Beware of Love in Technicolor (19 page)

Topher had his head down, and was rooting through his pockets to find something. I gazed out across the scraggly, thin grass to John in the huddle in front of us. I could hear his laugh above all the others, and I could tell by the tone he was no longer sober. I smiled to myself. I found I had a soft spot for the goofiness in him when he let his guard down.

“Here,” Topher said, handing something to me in the dark. It was a small brass pipe, stuffed with marijuana. He handed me a lighter.

I held the illicit item in my hand, feeling the weight of the metal in my palm. It was warm from being in Topher’s pocket. I hesitated, not knowing exactly what to do. I wanted to smoke it. The curiosity was getting to the point of unbearable. It had always been so easy to say “no” when it was more theoretical than actual; but in this new world of mine, it was the norm rather than the exception. But if I did smoke it, did that make me a hypocrite? Would it make me weak? What exactly was my problem with it, anyway?

“Something wrong?” Topher asked. I realized I was holding things up.

I put the pipe to my lips, and struck the lighter. I had watched John and his friends closely for the past few weeks, and had some idea what I was doing.

“Pull gently on it,” he guided. “You don’t want to cough. That’s it, inhale a little smoke, hold it, and blow it out.”

I did as he instructed, and exhaled a stream of curling white smoke into the chilly night. The taste in my mouth was earthy and skunky, and a tiny bit metallic. Less offensive than a cigarette, though. I handed the pipe back to Topher and watched as he took his hit.

We passed the pipe back and forth a couple of times, and I waited to feel different.

“How are you doing?” he asked me as he tapped the ash out of the pipe. Though he was sitting right next to me, he sounded about a million miles away. I looked at him. I waited for his eyebrows to turn into butterflies and fly away. I smiled.

“You’re high,” he said, laughing.

“I think you’re right,” I said. My lips felt like Silly Putty.

He stuffed the pipe full again, and this time took the first turn.  I watched as John disengaged from the group of guys, and began walking toward us. It felt like I was watching a movie, out there in the woods. Though I watched him approach, he startled me when he spoke.

“What are you two giggling about over here?” he asked, taking a seat on my left just as Topher handed the pipe to me. John motioned to take it from me, as if it was just passing by.

“Not so fast,” I scolded. Topher laughed to himself.
              “I think I may have gotten your girlfriend high,” he blurted out.

“Is that so,” John asked slowly. I could practically hear him raise his right eyebrow at us.

“That is so,” I answered. I took another hit, held it in, and exhaled. I handed the pipe to John.

“Nicely done,” he said. He lit the pipe, and I watched the orange glow of the burning weed in the bowl.

“I like watching fire,” I said, stonily. John handed Topher’s pipe back to him, and gently turned my head to the left. My eyes refocused, and I was looking at the bonfire raging about twenty-five yards from where we sat.

“Oooohhhhh,” I said quietly, watching the flames perform acrobatics for the crowd. John fell off the log, laughing. In the distance, we heard the low whistle of an approaching train.

“Train! Train!” Jared began yelling, running in crazy loops in front of us. His drunken frenzy whipped the rest of the guys into a tizzy, and they all began running down to the edge of the embankment. John unfolded himself from the ground near my feet, brushed the dead grass off his jeans, and ran to join his buddies.

The ground beneath me began to shake, and the rattle of the oncoming B&M grew louder, drowning out the strumming guitar and the chorus of
Big Yellow Taxi.
Suddenly, the train began whooshing by, streaking through the party on its way south to Boston and beyond. It felt like I could reach out and touch the speeding, silver bullet, though I must have been sitting at least twenty yards from the tracks.

“I’m thirsty,” I said to nobody in particular. “And hungry. And my ass is damp from sitting on that tree.”

John, back from chasing the train, placed another pipe in my hand. This one was made from wood, and was long and smooth. He stepped over to Topher, and spoke in a low voice to him. I could not make out what he said.

“Stephanie!” John cried out to a girl no taller than me, with long, dark hair. Like down to her waist long hair, darker than my own. She wore the requisite hippie chick uniform of baggy overalls, thick, Peruvian knit sweater, and Birkenstocks with wool socks in the chilly, early spring night. With one arm around the girl’s shoulders, John walked her into our little group.

“This is my girlfriend, Greer,” he said, and I reached out and shook her hand and smiled at her and determined she was non-threatening in a sweet, hippie-chick sort of way. She was smiley and free with the weed she poked into the wooden pipe.

“And this is Topher,” he continued, smiling now, that Cheshire cat smile I always found so charming. “Have you met Topher?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she smiled and he smiled and Topher stepped forward and he smiled too, and I was high and smiling and it was all very friendly. When Stephanie and Topher were in a conversation about this new band that would be playing at the SUB, something about being like the Grateful Dead, of course, and being named after a fish, but not like, a regular fish, a fish with a P and an H and how he should really see them when they played, I knew it.

Non-threatening, my ass. Topher was going to go hippie on me and it was going to be this chick’s fault.

              John reached out and took my hands and pulled me to him, smiling and goofy and smelling like leather and beer in the crisp air of the cool green spring night. The sky was alive with stars, this far away from the light of campus or downtown, and the party seemed to be disbanding, or perhaps it was just our group because I could still hear the strumming of guitars and the warbling sounds from half the musical theater department.

