night post-pizza rap sessions and a Wednesday lunch we'd established during our junior year. She was always on me for something, but it was a playful pressure, never too serious. She saved the seriousness for when I needed it.

And those times had come. Like during my sophomore year. I won't go into that incident too much here, except to say that it was only of the major regrets of my life. It involved a group of guys who were accused of making some racial slurs. The whole situation was messy and unclear, and nothing definite was ever decided about it. Thinking I was the liberal avenger, I did some things to pay the guys back, and I still say it couldn't have happened to nicer guys. But they were stupid things. One of the guys ended up with a broken leg.

Susan had been there for me, and I hadn't forgotten it. In the months that followed, we talked about it almost every day, about how I had felt almost consumed with rage at the guys, at everything around us that could make a person feel justified in saying the things they were accused of saying. She helped me concentrate on how to react.

And I was there for her. When he mother found out she had breast cancer, she leaned on me for support. She had to make constant trips home, and I was always the first person she found when she got back into town. It took a lot out of her, and she only barely passed her first semester of her junior year. But we propped each other up and made it through the year. Hell, we made it all the way to graduation. She was probably my best friend at the time, and one of my best friends ever. She knew which buttons of mine to press.

"It's like you set up this wall," she said. "And you throw all the music up in the air, and whatever lands on this side, you like, and whatever lands on that side you don't like."

I looked around in mock confusion. "That's what everyone does!" I said.

"Yeah, but with some of it, it's not even about the music. It's like, if everyone else likes it, you can't possibly like it."

"I can too," I protested. "What about Public Enemy?"

She did her little "Where did that come from?" head gesture, accompanied by upturned hands. "Yeah, but you liked them a lot less after everyone got in on them. And besides, they were never big like the bands I'm talking about. They don't get radio play. They don't get on MTV."

"So the groups that have major corporate backing tend to suck. But they get exposure, which doesn't disguise the fact that they suck. And I'm wrong for not liking them. Is that your point?"

"Sort of, but not really."

"Not really?"

"No," she said. "See, I have this theory."

"Do tell." It wasn't her first.

"I think you try to keep yourself from liking the mass-hyped stuff, but by exposing yourself to it so often, you come to really like it."

"Oh, do I now?"

"It's probably unconscious. Like a dirty little secret you don't want to admit to."

"Or a zombie-like stupor induced by the Big Boys at MTV."

She waved a hand. "Hey, you're the one who sits and watches it all the time."

"I realized suddenly that she was walking quickly. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"I wanna drop into Payless," she said. "My white shoes are getting torn up."

I made a face. Few things interest me less than buying shoes. Unless it's listening to organ salesmen play their merchandise. As we got to payless, I spotted the bookstore next door. I gestured to it. "I'll be in there," I said.

"Okay," she replied. "When we're done, can we eat something? I'm starving."

"Sure," I said.

I don't know why I went in there. I've never been in a bookstore in a mall and found anything worth buying that I couldn't find somewhere — anywhere — else. Once in a while the latest from Cornel West or the Dalai Lama will be on special, and I can spend some decent time reading the introduction. My brain can sink into thought mode, not having to deal with the bullshit of everyday life. Instead I can deal with the bullshit of institutional racism or Tibet, which for some reason seem easier to deal with.

I like being in thought mode; if done correctly, it can remove me from the real world, into one of abstraction, where there are rational solutions to rational problems. I can think things through and reflect on the most logical recourse. It's almost like flying a kite or whittling: it frees me from the mundane problems of my life, which always seem much more horrifying.

But there was nothing on special worth perusing in that bookstore. In fact, as I wandered the aisles, I started to suspect I would find nothing of interest at all. So I went to the standards. Those parts of the bookstore where I can always busy myself: science fiction, nature, reference. As it happened, I went to nature, which was located near the magazines.

The poor guy was reading High Times when it happened. I say 'poor' because of course he didn't deserve the fate that befell him, and 'guy' because he was too old to be a boy but not really a man in many senses of the word. I could maybe describe him as a kid. I've never known what I think of people who read High Times — as someone who enjoys an occasional toke myself, I don't begrudge anyone an interest in tetrahydrocannabinol. But to browse — or read — a whole magazine, with color pictures, celebrity interviews and everything . . . it just seems a little odd, you know.

Ultimately, the fact that he was reading High Times resonated with a sense of ironic tragedy (or tragic irony depending on how you looked at it). Later I would think, "We had getting high in common; who's to say it's the only thing?" But then I wondered if it wasn't instead just an example of how two people who enjoy one thing can be so completely different on everything else. Either way, the whole thing depresses me, and not just what I did.

He was reading magazines with a friend, which — as I said — were near the nature section. In fact, they were separated from that section by a tall shelf, so that they didn't even realize I was there and kept right on talking. As I opened a huge, nicely-illustrated edition of Stephen Hawking's Brief History of Time, I sighed. Because while I enjoyed a sort of voyeur's listening spot, I quickly realized they weren't saying anything I wanted to listen to.

"I don't give a fuck either way," one of them — the older of the two, it sounded like — was saying as I tuned in. "Because she said we would go out that Saturday, then changed her mind, so fuck it."

"Yeah," his friend mumbled. "Her brother's that same guy we ran into at the pep rally."

"Which one?"

"The guy with the white hat. You know, the one who kept threatening to get his boys on the other side of the gym."

"Man, that asshole? Damn, I'm glad we didn't hook up. Fuck her." He flipped a page in disgust.

This whole time, I was trying to keep my mind open, trying not to pigeonhole these guys. "Stereotyping is bad," I told myself. "Even if it's accurate." Focus on Hawking's universe contraction theory. Ignore them.

"Besides," his friend said, "she ain't half as fine as that trick from French class. That girl is fuckin' hot."

"Yeah, but she's fuckin' stuck up."

I wans't even pretending to read by this point. I couldn't decide it I was endlessly amused or starting to get mad. But mad about what? They hadn't really said anything too offensive. Surely I could just write them off as ignorant punks.

"Shit, ten minutes with me and she'd get stuck up."

"Whatever, dude."

"Like you'd know about that shit." "Shut up, you little faggot." He hit the other one. Sounded like the shoulder.

I should have just walked away. I remember telling Susan, after the incident my sophomore year, that I knew I should have walked away. Now, as then, it wasn't my battle to fight. Not right there. But something kept me rooted to the spot.

"Yeah, your dad's a faggot."

"Dude, shut the fuck up." Another shoulder smack.

There was a brief pause and I heard magazine rustling.

"Oh man," the younger one said. "Check that shit out."

"Ooh, that is some sweet shit, dude."

I later realized that they were gawking over a porno mag, but nothing in their discussion pointed to the fact that they were even looking at a woman. For all I knew, they were drooling over the High Times Bong of the Month. I was absently flipping the pages of the book at this point, trying to decide how to think about the situation. Something — a lot of things — about their whole attitude was really trying my patience, but I couldn't help thinking that I was overreacting. "Sure," I thought, "I don't talk like that with my friends, but what business is it of mine how they talk to each other? Am I the public arbiter of liberal social opinion among the Newly Eligible to Drive, all of a sudden? They're not really hurting me, or even offending my character, to put a fine point on it." What was I getting so upset about? So these kids weren't as open-minded as I would have liked. Does that mean I have the right to try and change their mode of discourse?

Then it all went away.

"Hey man, did you hear about that Tasha Brown chick?"

I froze.

"That girl who was beat up and shit?"

The book became closed, got put back on the shelf. The other sounds in the mall vanished.

"Yeah."

A page of a magazine was turned, casually.

"Yeah, Adam told me about that shit. And that guy at the party was talking about it. You know, that guy with the motorcycle."

"Pretty weird, dude."

The air was going in and out of my chest slowly.

