Missoula
Steven Ford
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Steven Ford
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Chapter 1
Welcome to Canaan
Epiphany can occur with a vision, or with the lack thereof (think of Saul on the road to Damascus). The soul can be liberated with a sound. The promise of a new future can be communicated in a single touch.
But for Jeff Louden, epiphany arrived with an aroma—the fragrance of hot roofing tar. He savored the pungent vapor as he stood on the campus of the University of Montana on a crisp September morning in 1973. Just 100 feet away an asphalt kettle boiled and sputtered as grim men in denim jackets ascended their ladders. To Jeff their stoic expressions only served to mask the depths of their despair.
“Poor exploited bastards,” he whispered.
The object of their labor was the blistered rooftop of a dormitory known as Duniway Hall, an architecturally nondescript rectangle of bricks and windows that linked stately Elrod Hall to the south with Craig Hall to the east.
As Jeff paused on the concrete portico that formed Duniway’s north entrance, he turned slowly and took in the vista of the campus, the city and the mountains beyond. He was slightly disappointed with the mountains; they didn’t sport the jagged alpine peaks he had expected. Magnificent as they were, the summits that ringed the city of Missoula were rounded with pine trees and yellowish grass. In the far distance, Jeff saw at least one peak crowned with bare, gray rock, but it was the exception.
No matter. Until he and Paul Jepson had reached Wyoming on their westward journey, neither had seen mountains in the flesh. Now Jeff found himself in the bosom of the Rockies, preparing to embark on what he felt would be the greatest adventure of his life. It was his childhood dream come true—best friends together at the threshold of adulthood, far away from home and free from parents at last.
“Ow da way,” Paul Jepson mumbled as he labored up the short flight of steps. He carried a load of record albums beneath one arm and a small loudspeaker under the other. His bearded face was almost completely hidden by a sheet of paper clenched between his teeth.
“Ofen da door,” was the nearest thing to speech that Paul could manage. Jeff dutifully pulled open one of the heavy steel doors.
“So what are our room assignments?” Jeff asked.
Paul jerked his chin up sharply. “Tay it. Tay it and read.”
Jeff gingerly plucked the form from Paul’s mouth. He grimaced as he wiped the saliva from the University of Montana letterhead.
“Hey!” Jeff cried as he quickly scanned the paper. “We’re not in the same room. Hell, we’re not even in the same hall! You’re in Craig.”
“Yep. That’s a drag, but it’s the hand we’ve been dealt,” Paul replied as he stepped aside to let another student pass. “Look on the bright side—they didn’t assign roommates. We’ll have our rooms to ourselves. Besides, Craig is attached to Duniway; I’ll be just down the hallway.”
Paul disappeared into the shadows, the sounds of his hiking boots echoing in the stairwell. “Better get your stuff out of the car,” he said. “The campus cops might give us a ticket for parking here.”
“But what about the rooms?” Jeff called out. “This isn’t what we planned. Are we going to try to change the assignments?” There was no response.
Jeff grabbed his suitcase and started up the stairs. He found his room about 15 feet down a narrow corridor made institutionally ugly through the flagrant use of brown outdoor carpeting. Dusty yellow ceiling lamps drew a dotted line of light on the fading carpet, creating an airport runway effect that stretched the entire length of the hallway.
Although it lacked visual grace, the first floor of Duniway Hall radiated warmth and welcome. All the room doors were standing open; rock music blared from dozens of stereo systems and radios. Students brushed by with their possessions piled in their arms. Everyone exchanged glances, usually followed with smiles.
A student wearing a knit wool cap atop a chaotic riot of chestnut hair squeezed past Jeff, flattening himself in exaggerated fashion against the wall.
“Excuse me,” the student said with a toothy grin. He disappeared into a room immediately adjacent to the one that the U of M Resident Hall Assignment form had decreed for Jeff.
Jeff stepped into the doorway of his new home and shook his head. Room 149 was roughly twice the size of a walk-in closet at his parent’s house. At the moment, it was furnished in a decor that might be charitably described as unpretentious. A fitful breeze stirred a set of gauzy white curtains that fluttered over a bare wooden desk and bookshelves. A single bed—little more than a mattress on a steel frame--was nestled against yellow plaster walls in the shadow of a towering pine cabinet.
Again, Jeff relished the scent of roofing tar. It was carried on the same wind that swept music and voices through the windows.
“Here I am,” he sighed. Jeff threw his suitcase on the bed and popped the latches.
“Your clothes go in the cabinet, my man,” a voice said from the behind. The knit cap student walked rapidly into Jeff’s room and peered out the windows.
“Who--”
“Rich Runyon, your new best friend. You’re lucky, man. You have a set of windows that actually work. Mine are painted shut. We share a delightful view of Miller Hall, though. That’s the hideous block building across the courtyard. I’ve been told it’s mostly a home for homos, but you know how rumors go.”
“Ah…hello. I’m Jeff Louden, from Indiana.”
“Damn glad to meet you Jeff Louden from Indiana,” Rich said as he pumped Jeff’s hand. His smile was dazzling—a salesman’s smile. “We’re going to have great times together.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
“I’m here all the way from Florida, Mr Louden. Can you believe it? I wasn’t very keen on going to college in the first place. I just needed to get away from home. My step dad was so pissed with me, he was happy to foot the bill. Strong incentive to do my best, huh?”
“Ah, sure,” Jeff stammered. “I…drove here…with my friend.”
Rich’s eyes widened. “Do tell! That would be wicked far. Thanks to my asshole step dad, I was able to fly to Missoula. I’d go nuts crawling across the continent in a car.”
“It isn’t that bad. You see, my friend…well…we’ve known each other since childhood. His name is Paul Jepson and his room is somewhere in Craig Hall. I’m a journalism major and Paul is into forestry. We were supposed to be--”
Rich suddenly placed his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “You’re babbling, son. You must be tired and tense. Drag all your crap into the room and I’ll finish setting up my little corner of the universe. Then we’ll talk.”
Jeff spent the next hour rescuing his stereo system and other treasures from the trunk of Paul Jepson’s car, a rusting Ford Mustang that had ferried them safely across 1700 miles. He removed each loudspeaker with great care so as not to scratch the wood finish. Jeff carried the speakers to his room, wrapped in blankets like sleeping children, and placed them on the highest planks of his bookshelves.
Next came the stereo receiver and turntable, the heart and soul of his system. They too occupied places of honor on his bookshelves. Only after the stereo system was wired and checked could Jeff concern himself with less critical items such as his books, clothing and an aging Selectric typewriter.
