Growing Up Wired by David Wallace Fleming

Author:David Wallace Fleming [Fleming, David Wallace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-12-20T06:38:41+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

FRAT PARTY, PART 2 OF 3, PURGATORY

It seemed to me that the crowd had thinned considerably in the past twenty minutes; enough to take two steps freely.

Now, check this out right here because I’m not kidding around. There’s something special and intimidating and wondrous about when everything falls into place. I’m talking about when the heredity of maybe a hundred rich, intelligent men find a hundred desirable, dark haired, dark skinned Mediterranean women, each one perfecting on the last and they make a girl that wears the finest clothes of her day. A pair of flesh enhancing, dark denim jeans showing long, slender curves and a tight lavender sweater with every ridge and seam of her lacy bra beneath revealing the intricacy and history of her body. Her breasts looked like large, red apples—you know? the dark red kind that farmers grow with steroids and still taste extra sweet.

I remember her from my freshman year. Her name was Emily. I was sure of it. Freshman year, I had won over one of her friends at a small frat party. This friend of hers—Shannon was her name—she led me over to Emily for the obligatory, girl-to-girl approval. Emily gave me a quick once-over and then spoke only to Shannon.

Emily had committed the ultimate affront. She had taken me down a peg. My drunken mission was lucent and unquestionable: Get that peg back. Plus APR interest.

Just then, she weaved through the crowd surrounding the DJ bar, flinching and furrowing her brow as she pressed her way through the incidental body contact. She wasn’t wearing a wristband. She said five words to the barback and got her silver beer, stowing it in her small black purse. Then, she bee-lined for an opening in the crowd near the side wall. She examined the crowd with the aloofness of a swimming instructor, supervising five-year-olds.

I slapped some letter-jacket-wearing collegiate wrestler on his back to let him know I was coming through. I came into the opening with my eyes on her. She wouldn’t notice me.

She fiddled in her purse and from her facial expressions the Marlboro Light was entitled to her before it rested on her lips.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.

She didn’t look up, she turned her head. We were the same height. A small fluorescent light, duct-taped above us, lit her face. She was so beautiful. She had a haughty look of youth in her stares and her coyly parted lips—full and crimson with a lavender tinge. I could picture her flipping Father Time the bird as she sun bathed with no-SPF banana oil, outstretched in a white string bikini and smoking one of her Marlboros.

“Why do you smoke cigarettes?” It was an honest question.

“Okay, mom,” she said. Her voice was raspy and sweet. I wanted to know what she sounded like in the morning or after a long, afternoon nap.

“It’s just a question.” I said. “You probably don’t remember me.” I looked at her. “You don’t, do you?”

“No.” She glanced me over.

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