"She's fuckin' lying," said the older one.

I was moving to the end of the aisle. They still couldn't see me. My hands went into my jacket pockets.

"How do you know?" asked the younger one.

"Come on, dude. Her neighbor said she saw her go inside, like two seconds before it happened. And she didn't remember any of the guys' faces. And there were no witnesses."

"Doesn't mean it didn't happen, dude."

"Shut the fuck up, man. She's a fucking money-hungry ho, man. Even her friends said so. She's just trying to get paid and get in the paper."

I appeared behind the older one. The younger one was on a stool, further away. They both noticed me at the same time, their heads spinning to display the Nike swooshes omn their hats. They each had a frozen expression halfway between surprise and distress. For a few seconds, I was just there, staring at the older one.

Everything was frozen.

Everything was silent.

Then I was pointing a gun at him.

I remember reading a scifi book once wherein the main character goes out to find this guy, not sure if he wants to kill him or not. When they meet, they talk for a while, then the gun just sort of appears in his hand. That's more or less how I remember it happening to me.

His eyes got wide.

The trigger got pulled.

There was a lot of blood.

My eyes blinked.

Chapter Three: Malik

I flipped the volleyball against the wall and caught it. "You're just getting mad at the wrong people," I said.

Friday afternoon, early. The remnants of Taco Bell were on the coffee table, and James was rattling the ice in his cup. We both had Fridays off work, which allowed for a weekly volleyball game. We were in my apartment, just outside the student ghetto. Bob Marley was coming from my roommate Nate's room. James was on the sofa, facing me. I was balanced on the two hind legs of a folding chair. He was still in his tank top; I had changed shirts.

"So who should I be mad at?" he asked. We were gettin' into it again. We always get into it when we talk; that's just how we worked. Someday I hope to have a nice, relaxed conversation with James where we talk about the weather or fishing.

"Well, first you have to decide what you're angry about," I said.

He hesitated. "What I'm angry about? What do you think I'm angry about?"

"Hey, I can't read your mind."

He took a deep breath. "Okay. I'm angry because I brought up something about the homeless at work and no one there gives a fuck about them."

I tossed the ball up. "Now, do you think they really don't care?"

"You know, it sure seems like it," he said.

I shook my head. "There's a real big difference between not caring and keeping yourself distant from the problem."

He scoffed. "This goes beyond keeping themselves at a distance. What does it cost you to at least say you give a shit?" I tilted my head. "Well, once you admit that, you're tied to all sorts of social obligations, unless you wanna be a walking contradiction. Not to mention personal ones."

"So it's easier to just say 'fuck it' and not care."

"Well. . . ." I tossed the ball to myself several times. "Only you know for sure whether you care or not. When it comes down to it, you always have the final say on what's in your head."

"Fine. All external indicators seem to suggest—"

"Let's put it this way. In order to keep from admitting that you care, there are several dozen schools of thought that allow you to erect mental barriers to the question. The more you reinforce these, the less you have to think about it; it becomes automatic. So you can pretend you don't care, when maybe you haven't really thought about it at all."

"Fine," he said again. "They don't care enough to care. Is that an okay way of putting it?"

I passed the ball from hand to hand, slowly nodding, but chewing my bottom lip. "But it's not like they develop these reactions on their own."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. Do you think the average Joe on the street would be against helping the homeless if he were the only one deciding it? What good would that do him?"

"He'd be saving tax dollars."

I chucked the ball at him. "His taxes aren't going to the homeless," I said.

"Some of them are," he said, catching it.

"Yeah, but how many more are going to the fucking pigs and the corporations and jails and crooked politicians?"

"So, what? The big bad fat cats are forcing Joe Average to hate the homeless?" He tossed the ball back at me.

"Not forcing," I said. "But the Rockefellers can hire lobbyists. They can woo pundits to speak in their interests. Suddenly the richest two percent becomes the Voice of Reason." I threw the ball back. "And the Voice of Reason says the homeless are lazy bums who don't want to work."

"Who does want to work?" he asked glumly.

"You know what I mean. And the people you work with all listen to the Vopice of Reason. They want to think they're enlightened folks. But show them a viewpoint that doesn't agree with the status quo and they stonewall. Right?" He nodded. "And it works great," I went on. "Not only because it gets the middle class to repeat what the rich say, but because they actually start to believe it. And that keeps the people on the bottom fighting with each other."

"So I should be mad at the fatcats."

"I'm not gonna tell you who to be mad at."

"Oh come on. Just once."

I smiled and shook my head. "But it seems to me like your co-workers are just miseducated."

"So what am I supposed to do? You said it yourself — they won't read anything that isn't Time or Newsweek."

I shrugged as he tossed me the ball. "You got me there," I said. "Maybe they're a lost cause."

"Thus my getting mad at them," he said, sinking back on the couch.

Unconsciously, I began tapping on my knees. I didn't know it, but it was an old Run-DMC beat scheme. "You can't get mad at people just because they're stupid," I said.

"Why not?" he asked. "There are lots of ways to avoid it. It doesn't take much to get un-stupid."

I shrugged. "For you and me, maybe. We come from middle class backgrounds. We're encouraged to think a little. But for a lot of people — most people — they're locked into this mindset of consume, consume. They're not asked to think for themselves. Just accept whatever ideology comes down the pike. And reject other ways of thinking."

He sighed, slapped the ball. "That doesn't excuse them from being responsible for being asleep, you know."

"I know," I said. "I guess I'm just caught up in the big picture."

He nodded. "And I'm caught up in the small picture."

There was a pause; he tossed the ball against the wall behind him. I glanced around.

"So what's Jen up to?" I asked. "That guy still givin' her shit?" He and Jen had been together for almost two years. She was nice; kinda quiet. I'd always liked her because she was unassuming. I'm more or less used to white girls being nervous around me, even when their white friends introduce us. But Jen didn't even bat an eyelash. I think James was more uptight when we met than she was. So Jen had points with me. And she looked good, too.

Her previous boyfriend was an asshole. His name was Mike; a total fuckup white trash piece of shit. I still don't know how they got together in the first place. Whatever it was, it only took her three months to realize he was no good for her. But when she tried to leave, he wasn't having it. She tried to ignore him, but it got ugly a couple of times; he hit her more than once. I never knew why, but she refused to go to the cops. That pissed James off. I always thought they could have helped, but I've not got much love for the police myself, so I didn't blame her.

Things were quiet for a while, but then she realized he'd been luriking around in the parking lot across the street from her house. She more or less moved in with James after that.

He nodded. "We've gotten some strange phone calls lately. She's pretty freaked." The previous month Mike had dragged her into an alleyway near the Taco Bell and smacked her a few times.

I shook my head slightly. "That shit is so fucked up," I said. "Sounds like somebody needs to take to his shins with a baseball bat."

He sighed. "Man, I've thought about it."

I paused. "What, really?"

He nodded, not looking at me. He did that when he thought I was judging him. He was balancing the ball on the tips of his fingers. He had a blank stare.

I shook my head again. "I dunno, J. That's setting off a whole new path. I'm not sure you want to go down there."

He mouth was closed, but I could tell he was gritting his teeth. "He's the one setting it off," he said. "You know?" "You still have a choice," I said. "I have a cousin who lives in Oakland. Out there, it's not a choice about whether you do it or not. If you don't, they're gonna get you first. If they catch you slippin', you're gone. It really is a do or die situation."

He caught the ball with one hand. "Isn't this sort of the same thing?" he asked.

