Escher Caulfield: A College Novel

“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”   My alarm clock welcomed me to the business end of seven a.m.

“Fuckin’ A,” I yelled at no one as I awoke to the first rays of sunlight piercing the cracks in the blinds.  It was time for another day of class.  Son of a bitch.  At least it was Friday.  Come three o’clock I could once again be found taking shots out of a twelve-dollar handle of vodka and leaving all my troubles for Sunday night. For two days, everything would be okay.  I would drink away the sorrow of the school week and replenish my soul with mirth and merriment just in time to lose it again on Monday.  The weekend was the only break I got from the piles of responsibility which various professors deemed appropriate in return for passing grades in their courses, but the probability of intoxication and the possibility of sex was enough to keep my head up.

First, however, I had to make it through the day.  I hit the alarm and staggered into the bathroom,  still mostly unconscious. I reached for the shower and turned the faucet.  The water was cold, same as it had been for the past month, and I made another mental note to remind our cheap-ass landlady to fix the heater.  She was certainly punctual when it came to collecting rent, the troll, but something as simple as hot water was apparently too much for her to handle.  We should have known she’d be a blood-sucker; they all were, though I couldn’t imagine anyone being much worse.  

Our house was in shambles.  The roof had been so neglected to allow a family of raccoons to move in where a nest-sized hole had rotted away.  I could hear their tiny claws scratching the ceiling above my head at night as I lay trying to sleep. I imagined our roof as a secret hangout for the delinquents, sort of like the raccoon version of the Foot Clan’s headquarters in the first Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie where the troubled youth are encouraged to ride skateboards and smoke cigarettes.  

Our house had both a front and a back yard, which was something of a joke because neither had any grass. Just a bunch of grubby weeds. The fence that bordered our back yard looked like it had been put in sometime around 1953. One day, the whole side that stood between ours and our neighbors’ properties just fell over. Nobody did anything. So, there it sat.  Once the weather warmed back up Junior had started mowing right around it as though nothing were wrong.

Fuck it, a man’s gotta get clean.  I muttered curses as I plunged my body into the icy misery that had become my morning shower, and ten minutes later, I had dressed, snagged my backpack and begun the daily hike to campus.

My first Friday class was Calculus, located in the Engineering Center which loomed over the far end of the school. It was a twenty-five minute walk out of which I had talked myself many times, but one that, having missed Wednesday’s lecture, I had little choice but to make.  Today, at least, was warm.  The winter had lasted forever. The snow had piled up over the roads and sidewalks and then melted and turned the town into a sludgy piece of shit.  Coupled with my obstinate refusal to shell out the eighty bucks for a cozy pair of boots, this winter had dampened my spirits indeed.

The winter was gone now, although one could never be sure.  Last winter, the one from my freshman year, was unusual I had been told.  The town had seen a string of sunny, warm days as late as December, and it had snowed on the first day of summer vacation.  Not that I minded; I left for home in North Carolina that same day to spend a quiet break in my parents’ house. I went off to work at a summer camp in July and then flew back out west in August to move into the shitty, four-bedroom shack at number 50029 on Grandview Avenue to undertake my sophomore year.  

The house had been an adventure so far.  We lived right on the Hill, in the midst of hundreds of other college students.  There had been a week of down time between move-in day and the beginning of the semester, and my roommates and I had used it to meet our neighbors and develop a network of friendly houses in the surrounding streets.  Within walking distance, we generally had many options for socializing on a given Friday or Saturday night.  As more people came to our parties, we met more students who lived on the Hill, and our network grew.  At our height, we could get two hundred people to our house with very little notice. And we took advantage of this ability  frequently.

I crossed Broadway at its intersection with University and entered the western part of campus.  As I walked through the quad I saw some girls studying in the grass, and some guys throwing Frisbees and kicking soccer balls to each other.  Some days, I’d borrow my roommate Luke’s longboard  to get to class more quickly, but today I was on foot.  I was glad though. I was in no hurry to get out of this beautiful day and into a classroom with fluorescent lighting.  Fucking class.  At least it was warm.