By noon, Jeff had completely settled in. Now he could relax, sitting by the open window, listening to the Moody Blues on his stereo and watching students in the courtyard below. His door remained open so that he could also enjoy the ever-present buzz of activity in the hallway.
When his door suddenly slammed shut, Jeff leaped from his chair and bumped the turntable, sending the needle skating across the record grooves with a hideous screech. Rich Runyon was standing in the middle of the room, scowling.
“Never leave a door open when you’re about to consume illegal substances,” he said, and then smiled.
“Illegal substances?”
“Hash oil,” Rich replied as he pulled up a chair. “Ever try it?”
Jeff shook his head.
“You need to have your horizons expanded,” Rich said as he fumbled in the pocket of his leather jacket. He soon produced a tiny spoon, the melted stub of a candle and a vial containing a thick black fluid. He placed the candle on the desk and struck a match.
“Do you think this is a good idea?” Jeff asked.
Rich froze in mid-motion with the lighted match hovering above the candlewick. “It is your room, Jeff. You call the shots. Hurry before this match burns down to my fingers.”
Before Jeff could reply, there was a knock at the door. Rich blew out the match and closed his fist around the vial.
“Come in!” Jeff said.
To Jeff’s relief, Paul Jepson strolled into the room. Rich rose quickly and grabbed his hand. “You must be the childhood buddy of my friend Jeff,” he said.
“If you say so,” Paul replied with a grin.
“I do indeed! Do you smoke hash oil?” Rich asked.
“Sure,” Paul said. “But I don’t have any.”
Rich produced the vial and wiggled it in the air between his thumb and forefinger. Paul’s eyes widened.
“Close that door, Mr Jepson, and join us.”
Soon the candle was burning and the tiny spoon was floating in the flame. The black liquid it held began to boil.
“Take your places on the bed, otherwise known as Jeff’s couch,” Rich said as he resumed his seat at the desk. “It’s show time.”
The liquid suddenly erupted in flame. Rich raised the spoon to his lips and blew out the fire with a practiced puff. Smoke billowed from the spoon.
“Hurry!” he said as he inhaled the gray smoke. Paul leaned in and eagerly drew the fumes into his nostrils. Jeff approached slowly. Rich nodded his encouragement as Jeff inhaled through his mouth.
They sat silently, holding their breaths for as long as possible. Jeff was the first to begin coughing, bending forward with a choked spasm that almost sent him to the floor. Paul slapped him on the back and laughed.
“Good man,” Rich said between coughs. “Hold that precious smoke. It’ll do you good.” He waved the spoon under their noses and again they filled their lungs and sinuses.
As the new round of coughs subsided, Jeff noticed that the omnipresent odor of roofing tar had been replaced by the sweet smell of burning hashish. He settled into the mattress with his back to the wall and watched a white haze descend from the ceiling, slowly filling his entire field of vision.
Rich and Paul were chatting, but Jeff didn’t follow their conversation. He simply watched Paul’s shoulder-length hair bouncing with every gesture. When he turned to Rich, it seemed as though his knit cap was floating on his hair, not quite touching his scalp. His deep brown eyes flashed and his teeth—his perfect teeth—seemed to gleam.
From somewhere in the distance, the Moody Blues were singing in perfect harmony. Jeff closed his eyes and found himself standing on a concert stage in a vast arena. There were spotlights in his eyes and a guitar slung low across his waist. Jeff grabbed the guitar and began ripping into “I’m Just a Singer in a Rock ‘n Roll Band,” shooting sly glances to Justin Hayward and John Lodge as he strutted about the stage. He was hot. They were hot. It was the greatest performance the Moody Blues had ever delivered.
Their time in the lights complete (to the roar of the crowd begging for more), the Moody Blues made their exit and Jeff stayed behind to jam with Johnny Winter. Before Jeff knew it, Johnny had departed as well, to be replaced by Eric Clapton, who warmly shook his hand and invited him to launch into a powerful rendition of “Layla.”
Rich Runyon slapped Jeff hard across the knee. The music abruptly stopped and the arena disappeared. Jeff sat blinking in astonishment; two hours had passed.
“Get up, Jeff,” Rich said. “We’re hungry. Aren’t you?”
“Sure,” Jeff replied. He could feel himself smiling too widely. Rich returned the smile just as broadly.
“Up,” Paul said as he gently nudged Jeff’s elbow.
“I’m moving,” Jeff answered quietly. As they entered the hallway, Rich shot past them with wide strides.
“Hang on, guys. Let me get Grady.” Paul and Jeff exchanged bemused glances. A moment later, Rich reappeared with a gaunt figure wearing what appeared to be an ankle-length gray trench coat.
“Grady Wallace, meet the gang from Indiana. These two upstanding gentlemen are Jeff and Paul.” Grady smiled with closed lips and merely nodded. Jeff thought he heard something that sounded like a grunt, but couldn’t be sure.
“Grady is a math major,” Rich continued. “Go figure!” They all laughed, except for Grady who emitted more grunts.
By the time they reached the cafeteria, it was brimming with students, hundreds of conversations taking place at once amid the sounds of colliding tableware. Paul ushered Jeff through the food line like a caretaker leading a blind man. He gestured to various types of food and Jeff obediently piled them onto his tray, smiling all the while.
They found a table and, for several minutes, fed furiously in silence. Jeff was fascinated by Grady’s mechanical eating style. He would place a forkful in his mouth, sit upright and chew, glance at his plate, then repeat the actions precisely.
“So Grady,” Jeff began, “are you from around here?”
Grady’s head pivoted in a disturbingly mechanical fashion. Jeff thought he could hear servomotors. “Yes,” he replied quietly. “My parents live about 20 miles from here in Frenchtown.”
“I see. But if your parents are in Frenchtown,” Jeff asked, “why do you live on campus? Couldn’t you just drive back and forth?”
Grady seemed to hesitate as he processed the question. “I like the campus atmosphere. I like people.”
Jeff shrugged. “Okay.”
Rich Runyon leaned across the table. “He wants to be with the cool people, the people who are going to make a difference in the world.”
Paul tossed a tuna sandwich onto his plate with a frown. “The first thing we need to do when we improve the world is improve the food in this cafeteria,” he said.