"No," I said. I liked James — we were tight in school. I was there for him after the sophomore year shit and he was there for me after my mom died. But he'd always been more than a little na•ve. He had difficulty visualizing life outside his cozy upscale sphere of existence, and that sometimes made things weird for us. My parents were lucky to be part of the new black middle class, but they had worked their guts out to get us there. And we knew it wasn't guaranteed that we'd stay there. In any case, I knew our position in the American power structure, and I had no delusions about my connections to my boys on the street. James, while he had sympathy for the poor of the country, didn't seem to understand them very well. I assume it had a lot to do with his upbringing; comfortable, well loved, more or less had everything handed to him. Now he was trying to get to know the world, but it was taking time. The good part was that it seemed like he was coming out of it. The bad part was that it frustrated the hell out of him. He was getting frustrated now.

"Why not?" he asked.

I sighed, trying to be patient but knowing I wasn't doing so well. "Because you and Jen still have a choice. Only an idiot would use violence when he doesn't have to. You can settle this without going down to that level."

"How?" He was almost off the sofa.

"I don't know, man. But it's not like he's pointing a nine at you. It's not as bad as that."

Nate walked in, holding a lit joint, wearing an old t-shirt that had at one point been white, but which had been coated over the years with numerous layers of paint, to the point where it now seemed almost tie-dyed. Nate had a habit of entering at the most tense moment in a conversation; part of mealways got mad, and part of me gave thanks for the distraction. I could never tell if he did it on purpose or not. He walked silently across the room and handed me the joint. As I took it, Nate wiped his hands on the bottom of his shirt.

"You talking about Mike?" Nate asked. That was another thing about him — he always knew what you were talking about. I remember once I came in the house with Jen and James, in mid-sentence as I walked in the door, and Nate knew exactly what we were talking about. I had this image in my head of Nate, forever on the other side of the wall from me, listening silently. He was a great roommate for the most part, but it could be weird to think that he was listening to you all the time. He never used anything I said against me, and he didn't seem like the nosy type. He just always knew what was going on. I nodded to him, offering the spliff to James. He waved it away.

Nate cleared his throat. "My man Craig said he was the one who robbed the Shell station last week," he said.

"Didn't someone get shot during that?" James asked. Nate nodded.

"The clerk took a slug in his shoulder."

"See?" I said. "There's another thing. There's a good chance this guy will get himself arrested or killed or fucked up somehow on his own. I'm sure you're not his only enemy." As I let the smoke out, I started coughing. It had been a while. Nate took the joint and smoked. "Man, I would never get shot for a fucking gas station job," I said.

"What makes you think he had a choice?" James asked.

Nate exhaled smoothly, sending a thin cloud of blue smoke over the room. The ceiling fan lazily spread it around. "Shit," he said. "If I was working at a gas station and someone tried to rob me, I'd be like, 'Take what you want, man.'"

"Then your boss might think you were in on it," James said. 'You'd probably get fired."

Nate chuckled. "Better than getting shot," he said.

James nodded. "I suppose so."

There followed a long, almost slow-motion pause where Nate and I passed the joint back and forth. James sat with his head against the wall, eyes shut. It wasn't hard to guess where his mind was. I could always tell when he was really tense, and this was one of those times.

James had been tense for weeks. I knew it wasn't just one thing, but everything put together — the shit with Mike, not liking his job, occasional trouble with his folks. But there was something else. Waking up to the cruelties of the system was overwhelming him. The more he found out, the angrier he got. And he got mad at those around him. I remember one time he jumped down my throat for not volunteering at a homeless shelter.

"I can't fix everything myself," I told him, even though I could have pointed out that he wasn't doing better than I was. He hadn't volunteered at any shelter his damn self, but I chalked it up to being an understanding friend, letting his get it out of his system. "You have to pick your fights." He wasn't satisfied.

A lot of the time I felt like I put up with James. He was a good friend, and we'd been through a lot. But he just couldn't relate to where I was coming from. I'd never invited him home, even though he's asked me to come home with him once. I declined. I was glad to be his friend, but there seemed to be so much he didn't understand. I couldn't just give him a music CD to listen to, or a book to read — he needed something more visceral. I always thought he would find it. And when he did, we'd be able to move out friendship to a higher level.

His biggest problem was channelling his rage into useful activities. He read books about battered women, violent atrocities in Latin America, police brutality in New York, take your pick. But he rarely followed it up with concrete action. I could tell he felt powerless to do anything.

Once or twice I blamed myself for not being there with things for him to do — for not saying, "Well, come on down to the Black Student Union" — where I spent a lot of my free time — "I'm sure you can find something to do about that." Or hooking him up with an abused women shelter. Ultimately, though, it seemed as though he needed to control his frustration first. As angry as he was much of the time, he wouldn't have been much help to anyone.

I was never the best person to have around when you're angry or upset, but I think James appreciated the fact that I didn't let his hostility alter my behavior. A lot of our friendship, in fact, was based upon just being there — not offering advice (unless asked for it), not walking on eggshells, not passing judgment. Just listening, talking, and sometimes just shutting the fuck up.

The doorbell rang. Nate had ended up in the recliner next to the couch, with a tiny nub of a roach in his right hand. We all sort of glanced around, and I made a vague motion to Nate to get rid of it. He dropped it in a mostly-empty bottle of orange juice and I went to the door.

I looked through the eyehole and spun around. "Oh shit," I said to Nate. "It's Yvette."

He looked confused. "Yvette?"

"From AJ's party."

He realized and leapt to his feet. "Hold on," he said as I undid the deadbolt. He ran into his room. "Lemme change my shirt." I slid the chain off. "Hold on. Hold on!" I opened the door. She walked in.

"Hey, Susan," James said.

Nate walked slowly back into the main room, holding his hairbrush.

"Hiya Nate," Susan said. He turned and threw the brush at me.

"Fuck you," he said, smiling. We both laughed, and even James had to fight a grin.

I've never known what to think about Susan. She's been involved in a lot of stuff at school, helped to organize events and stuff, but socially, she's always seemed kinda stand-offish. I can't tell if it's just general unease around people she doesn't know well, or part of those impenetrable barriers of race and class. Sometimes it seems like she's about to break in two when she's around me. Still, she and James have been good friends for years, so I got no beef with her. I just wish she weren't so nervous around me.

"Good news," she said, sitting uneasily on the arm of the sofa next to James. "Geromino's confirmed."

"Really?" I asked, sitting up. "Allright."

She nodded, smiling. "I just talked to Rob. He'll be here on November ninth."

James looked up at her. "Who will?"

I smiled. "Geronimo Pratt, man. He was part of the Black Panther Party. Spent twenty years in jail."

"For some shit even the FBI said he didn't do," Nate cut in. "Damn. Rob's my boy."

"Yeah, he's doing a great job," Susan said. Rob was the head of the BSU this semester. We all had our doubts at first, since he always seemed so reserved and introverted, but when he got the position, something happened. He'd been organizing like a madman all semester.

Although Nate was the only one in the group still in school, we all still had connections to the campus. I went to the BSU a lot, James and Jen still did political stuff, and Susan was involved with the campus chapter of NOW. We didn't always see eye-to-eye on the things that mattered most, but we were able to keep things cool when we got together. I never felt any animosity toward any of them.

Susan glanced at James. "What's goin' on?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Nothin'."

"Close to the edge," James said.

"Don't push him," Nate said.

"C'mon," Susan said, kicking him lightly. "Don't lose your head. We still hangin' out?" He nodded, and she looked at me. "You guys got plans?"

I nodded. "I'm goin' over to the library."

Nate gestured to his room. "Paintin'," he said.

She stood up and offered a hand to James. He took it and she lifted him up. She was good at that. Good, I thought. Maybe she can get him to ease up on stuff. "Where're we goin'?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I got nowhere to go," he said. He tossed the volleyball to me.

"What's Jen up to?" she asked. He shook his head.

"I don't know. I haven't heard from her all day. I left a message on her machine a while ago. She's probably with her sister."

She scratched at his shoulder. "You look tense," she said.

