The Boy in the Tunnel

Fall 1997, Chapter 16: Lata

"I just want to know one thing. Just tell me one thing. When has a girl ever – ever! – refused to walk through a door because you were holding it for her? Tell me, Paddington. Tell me. When has that ever happened?"

"I—"

"It's never happened. It. Has. Never. Happened. It's probably some shit Rush Limbaugh said while you were blowing him in a dream. Right?"

"That's—"

"'Ah ah ah Paddington don't stop, why won't girls let me hold the door for them, ah don't stop, is it because of feminism or is it because I'm a fat creepy weirdo ah ah ooooohhhhh....'"

It was fun watching Caroline tee off on this guy. She was worked up. Her arms and forehead were glowing ("Horses sweat, men perspire, ladies merely glow," Lata remembered from some book of quotations she was obsessed with as a kid) and every movement of her body sent rainbows rippling through her dress.

Taddlington Taft was practically crawling up on the kitchen counter to get away from her. She had no conception of personal space, and she was jabbing her finger in his face so hard it looked like she was about to stab his eyeball with one of those glittery nails. That would have been kind of a shame, as Taddlington looked somewhat less dickish than he did in his Ambassador op-ed photo, though he had the same floppy frat-bro haircut and the same bowtie, which, now that he was in living color, Lata could see was the same shade of purple as Caroline's nails. School spirit was just out of control on this campus. With the hair and the bowtie and the slightly-too-big blazer, Taddlington looked like a kid playing dress-up in his dad's clothes.

"I'll tell you what. Next time you try to open a door for me, I'll kick you in the shin. Does that work? Will that help prove your little theory?"

"Listen—"

"FUCK!"

They all stopped and turned their attention to the living room. There was a commotion on the dance floor. A guy was slumped over, his hands between his legs, cursing. Renee was trying to force her way through the crowd, who were pressing even tighter to see what had happened. Lata got a glimpse of the guy's face – it was the vampire guy with the "Xander" tattoo who'd come storming out of the Purple Room. Looked like he'd finished chasing that tall girl, and now Renee was pissed at him.

Caroline turned back to Taddlington. "To be continued, Paddington. Expect a strongly worded letter to the editor."

Now that the haranguing seemed to be over, Taddlington's smirk returned. He straightened his bowtie. "I await it with bated breath."

Caroline grabbed Lata's hand to go help Renee. Lata wanted to get in her own parting shot. She looked Taddlington up and down. She could see a perfect line, hovering just past her fingertips, out of focus. Something that would pierce his heart and pin him down like a butterfly. She just had to open her mouth and say it. "Nice bowtie, dingus." Taddlington snorted, neither pierced nor pinned. Caroline pulled her into the living room.

Dingus! How is that the word that came out of her mouth? Way to be cool, Superfly. That'll learn him. Caroline bulled through the scrum of people in the living room and found Renee. She grabbed her and dragged them both to the door and out into the hall. "What happened?"

Renee was operatically drunk. All of her joints were loose, greased by the Goose. Stop rhyming, dingus. The camera slung around her neck threatened to pull her down to the floor. "Just want to go." Lata and Caroline helped Renee down the stairs. She was so light, her feet barely touched the steps.

Down in the street the night was winding down. The bars were still open for a few more hours, but the semester hadn't even really started yet. The amateurs had returned to their homes, and the true creatures of the night held court now. The saxophone guy had been joined by a clarinet player and a guy with an electric guitar and a portable amp, and they were going full Ornette Coleman over by the Foxfire Tavern. A balding guy in a bathrobe engaged in an angry contest of volume with the preacher in front of the newsstand. Some leathery townies lurked on the concrete planters in front of the diner, smoking American Spirits and directing menacing laughter at any student who ventured by.