Left Like Yesterday, Pt. 2

Wes and mine's friendship grew pretty quickly. Maybe it was because we agreed on a certain hierarchy of relationships (this includes plutonic and romantic). On this hierarchy, first comes vanity, where two people must first be in sync when in comes to things like music, movies, books, television, what they like to do for fun, etc. Because of that, it was easy to explain why Wes and I were able to have such a quick building friendship. Both of us were caught up in the wave of the Portland-esque, new wave of Seattle west coast music scene screaming of Modest Mouse, Sebadoh, Built to Spill, Elliott Smith and Heatmiser, Soul Coughing, and mixed in there a touch of jazz with Charlie Park, Charles Mingus, John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk, and of course, Miles Davis. We both agreed that Kubrick's most important film was “Full Metal Jacket” and not “A Clockwork Orange,” even though we gave it its due credit, and we definitely believed that Speilberg was overrated.

By the summer of 1997, I turned twenty-one. It was my junior year, and it was my first year living by myself outside of the dorms. My efficiency was a remodeled basement to a house on the corner of Hill Street and East University. It was small, and when it snowed, the whole place froze up, but it did its job. I followed Wes to wherever he went, sometimes wondering how he gained knowledge to some of the parties that he did (like the ones in Chicago and Detroit, which is my hometown, which I would think I would know more of than him, but didn't), but in the end, I wasn't really surprised either. I started to watch my popularity rise around this period of time also- and while it was only due to proximity, I accepted it eagerly. I didn't mind girls coming up to me asking me to call her, even if in the end they were asking if “we” were going to come by “so and so's” party.

At the parties, of course, we'd all be in awe of him, as we sat back there listening to him talk, telling his stories, cracking jokes and bringing us in. I would stand next to him, and somehow, I would always be brought into the conversation. He would say something, and there I would be in it. Like he would ask me something, as if I had to corroborate what he just said. I didn't mind. I would nod my head, and take a sip of whatever I was drinking because he usually never gave me enough time to respond. He'd ask me, Steven, what's the name of that guy we met, or something like that, and before I could respond, off he'd continue with, it's not important. Then, you could see in the girls all around him- the bedroom eyes.

Now, I mentioned before how he seemed to go home alone more often than not- well, that's true. I mean, this guy could've gone home every night with a different girl, I swear to God. Yet, he had something holding him back. Call it morals, call it a fear, I'll never really know, but he never really cared to explain it to me, and I never really cared to ask. The best guess I could give was that in all the years I knew Wes, he was probably the most humanistic person I knew. Saying that, I feel that sometimes that he felt like he wanted something to the degree of love in everything that he did. You could see it in the way he talked to you, when he looked you in the eyes and smiled, or the way he played soccer, and if you feel, he'd pass the ball, turn around, and help you up, even if you're on the other team. Things like that I don't think are characteristically normal in other human beings, but to Wes, were a way of life. They weren't religious principles, they weren't even in a sense, I think to him moral. I think, to Wes, they just were what was needed to be done- to love everyone. Those bedroom eyes he wanted, he wanted someone special- someone to look at him and only at him in a special way. Not in some way that next weekend she'll be looking at some frat guy at another party. He never called any of these girls sluts or whores, he just said that he was looking for a particular type of girl. Me, if any of those girls just looked at me, I'd be all up on them, but I guess to Wes they were nothing new.

I'm not saying that Wes was celibate. While he was usually single, actually, always single until Alma, every once and a while, he'd meet a girl, and you'd know, Wes is going to fuck her. And I don't blame him for wanting to, because almost every single one of Wes' one night stands were girls that you would get into a car wreck over- you know, make you trail off in the middle of a sentence type of girls, the one in a million type. He was good at it too. I saw him pick up a girl and in the process of it, disclose these three pieces of information and get away with it: that he uses the same pair of jeans for like a month in row without washing them; will go three days without a shower all the time; and will reuse his underwear. Me, on the other hand, I seemed to be constantly rotating in and out one failed relationship after another. But then, Wes met Alma.

