Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Van Halen

    The first thing to greet me outside my dorm was the sound of Judas Priest bursting through Drew’s bedroom door. That was decidedly not great, since he only played loud music when he needed to destress. The crunch for his finals next week must have been getting to him, the poor guy. 

 

It didn’t take me long to come to the conclusion that we could both use a nice breakfast. One less thing on Drew’s mind, and one more on mine. I’d already written everything that happened in the dream in excruciatingly thorough detail. I needed to buy time to think this over. 

 

    N: I’m swinging by the store fr food, want anything

 

    D: Strawberry Milk

 

    N: That bad? D:

   

    D: I’m having a whole thing today, lol

    N: If ur sure, I don’t mind I jus thought you swore it off

    D: I could use comfort more than staying fit rn
   
    N: I getcha, I’ll be back soon

 

Neither of us had a car, but the store was only ten minutes away, and I could always use the exercise. Drew ran, I lifted. Groceries, that is, and no more than a backpack and carrying bag could handle. Not like our crappy dorm fridge had much capacity beyond that anyway. Trips were a semi-weekly occurrence for me to handle, voluntarily, as it gave me a lot of time to myself. I needed that right now more than ever. 

 

One recurring thought of last night had been hitting me in waves: It felt so good. The lights, the dance, the kiss… but what scared me was how good I felt being someone else. Being Andrea wasn’t just pleasant, it was easy. No matter how out of her element, she was graceful, charming, and knew just what to say. She had personality and a presence, and I was just borrowing it. The more I dwelled on it, the larger the well of guilt became. I’d stuffed it by the time I left the store, but the shame lingered.

 

When I got home, some poor song was still locked in there with Drew, pounding on the doors to be released. I flipped on the stovetop and set about making my Half-assed Hog Wild omelet. A few years back a friend of mine took me out to a restaurant and ordered something called the Hog Wild for the both of us. The place closed down last year, and I’ve been chasing that cholesterol high ever since. I’ve done one thing differently in every attempt since my first. I made it for Drew once when we moved in together, and he loved it. I hadn’t made it again until now. 

 

Two plates, two omelets, and one thing left to do: Knock on his door. With the side of the dish I gently bumped the door three times, and received no response. The music was clearly too loud. I recognized the song, and waited a short while before the guitar breakdown before trying to knock again. Just before I did, I heard a voice on the other end, softly weeping.

    “...Not enough. I can’t do it. I’m too far gone…”

 

Uh oh. Quickly I banged on the door again, and called out,
    “Hey, I’ve got breakfast!”

 

Stirrings, the sound of a throat clearing, and the stereo being shut off indicated that he’d gotten the message. I backed away from the door just a hair, but when the door swung back, he leaned forward more or less the same distance. He was slightly shorter than me, looking up with his long hair in his face likely to hide the signs of crying. He was just wearing one long, black T-shirt that went down below his hips. His legs were pale, almost slender, and they ended in short black ankle socks.

Until he cleared his throat again, I hadn’t realized I was staring. Trying to play off the embarrassment, I darted my eyes around and said,

    “Seemed like you… were having a day. So I made that special dish you liked.”

 

He seemed to be lost for a moment, staring at me, then the food, before his eyes lit up, and he said “Oh the omelet? Yeah, that was so good last time.”

Bashfully, I said, “well, I still can’t get it quite like the original.”

 

“It doesn’t need to be,” he said, taking the dish out of my hand, “You’ve got a gift for this you know.”

He took the plate as fast as his exhausted little frame could handle, and started digging in with all the vigor of a starved hiker. 

 

I nervously smiled, and said “Thanks - Oh, I almost forgot, let me get you the-”

    “No worries, I’ll grab it!” He cut me off, heading for the fridge to grab his drink. He bent down to grab from the lower shelf, and I turned away just in time to keep his modesty intact.  “Whoa, you got me the half gallon?”

    “Yeah, they were out of the little bottles…”

    “I don’t mind, I’ll just save more for later.” He said, with a kind of verbal wink, as he sauntered past me and back to his room, and I watched him gingerly place the plate at his desk. I noticed the coffee cup from last night, still half full of lukewarm coffee, and that weird symbol on the side. I brought up my left hand and compared them. Mine was only just beginning to fade, with every fork and strange end still visible.

 

He turned back to me and asked, “So what did you change this time?”

 

“Well,” I said, getting a forkful ready for myself, “I added the chives just before the eggs solidified instead of at the beginning. No fennel in the sausage, either.”

I looked back to see him smiling that funny half smile of his from under all of that messy hair. Suddenly I was reminded again of his potential partial nudity, and I reached for the doorknob. His smile was disarmed somewhat, before muttering  another thanks.

Just before I closed the door, I said “You know, this omelet wasn’t very good the first several times I made it. It’s never too late to keep trying.”

He turned to look at me lightning fast, then looked me up and down. He didn’t seem offended, far from it. More like shocked. I took that to mean I did well and closed the door until I heard a soft click. The rest of the day was overcast and contemplative. Drew kept the stereo on, and played something a little more hopeful. I didn't recognize the song, but I caught a few cheesy lyrics from under my headphones, and in the end, on dreams we will depend. Who was I to give advice to Drew when my own dreams were eating me alive and giving me an identity crisis?

 

    6 PM eventually rolled around, bringing me right back to work. Astra and I had closing shift again, but tonight was slightly busier than usual. The number of patrons who seemed wasted and were ordering food near midnight was higher than ever, so we assumed it was easy to assume there must have been a party nearby. Astra seemed content to make fun of the drunk customers, but all I could think about was how I could be having a social life right now if I just had my life together. What exactly it was that wasn’t ‘together’ was still up for debate, and I debated all night.

