serhasacomplaint

Finally, the revised ending to Chapter One from Mahogany Slade, which introduces the characters Heather Aulds and Andy Razinski.

Saturday, I had brunch at Oglethorpe and agreed with my small intestine to never do so again. Afterward, I ventured over to the University Book Store and splurged on a hardback collection of poems by E.E. Cummings. I returned to find my door wide open and a short, stocky guy plugging in a computer. I’d been robbed of my privacy, inevitable but still disappointing.

Once he noticed me, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly.

“How ya doin’? I’m Billy.”

I knew this already. University Housing had sent me a mini‑dossier on him during the summer. Billy, actually William, was a sophomore Biology major from Smyrna. The dossier did not mention if he were a drug fiend, a slob, or a kleptomaniac, so I was unprepared to make friends with him.

“I bought a phone,” he said.

I hadn’t seen the need for one myself. He patted down his oily black hair. I was glad we’d shaken hands prior to this.

“You have a TV?”

“I don’t watch TV,” I replied.

“Wow. Well, I’ve got a small set at home. I’ll bring it up next week.”

He said this magnanimously, which irritated me. I didn’t mind his having a TV but he shouldn’t make it seem as if he were doing me a favor.

“You must get up early.” He sat on his unmade bed. “We got here about 10 and you were up and out already.” There was an awkward silence; the room shrank the more I contemplated having to see him every day for thirty weeks.

“Hey.”

A stringy‑haired blonde stood in the doorway; her torso obscured by two Styrofoam containers. She looked so confused and out of place I thought she was lost.

“I parked in a staff spot,” she said, bouncing briefly beside Billy. “Do you think I’ll get a ticket?”

“Nah,” he reassured her, taking the top container. “They don’t start giving out tickets until Monday.”

“Oh good.” Her drawl reminded me of the Confederate flag hanging in the room across the hall. “Daddy’ll kill me if I get another ticket.”

Billy introduced us, and she curled her fingers at me: “Hey,” she repeated. It now felt like I had two roommates.

Billy popped open his plate. The aroma of grease and something approximating chicken filled the room.

“You know, I shouldn’t eat this,” she whimpered. “I heard there are 3,000 calories in each meal.”

“Yeah, well, you better watch it.” He dipped a chicken finger into a cup of brown sauce. “You’re getting fat.” He pinched her non‑existent hips.

“Stop it!” she giggled, exposing her dental history. She still wore braces, which made me wonder if she were even old enough to drive alone at night.

Their escalating displays of affection and the smell of fried chicken expelled me from the room. It was only a little after 1, so the lounge was deserted and the TV set blissfully turned off. I settled into an armchair and read Cummings in peace until I heard a girl call out, “Jesus H., Razinski, is this really where you live?”

The voice could shatter glass, not like a soprano but more like a bat‑wielding thug during a riot.

“It’s not so bad,” her companion defended through a full mouth. “There’s a computer lab.”

“Whatever. Just grab your stuff and let’s go.”

My interest in the conversation having waned, I returned to somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond, when a green‑nailed hand, reminiscent of Sally Bowles, snatched the book from me.

“Shit, this is really Cummings. I thought you were reading porn under there.”

Despite her best efforts, which included a nose ring and shoulder‑length hair the color of bread mold, the new owner of my book was undeniably attractive. Her athletic build, obscured only by a “Fuck Tha Police” tank top, and complexion, just a few shades lighter than mine, exuded good health, belying the cigarette dangling from a mouth set in perpetual sneer.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

I assembled an answer as she stared down at me through blue, almost black, eyes that betrayed no emotion other than aggressive self-possession.

“You have a frat boy’s name,” she remarked contemptuously. “And wardrobe.” This was in reference to my neatly pressed khakis and blue dress shirt. “You didn’t rush, did you?”

Before I could answer, her companion returned, stating decisively that “only assholes rush” and that “anyone who rushed was an asshole,” which I considered redundant. He was a culmination of “if onlys.” If only he had more weight to distribute on his more than 6-foot frame. If only his eyes were set further apart from his paper‑thin nose. If only he tanned rather than reddened. If only he didn’t wear blue jean shorts that exposed legs usually seen in hieroglyphic figures.

“Carlton reads poetry.” She nudged one of his bony elbows with my book. “Frat boys usually stick with dirty limericks.”

“Carlton” was my last name. It was doubly problematic because my full name was the same as a character on a daytime soap opera. I was too old to be named after him, though, and such levity was not really in character for either of my parents. My last name was also the same as another character on a TV show who I was often told I resembled whenever I encountered another black student at school. This was not intended as a compliment. I remembered again how much I disliked TV.