Wes didn't like her at first. I mean, he did. I'm pretty sure that he fell in love with her right off the bat, but I mean, in the stereotypical, chauvinistic type of way. She had this way about her, a sort of shy way that made you want to pay attention to her, but at the same time, you knew that behind walls, you knew who wore the pants. And she had this sense of humor, if that's what I should call it- she would just talk all of a sudden, a quick statement, and it would take you a second to process it, and you'd be halfway through your next statement before you realized exactly what she said, or exactly what the words she said meant- and you wouldn't be sure if you should stop and respond, or if you should go on saying what you're saying, but either way, you stammer because in your head, you're all like, damn, that was a bit harsh. It wasn't that she was mean, it was just that she could find the smallest inconsistency or flaw in anything. Anybody else would just not think about it, but Alma, it was like she was compelled to say something about it.

But we loved her anyway. Maybe it was because she was beautiful, in a stunning sort of way. Her father was Indian (dot, not feather), and her mother was Dominican, which I thought was the most amazing of pairings. She had this dark olive, brown skin with freckles around her pinup nose and cheeks that seemed to be perfectly rounded following her thick, curvy lips that spoke of words not made yet. Her body was picture perfect, and she flaunted it in the way that she dressed. Sometimes, it was overkill. I think some people took forever to really know what she looked like because they kept staring at her legs. I think I was one of them. I will tell you, I might've done the same for her tits, too. I know, I'm too much of a guy, but it's true. But she had that body- that movie star body with those lines, that when her shirt lifted up, you could see leading into the rim of her pants like a "v" where the vertex is a prize hiding from you- is that a sick way to describe your friend's girl? But here's the thing- if you think Tanya had some eyes, she didn't have shit compared to Alma. Alma had these grey eyes, that in some lights looked like they were infused with some sublime purple. I didn't know it was possible to be chameleon like that, but that was Alma- she was a different level of human. It was only natural that her and Wes hook up. They were of that class, of the beautiful people that had some brains. A rarity, and somewhat annoying at that, too, because you could never really measure up.

I heard of Alma before I ever met her, and doubtless, so did Wes. I'm sure, of course, in the same vain, Alma heard of, or saw, or heard Wes at a party. Alma's skills as an artist were becoming almost legendary around campus, and soon one could see originals hanging in coffee shops and independently owned bookstores all around campus centralized part of town. The most impressive part of Alma's skill was the incredible variety of her work, spreading from ranges of sketches made with a blue ball point pen, to colorful landscapes, to abstract portraits, to surrealism and so on. It was inevitable that the University would hear about Alma and do something about it. So many people were speaking about her, and with all this popular demand around her, they saw a money making opportunity and took it- even though, really, they didn't need it. From what I hear, Alma refused the University's offer at first (she was already there on scholarship), but then they told her that she would get at least two paintings on permanent display in one of the buildings, she consented (and it's true, you can go to the East Building and see them there by the elevators). In December of 1997, the University ran an "Excelled Student Achievement" program where they displayed Alma's work in the Student Union, and it profited. In fact, in did so well, that the University extended it a whole week. The opening day, it was so packed with people that the wine ran out before midnight.

Wes and I didn't originally intend on going. According to Wes, it would be "too fucking boring to waste a decently good Wednesday afternoon." Of course, the problem was, everyone else that we knew happened to be going there, but we decided to stick by our guns and be cool and not go. Now, mind you, this is before the internet became readily available, and so information wasn't as easy to come about as it is now. And while there were flyers probably on every single lamppost on campus, ask yourself, do you really pay attention to those? So, since we knew we weren't going to the art show, all we knew was that it was going to be on a Wednesday. We didn't take the care to pay attention to where and what time it was going to be, and so, as we walked around, passing time, pretending like we didn't care that we were bored out of our mind, wishing that we actually had some homework to do, we passed by the Union. All we see are a bunch of students huddled in the cold, lined up to walk inside. None of them are dressed in a suit or tie or anything, so we get curious to what's going on. See, to us, we thought an art gathering would be at the art gallery and would be formal, but apparently, as you know, it was at the union, and well, as you also know, because I told you already, Alma likes to flaunt her body, she asked that it be informal (but that it still serve wine). Wes and I don't really stand in line, really- instead, we stand in the sidewalk facing the large steps that rise up to the Gothic Union building, half mocking the people in line, half cocking our ears trying to see if we can hear anything to give away what's going on, but I think everyone was too cold to talk.