“Damn right,” Rich replied. “It’ll take time, but be patient. Over the next couple of decades, we’ll worm our way into power and shape the country to our liking—cafeterias included. Look at what’s happening in Vietnam. We took to the streets and spoke our minds. Now the war is winding down.”
“There is still Nixon and Agnew,” Paul said.
“Bumps in the road,” Rich replied through a mouthful of salad. “Nothing more.”
Jeff arranged pats of butter wrapped in paper as he listened. “I’m tired of waiting. I’m here to make a difference now, not years later,” he said at last.
Rich and Paul stopped in mid chew.
“Bullshit. You’re here for the same reason I am,” Paul said with a chuckle. “You don’t want to end up digging ditches for a living.”
“Not true,” Jeff replied without taking his eyes off his butter pats. “I’m here to make changes. That’s what the revolution is all about.”
Rich raised his eyebrows. “Whoa! Revolution? That sounds like way too much trouble and angst for me. Sorry, man, but I’m gonna play the cards I’m holding in my hands right now. That means enjoying life as it is and working to change the system from the inside, more or less.”
“And you’ll lose,” Jeff murmured. “The deck is already stacked against you.”
Grady had stopped eating and was observing the conversation with clinical fascination. “Jeff, are you a hippy?” he asked.
Everyone seemed surprised to hear Grady speak. “You didn’t notice?” Jeff answered, pointing at the hair that fell behind his shoulders.
“Hair don’t make the hippy,” Paul sneered. “And trust me, Grady. We’re no hippies—at least not the political variety.”
Jeff glanced at Paul and blushed. “That sure sounds like a departure from what we talked about on the way to Missoula. Remember?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t recall doing that much talking myself, but I clearly remember you talking. Mile after mile you bored me to tears going on and on about how we’d join the protests, about how uplifting it would be. Well, I don’t see much protesting on this campus. Be sure to give me a heads up when it starts, though.”
Rich and Paul laughed. Grady grunted. Jeff could only shrug before returning to his butter pats.
Across the cafeteria, a glass tumbler flew off a table and struck the ceramic tile floor. It bounced once, twice then shattered. There was a round of applause.
“How idiotic,” Jeff said.
“No, no,” Rich replied. “I’ll show you idiotic.” He snatched Jeff’s butter pats and proceeded to roll them in a paper table napkin.
“What are you doing?” Jeff asked.
“Rolling a joint, a doobie, a marijuana cigarette, as they say.”
Rich displayed his cigar-like creation and Paul produced a cigarette lighter. Within seconds, the end of the napkin was aflame.
“Oh, man,” Jeff exclaimed. “You’re going to get us thrown out of here.” The orange flame began to dance in the lenses of Grady’s wire-frame glasses.
“Don’t worry, Jeff. This is what you came for, ” Paul laughed. “Hail the revolution! Burn baby burn!”
Grady leapt to his feet, clutching his tray. “I gotta go,” he announced. Rich began beating the flaming end of the butter-pat joint on the edge of the table. Burning bits of paper took to the air and floated to the floor.
By now, they had an audience and several began to applaud. Rich extinguished the napkin in the remnants of Grady’s Coke. That was Grady’s cue to exit as rapidly as possible.
Rich bowed deeply to his fans and nodded. Paul clapped enthusiastically. “Long live the revolution,” Rich shouted. “Power to the people, and various animals.”
Jeff sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “That’s pretty cute,” he muttered as the applause died and everyone returned to their meals.
“Jeff, my man, we really have to work on you,” Rich said with frown. He turned to Paul and jerked a thumb at Jeff. “How long have you known this guy?”
“Too long,” Paul said, then looked hard at Jeff. “I’m joking, man.”
Jeff nodded, but didn’t smile. “About 13 years,” he said to Rich. “We met in kindergarten.”
“Cool,” Rich replied. “It’s great to have a friend that you’ve known most of your life. Me, I go from one friend and one place to the next. Everything is temporary in life, after all. Nothing lasts.”
Rich and Paul began another animated conversation while Jeff stared into the distance. Beyond the cafeteria windows, the sun was settling into the mountains. Long shadows were already stretching into the city.
“I’m done,” Jeff said as he stood with his tray. Rich nodded and Paul stabbed an errant french fry with his fork
“What are you guys doing next?” Jeff asked.
“More drugs,” Rich replied, rolling his eyes. “Always more drugs.”
“We’ll stop by your room later,” Paul said with a dismissive wave.
With that, Jeff weaved through the gauntlet of students and made his way out of the cafeteria. He walked aimlessly through the parking lot, then eventually found himself in the green, leaf-littered expanse of the Oval commons.
The Oval was aptly named for it was literally a large oval of grass encircled and bisected by concrete sidewalks. The western end of the Oval met a stylized sculpture of a grizzly bear, the University of Montana mascot, which stood on a circular dais, glowering at passing students with its forepaws raised in angry challenge. At the eastern end stood the imposing redbrick University Hall with its bells and clock.
Revolution was supposed to be about throwing off hoary traditions, but Jeff couldn’t help but appreciate this faux Ivy League tableau. This wasn’t a truly ancient campus like Yale or Harvard, but the University of Montana still managed to project a kind of elder stateliness that Jeff found captivating.
He stood beneath a spreading maple tree and watched a pair of hang gliders as they soared from the top of Sentinel, a 2000-foot mountain that stood guard at the eastern edge of the campus. Behind towering Aber Hall, a hiking trail zigzagged its way up the side of Sentinel, ending halfway to the summit at the base of a white concrete “M” cast into the very soil of the mountain.
The sudden appearance of a woman with straight, waist-length hair interrupted Jeff’s mediation. She walked slowly past him and smiled. Jeff nodded in return. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Jeff stared with his mouth ajar and simply watched her disappear into the dusky shadows.
Jeff wandered back to his room and put the Moody Blues’ A Question of Balance on the turntable. He stretched out on his narrow unmade bed as the music merged with the oncoming night. It was only 7 o’clock, but Jeff would soon be asleep. Rich and Paul never arrived.
Chapter 2
Scott Davies
Jeff sat just beyond the edge of the Oval, trying desperately to look nonchalant. His back was supported by the rough trunk of a maple tree and its bark pressed painfully through his fatigue jacket. Jeff would shift position, wait for the pain to return, then shift again. He was highly uncomfortable, but he looked good.
Jeff was particularly proud of his fatigue jacket, with its faded sergeant chevrons on the shoulders and LOUDEN sewn above the right breast pocket. (His mother had lovingly placed the letters there for him, a fact he never disclosed.) Jeff had stumbled across his army prize at a military surplus store when he was a junior in high school. He wore it every day he could, delighting in the disapproving frowns from his teachers and the glares from the handsome jocks in their lettered athletic jackets.
