Inconstant Moon - Default Font Edition (36 page)

Oscar asks, “Brainstorm our own what?”

“Maybe we come up with an add-on for Firefox or a game or something. Create our own, do it all open source, and if we can get it together maybe we can get it bundled with the next Ubuntu distro.”

Krystal grins. “Holy cow, what an awesome idea. I like it. Count me in.”

“Thinking big, I like it too.” smiles Jake, watching Krystal's eyes following Jose as he gathers up his tray. “Just I don't see I can be much help. I use software, I don't develop it.”

Kate grins, “You could be a beta tester, Jake.”

Oscar adds, “You take great pictures, maybe marketing?”

Krystal says, “It would be a hot addition to a CV. Put us head and shoulders above the rest of our graduating year.”

Kate says, “Great, then, see you all there. There's Adam, I'm gonna see if he'll be able to come to the meeting.”

Kate makes her way past Eric and Jose on their way out, and joins Adam and another buttoned down guy Jake doesn't know. Kate perches on the third chair as she launches in to her pitch. One of the things Jake likes about Kate is that she's such a power house. Organizing, co-coordinating, never tiring of making them all do the things that are good for all of them.

When Jake turns back, Oscar has finished his tea and is clearing up, so Jake drains his mug and adds it to the tray. Glancing at Krystal he's shocked all the colour has drained out of her face. Damn Jose. She's so pallid, if there was something he could do.

“See you tonight then,” Oscar says then carries off the tray.

“Where are you off to next Krystal?”

“I've got an elective, but all of a sudden i feel pretty beat, so I think I'm just gonna go home.”

“I'll help you get your stuff out to your car then.”

Krystal looks tired. “Thanks Jake, you're a real sweetie.”

Jake smiles, “It's OK when I'm around to help, but you really gotta stop trying to drag around so much crap.”

Krystal smiles back. “You think?

Oscar bends to tighten the laces of his running shoes, then does some stretching exercises. From a distance it rather looks like he might be dancing until he indulges in a little shadow boxing before stepping onto the cinder track. Making the circuit at a leisurely lope he's startled to be passed by Jose running at a much faster pace.

Biological imperative forces Oscar to increase his pace. He doesn't catch up exactly, but with effort he can keep the same distance between them. As he runs, Oscar marvels that Jose doesn't seem to even break into a sweat. Effortless.

“Damn,” thinks Oscar, who feels himself dying here. Wondering how Jose can keep it up. As his breathing becomes more laboured, and a corresponding longing for a cigarette grows, Oscar decides living through the run is much more important. After all, no matter what he does he'll never look like Superman. He allows his speed to drop back. In fact, the bench up ahead looks awfully inviting.

So Oscar starts to slow down and stops altogether.

He's overcome by a deep fit of coughing, and he grabs the back of the bench for support. Jose goes by, but slows, watching Oscar a moment, decides he's not gonna die and sketches a salute before resuming his speed. Oscar unties the sweatshirt from around his waist and mops his shaved head, then pulls it on, reaching into his pocket for the packet of cigarettes that isn't there. As his breathing returns to normal he watches Jose running with the grace of a natural athlete. Oscar knows he himself more resembles a lumbering bull. Taking up smoking was the stupidest thing he's ever done. His foot taps hyperactively. God, he wants a cigarette.

Even keeping it down to a handful a day, it's now three days without. Don't think about the filthy things. It's time to give it up, just have to allow his body to get used to the idea. Lacing his fingers behind his head he stretches. Jose passes again. Gliding. Now both of Oscars feet are tapping.

Jose. What a guy. All the women like him, but the guy doesn't even seem to try. At anything. He has perfect skin, golden, not pasty white. Not an acne scar or blemish on his face, straight teeth, long lean limbs. Thick bloody eyelashes. Soulful eyes. His movements are languorous, feline. Sensual. Right. He doesn't seem terribly bright, not stupid just not quick. It's not bloody fair.

And he's not even especially nice to women.

Well, at least he exercises, that's something, at least he has to work to keep up the body the women pant over. Still, it's the only time Oscar has seen Jose here. Not that he comes as often as he should, himself.

