Arkansas Read Free Page A

that story of yours! So let’s see, what do I do with my spare time.” (I heard him thinking.) “You mean besides jack off?"
    â€œWell—”
    Eric laughed. “Let’s see. Well, I like to party sometimes—”
    â€œI’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to ask—when you say party, do you mean literally party, or get high?”
    â€œCan be both, can be both.”
    â€œYou were stoned at my father’s house the other day, weren’t you?”
    â€œShit! How’d you know?”
    â€œI could just tell.”
    â€œDo you get high?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œMan, I am so into pot! Ever since I was thirteen. Listen, do you want to come over and get stoned?”
    I sat up. “Sure,” I said.
    â€œCool.”
    Long pause.
    â€œWait—you mean tonight?”
    â€œYeah, why not?”
    â€œNo problem, tonight’s fine. I just don’t want to keep you from your studying.”
    â€œI told you, I bagged it.”
    â€œOkay. Where do you live?”
    â€œSanta Monica. Have you got a pencil?”
    I wrote down the directions.
    Through the intercom, I told Jean I was going out to a movie with my friend Gary, after which I got into the car and headed for the freeway. The rush hour traffic had eased, which meant it took me only half an hour to arrive at the address Eric had given me, a dilapidated clapboard house. In the dark I couldn’t make out the color.
    From the salty flavor of the air, I could tell that the sea wasn’t far off.
    Dogs barked as I got out of my father’s car and opened the peeling picket gate, over which unpruned hydrangea bushes crowded. The planks of the verandah creaked as I stepped across them. In the windows, a pale orange light quavered.
    I knocked. Somewhere in the distance Tracy Chapman was singing “Fast Car.”
    â€œHey, sexy,” Eric said, pulling open the screen door.
    I blinked. He was wearing sweatpants and a Rutgers Crew T-shirt.
    â€œGlad you could make it.” He held the door open.
    â€œMy pleasure,” I said.
    I stepped inside. The living room, with its orange carpet and beaten-up, homely furniture, reminded me of my own student days, when I’d shopped at the Salvation Army, or dragged armchairs in from the street.
    â€œNice place,” I said.
    â€œIt’s home,” Eric said. “I mean, it’s not like your dad’s house. Now
that's
what I call a house. Say, you want a beer?”
    â€œSure.” I wasn’t about to tell him I hated beer.
    He brought two Coronas from the kitchen, one of which he handed me.
    â€œ
L'chaim
he toasted.
    â€œCheers,” I said.
    Then Eric leapt up the staircase, and since he gave no indication whether or not I was supposed to follow him, I followed him. He took the stairs three at a time.
    At the top, four doors opened off a narrow corridor. Only one was ajar.
    â€œStep into my office,” he said, passing through. “And close the door behind you.”
    I did. The room was shadowy. An architect’s lamp with a long, folding arm illuminated a double mattress on the floor, the blue sheets clumped at the bottom. Against the far wall, under a window, stood a desk piled with textbooks. Clean white socks were heaped on a chair, beneath which lounged a pair of crumpled jockey shorts.
    In the space where a side table might have been, a copy of
Family Dancing
lay splayed over the Vintage edition of
A Room with a View.
    â€œHave a seat,” Eric said. Then he threw himself onto the mattress, where, cross-legged, he busied himself with a plastic bag of pot and some rolling papers.
    â€œYou can move all that,” he added, indicating the chair.
    Gingerly I put the socks onto the desk, nudged the shorts with my left foot, and sat down.
    Unspeaking, with fastidious concentration, Eric rolled the joint. Much about his room, from the guitar to the recharging laptop to the blue-lit CD player (the source of