Jeff was quickly discovering, however, that being a revolutionary iconoclast in college presented a different challenge. In this place, he feared that he might become just one ordinary rebellious student among many. Who was authentic? Who wasn’t? As he communed with his fellow students, he was haunted by the thought that his revolutionary credentials weren’t entirely sufficient, or worse, that no one cared.
All the students he could see—revolutionary and otherwise—were scattered about the commons, mostly sitting in groups with their books and backpacks. Some were deep in quiet concentration while others talked and laughed. No one looked his way. If Jeff was waiting for an outbreak of spontaneous protest that afternoon, he would be sorely disappointed.
He picked up his dog-eared copy of the Communist Manifesto and began idly turning the pages. It was a thin book as books go—a pamphlet, really. Still, Jeff had never been able to finish it. He struggled through one page, then decided that he wasn’t in the mood to read it (again).
He glanced up as a large shadow suddenly swept across the lawn. The triangle silhouette belonged to a hang glider with enormous canary yellow wings. The pilot banked sharply just above the trees that ringed the Oval. As the glider turned, the wing fabric rippled in the slipstream. All conversations died instantly as everyone beheld the aerial spectacle.
“He’s going to land in the Oval,” a voice said behind him. “He really doesn’t have a choice at this point.” Jeff turned to see a student dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and a blue down-filled vest. He was watching impassively with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
“Do they do this often?” Jeff asked.
“No. It isn’t safe.”
“Then why is he doing it?”
“Beats me,” the student said with a shrug.
The pilot glided gracefully above the maples. Jeff could see the blissful smile on this face. One particularly tall maple loomed in his path and the pilot pulled his glider skyward. The fabric flapped madly.
“He’s stalling it,” the student said quietly. “Not good.”
Sure enough, the left wing abruptly ceased flying. The glider dipped and began a corkscrew dive.
“Fuck me!” the pilot cried as grasping branches reduced his wings to a mass of yellow rags. The pilot plunged headlong through the tree, but he was ultimately saved by the remnants of his harness. The trailing straps snagged the lower branches and brought him to an abrupt stop, leaving him dangling upside down about 10 feet from the grass.
Jeff jumped to his feet. A mass of students and campus security surged to the tree.
“He’s okay,” the student said. “A few scratches, maybe. The worst injury is to his dignity.”
“Thank God,” Jeff replied.
The student grinned and extended his hand. “Hi. I’m Scott. Scott Davies from Little Rock. Geology major.”
Jeff shook his hand quickly. The grip was surprisingly warm and firm.
“I’m Jeff Louden from Indianapolis. I’m in Duniway Hall. A good friend of mine lives in Craig.”
“Which floor in Craig?”
“First.”
“Cool. That’s where I am. I’ve probably seen your friend already. What’s his name?”
“Paul Jepson. He is about my height and has a beard. He isn’t nearly as pudgy as I am, though.”
Scott chucked. “Oh, yeah. I’ve met Paul. I was on my way to his room just now.”
“Really?” Jeff said with a frown. “I thought he had a late-afternoon class.”
“Maybe it was cancelled. I saw him in the University Center about 30 minutes ago.”
“Whatever. I’m still trying to figure out the schedules. If you’re going to see Paul, mind if I tag along?”
“Works for me,” Scott grinned.
They found Paul in his room, his face buried in the pages of a textbook. His feet were propped on his desk.
“Hey, Scott!” he said when he heard them enter the room. “I see you ran into my buddy Jeff.”
“Yep,” Scott replied as he slid onto a chair. Jeff took his place on the bed.
“Going to the Beach Boys concert Saturday?” Paul asked.
“I think so,” Scott answered. “I’m waiting on some cash from home. Are you going, Jeff?”
Jeff shook his head. “Not my kind of music.”
“Of course not. It isn’t revolutionary enough,” Paul said as he glanced out the window.
“To each his own,” Scott said with a smile. “By the way, there was an item in the Kaimin about a Grateful Dead show coming in the spring.”
“Now that would be cool,” Jeff replied.
Paul shrugged. “Three hours of self-indulgent musical noodling. I’ll pass.”
“I thought you liked the Dead,” Jeff said.
“Things change.”
“They do indeed,” Scott chirped. “When we’re middle-aged men, our petty concerns about music and politics will seem very silly. We’ll have other things to worry about.”
Before Jeff could respond, Rich Runyon came bouncing into the room with Grady Wallace in tow. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. I have a new invention. Jeff, jump up and close the door, please.”
As Jeff eased the door shut, Rich pulled an ancient military surplus gas mask from a drawstring bag.
“Wow!” Scott said.
“Expecting teargas?” Jeff asked. He reached for the mask, but Rich drew away.
“No, no, no. Not gas.” He held up the end of the hose, which had been fitted with a brass bowl.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Paul said with a laugh.
“Grady, take a seat.” Grady obeyed without comment. Rich pulled the mask down over the top of Grady’s head and squeezed it onto his face. Grady appeared to be smiling, but it was difficult to tell.
“Comfy?” Rich asked. Grady nodded.
Rich produced a thick cellophane bag filled with marijuana. He pinched some of the dried leaves between his fingers and began stuffing them vigorously into the bowl. He struck a match and held the flame next to the leaves.
“Breathe!” Rich coaxed. “Deep breaths!”
Scott and Paul watched in wide-eyed fascination. Jeff hovered near the end of the bed, glancing out the window and expecting to see a campus security car at any moment.
The fragrance of burning leaves rapidly overwhelmed the room as smoke rose from the bowl. Soon Grady’s eyes vanished behind the mask lenses, lost in swirling gray clouds.
Grady struggled and coughed.
“Isn’t this great?” Rich shouted. Paul laughed uncontrollably while Scott simply gaped.
Tendrils of smoke leaked from the edges of the mask, curling up from Grady’s head. He looked like a heaving medusa.
Within a minute, a fist began pounding on the door. “No one’s home,” Rich called out.
“Tell me you locked the door, Jeff,” Rich whispered. “Right?”
Just as Jeff was answering in the negative, the door flew open. Steve Grindel, the Craig Hall resident advisor, stood at the threshold, his eyes wide. Grady turned, gasped and waved.
“What the hell is going on here?” Steve shouted.