Okay, they pant over Boris's body too, but at least there's a reason. Boris has washboard abs from spending the other half of his life in the weight room, swimming, or on the track. When not taking pictures Bo is quite the jock. He even saw Bo running and taking pictures at the same time last week. Oscar smiles at the memory. Maybe video, you never know with the artsy guys. That Krystal though, she's just so single minded about Jose. Maybe Jose should be told. The girl is just so bloody hung up on the guy, and if Jose gave her a tumble it'd brighten her last days.

There he goes again. Doesn't the bastard sweat at all? Oscar reaches for his non-existent cigarettes again, then realizes what he's done. Oscar gets to his feet and yanks off the sweatshirt, tossing it back on the bench before he does a 'Rocky' bouncy thing and gets back on the track again.

Running is just so god damned boring. Maybe he should bring his MP3 player, so at least his brain wouldn't shrivel up. Some good music would help him dance round the track. Maybe not. Maybe a couple of podcasts. Maybe enough running will beat down the craving for a smoke . .  no. Don't think about it.

Run run as fast as you can. Run. Running on a track is just too bloody boring, you don't even get to see anything interesting, each circuit the same, at least until you start dying because you're in such rotten shape when the oxygen overdose kicks in and makes the sky look pink and the track look gray.

Too much time at the keyboard surely. It is high time to find some way of moving the physical body parts on a regular basis. There must be a better way to get exercise than this running around in circles. Alright, this track is an oval. Still. Maybe he could get some of the others interested in some football. Soccer.

Pound . . . pound . . . pound . . . the shadow prepares him for being overtaken by Jose again so at least this time he won't jump out of his skin when startled. It's merely humiliation now. Jesus, Jose. Not too bright but apparently that's what women want.

Oscar shakes his head a little. If he told Jose about Krystal, and it led to Jose paying attention to her, hell, it would make Krystal happy. Or maybe not. But then, mooning over Jose from afar isn't getting her anywhere either. On the other hand maybe it is. This way it's a perfect dream unmarred by personalities, sticky sex or reality's grunge. If Oscar were to tell Jose and he didn't handle it well, what's left of her life could be screwed. Only not in a good way.

So it's for the best then. Telling the man would not be a good thing. She actually said she wouldn't want Jose out of pity. Much better to leave things as they lay. The problem with having women for friends is knowing all this shit.

Mouse is stretched out in the recliner with a bowl of pretzels balanced on her stomach and a bottle of beer in easy reach, while Quentin perches on the sofa playing with the remote, flicking through the cable universe, the sound murmuring on low.

Several more bottles crowd the edge of a coffee table buried in pizza boxes.

“So your Tamara thinks you did not come out of spite?”

Quentin nods desultorily. “Yeah, that's about it. She always thinks the worst of me. Nothing I do is right. I've been afraid to tell her how bad I'm doing. I shoulda gone somewhere with a documentary program.”

“Why didn't you, Q?”

“I want our marriage to work. It seemed more important for her to be at a good med school. You can do film anywhere. Or so I thought. Anywhere but here.”

“I do not understand why you do not make your own movies? It is supposed to be so cheap to do.”

“Problem is, when I'm supposed to be shooting some stupid still photos I end up making video.”

“That sounds pretty good then Q. Why not just keep that up, then?”

“Truth be told, I'm not doing well with my assignments. I'm flunking out, Mouse. The hell of it is that the classwork and assignments are the opposite of what I need to learn, I need film theory. I've already learned what I can by trial and error. You can do any art on your own but you end up re-inventing the wheel.”

“I don't understand.”

“You make the same mistakes everybody else made before while you figure out what the rules are. A good arts course teaches you what's gone before, what works, what doesn't.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah. But because I love Tamara, It seemed easier to not think about how miserable I was. Blow off assignments, let classes slip, smoke up, have a good time. But it's not a good time anymore and I couldn'ta pissed off Tamara more if I'd tried.”

“What are you going to do? Maybe they would let you do film as independent study?”

“That's what Natasha said too, so I've been looking into it. The problem with that is there's no film community here.”

Mouse asks, “Is that so important?”

“I think so, yeah. Isn't it important in English Lit too?”

Mouse nods, “Yes, you're right, I didn't think. Discussing the work is very important.”