He nodded. "Feelin' angry," he said.

"At what?"

"Everything," he sighed. "Everyone."

She nodded. "C'mon," she said. "Let's go to the mall. There's no anger at the mall." James grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa, said goodbye to us, and they left.

Chapter Four: Tony

James and I have lived together ever since our senior year in college. I was sub-letting a room over the summer, and planned to move out in the fall. But things got shuffled around, and I wound up just staying put. James moved in when the other folks there moved out, and we started our search for an occupant for the third bedroom. We ended up with Don.

Don was one of those friend-of-a-coworker deals. James knew a guy at work who knew someone who needed a place to live. We didn't know that much about him when he moved in, other than that he was really into ROTC. And that's about all we knew about him when he moved out. He decorated his room with posters of cars and bikini babes, and didn't own very many books. He seemed to have a different girlfriend every week, and none of them made him happy. He seemed pretty unhappy in general. Unhappy and introverted. Well, introverted toward us. I always got the sense that he was totally outgoing around his ROTC friends. Mostly we stayed out of his way. He spent most of his free time at other friends' places.

James and I didn't have much in common, either, but for some reason we hit it off better. He was just more easygoing. He majored in religion, something I'd never cared much about, and after four years he had no idea what he was going to do. Fortunately, he'd also picked up some computing skills along the way and found a job doing that after graduation.

I'd gone the economics route, since I figured once I was on top of my finances, the rest would take care of itself. That sorta worked out, but only sorta. When I graduated I got a job at an investment firm, which I didn't really care for. But it paid okay.

Like I said, James and I weren't ham 'n' eggs, but we found some good discussions on occasion. I think more than anything, he saw me as an independent party. He talked about the incident his sophomore year a lot. I told him I couldn't condone what he did, but that I didn't think he'd burn in hell for it either.

Living with James was easy. His room was a holy mess, but he took care of his shit in the main part of the house. Don was exactly the opposite. If the trash was piled up, you knew it was his fault, but you could eat off the floor in his room. He also liked really awful music.

After we graduated, James and I figured that since we were both going to be in town, we'd find a place. We got an apartment roughly the same distance from our jobs. It worked out real well.

James met Jen our senior year at a political group that met on campus. It was a group where he would go and write letters about torture or something like that. I've never been too into political stuff. But they hit it off real well and started going out on a regular basis. Not that it was a necessity for their relationship, but she and I got along pretty well (it made things easier when shit with Mike got heavy). She always seemed kinda awkward around me, but I suppose there's always a gulf between the girlfriend and the boyfriend's roommate. After a series of (very) short-lived romances of my own, I have to admit that I was jealous of him for a while, and even put some thought into trying to woo her away from him. But I could tell they made each other happy, and that would be a really fucked up thing to do. Besides, they had Mike to deal with.

I never really got the whole story on Mike, but judging from the ramblings I heard from the guy himself, along with the snippets of conversation from Jen and James, I always assumed he was an ex with a jealous attitude. He was a total asshole.

For a while, I just kept out of it — partly because I didn't want to intrude (I've got a fear of that), and partly because I just didn't want to get involved. But when Mike started calling at four and five AM, shining lights in our windows and shit, I started to get pissed.

It sort of came and went, as if Mike's interest in the matter got stronger and weaker at random. But as time went on, I began to think of it in terms of: attack, retreat, regroup, attack. There was enough quiet time in between the incidents so that I would relax a little, and even think, "Maybe he'll just leave her alone now." Then he'd show up again, usually more angry than before. The quiet time had calmed our nerves, so his appearance would startle us even more. Eventually I realized that if it was fucking my head up like that, Jen must have been seeing stars. James was tense, too, and I could tell that his inability to change the situation hurt more than anything. While we were in college, he had always been lighthearted; cracking jokes, trying to put a funny spin on everything. He didn't do that very much these days.

She moved in with us when she found out he was stalking her. He was hanging out in the parking lot across the street, James said, and talking to her neighbors and shit. She got really freaked. For a couple of days she didn't leave the house. She almost got fired from her job (she worked at the newspaper).

On a Thursday night after a particularly long stretch of quiet time, I was lying on the couch, watching TV. Actually, I did this on a number of Thursday nights, since had Fridays off and practically no social life. I had smoked a little pot (another Thursday night tradition), and was for some reason drawn in by an old episode of The Love Boat. It was about halfway over when Jen and James came in.

"Hi, Tony," Jen said with a smile. She was always in a better mood when Mike was leaving her alone. It made me wonder what she'd be like if she'd never met him. I nodded and smiled back.

"Whassup, T?" James asked, securing the deadbolt and sliding the chain into place.

"Not much," I replied. "Just hangin' out with Isaac and the captain."

They sat on the love seat, she put her feet on the coffee table. She always did that. I noticed she was wearing his jacket. "Good episode?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Not really," I said. "There's some big family that hates each other, and some old couple who's having marriage trouble."

She laughed. "There's always an old couple with marriage trouble," she said. "And they go on the Love Boat and realize how much they love each other."

"That's what the Love Boat is for," I said.

She pointed her finger into her mouth. "Ick."

I looked at James. "How was the movie?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Wesley Snipes was good."

I nodded. "Wesley Snipes is always good."

"There was a cool plane crash," Jen said.

"Cool," I said. A commercial came on. "If nobody minds, I'm gonna change this." They nodded their assent. I clicked through the channels.

Infomercial … Religious program … Home shopping … Talk show … Black and white movie … CNN business report … Mary Tyler Moore Show … Bad video on MTV … Nature show … Talk show … Local news … Police drama …

Jen sat up. "Go back," she said. I flipped back to the local news. Lloyd Thompson, the obnoxious local news anchor, was reading into the camera as a small picture of a young black woman appeared in a box to his left.

"—still have no suspects in the alleged abduction and sexual assault of a New York high school student." Cut to footage of the student talking, with the words "Tasha Brown" at bottom. "Seventeen-year-old Tasha Brown claims she was dragged into a car by three or four white males on Tuesday. Brown alleges she was beaten and raped after being driven to a secluded spot north of the city. Police, however, have no leads, and some investigators claim there are problems with the girl's accusations.

"No witnesses have come forth to verify Brown's story, and one neighbor claims she saw Brown go into her house around the time of the alleged abduction. Police say they are having a hard time verifying Brown's story. Although she claims not to remember any of her abductors clearly, Brown says they were repeating racist slogans as they assaulted her. While reaction to the case has increased racial tensions, police say it's too early to call a judgment on Brown's allegations."

"What kind of reporting is that?" Jen barked as they went to a commercial. I looked at her. "There's no evidence either supporting her story or refuting it, but they write it off like she must be lying. But when Susan Smith says she was jacked by a black man, everyone believed her instantly. Middle America can't bear the thought that this type of shit is still happening, so it castigates anyone who's victimized by it as a liar! What the fuck!?" She fell back against the sofa.

James was nodding. "Yeah, it seems pretty early to say that there are problems with her accusation," he said. "That just casts doubt on her motives."

"You know if it were a white girl who got raped, there'd be twenty black men in prison right now," Jen said.

She looked at James. "Did you see the piece that ran in yesterday's paper? The one that quoted the guy from homicide as saying that there was little or no chance that the case would come to court? What kind of crap is that? We just run any kinda shit that comes over the wire. Who quotes homicide on a rape case?"

I didn't say anything. While I agreed that the police were premature in what they said, I also saw it from a legalistic standpoint, and if there was no evidence, there was no evidence, period. But to keep from pissing them off, I just turned it back to the Love Boat. We watched the rest of the episode.

As the final string of commercials came on, there was an abrasive knock at the door. Jen and James looked at each other.

He stood up. "Why don't you go into my room?" he asked her. He seemed to indicate me as well. Jen walked into the kitchen. She peered through the blinds into the parking lot and exhaled. "Shit," she said.