“We’re going to Atlanta.” The imperious tone of her voice had me practically standing at attention. “You should come with us.”

I’m not sure why I left with her that day. Frankly, I think it was because she still had my book. Meanwhile, her companion, who introduced himself to me as Andy, stared hypnotically at the tattoo of a rabbit on her right shoulder blade. I thought it improper to examine more closely, but it looked like the rabbit was dead.

We followed her outside to Lumpkin Street, where a black Porsche was illegally parked next to a fire hydrant. She fished for a set of keys from the pocket of her faded combat fatigues. I briefly suspected the car had been stolen, so I sought to allay my fears with an offhand comment.

“Nice car.”

“Graduation present,” she said. I wore mine on my feet — an unfashionable but serviceable pair of sneakers. “You’re riding shotgun, Carlton, and because this is Georgia, you’ll be carrying an actual shotgun.”

She tossed my book in the back with Andy, who stretched across the seats to accommodate his height. I’d barely fastened my seat belt before she tore down Lumpkin.

My abductor’s name was Heather — at least that’s what Andy called her. I initially thought it was in jest. Heather was so normal a name that I imagined someone going so far as to alter themselves with green hair and a tattoo would start first by changing it.

Her full name, I learned, was Heather Jordan Butler Aulds. I discovered this through a surreptitious glance at her driver’s license when she asked me to rummage through her bag for a certain CD (Public Enemy, I think, or N.W.A. — either way, I found it unlistenable). The dramatic formality of her name shocked me less than the fact she actually had a license. She was an appallingly reckless driver: We made it to Atlanta in just under an hour, which was only possible if you ignored all traffic laws and a few related to physics. The music didn’t help: She’d periodically join the angry voice vibrating through the speakers and gyrate in her seat, her hands abandoning the wheel as I mentally prepared for a head-on collision. Seemingly unconcerned about his own mortality, Andy exchanged high fives with her during their shouted utterances of “bass,” “gang bang” and “motherland.”

I had passed my driver’s test on the eighth attempt — hand-eye coordination was not one of my more prominent traits — and drove like someone’s elderly grandmother, halting, nervous, with both hands on the wheel and the radio turned off. In contrast, I suppose Heather was less reckless than in complete control, like a stunt driver during a car chase scene.

The trip itself was sufficient exercise of whatever whim of Heather’s had motivated it. Once there, she rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses and declared, “What a dump!” Andy compared Atlanta unfavorably to Chicago, which he believed was the greatest city in the country — far better than New York, which was all “flash” and no “substance.”

“You’re thinking of L.A.,” Heather corrected. “Possibly Miami.”

“No, I meant – ”

“New York is more dirty and mean,” she said with finality. “Sort of skanky, actually.”

I’d never been to Los Angeles or Miami; my New York experience was limited to a school trip five years earlier, so I was more than pleased with Atlanta that afternoon. The Little Five Points neighborhood in particular had the Bohemian flair of the Greenwich Village I knew from movies, and compared to where I grew up, the streets teemed with the excitement of Times Square.

“Where you from, Carlton?” Heather said into a cupped hand she held over her mouth to guard against a rare but pleasant breeze as she lit a cigarette.

“Greenville.”

“Oh. Not much now but up and coming.” She sounded like my guidance counselor. “They’re building a BMW plant.”

The three of us wandered around in that uniquely youthful way that is defiantly oblivious to time. And when you happen to become aware of its passing, like the breeze on a late September afternoon, you just retrieve more from an almost limitless supply.

Hunger eventually directed us to Planet Bombay, my first exposure to Indian cuisine. The food was as spicy as Heather’s vocabulary. Every other word was a vulgarity, which, combined with her boisterous tenor, had me half-convinced we’d be asked to leave. She spoke like someone fluent in a language that wasn’t her own and impressed with her mastery of it.

Andy Razinski, meanwhile, said whatever was on his mind. He was an open book that screamed its contents into your ear. This was foreign enough to me to generate a consistent sense of discomfort. He made a lot of chest-thumping statements that I presumed were intended to impress Heather — either romantically or the way a puppy attempts to curry favor with its pack leader.

At one point, he asked me if I’d read Nietzsche. He said the name of the German philosopher as if he were a Founding Father, someone even the most average student should know intimately.

“No, I haven’t,” I said, slightly startled by the forcefulness of his question.

“You should read Thus Spoke Zarathustra,” he insisted. “For a start. It speaks to people like us.” He included Heather, who was as engaged in our discussion as someone at a bar casually checking the score of a game on the TV.

“Razinski was raised by hippies,” she said after seeming to realize we were still there. “That’s where all the philosophy comes from. It’s a waste of perfectly good pot.”