My old dorm was on the way to the Engineering Center.  It sat on the Engineering Quad, and, predictably, most of the students that lived there were engineers.  It was supposed to be a substance-free living space.  All the dorms on campus had the same rules about the same substances, but mine was one of the few that required the residents to sign an agreement saying that they would neither possess drugs or alcohol on the premises nor enter the building under any kind of influence.  I personally witnessed at least half of the students in my dorm break the agreement.  I had only lived there because I had filled out my housing form under the supervision of my father, but I made some good friends and shared some laughs and was even arrested for being drunk on the floor of my room one time.  I spent that night in detox with a homeless man named God and a heroin addict named Matt, who was reading Scar Tissue.

I arrived at the revolving doors of the EC, ten minutes late to my lecture.  This would have been a problem for most engineering students, but I had long since stopped worrying about arriving to class with punctuality.  I took my time climbing the two flights of stairs to room ECCR 250 and stopped briefly outside the closed double doors of the lecture hall to gather myself for what lay ahead. I took a deep breath and gave the door a push.  I tried to open it quietly, but, apparently, oiling hinges was not on the maintenance manager’s checklist for this particular building.

“Crreeeeeeeeee!”  The door, which I had taken care to open very slowly and deliberately, had betrayed me. My noisy appearance was greeted with silence by a packed house of diligent engineering students, pens in hand, all staring at me, that fucking late kid who didn’t take his studies seriously enough to make it to class on time.

“Welcome!” beamed Professor Dickhead as I started toward the only empty seat in the room: the middle chair in the very back row.  I gave him a nod and a sheepish grin as I passed.  Apparently, he was really enjoying my Walk-of-Shame up the aisle because he refrained from speaking until I had made my way to my seat, which creaked loudly as I sat down. 

ECCR 250 was one of a dozen larger lecture halls in the EC.  It was shaped like an amphitheater, with a tall ceiling and stadium seating, and it held about a hundred and twenty kids.  Unlike some of the smaller technology classrooms, it didn’t have tables.  Instead, it had those auditorium chairs with the little folding excuse for a desktop that barely fits a spiral notebook. My seat in the back put me at a good twenty-five yards from the professor, so to say the setting lacked intimacy would be an understatement.

I sighed.  A short hour or so before, I had been peacefully asleep, unconscious to this cruel world of academia, possibly dreaming of cars and women, but, alas, wakefulness held no such rewards.  Only notes.  Dutifully, I took out my pen and paper and made an honest effort to absorb the knowledge from the lecture; unfortunately, today’s lesson was on parametric and polar functions, and I was bored instantly.  No matter how much I wanted to pay attention to what the professor was saying, I could not force myself to care about calculus at eight in the morning, and I started gazing around the room between scribbles of useless information in my notebook.  The girl two seats to my left was pretty cute; the guy next to me was trying very hard to establish rapport with her and failing tremendously.  He didn’t seem to know or care that her refusal to make eye contact with him or speak more than one word at a time in his direction was pretty much girl-code for “Leave me alone.”  It was sad, but in a way it was inspiring.  He was determined; I was impressed.

I glanced up and watched the professor write some more meaningless shit on the board.  This class always took forever.  I checked the clock on my phone.  It was 8:14.  Ugh!  It had been only four minutes since I walked into the lecture.  This was torture.  I looked down to the end of the row and caught the eye of my roommate, Luke.  He flashed me the devil horns.  I returned them and started thinking about what I was going to eat for dinner.  I considered cooking Alfredo that night.  Luke and I were pretty good cooks, but our fettuccine Alfredo was our masterpiece.  I would grill some chicken breast and throw that in, along with some fresh onions and peppers.  I could also add some corn.  Yeah, that’s what I’d do.  I’d add some corn.  But first I would need to run to the grocery store, which presented a problem; ever since the lease on Spencer’s car had run out, getting to Safeway was too much of a hassle.  My other roommate Sanders had a car, but it smelled like shit and was so full of junk that it could barely fit him and one other person at the same time. We could still get groceries without a car because we lived within walking distance of Whole Foods, but, God, I hated that store.  Their selection was awful and their food really wasn’t high-quality enough to justify the outrageous prices they charged.  The last time we had gone there, Luke had very reluctantly purchased a four-dollar dozen of eggs.  As we were checking out, he fixed the cashier with a glare and said, “These had better make my dick bigger.”  As far as I knew, they hadn’t.