Paul had gone beet red with laughter. He could barely catch his breath and speech was impossible. Scott gazed up with a placid smile, palms skyward in puzzled innocence. Jeff quickly pulled the mask from Grady’s head and shook the glowing embers out the window.
“Don’t get your underwear in a bunch,” Rich cooed as he stepped toward Steve.
“That’s pot!” Steve shouted.
“I certainly hope so,” Grady croaked.
Jeff began waving his arms in the air, trying in vain to clear the smoke.
“You’re all doing drugs!” Steve shouted again. “You know the rules.”
“Yes,” Rich said as he gently took Steve by the arm. “But you know what they say about rules.”
“Stop that!” Steve barked.
“Now you’ll have to file a report, I suppose,” Rich began with feigned dismay. “Imagine all the paperwork. The meetings. And it is so early in the school year, after all.”
“He’s right, you know,” Scott said.
Paul had finally stopped laughing. He was wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
Steve looked around room in silence. “I…I don’t ever want to smell pot in this room again,” he said at last.
Rich began to guide Steve to the door.
“You know the rules,” Steve whined.
“We do now, sir” Rich said softly.
“Not one joint in this room! Not one puff!”
“Not one,” Rich replied. Jeff stepped aside and flattened himself against the nearest wall. Rich shot him a glance and winked.
“I can’t believe you guys did this,” Steve said.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Rich replied. Steve didn’t seem to hear him. He stepped into the hallway as if in a daze.
“The smell of the asphalt is bad enough. And now you do this.”
“Next time we’ll use air freshener,” Rich said as he began to close the door behind Steve.
“What?”
The door closed softly with a click of the latch. There was a microsecond of silence, and then everyone was convulsed with laughter, including Grady. Especially Grady.
“Oh my god,” Paul said.
Grady began bouncing on the mattress. He seemed to be gazing into the distance.
“Jeff, we need music,” Rich said.
Jeff knelt and thumbed through the peach crates that held Paul’s album collection. He found Led Zeppelin’s third album and queued it up on the turntable.
Rich eased Grady down until he was prone on the mattress. He nestled Paul’s headphones over Grady’s ears and patted his forehead. “Sweet dreams.”
He turned to Jeff and smiled. “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”
Jeff set needle to vinyl. The speakers rumbled, then exploded with “The Immigrant Song.”
“We come from the land of the ice and snow!” Grady cried hoarsely. Rich placed his forefinger on Grady’s lips. Grady smiled and nodded.
“Here,” Paul said as he shoved a tube into Grady’s hands.
“What is it?” Rich asked.
“A kaleidoscope,” Paul answered as he positioned Grady’s hands to hold the tube over Grady’s left eye. Paul twisted the end of the tube and Grady grinned. Grady soon took over and began twisting furiously.
“Huh. Huh,” he grunted.
Paul returned to his seat and lit a cigarette. “That’ll keep him out of trouble for a while.”
Rich examined the gas mask and frowned. “Grindel is right about one thing. I don’t know what the hell we were thinking. This thing is useless.”
“What do you mean ‘we’?” Scott asked.
“My partners in crime, of course! You can’t say you weren’t enjoying the show.”
“The show could have gotten us kicked out of the dorm,” Jeff said.
Paul chuckled. “Didn’t I hear you bring up the prospect of us being teargassed, Jeff? That seems a step or two above the threat of being kicked out of a dorm.”
“I was talking about possibilities. You never know when the cops will decide to use stronger stuff to keep the students quiet.”
“Sheesh,” Paul replied. “I don’t think campus security even has teargas.”
“Nonetheless,” Rich interrupted with a wave of his arm, “this antique is surplus to our needs.” He tossed the mask out the window. It landed on the sidewalk with plop.
Jeff turned to Scott. “Have you been to any of the dorm parties?”
“There was an serious party in Knowles Hall last night. I think they had about 200 people crammed onto the second floor.”
“You were there?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Paul and I were there too. How did we miss you?”
Scott folded his hands in his lap and smiled. “I’m not obnoxious when I socialize. I find the beer, draw a healthy glassful, then slink into a corner to watch the action.”
“You party incognito,” Rich said.
“That’s right,” Scott chuckled. “I’m always incognito. In fact, I conduct my life incognito.”
Paul drew on the cigarette and attempted to blow a smoke ring. “I like the way Scott thinks. He is a very smooth operator; you can tell that already.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Scott said and rose from the chair. “Guys, I need to head over to the University Center and grab a snack. Maybe shoot some pool, too. Anyone want to come with me?”
Paul shook his head and picked up his book.
“I’d better stay with Grady,” Rich replied.
“Come on, Jeff,” Scott said as he pinched the sleeve of his jacket. “You aren’t doing anything.”
Jeff glanced at Paul. “Paul, what do you think about--”?
Paul shook his head without looking up from the pages.
Jeff and Scott shared the remains of a small joint as they crossed the Oval in twilight. If Jeff had been uncomfortable with smoking marijuana in Paul’s room, he was downright paranoid in the middle of the Oval. His eyes darted to every movement, looking for the telltale silhouette of a campus security cop.
For his part, Scott seemed totally at ease. Jeff tried to walk faster, hoping that Scott would quicken his pace as well, but Scott refused. He would slow to a shuffle, take a drag on the loosely rolled joint, then pass it to Jeff as he smiled and strained to hold his breath.
To Jeff’s dismay, Scott stopped suddenly at the center of the commons where four sidewalks joined. There was a raised medallion cast in concrete with a hand holding a flaming torch. It gleamed dully in the reflected lights.
“Lux et veritas,” Scott said as he pointed to the inscription. “Do you know what that means?”
Jeff shook his head.
“Light and truth. I like the sentiment, don’t you?”
Jeff shrugged. “I never thought about it.”
“Well you should,” Scott replied. The clock bells in the University Hall began to toll.
Jeff nodded quickly. The bells added to his growing agitation. Scott stared at him for a moment, seeming to sense that Jeff was nearing panic—which he was. To Jeff’s relief, Scott turned and continued their journey.
“Why are you here, Jeff?” Scott asked as they slipped into a small grove of trees that separated the Oval from the University Center.
“To eventually become a journalist.”
“Really? Good for you. What made you pick the University of Montana, of all places?”
Jeff was silent for a moment. “They have a respected journalism school.”
“True, but there are others. Probably closer to Indiana, too. Why here?”
“It seemed--”
“Exotic? Compared to Indiana this must be like another planet.”