James was getting tense. "Go in my room," he said again. Jen ran a hand through her hair.

"Just open it," she said.

"Why?" I asked.

She waved at me. "Sometimes he'll fuck off if you talk to him," James said. With the chain still fastened, he undid the deadbolt and cracked the door.

"Lemme in," Mike's voice boomed.

"No," James said.

"Look," Mike said, grasping the door and trying to force it inward. James had his foot against the base, so it didn't budge much. "I just wanna fuckin' talk to Jen."

"She doesn't want to talk to you," James said. Mike pressed his head against the door.

"Jen!" he cried. She was still in the kitchen, staring at the floor. With white knuckles she gripped the countertop behind her.

"Mike, you've got to stop this," James said. "You're not helping yourself, and you're driving us all nuts. How far is this gonna go? Do you want us to get the cops involved?"

"Hey," Mike snapped. "I got a pal that's on the patrol force, you fuck-up. D'you want me to go get him?"

"No," James said. "I don't want you to go get him. Just go away."

"Lemme talk to Jen. I have to ask her something."

"What do you want to ask her?"

I could hear her sniffing.

"I have to see if she wants this gift I got for her."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Jen screamed suddenly, her voice cracking. She ran into the main room, behind James but close enough to see Mike. "Fuck off!" she yelled. "You are a fucking piece of shit! I hate you! Go fuck yourself!"

Mike's face was pressed up to the door. "Aw, c'mon," he said. "Jenny baby, gimme another chance. Things can be like they were before."

"Like what was before?"she screamed. "So you can hit me around some more? you wanna give me another black eye? Take more of my money? You wanna threaten more of my friends? Fuck off!" She lunged at the door and tried to close it, but Mike forced his foot in the way and stopped it.

"C'mon," he said. "It doesn't have to be like that."

"You're right," she said, wiping her eyes. "It's not gonna be like that. Because you're never gonna get near me again. I fucking promise you." And with that, she stepped forward and spat in his face.

Mike gave a little scream and stepped back. James slammed the door and locked the deadbolt. There was more shouting and Mike pounded on the door. Then we heard him go down the stairs. Together, we ran to the kitchen window.

"Christ," she said. "He's got a rock." He was running toward her car.

James ran for the door. "Keep this locked," he said as he opened it and went outside.

"James, don't," she cried, but he was gone. We stood at the doorway and watched James leap the last half-dozen steps. He called Mike's name and then ducked as Mike threw the rock at him. They locked into a fighting grip and Mike got some punches in on James' chest. James backed him into a little red sportscar, the alarm on which went off immediately. A number of people had gone to their windows by this time anyway, and the alarm brought even more spectators.

The owner of the car, a big guy who lived directly across the lot from us, came barrelling out of his apartment and tried to break up the fight. I slid past Jen and ran downstairs to help him. She was gripping the handrail of the staircase with one hand, her other in the right jacket pocket.

Once we got Mike off of James, he paused to look around at all the people watching him. he wiped his face on his sleeve, then got on his motorcycle and started it up. His gaze fixed solidly on James, he backed up and turned to go. Then he looked up at Jen and shook his head. With a roar of his motor, he sped out of the parking lot. The guy who owned the sportscar set about turning the alarm off.

"You okay?" I asked James as we headed back upstairs. He nodded but took the stairs slowly. Jen hugged him when he got to the top. She was crying. I couldn't be sure, but I think he was too.

As we went back inside, Jen said, "I think I'm gonna go over to Beth's." Beth was Jen's sister.

James sighed. "He's not gonna come back here tonight," he said.

"He might." She zipped up the jacket. "I'll bring this back before I go to work tomorrow."

"Too many people were watching," he protested. "You'll be fine here."

She looked at his feet. "I'd just feel safer," she said. "I'm sorry, James." Her hands were in the jacket pockets. There was a long, tense, silence. I went into the kitchen for some water.

"Do you want me to drive you?" James asked as she grabbed her backpack. She shook her head.

"I'll be okay."

"I'll walk you to your car."

She touched his chest. "I'll be okay," she said again. Quickly, he went to the door and yanked it open. She stepped outside and he followed, slamming it shut. From the kitchen, I saw her kiss his cheek, then get into her car and drive off.

He slammed the door as he came back inside. Without speaking, he went into his room and locked the door.

Chapter Five: Jen

I expected to have a lot of fun in college.

I came from a solid middle-class family, and it was always assumed I would go to school. My sister had, and I didn't have a good reason not to. I even figured I'd go to the same school as her. I never put much thought into it myself; it was just part of the cycle. Elementary school, middle school, high school, college. After that, who knew? Start a career, more school? That was all part of the After College Experience. In the meantime, I got ready for the most fun I could possibly pack into four years.

At first, it was all about the sorority. All my girlfriends in high school pledged, so I figured I might as well do the same. I was accepted by Sigma Delta Epsilon, and for some reason that seemed special. There was absolutely no difference between one sorority and the other; there never was. But the Sig Delts carried some sort of social blessing, and so when I got accepted - along with my friends Rachel and Beth from home (nearly a third of our graduating class went to the same college) — it seemed like things were progressing perfectly.

I can't tell you very much of my academics that first year. Part of that is because it was mostly introductory stuff: getting math requirements out of the way and whatnot. But part of it is because I obscured much of what I learned with heavy drinking and pretending to care about sports. It would be a lie to say that our lives as Sig Delts revolved entirely around guys, but they occupied a substantial amount of our attention. In order to 'do your thing,' as a number of the sisters called it, you had to fit into the guys' world. And that world consisted of sports, cars, loud music, drinking, and sex. Not too much else.

From the outside, the guys we cavorted with were the pillars of the community; most of them were in fraternities, and those frats composed the majority of civic life on campus. Student government was filled with fraternity brothers; the sports teams tended to attract the same men as the frats; even the administrators tended to have soft spots for the fraternal houses of which many of them were lifetime members. Once a brother, always a brother. That was how it worked. I remember reading an article about the negative pallor that had been cast on frat houses by the movie "Animal House," and how unfair that was considering the high public positions many fraternity members held.

But the frats worked in ways less socially palatable, too. The president of the Alumni Association would ebulliently reminisce about his days as a Beta Kappa, but seemed conspicuously quiet the day after a member of that house, drunk beyond consciousness, drowned in his own vomit during a Homecoming party. The hazing rituals also seemed to inspire silence from administration officials and mutterings of "boys will be boys" from politce society, despite their barbarity and relentlessly cruel nature.

I knew most of this when I first got involved in the whole greek scene. What I didn't know is how my position as a woman would impact me so dramatically.

It was worse in college than in high school, of course. But most of the time, at least at first, I just chalked it up to the idea that, well, everything was more intense in college. We were away from our parents, we had our own cars, we knew people who could get us booze — it was perfect. Only it wasn't.

It hit me all at once, during a party on a Saturday night like any other. I don't remember what it was that made me think about it; truth be told, I wasn't in much of a condition to think about much of anything. We were at the Delta Phi house. We'd smoked some pot and I'd been downing my share of beer from the keg all night, and the night was passing into that phase where your friends start trailing off, sometimes with people you knew, sometimes with people you didn't know, but never alone.