Again, I attempted to pick up the lecture.  The professor was explaining how to reach the second derivative of a parametric function, and I immediately lost interest again.  I glanced at Luke.  He was deep in conversation with the girl next to him, and I knew he was gone.  Luke would chat with anybody, and there was no getting to him when he was in that mode.  We’d gone to a strip club one night for our friend’s birthday, and instead of watching the strippers with us, he had spent all night in the corner talking to the ones who weren’t onstage.

My mind drifted back to food.  I could just say, “Fuck cooking,” and get a Wich.  That seemed like a better plan.  It was Friday, after all.  Which Wich? was on the Hill and was basically on my way home.  This plan could also streamline the process of getting alcohol.  I had turned twenty only ten weeks before, and I still couldn’t go to the liquor store myself.  Usually, Sanders or one of the neighbors were happy to go get my alcohol for me, but I still had to work within their schedules instead of my own.

I broke from my daydream and found myself desperately hoping that the class was almost over.  I checked my phone; it was still 8:14.  Fuck!

--

The University Memorial Center, or UMC, sat on the edge of campus next to Broadway.  It was designed as a sort of hang-out for students, so it didn’t have any classrooms.  It did have movie theaters and concert halls, and there was even a bowling alley that served beer (maximum of three per person per night, ID required), and often, on Friday or Saturday evenings, there would be events for students, like video game tournaments and talent shows.  There was even an annual Battle of the Bands competition.  The school really made an effort to provide us with healthy, safe, and fun options for socialization that didn’t require alcohol.  Naturally, I didn’t know anybody that ever went there on weekends.

But there were a couple dining options in the lobby, and it was at a table with a Subway sandwich that I found myself now.  I was skipping Programming to eat and browse ESPN on my laptop, and I sat in peace as other students bustled in and out.

“Hey, Escher, come sit with us!”  

I looked up from my computer and turned around to see Carrie Keller, a girl I had met in the dorms the year before, sitting at another table with a beautiful girl I didn’t know.  I was six inches into my turkey club when this invitation was hurled in my direction with a ferocity that would have put Nolan Ryan to shame.  Even at nine-fifteen in the damn morning, she was full of energy.  I was not.  I really wanted to decline and continue reading about the NFL off-season free-agent moves, but I knew it would be no use.  There was no way she was going to let me get out of this, but I decided to fight it anyway.

“Oh, no thank you.  I’m almost done, and then I’m going to head out.”

“Oh, come on!  You’ll be fine!”

“Really, that’s very kind of you, but I’m suuuper busy right now.”

“Busy with what?”

“Y’know… stuff.”

“Shut up and come sit.  It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Fine.”

And just like that, I was beaten. With a sigh, I gathered my things and took a seat next to Carrie.  Besides, I figured, the Panthers are still going to suck whether or not I read about them.  Bunch of bums.  Matt fucking Moore.  Are you serious?

“You owe me, Keller,” I teased her as I sat down.  “Normally I charge for this kind of service.”

“Oh, are you going to take off your clothes?”

“Keller with the jokes!”

“I know, I know.  I’m hilarious.  Escher, this is Jessica.”

“Nice to meet you, Jessica.  I’m Escher, and I’m currently single.”

“Hi, Escher.  I’m Jessica, and I’m not at all interested.”  She was not smiling.

“Dammit Keller, why’d you have to introduce me to one with good judgment?  They never like me.”

“Oh, yeah.  I forgot.”

“Looks like I’ll have to pull out the ole charm.”

Carrie snorted into her sushi.

“Charming Escher?  I don’t think I’ve met him.  I’ve met Douche Bag Escher.  Did you mean Douche Bag Escher?”  

“You know I don’t like it when you embarrass me in front of other people,” I said with an affected whisper.  I even threw in a stern finger-point.  “You know that!”  She let out an exaggerated sigh.

“I’m so sorry.  Jessica, Escher is really charming and handsome.”

“See?  Now was that so hard?”

“No, sir.”

“Game face, Keller.  So, Jessica.  Tell me about yourself.”