That's when we see a girl sitting on the far end of the Union, by the LS&A building, kind of hidden behind the large block column that makes a wall between the steps and the grassy alleyway, to where she could peep around the corner, but it was almost impossible to see her in the dimming light. At this point, it's almost twighlight, and as we approach her, I can tell that she's anxious about something as she keeps checking her watch as she smokes her cigarette. She was in the process of doing so when she notices Wes and me approaching her. I'm sure, at this moment, Wes puts of his charmer smile as he does his little quick step, kicking the back of his heel, bending his back a bit and pulls his hand out of his pockets and gives a humble wave like he's just casually passing by. It's one of his "moves." "Hey," he says loudly to her. She doesn't really do anything other than stare back at us. I would compare her to a deer in headlights, but she reminded me more of the hunter watching us, instead. I think even Wes was taken back. "What's going on here?" he continues to talk to her.

She stays silent for a little longer before slowly responding, a very silently, "That art show."

"Oh, that," says Wes, laughing the words.

"Yeah, that."

"How is it?"

"Well, it's an art show."

Wes laughed again. "I bet it's a blast."

The girl narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, well the keg got lost on the way there, so all we got is wine... but hey, I got to go." And then she leaves a stun Wes behind. I'm not going to play some writers trick on you and insult your intelligence by holding back and not telling you who that girl was. Even though Wes and I didn't know who it was, I'm sure by now, you could've guessed, or I hope you could've guessed, that was our first interaction with Alma.

As she walked away, Wes shook his head, and he half muttered the word, "Bitch!" He just stood there for a moment, his head hanging limply, eyes locked at some spot on the ground, and he bit his bottom lip as if in deep thought.

Then, in usual manner, as if he realized what he was doing, which I'm pretty sure is a self-conscious action on his part, he shakes his head and laughs to himself a bit and gives me a weird little look- one that I'm really familiar with. It was a little disconcerting to me to see his bedroom eyes in the dark looking at me. Of course, there's only one response I could've said, "What?" I throw at him, a bit harshly, almost as if I was asking him if he was noticing something that I didn't and it was annoying me that he wouldn't tell me.

"Nothing," he responds, still smiling, turning away, beginning to walk.

I catch up to him. "No, seriously. What is it?"

He stops walking. He opens his mouth and then shuts it quickly before opening it again to speak. I can tell that in a quick instant he redirected what he was going to say, and very purposefully (this was another skill of his that always amazed me). "It's nothing," he says, with a small chuckle. "I just hate bitches like that."

"Like what? Because she said a smart-ass remark and you didn't have time to respond to it? Come on, you do that all the time."

"You can tell. You know it's true. Girls like that- they're so into themselves. Stuck up. Look at me, ma. I went to an art show in college. I'm an intellectual in my shortcut skirt that I bought on your credit card and shit, I'm going to get all the boys..."

"Man, shut up."

"You know it's true."

"You're so quick to criticize everyone, you know that? Sometimes you're so bigoted, thinking you know everyone. I mean, I love you buddy, but you don't know her. You spoke to her for a matter of seconds, and now you're a Sigmund fucking Freud on her? Shut the fuck up."

"Whatever."