I was talking to Jason and Kyle, two guys I'd met the week before, and somehow I became really aware that they were almost drooling down my shirt. I was wearing some short jean shorts and a tight t-shirt, as I usually did on weekends when partying was on the agenda. I wasn't getting any attention that I didn't usually get on a Saturday night. But for some reason I got completely weirded out by the whole situation. Suddenly Jason and Kyle were the most repulsive creatures on the planet and I needed desperately to escape the situation. Only I was in no condition to drive. As I looked around the room, I realized that every single person was either bombed solid or groping one another. I started to get scared. I remember I started crying, and Jason asked me what was wrong. I don't think I answered him. I went out to the front porch and ran into three girls smoking cigarettes. I didn't recognize them, but I asked one of them for a smoke. She happily agreed and lit it. She seemed too drunk and engrossed in her conversation with the other two to be concerned for my anxiety, but I think she at least registered it. Neither Jason nor Kyle followed me out. After I finished the cigarette, I got in my car and drove home. Rachel had come to the party with me, but I'd seen her go upstairs with a guy an hour or so before. I later heard that a freshman girl got raped at that party.

After that the little things started eating away at me. The guys at one frat house always had the big screen TV in the den tuned into the Playboy Channel. The music they listened to was really crude a lot of the time, and it wasn't even good music. Just bitch this and ho that and a lot of stupid sexual crap. But if you mentioned it, you could get ostracized from the group. Once or twice we talked about it at the Sig Delt house, but it never got very deep.

And of course we girls were mere conquests in the eyes of the frat boys. When I was in high school a group of boys in California calling themselves the Spur Posse made national news because they kept a running score of the chicks they'd bagged, and there were rumors that they had pressured girls to sleep with them. In college, that became a way of life for us. Finding a boyfriend meant finding a guy who had tired of the sleeping around and wanted to stick with one girl for a while. Most of the guys we eyed for that were juniors or seniors.

After my freshman year, I just got sick of it all. The drinking got boring, the music got more aggravating, and the boys grew less interesting. At the same time, I became more engrossed in what I was studying — literature. I started feeling a connection with the characters in books and realized I was spending so much time doing things that seemed to have no point. Looking back on it now, the moment when I asked "Why?" was the turning point for me.

I spent my first summer at school in near total isolation. I dropped out of the Sig Delts and though I wanted desperately to explain myself to Rachel and Beth (along with other friends in other houses who wondered the same things), I didn't think they would understand. So I got a job at the library, didn't go out much, and read all the time.

The more I dwelled on it, the angrier I got. It seemed like the only two options open to me were the airheaded sex object of the sorority house or the humorless (and ugly) feminists that were always protesting outside the beauty contests. What I didn't know, of course, was that <a> there were countless others at school who felt like me, alone and confused by it all and <b> most of the feminists that were always protesting actually cared about me and had a sense of humor. And whose ugliness was only misinterpreted rage.

All of this is not to say I dropped out of the popular life altogether. I would still make occasional appearances at parties and football games. But I was a lot quieter and less likely to play the boys' games. And everyone noticed it. This lead me to retreat further, my logic being that if I was going to be looked down upon for not playing along all the way, I might as well not bother at all. I noticed I wasn't spending as much on beer as I used to.

For the next two years, I slowly began to redevelop my circle of friends. This included Rachel and Beth and a number of others from the greek circuit, but most of whom had mellowed out on sororityhood as a prerequisite for friendship. There was still a sort of unspoken ethos in our group that landing a man was Priority One, and I thought I was fooling myself when I pretended I wasn't interested. Then I met Mike.

To this day, I can't satisfactorily explain what drew me to him. As an educated and enlightened lover of Kate Chopin, Toni Morrisson, Virginia Woolf, Emily Dickinson, and countless other strong, righteous women — whom I spent most of my time studying fastidiously — I felt silly admitting to myself that I was turned on by his motorcycle and chiseled jaw. But they were powerful. He wasn't crude like a lot of the guys; he seemed to have a certain dignity to him. For once in my life, someone actually seemed to be courting me, instead of trying to land me in the sack. Whatever it was, it worked. I fell for him like load of bricks.

Which is what it felt like soon after. The first time I noticed it was when he took some money from my wallet. It wasn't much, just a few dollars, but it creeped me out all the same. Of course, that wasn't until we'd been going out for about a month and I'd put some trust in him. But playing the sucker, I acted like it hadn't happened. But it got worse. He started asking where I was going all the time and disapproved of my hanging out with friends. He was rude to Rachel, my roommate at the time, and always made a mess when he came over. Suddenly his habits that before seemed cute and childishly endearing were just plain frustrating. He'd storm off in the middle of a conversation and go get drunk. He drank a lot, I began to realize.

After about three months, I'd had enough. But when I tried to break up with him, he grew quiet at first, then the anger bubbled out of him like sewer water coming up through the grate. He demanded that I reconsider and it took all my reserves of strength to refuse. We were at his apartment at the time, and, breathing heavily through clenched teeth, he said I should leave before he lost his temper. I told him to call me.

And call me he did. At least three times a day. Never to discuss anything, he only pleaded and ordered me to go back to him. He came by to see me, but after the first few times I asked him not to do that anymore. He grudgingly obliged, but the calls increased in frequency. The whole thing made me nervous, but I didn't really get scared until he hit me.

This happened outside the supermarket one day, when I was coming out and saw his motorcycle parked in front of a bar across the way. Uninterested in running into him, I hurried to my car, but he came out of nowhere and stepped right in front of me. I nearly dropped my groceries as I impatiently asked what he wanted. Drunk, he muttered something about loving me and almost dragged me off to his bike. I protested and he gripped my wrist tightly.

"That's it," I said angrily. "If you don't go away and leave me alone, I'm calling the police."

He looked stunned for a second, then slapped me on the cheek. I remember looking around to see if anyone had seen us, but as we were around the side of the building, there was no one in sight. I felt the stinging spot and glared at him.

"You need to calm down," he said. "Don't make me do that again."

I started to sweat, wondering what he would do next. Did he want to really hurt me? What would he do if we went somewhere together? I remember briefly wondering if things wouldn't be less stressful if I did go back to him. He said some things about my not listening, and I apologized quietly. My breathing shallow, I promised to call him that night if he went home and sobered up first. He agreed, and I drove home quickly, my mind spinning with what I could possibly say to him.

The call went badly, as I knew it would, and things went downhill from there. In the weeks that followed, he began to turn up outside of classes, hanging out around Beth's house (she had an awesome little place in the student ghetto), calling me at work. Once he came by the apartment at four AM, totally drunk and demanding for me to take him back. As his tactics got more extreme, I was worried that he might try to get to my sister. But she hadn't said anything. On the other hand, if he did bug her, she might have kept it to herself to keep me from worrying.

I never called the police, although Rachel was ready to call them more than once. I guess a lot of it had to do with my insecurity, not wanting to make things worse, as it seemed such an action surely would. I'd heard over and over that until he'd actually done something, the police couldn't do much, and so long as he kept his hands off me, I figured I could handle the situation. I knew it was taking its toll on Rachel and my other friends, but getting the police involved just seemed like it would aggravate things. Besides, the problem seemed to ebb and flow; he would call and come by for a few days, then back off for a while. Sometimes it seemed like he might just give up altogether.

As I made my way through my senior year, I met James. We were both in the Amnesty International group on campus, and he struck me as a solidly nice guy. No big pretentions, no soaring ego, no boorish attitude. Of course, no startling intellect, no daring thrillseeking, no lustful sexual attention either. But after Mike's shenanigans, I was ready for a little dullness in my love life. As time went on, I began to realize that James and men like him suffered from the same alienation as I did. If a guy weren't greek, according to the campus culture, he was viewed like the women protesting outside beauty contests: bitter about not being in the club. But James convinced me that there were some men who were trying to fight the obnoxious male standard.

James and I got along right away. He had a passion for the things that interested him that really drew my attention. So many people around me settled for mild interest in their work — or, if they found nothing interesting to work on, those activities which were least distasteful. But James threw himself into religion, which fascinated him. It intrigued me, and we had a lot of good talks about god and books.