“Well, no. I mean, my friend Paul--”
“Your childhood friend.”
“Yeah, he wanted to come here to study forestry.”
Scott nodded silently as they stepped into the glow of the floodlights at the University Center. “So you came because Paul came,” he said.
“That’s not the only reason. This is a wonderful place.”
“Oh, I agree,” Scott said with a grin. “Just take a stroll down to the Clark Fork River some day and park yourself on the old pedestrian bridge. Where else could you walk to the edge of a college campus and revel in the pleasures of a mountain stream? It’s easy to get lost in your thoughts down there, let me tell you.
“And the women at U of M are fabulous, of course. Some of them have that cooing little accent that sounds vaguely Canadian. My sincerest dream is that I’ll soon have one of those delightful Montana ladies whispering into my ear in the private darkness of my dorm room.”
Jeff didn’t respond.
“Are you in a relationship yet?” Scott asked.
“Why do you ask? Is there some kind of deadline?”
“Not at all, but the pairing will soon begin, you know. I think that’s what the parties are really about. I mean, have you been chatting up any women at the beer-infused gatherings?”
“No. I usually prefer conversations that are more serious. I like talking politics.”
“I see. Do you know the Beatles tune ‘Revolution’?”
“Of course.”
“Remember the line, ‘But if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain't going to make it with anyone anyhow’?”
“Yes,” Jeff replied flatly. “What are you getting at? Are you saying I drive women away?”
Scott clutched Jeff’s shoulder in mock surprise. “Easy boy! No offense meant. I just mean that there should be moderation in all things. It’s a philosophy that might serve you well, especially at those parties.”
They paused just outside the Center entrance. A steady rock ‘n roll backbeat was throbbing through the glass. “You know,” Scott said, “you should only do things because you want to do them. Trust your gut. Don’t try to be something you’re not. ”
Jeff stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you should think about it over a cheeseburger.”
“It’s getting chilly,” Jeff replied as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“True. Open the door.”
Jeff reached for the metal handle, but Scott slapped his arm away.
“What were we just talking about, man? What if I had told you to pick your nose? Would you do it?”
Jeff smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Scott.”
Chapter 3
C’est Vrai
Jeff awoke to the sound of sleet pecking at his window. It wasn’t even Halloween, but that fact didn’t prevent an early arrival of winter.
Pulling the comforter to his chin, he turned away from the clock radio as Elton John’s “Elderberry Wine” blasted from its tinny speaker. Jeff loved the song at any other time, but not now.
He really didn’t enjoy alcohol and would never drink it on a weekday night. Last night was an exception, though. Rich Runyon had burst into his room while he was studying, demanding that Jeff accompany him to the Cavern, a seedy bar and ersatz music venue in downtown Missoula. Jeff had agreed just to shut him up.
It was a long, chilly walk to the Cavern. Rich had assured him that the Missoula busses were still running between campus and downtown that evening, but, of course, he had been overly optimistic. With every step they took, Jeff prayed to see a bus looming suddenly of the darkness. When he expressed this hope to Rich, he responded by bursting into a highly irritating rendition of the Who’s song “Magic Bus.” He sang it like a marching chant as they trudged through the campus neighborhoods. No busses appeared, magical or otherwise.
Despite the rundown appearance of the Cavern, Jeff was relieved to finally step through the door and into its warmth, saturated as it was with the stench of cigarettes and beer. As they strolled past the bar, Rich shouted and waved to several people. Whether they really knew him was unclear. Some returned smiles while others frowned. Rich stopped long enough to swap small talk with the bartender and grab a couple of beers.
The tables surrounding the stage were surprisingly full, which Jeff did not expect. He had assumed the Cavern was a watering hole and little else. Rich pointed to a table immediately front of a stack of loudspeakers. The lone occupant was an elderly Blackfoot Indian. As they approached, Rich clapped the old man on the shoulder and loudly introduced himself. If the man responded, Jeff didn’t hear it.
Rich was undeterred. He sent Jeff to the bar to fetch a shot of tequila for their new companion. The old man sat bewildered at Jeff’s side, nursing the tequila unenthusiastically.
“How is it?” Jeff ventured.
“Tastes like cat piss,” the man growled.
A jazz trio calling themselves the Phourx began playing an improvisation of “Days of Wine and Roses.” This, as it turned out, was Rich’s reason for trekking to the Cavern in the first place. The Phourx were comprised of students Rich had met at a dorm party the weekend before. He clapped wildly at the end of their first number, and the Indian used the opportunity to escape to the bar.
The trio began an original piece they called “You Could Have Been Scriabin” and dedicated it to Rich Runyon. When the Phourx bassist launched into a vigorous solo, a young woman jumped from her seat and ran to the edge of the stage. She began gyrating and thrusting her hips at the band, oblivious to everyone else.
“Good god,” Jeff muttered as he reached for another drink.
“Enjoy the show!” Rich shouted above the music. “That’s Madame Bump and Grind. She is here almost every night. I thought the girl was an epileptic at first. Turns out she’s just a lunatic!”
Jeff decided to seek refuge from the deafening music and disturbing visuals in a long string of rum and Cokes. An hour later, the room was spinning and he was under the table—literally. He recalled seeing a strange pair of legs just inches from his face. They disappeared, only to be followed by another pair. The frantic music never stopped. To Jeff, every song sounded the same.
Eventually, Rich guided Jeff out of the Cavern and shoved him into a waiting cab. Jeff remembered seeing Rich’s smile fading into the night like a Cheshire Cat as the reeking taxi lurched away from the curb. Madame Bump and Grind was at Rich’s side, clutching his arm and staring vacantly at the sky.
The driver woke him when they reached campus. Jeff couldn’t operate the door handle, so the cabbie glumly pulled him from the car and left him lying on the sidewalk. Jeff couldn’t remember how long he had lain on the concrete. When the cold finally seeped through his clothes, he arose, muttered several curses and staggered into Duniway Hall.
Now, as Jeff lay sorting through scattered memories of the night’s events, his temples pounded and his stomach churned. He seriously considered blowing off his first class of the day, but decided against it. Instead, he slapped the OFF button on the top of the radio and struggled to a sitting position with a groan. The soles of his feet stung when they met the chill of the tile floor.
“Lord have mercy,” he said aloud.