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The guys that came in were obnoxious, as usual, but tonight they drunkenly reveled in it. Some of the women that accompanied them seemed to laugh at every slurred thing they said. I asked Astra if loudly moaning for midnight pastries was something women really found charming, and she looked at me like I was crazy.

 

Between sighs, she said, “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Noah. I like talking with you because you’re not like that. Besides, I can’t speak for women that date men.”

 

    “Uh- Oh yeah, thanks, I- wait, what?” I said in the middle of my brain’s fatal runtime error. Astra just peered at me with a sly grin from over her glasses while I reran that in my head several more times.

She gave up waiting, then said “Yes, I date women — and Enbies— was that the math you were working out?”

 

I nodded despite now having more questions than answers. She gave me a look of mostly satisfaction, then she turned her head and said,“Hey don’t gawk, two more of my wicked kin come this way.”

 

That was an admittedly hard instruction to follow. Both women were dazzling in their own right. One tall goth in a black velvet skirt and combat boots, the other a much shorter, pink pastel skirted blonde with matching highlights. As they stepped forward, they were laughing about something, and I’d dreaded the thought that they somehow heard what Astra said. I held on tight to the register and asked if they had an order in mind. 

 

    “Hmmm,” Said the tall goth in faux contemplation, “I’m not sure about myself, but I know what she wants.”

The Pastel girl shot her a look of confusion, and I just about gave her the same look. 

    The Goth continued,“She’s after something dark, sugar coated, and topped with lots of cream.”

    “Oh, I can get you started on an Arabica dark roast mocha, those are pretty sweet. Maybe drizzle some caramel on top if you’d… like…?” I managed to blurt, before noticing that Pastel girl was beet red and looking straight down. I’d wondered if I said something to offend her, then goth gave me this strange look of approval, like I was in on some joke. 

 

    “I think that sounds,” said Goth with dramatic emphasis, “Like a wonderful way to start the night.”

 

Unsure of how to proceed other than act like this exchange was normal, I reached for a 20 ounce cup and looked to her for approval. She nodded. 

“What’s the name on this one…?” I said, my back turned to them. 

 

“Monica. You can put that on the cup, too.” 

 

I caught the muffled sounds of a giggle, followed by a shove as I was changing out the drip. It wasn’t nearly as hard to hear their whispered knock it off’s and oh please’s over the whipped cream nozzle as they may have thought. I still couldn’t quite piece together what exactly the joke was, until I recalled what Astra said: Wicked kin.

 

Did she know them? Were they friends, classmates, or roommates; Did they practice magic too? I was probably overcomplicating all of this, I’m sure she was just othering me the same way I must have been othering her, and generalizing women with that question I asked. Being seen as ignorant, particularly of women, was something I deeply feared. Astra’s comment being a tongue-in-cheek recompense for that slight seemed a small price to pay.

 

These two, however, troubled my conscience. Astra knew me, tolerated me for some reason, but I couldn’t have total strangers knowing how awful I am. I straightened out my posture and put on my best cheery barista face in time to see them retract from a kiss. On the lips. With their faces, and everything. Oh. Oh I’m an idiot.

 

My heart skipped a beat, and I pretended to forget a straw while I got my shit together. This kind of reaction was exactly the last thing I needed, and it frustrated me to no end. Of course they’d think I was a bigot or a weirdo if I went wide eyed at a simple kiss. I took a deep breath and put the top on the over whip-creamed drink and brought it to the register. I rang them up without any incident, and watched as they took a seat across the room. 

 

I hated myself for every second of it, but I found myself trying to sneak glimpses of them frequently. Wistful stares, holding hands from across the table, legs rubbing gently against each other underneath; It was like I was living their romance vicariously, but from a dumpster. If Astra caught me staring, she never said anything about it.

She did say something else, though, and it caught me off guard.

    “Hey, Noah, what do you plan on doing when school is over?” She said, somewhat melancholy.

It took me my customary five seconds to register that she was addressing me, and another ten to really form a response. The truth was, beyond getting a degree for a decently paying job, I didn’t have one. Infact, just planning that far ahead was something of a whole debacle for me. I talked with counselors until they squeezed some semblance of a plan out of me, but it still felt like I was just going through the motions.

    “I guess get  scooped up by a comp-” I started, before just her glare cut me off.

    “No, no no. Not that line, my capital-poisoned child. What I mean is,” she said with a sigh, “What are you going to do with yourself? What will you spend time on, passionately? Who will you do that with? What kind of person are you going to be?”

The breath in my lungs turned to a solid block of ice, and I stared, wide eyed at the abyss behind her. She said something just now in the same way that someone else had, a long time ago. The same tenderness and concern as her, probably some of the same words, too. Who was it?

    “I wish someone would tell me,” I blurted out.

A pause, then Astra nodded low, and stepped aside to give me a better view of that abyss. Occasionally I took a moment to gaze over at those girls and wonder what it must be like: to know what you want, and have it. With someone else.

 

By the time the couple left, it was forty-five minutes until my lunch break. It stretched to three hours in my mind, and Astra did seem to catch wind of that. When I got to the break room, my pillow was already set out. The implication being that she fished it out of my locker, but I found it to be less of a breach of privacy and more an endearing gesture.

I got my dream journal out, laid it beside me, and fell asleep in a matter of minutes. What happened after couldn’t be explained as coincidence, or an overactive imagination. The mysterious woman came back, and this time, she told me her name and address. 

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