Working with Amnesty was part of a general political development I went through at about that time. I started reading some feminist writers, and liked what I read. I was able to reflect on my greek period and realized how ingrained the whole code was in my identity. It was simply what you did, and the process started much earlier than freshman year of college. Easily ten years earlier. So I was getting more into the political community. I went to some speakers, signed some petitions; nothing radical. I wasn't ready to dive headfirst into the radical waters of the local leftist clique, but it seemed a definite improvement over the sorority/fraternity oblivion I had known for so long.

James had never been into the greek scene, but he was also just getting into his political activities. He joined Amnesty by invitation of his Buddhism teacher, who was our faculty sponsor. He was a really cool professor named Dr. Amberly, and he was really into the cause of Tibetan freedom. About a year before I joined, he helped bring some Tibetan monks to campus to talk about the situation there. If only I'd been awake enough to appreciate it.

James didn't know how to handle Mike. He had known people like Mike before, but he had always been lucky enough to escape quickly. It was different for guys; girls just have it tougher when someone wants to fuck with us. Anyway, I figured James might be able to help me deal with Mike. Part of me thought that Mike might back off when he saw I had a new man. But just the opposite happened; it got worse. We ran into Mike one night while we were out, and Mike started trying to talk with me, even though James put himself between us. He would call James' apartment occasionally, and left a few weird messages on his machine. I'm sure it was mostly jealousy, but Mike would never admit as much. Of course, he took this out on me, not James. He saw James as an obstacle, but not much of an obstacle. He figured he could get past James.

At the end of the summer after graduation, about a month after I landed a job at the local newspaper, I was leaving my house in the morning to go to work. It had been a while since I'd heard from Mike, and felt pretty good in general. But as I got to my car, I noticed a man sitting in a car across the street. I'd never seen the car before, and because it was far away, I couldn't see the man too clearly. But something told me it was Mike. My head filled instantly with all sorts of questions: How long had he been there? Where did he get that car? Was this the first visit he'd made? Was he waiting for me to come out of the house? Would he follow me? What should I do? Was he drunk? On drugs? Armed? Angry? I tried to pretend that I didn't notice, but drove off as fast as I could. He didn't follow me, thank god, and I was able to put it out of my mind.

When I did think about it, I second-guessed me original assumptions. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe he was just visiting someone nearby. Maybe he had a new girlfriend or something and was waiting for her. Maybe it was someone else. Sure, it had to have been someone else. That evening, when James and I got back from dinner, the car was gone. Relieved, I kissed James goodnight and went upstairs to my apartment. But before I got to the door, my neighbor, a junior named Angela, came out of her apartment. We stood in the yellow light of the alcove, a cigarette in her hand, my keys in mine.

"Hey Jen," she said. "Do you know a guy with kinda greasy black hair, sorta tall?" She held a hand above her forehead to indicate the man's height. She was describing Mike. Slowly, I nodded.

"Why?" I knew I was acting weird, but either I didn't care or I couldn't help it.

"He came knocking on my door this morning, early." She dragged the cigarette and ashed in the corner.

My throat was getting dry. "What did he want?"

She shrugged. "Not much, really. He said he knocked but you weren't home. He said he needed to see you."

"What did you tell him?"

"Well, I said I didn't know you that well. Then he asked what time you usually left for work and when you got home and stuff like that. He seemed kinda tense."

I was shaking. I tried to swallow, but couldn't. I wished James hadn't gone home. "Anything else?" I asked.

She shook her head.

I nodded. "Okay," I said. "Thanks for telling me. I really appreciate it. If he comes knocking again, tell him you don't know anything, or better yet, don't even open the door. Call the cops if you have to. I don't think he'll bug you again, but if he does, call the cops." I fumbled with the keys.

"What's he want?" she asked with a sneer. I wanted to break down and tell her everything. The way she asked the question told me she might understand. Maybe she'd been through something similar. I wanted to explain the phone calls and the slap and the guy in the car this morning. But I just shook my head.

"He's an asshole," I said. "I don't know what he wants."

"Why don't you call the cops?" she asked.

"Because I used to go out with him," I said.

She nodded. "And the cops wouldn't give a rat's ass about it," she said.

My eyes were getting wet. "Thanks again," I said as I hurried inside. I locked the door and cried. I crawled onto the couch and cried until I fell asleep.

The next morning, the car was there again. Immediately, I raced to my car, got in, and locked it. I started it up and thought I head another car starting. I hit reverse and sped out of my parking lot. I looked in the rearview to see if anyone was following me, but no one was. Still, I raced down the street and onto the connecting street, a main avenue in town. I followed it up to near where James lived. I knew he was probably at work, but I remembered his roommate Tony had the day off. I arrived at their apartment complex and parked in a visitor spot. I looked around anxiously to see if anyone saw me. There was no one in sight. But I ran up the stairs anyway and pounded on the door. Sure enough, Tony opened it with a tired look on his face. Fortunately, it didn't take him long to realize I was upset.

"Please," I said. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," he said, trying hard to be compassionate. "C'mon in. Is something wrong?"

"Sort of," I said, still trembling. I sat down on the couch. "I'm just having some troubles with Mike."

Tony sat down on the recliner. "Damn, that sucks," he said. "James talked to me about him once. Is he still calling you and shit?"

I nodded, my eyes watering. "I found out he's been bugging my neighbors." I wiped at my eyes. Tony got up and went into the bathroom. He returned with a roll of toilet paper.

"Sorry we don't have any tissues," he said. I kind of laughed and took the roll. "Can I get you anything?" he asked. "Something to drink? Some water or something?"

I shook my head. "Can I use your phone?" I asked. "I have to call in sick to work."

"Of course," he said, handing the cordless receiver to me. I dialed the number and got the front desk. I asked for the local desk and waited for the transfer. As the tinny music played in my ear, I prayed that Louis wouldn't answer. Louis was technically my boss, although a few people, including one really cool woman named Sandra, shared the responsibility. I smiled as Sandra answered.

"Local desk," she said in her curt reporter voice.

"Sandra, it's me, Jen," I said.

"Jen, are you okay?" she asked, returning her voice to normal, a soft, almost mother-like tone. "You sound upset." She had only known me for a month, but had already taken a keen interest in me. Still, I couldn't bring myself to tell her what was going on.

"I'm okay," I lied. "But I've been sick a few times today. You know how sometimes you cry when you throw up?" Tony smiled, nodding his head. I couldn't tell if he was complimenting the breadth of my excuse or relating to the experience.

"Oh, Jen, that's horrible," Sandra said. "Take it easy and eat some soup. We'll cover for you today."

"Thanks a lot," I said. "I'll definitely be in tomorrow."

"That's fine," she said. "You take care of yourself."

"Thanks. I will."

We hung up. Tony looked sideways at me.

"Didn't feel like telling them the whole deal?" he asked tepidly.

I shook my head. "I don't want to make them part of the situation." I took a deep breath, and gestured toward the door in the far wall. "Actually, could I just hang out in James' room?" I asked. "I just want to go to sleep for a while."

"Sure," he said, rubbing one hand into his knee. He was painfully uncomfortable. "Go ahead."

I stood up and went into James' room. The Escher poster above his bed struck me as soon as I entered the room. It was the one with the monk-looking guys walking around on the roof of a building, moving in both directions on a staircase that went in a circle. That pretty much summed it up for me. I fell onto the bed and stared at the wall.

I wanted James to get home quick, but I knew he wouldn't. What if Tony had to go out? Would he feel okay leaving me here? Would he keep from going out on my behalf? I felt like I was being a burden, but I couldn't help it. I knew my sister wasn't home, and this was the safest place for me right now. I hated feeling this way in the middle of the morning; I couldn't even call my parents.