“Other people learning the same shit, you know? The counsellor I talked to said if I managed to pass any courses, I could probably port credits to another school if I transfer.”

“That would be really good then Q. That would solve everything. What does Tamara think?”

“I don't know, Mouse. I've tried texting, calling, email, but she doesn't answer and she doesn't come home. Maybe she's staying at Barb's, but I'm not sure. She won't talk to me at all.”

“You need to talk to her Q. What is her schedule today?”

“It's on the fridge.” Quentin balances the remote on the arm of the sofa and goes into the kitchen. Mouse follows carrying several of the empty beer bottles which she stows in the empty case in the corner of the kitchen. Reading Tamara's schedule magnetized to the fridge door, Quentin says, “She's in a lab until five today. I could maybe catch her when she's done.”

“You must talk to her, Q.”

“Don't you have a class this afternoon, Mouse?”

“No this is my break day. We find a movie to watch and then it will be time for you to wait for her, yes?”

“Do you think she'll talk to me?”

“Certainly she will. But she must stop being angry first. You must talk I think. Just now find something to watch. I'll make some Kool-Aid. Relax now, talk to Tamara at five.”

“That's not a bad idea Mouse. Let me hook up the hard drive, I think Die Beauty came in.”

“That would be good. I want to see that one because it looks so delightfully creepy.”

Mouse shakes the packet into the pitcher of water, stirring lime Kool-Aid vigorously.

Mouse hears the doorbell ring as she carries the jug into the living room, where she finds Jose and Quentin huddled over the computer.

“Hey Jose, can you move the pizza boxes please?”

Jose grabs the stack of boxes so Mouse can put the pitcher down on the empty spot. Jose standing there holding the boxes, not sure what he's supposed to do with them. She grins and takes them into the kitchen, stacking them on the over flowing Blue Box for recycling, then grabs three glasses to take back out.

Quentin has the drive hooked up to the television, and now he's in the recliner. Jose's on the sofa leaned over the coffee table rolling a joint from the baggie of pot now laying beside the jug.

Quentin says, “Jose'd rather watch Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle instead. It's supposed to be pretty funny.”

Jose shrugs, “I'm in the mood for a comedy, Mouse.”

“I'm easy.”

Mouse is thinking about the blog post she will write later about the folly of getting married before going to university. She smiles, secure in the knowledge that none of her classmates will bother to read it since she posts exclusively in Hollands. Blogging is excellent grounding for her future as a world renowned journalist.

After pouring the Kool-Aid out into glasses for everyone, Miese stretches out on the sofa. As she slides her feet into Jose's lap she thinks that some things are better left unblogged. Quentin starts the movie as Jose lights up.

Maggie is curled up in bed staring up at the ceiling. On her night table, cellphone, MP3 player and ear buds are twisted together in a clump atop her dark laptop. The blinds are drawn, and Maggie's blanket is pulled up to her chin.

There's a soft knock at the door and Maggie ignores it, hoping whoever it is will go away. It's too early to be Oz. She doesn't want to see anybody. She just wants to sleep. Another knock, louder. Maybe if she covers her head with the pillow, too, whoever it is will just go the hell away. But no, more knocking. And a whispered “Maggie?”

“Go away Amelia. I'm sleeping.”

From the other side of the door she hears a brief suppressed snort, then “Five minutes, Maggie, then I've got to get to work.”

“Then come in already, just so I can get rid of you.”

Amelia comes into the darkened room lit only by the bits of sun squeezing in around the edges of the heavy blind. She perches on the corner of the foot of the bed. “Oscar told me that you're really upset about the flasher.”

“Yes I'm upset. But I don't plan on telling you anything. You might write it in a story sometime, and I'd rather you didn't.”

“If you don't want me to write about something I wouldn't write about it. I'm not a vampire Maggie. I'm a writer. But I thought I was your friend too. Look, I'll just go then.”

Amelia gets up and Maggie says, “Look, I'm sorry I'm being such a bitch but that's part of why I'm in here. I am really bummed by this all.”

Amelia turns back, settling back down again. “I'm not trying to make it worse, but I am trying to help. Did you get flashed or abused when you were a kid or something?”