Read Online With or Without You by Brian Farrey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brian Farrey
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with a misshapen bulge in the middle.
Something inside jingles as I open the envelope. A key ring tumbles out. Attached are two keys, one shiny silver key and one shiny gold key.
“That one will get you through the security door downstairs,” he says, pointing to the gold key. “And this one”—he points to the silver—“is for the apartment. To quote a wise man: You are always welcome in my life.”
Keys to his apartment. It must be love. Or massive head trauma.
My brain percolates with visions: After work, I walk down to State and let myself in the security door with MY key and on the second floor, I let myself into Erik’s apartment with MY OTHER key. Good-bye, calling to be let in. Adios, buzz and click as the door unlocks itself. I’ll miss you.
Not.
“Thank you.” I kiss him, clutching the keys so tightly I create pink impressions in my palm.
He coughs in that oh-so-conspicuous way and nods at the envelope. Inside, another pink note. “Back to my apartment,” I read aloud.
He rolls his eyes. “You’re so demanding.”
We pay the bill and make the short walk down State, stopping in front of the Bookworm, the coolest used bookstore in Madison. It’s not cool because it has the best selection or because the employees really know their stuff. It’s the coolest because Erik lives in the apartment above it. Coolness by proxy. I make a big deal of opening the security door with MY KEY and we enter.
We climb the stairs of the second floor, where we find Cece, Erik’s neighbor from across the hall, exiting Erik’s apartment. Cece is a self-designated nouveau Goth. Each nostril, plus her lower lip, sports a small safety pin, and her ears house so many sparkling studs they look like runway lights. But instead of dousing herself in black like other Goths, she chose to rebel against the rebels and dress herself in hot pink, from her tinted hair to her specially dyed Doc Martens. She wears a large black bow tie around her neck, in the center of which is a small button that reads, “I’m so dark I fart bats.”
She and Erik each check their watches and speak at the same time.
“You’re early!” says she.
“You’re late!” says he.
Stalemate. She points at me—“You never saw me!”—tosses a book of matches at Erik, and disappears into her abode.
I squint at Erik. “What was she doing in your—?”
Erik sighs and opens the door for me.
His space is what you’d expect from a college student’s apartment. It’s microscopic. A combination living/dining room. A kitchen that was very probably once a closet. A bedroom and Lilliputian bathroom. Furniture is a beanbag love seat and a papasan chair, pointed at each other to form a conversation area. He has a couple of his small sculptures in the corners and some of the paintings I’ve done on the walls.
And tonight, he’s challenging fire codes: More than two dozen flickering candles tickle the darkness. I’m staring in amazement at this, my own personal constellation, but he’s leading me into the bedroom where one last envelope—this one quite a bit bigger—sits in the middle of his bed, tied with a violet ribbon. He nods at it. I sit on the edge of the bed as he squats nearby.
“Happy graduation.” From the DictionErik: Rubbing forefinger under the nose— I’m nervous . I don’t see him nervous much.
I open the envelope and I find a plane ticket inside. One-way flight to San Diego. My name is printed on it.
“San Diego?” I smile at him. His eyes say he’s clearly worried. “What’s up?”
He sits down next to me. “Evan, I’m in. I got the phone call last week.”
Two months ago, Erik flew out to California to interview for a graduate program at an HIV research hospital in San Diego. It’s a very prestigious facility, and it’s all he’s talked about since I met him. Every double shift he’s ever worked, every sleepless night of studying has all been aimed at getting a position in this program. This is his
Something inside jingles as I open the envelope. A key ring tumbles out. Attached are two keys, one shiny silver key and one shiny gold key.
“That one will get you through the security door downstairs,” he says, pointing to the gold key. “And this one”—he points to the silver—“is for the apartment. To quote a wise man: You are always welcome in my life.”
Keys to his apartment. It must be love. Or massive head trauma.
My brain percolates with visions: After work, I walk down to State and let myself in the security door with MY key and on the second floor, I let myself into Erik’s apartment with MY OTHER key. Good-bye, calling to be let in. Adios, buzz and click as the door unlocks itself. I’ll miss you.
Not.
“Thank you.” I kiss him, clutching the keys so tightly I create pink impressions in my palm.
He coughs in that oh-so-conspicuous way and nods at the envelope. Inside, another pink note. “Back to my apartment,” I read aloud.
He rolls his eyes. “You’re so demanding.”
We pay the bill and make the short walk down State, stopping in front of the Bookworm, the coolest used bookstore in Madison. It’s not cool because it has the best selection or because the employees really know their stuff. It’s the coolest because Erik lives in the apartment above it. Coolness by proxy. I make a big deal of opening the security door with MY KEY and we enter.
We climb the stairs of the second floor, where we find Cece, Erik’s neighbor from across the hall, exiting Erik’s apartment. Cece is a self-designated nouveau Goth. Each nostril, plus her lower lip, sports a small safety pin, and her ears house so many sparkling studs they look like runway lights. But instead of dousing herself in black like other Goths, she chose to rebel against the rebels and dress herself in hot pink, from her tinted hair to her specially dyed Doc Martens. She wears a large black bow tie around her neck, in the center of which is a small button that reads, “I’m so dark I fart bats.”
She and Erik each check their watches and speak at the same time.
“You’re early!” says she.
“You’re late!” says he.
Stalemate. She points at me—“You never saw me!”—tosses a book of matches at Erik, and disappears into her abode.
I squint at Erik. “What was she doing in your—?”
Erik sighs and opens the door for me.
His space is what you’d expect from a college student’s apartment. It’s microscopic. A combination living/dining room. A kitchen that was very probably once a closet. A bedroom and Lilliputian bathroom. Furniture is a beanbag love seat and a papasan chair, pointed at each other to form a conversation area. He has a couple of his small sculptures in the corners and some of the paintings I’ve done on the walls.
And tonight, he’s challenging fire codes: More than two dozen flickering candles tickle the darkness. I’m staring in amazement at this, my own personal constellation, but he’s leading me into the bedroom where one last envelope—this one quite a bit bigger—sits in the middle of his bed, tied with a violet ribbon. He nods at it. I sit on the edge of the bed as he squats nearby.
“Happy graduation.” From the DictionErik: Rubbing forefinger under the nose— I’m nervous . I don’t see him nervous much.
I open the envelope and I find a plane ticket inside. One-way flight to San Diego. My name is printed on it.
“San Diego?” I smile at him. His eyes say he’s clearly worried. “What’s up?”
He sits down next to me. “Evan, I’m in. I got the phone call last week.”
Two months ago, Erik flew out to California to interview for a graduate program at an HIV research hospital in San Diego. It’s a very prestigious facility, and it’s all he’s talked about since I met him. Every double shift he’s ever worked, every sleepless night of studying has all been aimed at getting a position in this program. This is his
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