I hated being like this Wes, but sometimes, he needed it. Yeah, he'd get hurt, and silent and everything, but I could tell that he knew I had a point. So we'd walk a few moments in silence, and then, quickly, as if nothing happened, he'd suggest we go The Blind Pig and see if a band's playing a get a beer. That's how it went with Wes. You couldn't really hurt him because deep down inside of him, he already knew what he was. He already knew he was imperfect. He told me that he thinks about all the things that make him imperfect because he's so afraid to not be aware of them. He's not afraid to show them, he says, he's just afraid of not being aware of them. He says that everyone has character defects, it's what we do with them that made us human. So by me telling him all that, it was just me telling Wes something that probably did nothing more than make him reflect more on becoming more aware with his character defects. I don't really know the exact dependency he had on his knowledge of these defects, but I think it had something to do with letting him know who he really is among a crowd of people telling him who he should be. I guess that's what local celebrity does to you. Everyone wants you to be something, or thinks of you to be something, so what do you think of yourself? I guess this was his way to get a clear picture of himself, if that makes sense.

That Friday there was a party thrown at a Co-op that some friends of Alma's lived at. It was only natural that there would be a party thrown to celebrate this "occasion," and of course, it being the biggest party of the night, Wes was "obligated" to go it, which meant I went to it as well. This, though, happened to be one of those few times that we didn't show up at the same time to a party. I can't really remember why I showed up late (I think it had something to do with work), but I showed up around one in the morning. Walking in the house, I could tell that this was a successfully thrown party. I had to squeeze my way through to the keg, and being associated with Wes, I was able to get a beer quite quickly. Some shitty rap music played off the stereo loudly, and people chugged in competition, and stood everywhere- amongst each other in groups along the walls, on the stairs, guys trying to pick up girls, I looked for the group that was quite except for one guy. It took a while to find Wes, this being a particularly large house and I kept running into people I knew, including a cute little girl I figured it wouldn't hurt to see how drunk she was, which apparently wasn't enough for me yet, but eventually I found him. As I approached, I see him in full stride, beer in hand, sloshing out of that red plastic cup as he spoke, vigorously moving his arms, and with a quick glance over in my direction, as if he sensed my presence, he smiled and mentioned me over. "What's going on?" I say as I approach.

"Nothing," he responds. I look over at the crowd of people he's speaking to. I recognize a few, but overall, they're all just the usually blend of college students trying to look pretty and cute and hard and whatnot, really just either wanting to get laid, fucked up, or both. I wasn't overall really impressed. "Anyway," he begins again, as if my arrival didn't mean anything. "Music is, of itself great, because to create a revolution, you don't need talent, per se. You don't need a voice, or lyrics, or anything. Sometimes it's luck, but overall it's an impression. Whether in performance or in the way you look. Just in the same in acting. But in a different way. You have to look a part, and be able to play a part. But there might be a much more talented actor that can play that same part better, but loses it to Mr. pretty boy Ben Affleck for whatever reason. But they are still important because they spread art and the performance of art because in the end, they produce, in mass consumption the essence of human spirit, at least as Nietszche would contend, any philosophy majors?- right, the Apollonian and Dionysian impulses, the tragedy, in this form as music, produces, as I said before in, mass consumption great artist with talent, song writing ability like Elliott Smith. So bands like Green Day, who's talent is meager are important because yes, the keep the humanity of music alive because people connect at least on an intrinsic level, and produced on mass levels. That's why it is Dionysian, hedonistic, with a touch of Apollonian.