The bathroom and showers were just 20 feet away, but to Jeff it was a journey of a thousand steps. He walked as quickly as possible under the circumstances and was relieved to see that he was alone when he opened the door to the shower room. Even after two months on campus, he was still uncomfortable with the idea of communal bathing. There was something about appearing nude in front of other people that set his teeth on edge.
Jeff grimaced as he stood in the shower stall. The Duniway showers weren’t blessed with the round shower heads Jeff had known at home, the kind that spewed placid streams of soothing water. No, these were strictly functional nozzles that shot high-pressure spray with all the grace and gentleness of a fire hose. Jeff opened the valves and stifled a scream as the water tore at his tingling flesh.
At the end of the torture session, Jeff opened the shower curtain and gasped at the sight of a stark-raving naked Grady Wallace. Grady was standing in front of Jeff’s stall like a bizarre version of Michelangelo’s David. His straw-colored hair was pointing in every direction.
“Rough night?” Grady asked.
Jeff snatched up a towel and quickly wrapped it around his waist. “Yeah. You?”
“Nope. Playing my bongos.”
Jeff forced a small laugh. “Don’t play them this morning or I’m liable to wrap them around your head.”
“Huh huh,” Grady grunted. Jeff turned away and began combing his hair, but Grady seemed frozen in place.
“Showers are all yours,” Jeff said. “Pick any one.”
“Are they warm?”
Jeff glanced at Grady’s reflection in the mirror. “Warm enough,” he replied with a frown. “Aren’t they always?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, you’d better get moving. People see you just standing around like that and they’ll think you’re a homo.”
“Huh,” Grady replied with a grin.
At last, Grady chose his shower and stepped into the stall. Jeff made quick work of brushing his teeth and bolted through the door.
Jeff’s duty on Wednesday mornings was to make sure that Paul was awake and ready for Introduction to Anthropology. As always, when he reached Paul’s room, Jeff didn’t bother to knock. Instead, he threw open the door with as much malice as he could muster, deliberately allowing it to smash into the opposite wall.
“Aw, man,” Paul moaned.
Jeff tore apart the curtains, allowing the gray morning light to stream into the room. Paul lay in his bed like a vampire in a casket, shielding his eyes from even the slightest reminder that a sun existed somewhere above Missoula’s clouds.
“Go to hell,” he said.
“Already there,” Jeff replied with the sound of the door still ringing painfully in his ears. Paul tried to roll into his sheets, but Jeff ripped them away. He pulled Paul to his feet with surprising ease and noticed that he was still wearing his jeans and T-shirt from the night before.
“I love you,” Paul said with a smile, just inches from Jeff’s face. The odor of pot and stale tobacco scalded his nostrils.
“I love you too, man. We gotta go.”
Paul stretched and vigorously scratched his ass. “Not enough sleep,” he muttered.
“Too bad. This is the course you thought would be so fascinating to attend at 8 AM.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Paul said. He clumsily searched the room and eventually located his notepad, coat and a pack of cigarettes. With coats zipped and ready, they stood together before the window in silence, watching the sleet turn to snow.
“Fuck this,” Paul said with a sigh. “You shouldn’t have followed me to Missoula, my friend.”
“I don’t suppose there is a college in Florida we could have attended?”
“Nah. I wanted to go after a degree in forestry,” Jeff replied as he waved his hand at the trees. “Lots of that kind of thing here.”
They leaned into the bitter wind and slowly made their way across campus. As they neared their destination, another pair of figures emerged from the swirling snow and joined them. A sideways glance told Jeff that they were women—one tall with short, black hair, the other small and somewhat stocky with wisps of long blonde hair flying in the breeze. Wool mufflers obscured both faces.
Under the shelter of the lecture hall entrance, they all stamped their feet and brushed the snow from their clothes. The muffler fell away from the face of the diminutive blonde, revealing large blue eyes set in a creamy complexion. Jeff couldn’t help but stare.
Paul took a stack of books from the brunette as she struggled with her oversized coat. “Don’t you hate this?” he asked.
“Not really,” the brunette replied. “I was born and raised in Montana. This is nothing.”
“C’est vrai,” the blonde said with a shrug.
“Say what?” Jeff asked.
The blonde regarded him with a smirk that was either bemusement or contempt. Jeff hoped for the former.
“It’s French, meaning ‘it is true.’ C’est vrai.”
“Oh. I see. Do you live on campus?” Jeff asked. He knew he had just uttered something close to a non sequitur, but he wanted to stoke the conversation and didn’t know what else to say.
The blonde frowned slightly. “Of course. Knowles Hall. You?”
“I’m in Duniway. My friend Paul hangs out in Craig.”
“Paul,” the brunette said. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“Probably at a party,” Paul replied. “I went to one in Knowles last weekend.”
The brunette rolled her eyes. “That was hideous. Too many people and too much beer. Some guy fell down a flight of stairs and broke his jaw.”
“Wasn’t me,” Paul said with a grin. “By the way, I’m Paul Jepson, from Indiana. That’s Jeff Louden, also late of the Hoosier State.”
“Fine,” the brunette nodded. “I’m Leigh Simmons and this is Audrey Harris.”
“I’m from Detroit,” Audrey added. “If it matters.”
A bell chimed in the hallway. Jeff winced against the sudden pain.
“Time to go,” Paul announced.
They shuffled into the cavernous auditorium along with a few dozen sleepy students. Jeff did his best to stay beside Audrey as they made their way to the their seats. The girls liked to sit closer to the front than he preferred (you were more easily noticed by the professor if you fell asleep), but Jeff decided that he wouldn’t mind this time.
The professor in charge of Introduction to Anthropology paced back and forth behind the podium. He was an emaciated, elderly man wearing black-frame eyeglasses with unbelievably thick lenses. Jeff had heard that the sun had damaged the professor’s eyesight while he was fleeing the Communist Chinese through the Gobi desert. Or was he running from the Nazis in the Alps?
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the professor began. “It’s time to get down to business. I want to continue our discussion of human evolution with a sidetrack into the mysterious and steamy jungle of human sexuality. It is a brief sojourn that I’m sure you’ll all enjoy.” Staccato laughs echoed through the room.
“NSR,” the professor said, his voice rising, “sets us apart from the rest of the primate family. NSR is…what? Anyone?”
Audrey waved her hand.
“You!” he stabbed a gnarled finger at Audrey.
“Noncyclical Sexual Receptivity,” she called out.
