Notre Dame Scholastic November 1982
The room is plain. The walls are cinder block, decorated by one poster of Kermit the Frog with last year’s playmate of the year. “Lucky frog,” every guy always says. “Wonder where Jim Henson’s other hand is?” Everyone laughs and everyone asks for another beer. Party party.
Tonight, though, is Wednesday, the room is fairly quiet with the door shut. The room holds two beds—one made, one unmade—with a desk at the end of each bed. Two mosquitoes hover over the only light. (The other lamp has an expired bulb.) In one desk chair sits a sandy-haired freshman, phone handle cradled on his shoulder, hands grinding the sweat from his palms into his jeans. Leaning forward. Listening.
On the bed, back to the wall sits Fred, sniffing, with his knees tucked under his chin. He is not breathing well.
The screw-your-roommate is Saturday.
The dogbooks came out Monday.
But Blatz did not know about the Monday issue, so he had to wait until Tuesday to fall in love with Melanie—twenty-first page, row three, column two: Dancing, Painting, Playing the flute. Melanie. Melanie. Melanie.
Blatz listens, still rubbing his jeans. The other end rings a third time. He wonders if flautists really are inherently excellent kissers.
“Sure they are,” Dan the senior had told him. “Their lip muscles are always firm— you know, well-developed.” It made sense.
The phone is answered, “Hello.” Two syllables to stop the charging heart of man as he forgets what to say. A voice. Alas, the female voice.
“Hello?” Blatz remembers, rubbing off layers of skin. “My name is Fred.”
Actually Blatz’s name is Blatz; Fred is his roommate. Fred sleeps in the made bed he is presently cowering on. Fred could not call Melanie for the screw-your-roommate this Saturday, as he tends to hyperventilate when speaking to girls. Thus, Blatz has resorted to calling a girl for himself in the name of his roommate, Fred.
“Our dorm is having a screw-your-roommate this Saturday,” says Blatz, “so I was just wondering if you would go with him—him, my roommate. His name is Blatz Cartigan; I think you guys have the same Econ class.”
* * *
“I’d love to go!” says Barbara, sitting up off her giant, fuzzy, yellow Woodstock.
This room is neat, for now. The walls are plaster, decorated with oriental paintings from K-Mart, a big calendar of November with the first sixteen days crossed out, two posters of The Clash, one of New York, and a wall clock; the big hand tells the hour and the little hand tells the minute. Some obnoxious junior from her Latin class changed them at the last happy hour. Happy happy.
“Actually,” Melanie thinks, looking at the clock, “pouring vodka in the goldfish bowl and killing Moby was the obnoxious thing—changing the hands on the clock was sort of cute. So was the junior.” She looks back to Barbara on the phone.
“Hold on a second,” says Barbara into the phone. Covering the mouthpiece she whispers to Melanie, “Car-ti-gan… with a ‘C’ I guess.” Melanie is already passionately racing through the dogbook which was starred, double starred, and occasionally triple starred after hours of heated debate at the section meeting last Monday night.
* * *
On the other end, Blatz hisses to Fred, “She says she would love to go!” Fred starts coughing and gnawing on his right knee. Blatz has given up thigh-rubbing for phone cord-shaking—violent phone cord-shaking.
Both males are elated—Blatz, because he has procured a date; Fred, because Blatz has procured a date. A girl. An actual girl.
* * *
Flip. Flip. Flip. “You think he might spell Cartigan with a ‘K’?” Melanie whispers.
“I don’t know,” Barbara whispers back. “Hurry.”
“Well you already said yes!”
* * *
Suddenly, but subtly and quietly, something knocks at the back of Blatz’s celebrating brain. … Tap. Tap. Tap. “Excuse me, old sport,” says a sudden realization in Blatz’s head, “but is this our love, Melanie, on the phone? Did we ask for her? I don’t think we did. This could be a roommate or a friend. Did we even dial the right number?”
“Wait a second,” utters Blatz, his hands still over the mouthpiece.
“What’s wrong?” asks Fred in between gnaws and breaths.
Blatz panics and hangs up.
Fred is cured. “Why did you do that?”
“I forgot to ask for Melanie,” says Blatz. “What if that wasn’t her who wanted to go?”
“But you gave your name.”
“Yeah, but I’m not even in the dogbook. They’ll never catch me. I’ll deny the whole thing.”
* * *
“I can’t find him,” says Melanie.
“He hung up.”
“He what?”
“He hung up.”
“Well you kept your hand over the phone long enough. He was probably insulted.”
“I bet it was just another joke.”
“Sick joke.”
“Stupid boys.”
“Yeah, stupid boys.”
* * *
“Women!”
“Who needs ’em?” says Fred.
Blatz gazes ahead at the two mosquitoes floating over the desk lamp. Then he stares past them towards the approaching winter, and on past towards seven dances, many parties, an almost relationship, and a girl for one night in Florida. Blatz, the socialite.
Fred is exhausted. He, too, stares at the mosquitoes, then on past towards only one try, a disaster, and on past to peace in the computer building.
* * *
Barbara hangs up the phone.
Melanie goes to the calendar on the wall and crosses out this day in November. She then goes back to the dogbook on her desk. Flip. Flip. Flip.
Barbara returns to her giant Woodstock and curls up for a long winter’s nap.
Jeb Cashin is a senior English major from Atlanta, Georgia. This is his first contribution to Scholastic