Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 02:33:06 -0500
From: Mustapha Mond <xmustaphamondx@hotmail.com>
Subject: Very Little Fanfare - Chapter II

Very Little Fanfare
Chapter 2

Mustapha Mond

Disclaimer: Suffice it to say, you have been warned.


	The mystery letter in the library stuck in my brain so, naturally,
I made a point of staying the hell away from that place.  Happiness, even
in the dimmest, most remote conception, had me like a steak to a starving
vegan: it might just save my life, but after so long without it, I couldn't
imagine sinking my teeth in, tasting that blood like it was a new thing.
The days got warmer so I went down by the river instead; there's a running
path that starts at 125th and stretches down further than you can see; in
the northern sections slate gray boulders climb out of the water and into
the manicured grass.  I would perch myself among these and read.  Joggers,
bikers, strollers, lovers, all invisible behind me.  My eyes were full of
endlessly inked words, and the sober river beyond, and Jersey yet further,
apartments climbing over that hill there, factories hidden just beyond but
for their chemical plumes like puffy cowlicks over the crest.  When the sun
sank its light caught in the troughs in the water and burned magenta, plum,
neon intense and blinding.  That was my signal to go home.  I switched the
lights on each time to find the same glovebox room, chipped paint, dusty
surfaces, darkness in between my books, under my desk, between the
splintering slats on my bed...
	Once a week I ate with my friend Steph, who was maybe my only real
friend.  And it wasn't really once a week - only once a week when she
wasn't too busy, or hung over, or strung out to leave her room.  We got
lucky a few days after the library incident; our schedules checked and so I
walked down to an Eritrean place we both knew.  Days were getting longer,
which was a curiously mixed feeling: it was unburdening, but at the same
time it annoyed me that everything should be revitalized while I was mired
in languorous purgatory.  Regardless, it was well nighttime by the time we
convened. Steph had a table by the window.  I watched her for a second
through the green glass before I went in.  Her face looked sallow, her hair
was dirtier and wilder than usual, and she was holding her fingertips over
the small candle's flame until she winced and had to draw them back.  I was
going to tell her she looked like shit but she beat me to it.  "You look
like shit.  Worse than I've ever seen you.  What's eating you, Gilbert?"
	"Can we just eat?  I don't feel talkative.  And you look like hell
yourself, darling.  Aren't there any damn waiters in the place?  I don't
know why we come here."
	"I already ordered."  She gave me some smug grin.  Her lips
cracked.  "So let's have story time while we wait."
	"It's nothing.  Just some bullshit."
	"Whatever you say, mon amor."
	Her cell phone went off but she didn't answer cause I was there.
But she also didn't shut it off; we had to wait the full cycle, and then a
second time when whoever tried again.  If there had been anyone else there
they would probably have been pissed.  Steph never noticed.  That's why I
hung out with her sometimes.
	"So," I said.
	"Yeah."
	"It's just some little thing, you know.  Not even worth a story."
	"I'm all ears."
	"So I'm in the library.  Studying.  Last Saturday, probably
midnightish."
	"You poor thing," she said, just as a soft Eritrean rock song came
on the speakers.  "You should have called me, I had a little extra coke
that night and was feeling generous.  We could have had a party you and me,
got trashed, watched some Fulci.  Would have taken the edge off."
	"Yeh, well, I like my pain.  Biggest and best thing this body will
ever birth.  Drugs would be like killing my children."
	"So then."  She poured some wax onto the table and we both dipped
our fingertips in really quick.  We both breathed deep, once, then that
little pain was gone too.
	"So then.  Christ, it's nothing really.  I guess I fell asleep, and
when I woke up there was this note."
	Steph looked at me suddenly sharp and poised, her left eyebrow
hiked up.  Her hands were spread like she was going to cast a spell, but it
was really to let the wax dry.
	"A note, huh."
	"Note, yup."
	"So, this note says what, now?"
	"Just, you know, blah blah blah.  You're in my space, fucker,
something.  Oh and that I was really cute and whoever hoped to see me
again."
	"Awwww," she said, reaching over and grabbing my hands.  "You poor
fucker, moping around like this.  And nothing worse than a creepy stalker
chasing you down in the library."
	"Fuck you."
	"Seriously though.  If losing all hope is freedom, then you just
got some chains clamped down, son.  Still, James was a looong time ago."
	I glared at her, until we saw the waitress coming with our huge
platter, swaying her hips and singing lightly to the music.  Then wax
fingertips were hurriedly rolled off and swept onto the floor; even the
jaded get embarrassed when caught misbehaving.  We tore hunks of sour
pancake bread and dipped in into pools of mystery goo, and let the
conversation move on.
	It was cold by whatever time I began walking home, and whatever
warmth the food and company had filled me with fled down alleyways and into
the bitter wind, blown among scraps of newspaper, candy wrappers, napkins,
plastic packaging, cigarette packs.  I retreated into my hood and watched
the ground as I walked.  I had already decided to skip school the next day.
School was itself too many excuses; doing things, getting out, was just
closing my eyes to the rusty cogwheels sparking in my mind, grinding their
gears down, wearing out.  I passed one of my roommates but pretended like I
didn't hear his greeting.  All those kids are fucking scoobs anyway.  The
elevator was broken; climbing up the steps, I stomped on a cockroach and
felt a burst of joy.
	And then, there, on my whiteboard.  I recognized the handwriting
immediately, such is the way of memory.  Ugly, playful letters, like
cursive but more just sloppy script, vertical lines stretched to the
breaking point:

	Sorry for the stalking bit, but I got bored with waiting at the
library.  I can't get you out of my mind.  Lord, I hope you're into guys.
R

	I looked around.  "R" wasn't there.  I opened my door slowly, at
arm's length, like they do when they know the killer is in the house, but
it was quickly, painfully obvious that he wasn't hiding in my closet.  Or
in my bed.  How nice that would have been.  And for a moment I dropped my
resistance and let my imagination take hold, saw the shadows fall such that
there was almost a lump in the center, man sized, rising and falling with
gentle breath, then stirring, rolling over even in sleep, and then his eyes
open, those golden, beautiful eyes...
	I lay in bed but couldn't sleep.  My skinny college mattress never
seemed so big: it was like a desert, stretching on miles past my
fingertips, bare and lonesome, not even a polished cattle skull to gleam in
the sun...or the nighttime...
	Then somebody knocked on my door.  Nobody ever knocks on my door.
All I could see was a green glowing 3:30.  A.M.  Jesus.  "Coming," I
croaked, hopped out of bed, fished around on the floor until I found some
pants, and finally answered the door.
	Standing there was a boy I had never seen before.  I didn't
understand the look on his face until he spoke.
	"Hi," he said.  "I'm Rich.  As in, the creep who left the message
on your door.  I was gonna let it simmer for a while, but a few minutes ago
I said, fuck it, I can't sleep anyway..."
	"Oh," was all I could think to say.

***

Mustapha sez: Well isn't this exciting!  I sure can't wait to find out what
happens next!  I gotta say, though, don't expect this kind of speed in the
future.  You'll be lucky if I get one installment out a month.  Anyway,
thanks to all you guys who wrote me (however brief said comments may have
been...*cough*); without such inspiration, I get bored writing pretty
quickly.  Fortunately, it looks like my recent boy-related bizarreness
(read: absolute dearth of boyfriends, sigh) has been augmented by losing
one of my oldest and dearest friends (not death, just loss), so there'll be
plenty of angst to go around.  Comments and platitudes are welcomed at
XmustaphamondX@hotmail.com.  I wonder if any of you scholarly gents get the
quasi-scholarly reference...