I finally went to sleep after staring at the wall for a long time. I dreamt about being chased, as I had more or less feared. I couldn't see who it was, but the sensation of looking at the person was the same as the sensation I'd had as I saw the man in the car both mornings — not certainty through vision, but a sixth sense that it was no one but Mike. I woke up sweating profusely at one-thirty. I went to James' bookshelf and took out a book called Gentle Bridges that he'd reccommended to me. I sat down on the bed and spent the next few hours plowing through it.

When James came home from work, I had finished about a third of the book and was just kinda staring at the ceiling. I heard him come in and talk to Tony, then come into his room. I told him what had happened, and he got angry. He wanted to go find Mike and try to put a stop to the whole thing. I tried to calm him down, and convince him that it wouldn't do any good. What I really wanted from him, of course, was some comfort, but that didn't come to easily from him. I talked him out of rushing out to find Mike, and asked him if I could stay with him for a few days. He agreed.

Rachel told me not to worry about the apartment, that she would watch out for Mike and call the cops if anything bad happened. She told me to take it easy and not let it get to me, but I knew she knew how much it was eating me up. I pretty much stopped eating. I didn't sleep very well at night, and I didn't want to get physical with James. All of which pissed him off. He wanted a resolution to come, but I didn't feel like there could be an easy one. He just wouldn't accept that.

Luckily, Mike didn't come to James' place while I was there. This gave me a chance to get my bearings back. I had convinced Sandra that I was still sick, but she told me that I needed to get better soon or she'd be facing stress from her boss. On the third day Louis picked up the phone, and he made it clear that whatever was going on, I needed to get back to work or I might be out of a job. I went back to work the next day, and the day after, James convinced me to go back home, but I made him come with me. It wasn't until another week had passed without any sign of Mike that we were able to spend a night apart.

Rachel was really good about it all. I didn't feel like she commiserated fully with me, but she was a great comfort. She made me cookies when I got back home, and she'd stay up late talking about it with me. One of her friends in high school who I hadn't known too well had been abused by her father, so she had some experience dealing with friends under pressure.

So everything was going well when Mike struck again.

It was evening, just before the sun began its slow yawning dive into night. The clouds were burning with orange and yellow, really rich colors. I remember pausing near my car to watch the colors for a little while. I had just come from the library and needed to eat something before the Amnesty meeting that night. Taco Bell was along the route, so I stopped in quickly. If I noticed the motorcycle pulling into the parking lot, I didn't realize whose it was.

The restaurant was located next to a thirft shop, with a small alleyway between them. There was a small wooden fence that ran from wall to wall, and a little gate set into the fence. The thrift shop kept a pair of old garbage cans behind the fence. It looked like a miniature version of something that might divide two suburban homes. I was walking into the Taco Bell when Mike appeared next to me, and, putting his arm around my shoulder, forced me into the alley. I thought about screaming, but instead I just pulled away. His grip was tight.

"Just be quiet," he said tensely. "I'm not going to hurt you." He opened the gate and pushed me onto the ground behind it. He knelt before me and held my shoulders. I knew we were out of sight. He looked angry, but sober. What did he want? Oh god, what did he want?

"Listen, Jen," he said. "This shit has to stop. You've got to agree to be my girl again. I'm sick of chasing after you, not getting my calls returned. I'm sick of it."

My eyes were wide. "Well, I'm sick of—"

He cut me off. "Stop that!" he barked. He was sort of whispering, but the sound of the traffic and the drive-thru at Taco Bell made it easier for him to be loud. "Just listen to me." He was holding my wrists now, squeezing them and turning them. "We're going to get back together, do you hear me? It's going to happen. We're perfect together, and you need to realize it. You'll never find another guy who loves you more. Do you understand that?"

I was crying. My nose was running. But all I could think about was what he would do to me. The sun was going down; the light from the streetlamp was overpowering the natural illumination. It was getting hard to see his face. What was he going to do to me? He slapped me. I tried to put a hand up, but he moved too quickly. I almost wrenched the other hand free, but before I knew what had happened, he had them both again.

"Answer me," he demanded.

"Jesus Christ," I said. "Mike, you're sick. Please leave me alone." I couldn't tell if he heard me or not. He smacked me again, harder this time. I could taste blood from my lip.

"Stop saying that," he said. "You act like I'm trying to kill you. I just want to tell you I love you."

I sobbed into my chest. I tried to turn my face so he couldn't hit me again. He raised his hand, but he hesitated. I used the momentary pause to break free and stand up. He tried to grab my leg, but I kicked him in the shoulder. He fell back against the wall and I threw myself over the fence. He sprang to his feet but I was out of sight and to my car before he could catch up. My eyes streaming with tears and horror, I started the car up and screamed from the lot. If anyone was in my way, they realized I was in a hurry and kept from getting hit. I sped through the streets, turning right when I hit a red light, checking constantly to see if there were any single headlights in the sea of bright spots behind me. I drove to James' place and darted up the stairs. I prayed for Tony to be there, and he was. He let me in and locked the door.

That night, I told James I was going to get a gun.

"A gun?" he asked. "What do you want to do that for?"

I looked up at him, eyebrows templed. "James, he dragged me into an alleyway! What's gonna happen next time?"

He shook his head. "No way," he said. "You're not getting one."

I stood up, a wad of toilet paper in my left hand. "This isn't your decision," I told him.

"But why do you think you need a gun?" he asked pleadingly. "What about pepper spray or something? My mom has pepper spray. She carries it with her all the time. She says it makes her feel safe."

I shook my head, wiped my eyes. "That's not enough," I said. "I wouldn't be able to get to it fast enough."

He breathed out quickly. "And a gun will be easier?"

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "But it'll scare him. That's all I really want it for. I just want to have it with me." I coughed, and sobbed quietly. He came over to me and put his arms around me. His hands were tight, his grip tense. He buried his face in my shoulder. "I'm so fucking sick of this," I said. "I can't take it anymore."

He stood up and regarded me. "You're really sure about this," he said. I nodded. He sighed. "Will you at least sleep on it?" he asked.

"Okay," I said. I was happy that he was relenting, but I wasn't as sure of the decision as I wanted it to seem. We stretched out on the bed and he put on some quiet music. I was still crying.

"Don't they say that you're more likely to get a gun used against you?" he asked. I shrugged.

"Maybe," I said. "But I would really feel a lot safer if I had it."

"Like a security blanket."

"With bullets."

He sighed. "God, it seems so dangerous. What if he grabs it from you or something?"

"He won't." I was more or less set on convincing myself at this point.

"Do you know how you'll get one?"

I nodded. "They have little ones at Wal-Mart. I'll probably get one there."

"You'll have to get a background check, probably a waiting period," he said.

I nodded again. "Yeah, I want to get it registered and stuff. Maybe take a class on using it safely." I wiped at my eyes again.

The situation made me sad. Not that I didn't want to actually get the weapon, but that I felt reduced to a state where I didn't have a choice. It seemed like it would be a matter of me or him. I didn't want it to come to that, but if it was going to be one or the other, I'd be damned if he would take me down. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

"You don't want to try calling the cops first?" James asked.

"I don't think it's worth the trouble," I said. "What can they do?"

"But he actually did something this time."

"What did he do? He slapped me a couple of times. No one's going to be willing to take that case, least of all anyone I could afford."

"You could get a restraining order."

"Which would do what?"

"I don't know. It's something you're supposed to do."

"It's just a fucking piece of paper, hon."

He exhaled loudly, exasperated. I stroked his arm, his soft spot. He tried to relax, but he was clearly unable. I was struck with the irony that I was the one comforting him.

"This really scares me, Jen," he said quietly.

"I know," I whispered back. "Me too."

He hugged me tight. "Just promise me if you do this, that you'll be careful."

"I will."

"Don't do anything stupid with it."

"I won't."

My tears mingled with his sweat on the pillow, and we drifted off to sleep, uneasy sleep filled with bad dreams.