The waiter had chosen that precise moment to bring the check. He looked at me as if I might be Heather’s supplier. Andy continued:

“You know, basically Christians are herd animals.” This drew stares from the next table, which Andy ignored. “It’s as true now as it was then. You see it here with the Greek system, the way people join things, this need to belong to a collective.”

His fervor reminded me of the two girls I met after The Fisher King.

“Yankees are usually atheists.” Heather smirked at me from across the table. “I think it’s the weather.”

Andy was from Schaumburg, Illinois — just 30 miles north of Chicago but still what Heather derisively called “the ‘burbs.” He had confused her flippancy with earnestness, so he continued his efforts to convert her to his way of thinking.

“What’s your major?” Andy asked me suddenly, draining the last drop of Pepsi from a glass almost as tall as he was. Heather and I each sipped ice tea.

“Journalism.”

“Jesus H, Carlton. The J school here’s like fucking DeVry,” Heather snorted. “I’m surprised they don’t make you wear uniforms and name tags.”

This annoyed me.

“What are you studying?” I asked.

“History” was her response. “Like my mother before me.”

“What will you do with that?” I was genuinely curious. I didn’t see her as a teacher, and a History degree didn’t seem to offer many other alternatives.

Heather shrugged, as if it was of no consequence to her.

“For Karen, it was just a MRS degree.” Her parents were the only people she seemed to call by their first names. Her face grew suspiciously solemn: “Maybe I’ll discover a new century.”

“History is not very existential. You’re focused on the past, rather than the present.”

“You’re a fucking Philosophy major,” Heather said, not even bothering to raise her voice. That field of study, which I didn’t even know existed until just then, seemed less tangible to me than History. “Whatever, Razinski, we know you’re basically pre-law.”

This bit of stark reality seemed to silence Andy for a second — though I had no reason to believe it would last long. Neither did Heather, I think, because upon noticing the darkening sky through the window by our table, she declared it was time to leave.

Heather paid for our meals with a platinum credit card that gleamed so impressively on top of the check it could have been accepted as currency itself. I recall Miss Miller commenting once that she’d “sworn off plastic… at least until I get back to zero.” There apparently had been a “misunderstanding” involving an “ancient” student loan.

As Miss Miller had done multiple times over the summer, Heather waved off my attempts to pay for my share of the bill. “No worries,” she said as though she’d given me a stick of gum.

“We should do something,” she said listlessly as we walked down Moreland Avenue. Boredom lay in the dark shadows and back alleys and the only cure was the varied storefronts we passed. “What should we do?”

Fortunately, the “we” was not inclusive, because Heather suddenly turned and entered a tattoo parlor. They were about to close but Heather convinced them to remain open long enough to give her a third tattoo — this one on her waist and in the shape of the Black Power fist. I’d never before witnessed first-hand the persuasive effect of freely offered money.

Andy and I stood in a corner and watched this bizarre piece of performance art. At least I stayed there until Andy started up again on Nietzsche, herd animals, and slave morality — all very sophisticated gibberish. I excused myself and sat on a stool next to Heather, as the tattooist completed his work. She chain-smoked Marlboro Reds during the procedure, which despite my limited knowledge of the process struck me as unwise.

Attempting to pass the time and still hungry after dinner, I ventured to learn more about the person who I’d just met a few hours ago. I only got out of her that she was born and raised in Atlanta before she insouciantly declared, “You ask very probing questions, Carlton.”

The day had encouraged me to respond, “That’s why I came to DeVry.”

Heather’s laughter forced the tattooist to stop until she settled down. The resulting profanity directed at me felt somewhat like applause or a very bawdy welcome mat.

She dropped Andy and me off at Myers shortly after midnight. As her Porsche disappeared into the darkness, I realized my book was still in her backseat.

Walking from the parking lot to the Quad, Andy suggested we exchange numbers, and he explained how he would mentally store mine by thinking of it as “fourteen ninety three” rather than “1‑4‑9‑3.” “I never have to use the phone book,” he boasted. His way was the mark of a lateral thinker, the other the province of the linear thinker. He had a whole complex theory about the inflexibility of linear thinkers through which I politely smiled and nodded. I wasn’t sure if he was a lateral thinker because that was the superior method or if he only thought it was the superior method because he was a lateral thinker.

On our way inside, I happened to notice a red glow coming from the third-floor window just beneath mine. I remember absently waving goodbye to Andy while standing there gazing at it with the same intensity that he’d given Heather’s shoulder blade on several occasions throughout the day. At the time, I couldn’t have told you why I was so drawn to it, but I didn’t go back to my room until it was gone.