"Now art, just the pure art of sculpture and paintings, are just Apollonian. They are a different passion. You collect them, and they are prized but are spread by an external desire to keep the human alive- to perceive through a singular perspective, which is unlike literature, which I consider to be the ultimate art, but that's a different story. The beauty of art is that it takes talent and a collective desire to breed a calculus to where this talent can be manifested. You'll never hear, yeah, I just purchased a Pearl Jam. Why? While I consider Pearl Jam one of the greats of rock music, especially of the Seattle grunge era, the mass production of music doesn't allow the appreciation of Pearl Jam to be manifested on the very acute, and solitary perceptions of implicit calculus. What I mean is- everyone listens to music and takes it as it is. While a trained musician hears music differently than a non trained musician, the perception of sounds is the same, but different. That's why some people like some types of music and others not. That's obvious. But the ability to describe that, and to go into the essence of that, why and why not this song is better than the other does not require a trained calculus. You can say, this song is better because this drum line is tighter, and people can understand that. And then, there are some higher theoretical things, but overall, the beauty of music is that it is a medium that reaches people easily. Now art, everyone sees it, and all have the same viewing of what it is. If someone painted a dog, the dog is there. We all see. In a song, a trained musician might hear a flute where a someone else might not, but the beauty of the flute still persists. But in the calculus of art, the brush strokes, the lighting, the impressionisms..." At this point he pauses to look at me and smile. "... are what separate good art from bad art. And all you really require to have this ability to appreciate art is patience to view it in that specific science. Music, I feel must be practiced to achieve what I feel is a calculus that is only perceived by musicians. Everyone can have an ability to appreciate art esoterically though. But, to create great art, you have to appreciate the uniqueness of that art. The phenomenon of art is that it is created not for the masses, because it is something you must take time to appreciate and sit there and ponder about because there are singularities in everything about it. Music is for the masses because it can blend into life because it is the essence of the human. If you follow Nietzsche."

I think everyone was so caught up in this speech that we were all surprised when we heard a hushed female voice speak with quite a presence. "That's a wonderful idea- let's base all criticisms on a syphllitic philosopher that contradicted himself every other book he wrote. And I loved art references you used amongst your amazing acting and music references. Who did you say was a good artist? Disney? He was a modern Affleck and Green Day. Wonderful speech. Very well put together. Is that your dissertation?" When she was done, I could see Wes blush and his jaws clench as he searched for the source. He didn't need to search long as Alma, who of course we didn't know was Alma, but we knew as the girl we saw the other night, approached him from the outside of the circle. I expected some fema-nazi, but I had to look twice at her. I mean, she looked really good- short denim skirt, tight white shirt with matching denim jacket, hair cut short and sloping towards the back, a blond streak at the front that shagged over her eyes that contrasted auburn that matted the rest of her head. Now, remember how I told you that she was a pretty shy girl that didn't say much, overall? I mean, she spoke, just not in big groups, not often, and while I know I'm not giving off that impression right now, you have to know also, she was a very passionate women and some things could set her off wildly. Get it?

When Wes saw who it was, instantly I could see his demeanor change. A broad smile lightened his face, and I could tell that he thought he was about to enter an intellectual battle that he thought he was going to be the victor. I was a little more wary. "Well, look who it is," he says turning to me.

I back up waving my hands. "Don't bring me into this." There's some laughter at my comment. I was trying to be serious.

Alma glares at me. I extend my arms, palms upraised, holding my cup between the bridge of my thumb and index finger pleadingly. Then she turns back to Wes. "You seem to know a lot about art."

"Why're you getting so angry?" Wes asks, almost laughing.

"I just don't like it when little frat boys like yourself think you know a thing or two because you read a book in a freshman seminar, and now you can spout out some bullshit about how art reflects culture and so on."

"Excuse me, but I never really said anything bad, first off, and second it's just an opinion, and third, I don't see you contradicting anything I'm saying."

"I don't need to contradict anything you said. Everything you said was stupid. There are plenty of people out there that appreciate music on highly theoretical levels that don't play a fucking instrument."

"Like who?"

"A fucking conductor."

There were some "oh's" from the crowd on this one. Wes just rolls his eyes. "I'm pretty sure that most conductors played an instrument before they became one."

"How do you know that for sure? Do play an instrument? And for that matter, do you paint? I mean, where's your credibility? You state all this stuff about needing a 'certain calculus' of understanding- well, where's your calculus of understanding. Oh, wait, I'm sorry. That was in the sophomore seminar, huh? You should've taken that one, too." People laughed at that one. This was, arguably, one of the first times I ever saw Wes just blank. "I'm sorry, got nothing to say? Is the great Wes stumped?"

"Who are you?" Is all he said. I was laughing inside of my head that this girl already knew who this guy was. In one of the biggest universities in America, it's funny how small it is. "Who are you to judge me, huh? You don't even know me."