             
“Pizza?” he said to me, and my ears pricked up like a dog at the thought of food.

             
“Let’s go back to my room and get Dominos,” he said, and just like that, we were on our way back down the railroad tracks. I became engrossed in watching my boots hit every other railroad tie as we walked quickly, and was enjoying listening to the ebb and flow of silly conversation just behind us. We reached campus faster than I expected, and waited just outside Harrison for the others to show up.

             
They arrived, looking like a weary group of traveling gypsies. Jared’s forehead and bottom lip had specks of dried blood where he had collided with a pricker bush in his attempt to “jump” the train, and the knee of his jeans was ripped. I hadn’t seen Patrick since we had arrived at Dole’s Farm, and he, like Topher, were not among the group who had returned to campus. Neither was Stephanie. John and I said our good-byes quickly, and began the second leg of our journey, back to Area 1.

***

             
“You still thinking about pizza?” John asked as we navigated the trails to the other side of campus.

             
“I can’t think about anything else,” I said.

             
“Did you have fun tonight?” he asked me.

             
“I like being high. I can’t believe you kept this from me this whole time,”I teased. He gave me a small, playful shove, then pulled me back to his side. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

             
“I love you,” he said.

             
“I love you, too.”

             
When we were back on the paved paths near the library, something black and shiny under the streetlamp caught my eye. I quickened the pace, and walked up to the object of interest. It was a broken VHS tape, its ribbon-like innards spilling out of a gash in its side. I liked the way the ribbon shone in the wash of light and broke off a long piece of the black tape. I began dancing and twirling the tape in long loops as we walked to the dorms.

             
To this day, I cannot watch rhythmic gymnastics during the olympics without thinking of the first night I got stoned.

***

              Spring finally blossomed that semester, and the raw and rainy days of early April gave way to nature’s more whimsical side. The dogwood trees around campus sprung forth with branches of perfect pink blooms, while the lilac bushes fragranced the air with their heady perfume. Frat Row was suddenly littered with volleyball nets and beat up ping pong tables on the front lawns of the once prestigious mansions, and the latest in pop music pumped through the windows of rooms all around town.

             
A few weeks had passed since the party at Dole’s Farm, and I was getting to know my new friend, MaryJane, quite well. I figured that being a bit silly was better than a bit slutty. I never kissed a strange boy or a married man when I was high, no matter how much I smoked. And I always remembered everything the next day. How on earth could this stuff be bad?

             
The next time I saw Stephanie was one mild evening when I attended an Elia Kazan double feature in one of the mid-size event rooms in the SUB.

             
“Greer,” I heard someone whisper loudly from the back of the room just as the lights dimmed and the opening credits for
A Streetcar Named Desire
flickered onto the screen.  I looked up and saw Topher sitting with the cute little hippie chick who was free with her weed. He smiled, and motioned for me to join them.

             
“Hi,” I said to them as I took a seat on a cold metal folding chair in their row.

             
“A Brando fan, huh?” Topher asked me, sitting between us, looking slightly uncomfortable, but unable to stop grinning.

             
“Nah, Karl Malden,” I answered with as straight a face as I could manage. Topher caught the joke, Stephanie did not.

             
“Karl who?” she asked, giggling in a whispered tone. “Is he cute?”

             
“Where’s John?” he whispered after rolling his eyes discreetly at Stephanie’s comment. She was clearly unschooled when it came to classic film. Luckily for her, it was her giggle and the way she tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder that got his attention, and not her knowledge of various silver screen legends. I held out a bag of Swedish fish and Sweet Tarts. He dug his hand in and I couldn’t help but think thoughts of days at the beach when he was that close.

             
It was my turn to roll my eyes.

             
“John and black and white movies just don’t seem to mix.”

             
“I guess we Karl Malden fans got to stick together,” he said. I liked that, and smiled at him, which earned me a smile that could brighten a darkened movie theater. We turned our attention to the film.

             
When the second movie,
On the Waterfront,
let out, it was getting late and there was a chill to the spring air. They were heading to Holt, second-long, so we walked together some of the way. I left them at the side door and continued my walk up the hill to Wyndham, where John was waiting for me on the stairs.

Chapter Ten

              John was a fall and winter kind of guy. His tall, thick frame made sense in black jeans, big boots, and black leather jacket; his Nordic features were at home in the pale light of the short, cold days bookending our more temperate seasons. But in the warmer weather now gracing New Hampshire with its presence, he stood out like a vampire at Disneyland.

             
Which is not to say he didn’t try. He attempted to lighten up with a pair of faded jeans and some new sneakers, but it just made him look like a recovered castaway, wearing somebody else’s clothing. His attitude regarding the heat of the season was anything but sunny. He found solace in the dim arcade jammed into a small storefront  along Main Street. Now that we had been together for a while, I was starting  to discover some of his less appealing habits, like pinball.

             
I didn’t like the dark and somewhat musty smell of the little hole in the wall. The sun was bright and warm outside.

             
“You need some quarters?” he asked without taking his eyes off his game.

             
“No, thanks. I got video games out of my system in sixth grade,” I teased. I waited around some more. I fidgeted. I leaned against the machine next to his and, and watched him intently. I looked back out the window. The bright sunshine was glinting off the windshields of passing cars, and students were walking by on the street with ice cream cones and iced coffees. I wanted out.