The professor nodded. “Very good. The ability of the female to have sex whenever she desires. No estrus. No ‘heat.’ An alternative way to state this unusual condition would be to say that the human female does not experience a distinct period of estrus because she is in a state of constant estrus. Precious few other species' females could hold a candle to the human female in this department. No other species has so definitively uncoupled sex and reproduction as the human line.”
“That’s impressive,” Jeff whispered.
Audrey shrugged. “It’s right in the assignment, if you read it.”
“NSR,” the professor continued, “coupled with face-to-face intercourse, another trick almost unknown to other primates, may have created the social glue that started us down the path to the pyramids and the Parthenon.”
“Face-to-face intercourse is a fine trick when you can get it,” Jeff muttered, then instantly regretted it. Audrey shot a withering glance, but then smiled. Jeff returned the smile with a blush.
Jeff was quietly thrilled when Leigh and Audrey accepted Paul’s invitation to breakfast at the end of the lecture. At the cafeteria, Paul dominated the conversations while Jeff tried to chew through a stack of pancakes with feigned pleasure. His stomach was still painfully uncooperative.
He sat opposite Audrey, who seemed to spend considerable time staring at the crowds of students. She barely touched her ham and eggs.
“There is a meeting of the Students for a Democratic Society in the University Center this evening,” Jeff said. “Will you be there?”
Audrey frowned. “I don’t have time for that stuff.”
“Oh,” Jeff replied as he put down his fork. Paul and Leigh seemed to be engaged in a rapid-fire discussion about the music of Ten Years After. Jeff decided to try Audrey again.
“How do you feel about the Vietnam war?”
“It sucks. I hope it ends soon.”
“Well…thank god we’re here rather than wading through some leech-infested swamp, eh?”
Audrey smiled thinly and tilted her increasingly gorgeous head to one side. “C’est vrai.”
“So, what is your major?” Jeff asked.
“Sociology,” Audrey replied as she poked distractedly at her eggs.
“Cool. Mine is journalism.”
“Great.”
“Do you…have any favorite classes?” Jeff stammered.
“Only the ones that don’t meet so early in the morning,” Audrey said without looking up. She peered at her wristwatch and sighed.
“Leigh,” she said. “We have to beat feet. Spanish in 15 minutes.”
“Will I see you again?” Jeff asked as Audrey stood and pulled on her coat.
“I don’t know. Will you?” she said at last.
“I hope so. Maybe I’ll stop by Knowles Hall.”
“Okay,” Audrey said with a shrug. They quickly melted into the breakfast crowd and were gone.
Paul stabbed his fork at the space Leigh had formerly occupied. “I could do something with that lady.”
“Do something?”
“Yeah. We could spend a lot of time joined at the hip. I like her.”
“Audrey is cool, too.”
“Yeah. A bit of a fireplug, though. She could shed a few pounds.”
Jeff frowned. “Bullshit. She’s fine the way she is.”
“Whatever works, Jeff. You think she’s hot for you?”
“Not sure,” Jeff grinned. “I hope so.”
“Jeff’s in love!” Rich Runyon shouted as he clapped Jeff on the back. Jeff jumped from his chair, sending it skittering across the floor.
“God, I wish you wouldn’t do that!” he snapped. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear. Your secret is safe with me.”
Paul laughed as Jeff retrieved the chair and returned to his breakfast.
“Make it home okay last night?” Rich asked as he tossed his books on the table.
“Yeah,” Jeff replied as he chewed halfheartedly. “Thanks.”
Paul looked at Jeff with raised eyebrows. “You guys went out?”
“Did we ever!” Rich answered before Jeff could reply. “My friend Jeff and I stormed the Cavern to take in the Phourx. Great jazz from some guys who live in Aber Hall. We had a fine time, but I think Jeff had a bit too much fire water.”
Paul laughed. “Jeff? Drunk? It’s a sign of the apocalypse.”
“Poor guy spent a lot of time checking out the dry chewing gum under our table.”
“You should know better,” Paul said as he shook his head. “You and mind-altering substances never get along.”
“Enough!” Jeff said as he held up his hand. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Well,” Rich began as he picked up a nearby sugar dispenser, “I have something interesting to show you.”
“Not another butter joint,” Paul said.
“No. Watch.”
Rich waved the dispenser in the air like a wand. “What you see here is an ordinary jar of sugar, the type found in almost any diner. Note the fine cylindrical shape. That’s important.”
“Why?” Jeff sighed.
“Well, with a basic cylinder like this, the top looks much like the bottom when you remove the cap.” Rich unscrewed the stainless-steel lid and set it aside. He plucked a napkin from the table, draped it over the top of the jar and held it tightly.
“Follow closely,” he said with a wide grin. In a single quick motion, Rich flipped the jar and placed it upside down on the table. He withdrew the napkin carefully, then blew away any sugar granules that remained. With a triumphant flourish, he propped the cap on what was now the top of the sugar jar.
“Oh man!” Paul giggled.
Jeff shook his head. “Rich, when someone picks up the sugar, it will all spill out the bot--”
“Yes indeed! They’ll have an instant avalanche of sweetness!”
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” Rich answered as he bounced out of his chair. “Because something compels me.”
Paul lowered his head and spoke in a stage whisper. “People are coming this way and I see coffee or tea on at least one tray. This would be a good time to leave.”
“Adios!” Rich called out as he skipped toward the door. Jeff and Paul hastily grabbed their books and followed.
“Slow down,” Paul whispered. “Just a moment.”
Jeff opened his anthropology textbook and pretended to search through the pages. “Find what you’re looking for?” Paul asked with mock concern.
Jeff glanced back at the table. “Not quite yet.”
“Start heading for the exit,” Paul said.
The steel doors opened with a blast of cold air and stinging snow. “Shit!” someone yelled. “Who fucked with the sugar? God damn it!”
The doors closed on a roar of applause.
Chapter 4
KRAP
At first, there was a rumble like distant thunder in the dormitory hallways. Then came the shouts.
“Streaking women!”
Paul threw down his book and leaped for the door. Jeff was close behind. Paul took one step into the hallway, then stumbled backward just in time. A stream of humanity, filling the entire width of the hall and extending out of sight around the corner into Duniway, shot past their door at breakneck speed.
“Jesus!” Paul cried.
They waited for the mob to pass, then joined it at the tail end, running as fast as possible to keep up. The screaming testosterone-fueled multitude burst through the lobby doors and fanned out across the field between Craig Hall and the distant journalism building.
Jeff and Paul tried an end-run around the crowd to get a glimpse, but were rewarded with only the dwindling bare backsides of three fleeing women.