"Kind of knows how it feels, huh, buddy?" I say without thinking. Instantly, I regret it. I had my cup halfway to my mouth before I realized I said it, and I was already drinking before I realized that both Alma and Wes were staring at me.

"You're defending her?" Wes says.

There was no real backing down now. "No, I'm not." I'm stuttering everywhere, grasping for words, everything. "I'm just saying, you did the same thing to..." that's when I turned and asked her her name and she said Alma, "... you did the same thing... to... Alma..." Slowly, Wes and I turn to her. She's just looking back at us, no emotion in her face at all.

"Did you say your name was 'Alma?'" Wes says, squinting his eyes, speaking questionly and with a little surprise. She nods her head and makes a sound of conformation. "What the fuck." Wes mumbles. I'm laughing. "What are you laughing at?" He says to me harshly.

"This is great. This is really great. I love it. You want a beer? I'm getting a beer?" I point at him. Then at Alma. "You want a beer? No?" I couldn't stop laughing all the way to the keg. Wes just got told by the girl who this party is being thrown for in front of everyone. This is going to spread through campus quick. Not only that, I'm sure that at some point in the night, he made that speech so he could show his "knowledge" about art so he could get to meet Alma on good terms. It's Wes' ego getting in the way so he could get to look good for all the right people, and it backfired on him. I loved it, in a friendly kind of way.

I wasn't halfway to the keg when Wes caught up with me. "We've got to go," he says to me sternly.

I'm still almost laughing. "No man, we're staying."

"Come on! We got to go."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You know why."

"No I don't." At this point, I'm in the process of filling my cup up with beer. When I was done, I reach out, grab Wes' cup and I fill his up and hand it to him. "Just relax there, bud. Where's the Wes charm?" He just glares at me. I take a drink and look at him from the brim of the cup. "Come on. Don't worry about it. The night's still young. And besides, what else are we going to do?" He hangs his head in defeat. "There you go." It's very rare when I took the lead in our relationship, but I have to honest, I kind of enjoyed it in a sadistic way.

I really wanted to see how the night would progress- that was my intention of it. I wanted to see how Wes would react to being in a situation that he was embarrassed- it was sort of a sick sociological experiment for me. Plus, I really enjoyed having control over Wes. I did not expect us to talk to Alma again, and I most certainly did not see us end up in a room with her and three of her friends as one of them played guitar and sang at four in the morning. I was pretty sure we were the only ones left still partying, and I have no idea how we ended up there. I know for a fact that we ended up in that room because I was talking to the person who lived in that room, a very cute little asian girl, and the party was dying, and she asked if I wanted to smoke. So of course, I said yes. I didn't know that this happened to be Alma's old roommate, and the specific person in the house throwing the party (I also didn't know she was a lesbian until I met her girlfriend in the room rolling the joint).

At this point, Wes already quit smoking pot. He said that it fogged his mind- but of course, alcoholic drinking was okay. Me, I was gradually giving it up, so I skipped the rotation several times, considering I got pretty blazed after just a few hits. We had a pretty good time, sitting there listening to the guy on the guitar, singing along to his songs, when we really should've just listened to him- he really was the only one worthy of singing. Of course, the only two people not talking were Alma and Wes. Alma, well, that's because who she is. Wes stood in the back corner of the room drinking whiskey and coke provided to us by the host of the room from her "special" stash, looking uncomfortable as hell. Finally, after some time, I couldn't take it. "Wes, join us, why don't you?" I say.

"I'm fine," he says throwing a weak smile.

"You not fucked up enough?" says our host in a most stereotypical manner, ending with a very girly giggle and leaning into her significant other.

"I'm doing pretty good," he responds swigging his glass around.

"Then why don't you join us?" I ask.

"I'm right fucking here. I don't know what to tell you. I feel very close to you," he says with the smile he makes every time he tries be nice and sarcastic at the same time.

"He's probably just analyzing the music, leave him alone," comes Alma out of the blue.

No one says anything. Even the guitarist stops singing, he just strums his chords, pretending not to pay attention to anything other than what he was playing. Everyone else looked at the ground, except Alma who was trying to fix a run in the joint and me who stared at Wes in fright. I could see him open his mouth, and then close it in consternation. I knew, just then, he was about to say something scathing but he stopped himself. "Hey, you know, I'm going to get something to eat and some smokes. You know where I'll be if you want to meet me," he says instead.

"Sure," I say in a raspy voice. I needed water.

As he walked out the door, I could feel the pressure in the room. The demeanor changed, and everyone could feel it. "Well, I'm going out for a cigarette," says the host. "Who wants to join?"

"I will," says her girlfriend, and they stand up and leave. The guitarist follows with them leaving Alma and me alone in this room finishing this joint that I swear to God will not end- but maybe I was just high.

We sat in silence for a while. Finally, as Alma passes me the joint, she looks at me in a way that I think I've never seen her look at me since. I think it was at that moment I realized something- I realized that there was something deeper beneath the surface, that Alma's bedroom eyes were of such a nature that they were even lost on Wes. But she looked at me with these eyes, and for a moment, she looked like a child, innocent, and I just wanted to reach out and hold her, tell her that I love her, that everything is okay. And then she grimaces. "I must look like such a bitch," she says.

"No you're not," I respond, passing the joint to her and thanking God when she refuses because it gave me an excuse to put it out. "Wes can be like that sometimes. He's arrogant and judgmental, and you had every right to call him out. I think it was good that you did that. Don't be offended. He'll get over it, by tomorrow it'll be forgotten, trust me."

"But still.." she sighs hanging her head. Then, in quick recoil, she goes back to looking at me, but this time more squinting. "You seem like a really nice guy."

"You don't know me. The only reason I came up here was to pick up your friend- didn't know she was a lesbian. Plus, I've been staring at your legs all day," I say with a smile.

She laughs as she pulls some of her hair behind her ear. "Just because you have a sexual impulse doesn't take the fact that you still seem like a nice guy. Not many people take the time to notice a person like Wes."

"What? You nuts? He's the most popular person on this campus!"

"He's got to be the loneliest person on this campus too."

I have to pause for a moment and watch her. For a moment, I can see why they conflict so much, they both have so much pain and are looking for someone to comfort it, and I think they just found each other. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, at the end of the day, who's really there taking the time to defend Wes? I mean, I really embarrassed him there, and you stood by him all night. Calming him, trying to get him to integrate into the party. Instead, you could've been selfish and let him go."

"I did just let him go."

"I don't think you could've done anything this time."

"I think you're giving me too much credit."

"Maybe, but I still think he's lonely."

I lean into her and motion for her to come closer. In a hushed voice, I speak to her. "I'll be honest with you. You're right- he's fucked up in the head. But who isn't? Aren't we all? I mean, I think that's why today really hurt him, because it was the first time that these people saw a human side to him. I don't think he's used to that. People knowing that he's got problems too, that he's not almighty Wes, but just Wes from the Bronx. I mean, I sit here, and watch you, and you know what I think?"

"No, what?"

"That you're trying to psychoanalyze a guy when you don't even know him."

"You're right. I know. It's just a bad habit of mine."

"Well, stop it. You're run yourself mad."

She looks up at me with a smile. "See, you are a nice guy."

"No, I'm just trying to get laid." She laughs and pushes my shoulder with her fist. I stand up and offer my hand. "Stand up, we're going." I was really enjoying being this commander of the day. I was relishing it in fact. It was rare for me.

"Where are we going?"

"The Fleetwood."

We walked through the Diag and Nickle's Arcade in the Midwestern snow. Our feet crunched the blackened slush that lined the sidewalk and our breath came in an orange fog, translucent from the streetlights. The dead silents of the streets were marked by sirens, or drunks screaming at the top of there lungs or a barking dog, and the trees swayed with their empty conversion. Snowflakes aligned our sight and danced on our words as we spoke about little things as we gained a bigger understanding of each other. Wrapped in sweaters and scarves and beanies we walked with a rare ease that came with Michigan winters. Alma danced under the moon, spinning to speak to me, twirling in drunken delight just talking about things, and I would laugh with my hands in my pockets. And as we approached the grey trailer, with people sitting outside smoking cigarettes, the bourgeois intellectuals of the night, sitting waiting for the day to break their arrogance, we could see Wes sitting at the counter, sitting alone talking to the waitress, whom leaned on both her elbows, eyes flirtatious, passing the time, smoking cigarettes. I could sense a nervousness in Alma as we approached. "What are doing here again?" she asked right before we crossed the street.

"Getting something to eat," I respond quickly before running across the street not giving her time to respond. We walk in the door and take the two steps it takes to get to the counter. Immediately I sit next to Wes and he turns to me and smiles.

He was about to speak when Alma walks in through the door and sits next to me, on the far side away from Wes. "You brought her here?" he says harshly.

"Oh yeah, because the Fleetwood is such a fucking secret."

"You mighty sarcastic today."

"Relax. What're you having?" I turn to the waitress. "I'll have a cup of water, and..." I ask Alma what she wants, "And whatever she wants, put on my tab." We place our orders and I watch Wes fume from the corner of my eye. Finally, when the order was done, I swivel my stool to face him. "Why can't you just chill out?"

"Why are you being such a fucking prick? Huh?"

"I''m not. You're being the fucking asshole."

"How? How am I being the asshole."

"Shut up, the both of you," Alma says as she leans over me. Looking straight at Wes, she says: "Look, I came with him really to apologize. I didn't mean to be a bitch. I just am passionate about art."

"I can tell," Wes says sharply, taking his cup of coffee into both his hands and blowing into it.

"Hey, I'm trying to apologize here."

Wes doesn't say anything for a while. Finally, he smiles. "God, you're right. I'm being a child. Sorry if I offended you," he says very matter-of-factly.

"And I'm sorry if I was bitchy."

I pat them both on the back. "See, now we're all one big fucked up happy family."

"Yeah, sure," says Wes. Then, under his breath, "But I still think I had a point about art."

"Fuckin'-a Wes, give it a rest, will you?" I say.

This is where Alma sighs. "No, you know, he's right. I couldn't argue with him because he might've had a point. I guess I should read those books in your freshman seminar, huh?"

"Fuck you."

"You would, wouldn't you?"

Now, I wouldn't say I was the reason for Wes and Alma's relationship, but I was the catalyst, that's for sure. While it seems very fairy tale to start out with, it wasn't. Their first meeting was a problem that was easily resolved because they both admitted to themselves something- that they loved the other's hard headed-ness. That's what made the relationship work, in my estimation at least. The rest of the night at the Fleetwood, Wes and Alma got into mini arguments about everything. It was like they like everything the same but for different reasons, and they had to convince the other that their reasoning was best. I resigned back into my position of just being a nothing, stepping away from being a mini- deus ex machina.

I'll tell you right now that this was just a beginning. Meeting Alma changed our lives completely. For Wes, it meant stability. No longer the ideas of partying or being popular meant anything. The only thing that would eventually come to mean anything would be Alma. I think, for Wes, it was a turning point, a maturing point, where parties now became less of a time to get drunk, but more social gatherings where we brought wine and food and talked about politics and music on a more sociable level, looking less to impress people. For me, because of Wes not going to the wild parties anymore (eventually, it still took some time for the whole relationship to amalgamate), I was cast out of that crowd like a dirty sock. And since I had less "Wes" time, I was forced to become more independent. I began doing a lot more things on my own, expanding my group of friends a bit, and even pursuing an eventual conclusion that I would go to grad school. It also made me look at women less as objects and more as long term commitments. This was due primarily to the fact that I was seeing a more mature group of them, older and wiser, more determined in what the want in life, and I was also seeing less of them, so I appreciated them more. In the end, as we entered 1998, life seemed to follow the moon of wild nights into the peaceful days of growing up.