“What would you like me to tell you?” she asked.  She still did not find me amusing.

“That you’re strangely attracted to men who don’t have any money and underperform sexually.  But I’ll settle for your major.”  She hesitated.

“Uh, Art History.”

“That’s amazing!  I’ve heard great things about our school’s Art History program.”

“Escher, don’t,” Carrie interrupted.  She could detect my sarcasm as well as any girl I’d met.

“What?  I read it on the internet.”  Carrie winced.  She knew this was not going to end well.  “You know, Jessica, I was just reading the other day that Einstein started out as an Art History major, but he dropped out because it was too hard.”

“For your information,” she started, “I had a four-point-oh GPA last semester, thank you very much!”

“Incredible!  And in the rigorous field of Art History!  How do you do it?”  I was enjoying myself.

“Okay, well if you’re so smart, then what’s your major?”

“Electrical and Computer Engineering,” I said with more than a hint of self-satisfaction.  I waited for her admission of my superiority.  It didn’t come.

“Wow.  An engineer?  That’s sad.  You probably have no life.”  Ouch.

“Well, there goes my smile.  You know, you really should be nicer to people.  It could be the only thing you have going for you once you get your art history degree.”  That did it.

“Okay, you know what?  You’re an asshole, and I have to go study.  Carrie, I’ll see you later.”  She gathered her things and stormed out of the cafeteria.

“I think we really hit it off,” I offered to Carrie as we watched Jessica’s departure.  Carrie sighed.

“Escher, why do you have to do that?  Can’t you get through one meal without offending someone?”

“I don’t know.  It might kill me.”  She rolled her eyes.

“Why do I put up with you?”

“Well, I have a theory.”

“Oh?  Let’s hear it.”

“You find yourself helplessly attracted to me.”

“Hah!  Close!”

“Yikes.”

“Anyway I’m late for Psych.  Goodbye, my dear!”  She kissed me on the cheek and walked away.

I finished my sandwich and disposed of my trash.  I stepped outside where I lit a cigarette and started toward Circuits.  

--

I arrived home around two o’ clock to find Luke and Spencer sitting in the living room.  The TV was on, and apparently Luke was in control of the remote because it was turned to the Discovery Channel.  He loved that shit.  Just the day before, he had literally spent six hours of his time watching a marathon about underwater caves.  I had asked him if he wanted to go get some food, to which he replied, “Nah, bro. I’m watching this.”

I greeted my roommates and sat down, ready to learn about Amazonian tree frogs, when we heard the front door open violently and slam shut.  That slam could mean only one thing.

“Buenos días, bitches!”  It was the abominable Sanders.

Luke and I had been at a party the year before, talking to a couple of girls, when a sweaty guy wearing a backward baseball cap ran up to me, thrust a beer into my hand, and yelled, “Drink up, motherfucker!”  That was the first time I ever experienced Michael Sanders.  The cops showed up later that night. He, Luke, and I escaped out the back door and cut through the alley.  Somewhere in the course of running from the police, he became our friend, and from then on, Sanders was always hanging out with us at the dorms.  He was obnoxious, loud, selfish, vulgar, and annoying, but, at the end of the year, we asked him to move in with us, and he became the fourth roommate.  It was always an adventure living with Sanders.  He was constantly irritating us with his stupid antics, but underneath it all, he was still our friend.  Or something, at least.

Sanders lumbered into the living room with a thirty-rack of Pabst Blue Ribbon tucked under his arm.

“Here you go, children,” he said, tossing us each a beer.  “Careful with those.  They have alcohol in them.  Caulfield!”  He ran up to me and ruffled my hair.  I punched him in the gut.

“God dammit, Sanders.  Do you ever just not act like a jackass?”

“Ah shut it, you boner.  Let’s drink!”

That was our cue to stand up and chug our beers.  As usual, Sanders finished first.  He celebrated by slapping Spencer in the testicles.  Spencer coughed and spilled beer all over himself.

“Motherfucker,” he said and went to get paper towels from the kitchen.

I finished my beer right before Luke and sat down.  Sanders took this as a sign of weakness.

“Oh come on, Caulfield!  You aren’t done already are you?” 

“Sanders, first of all, you are a terrible human being.  Second,” I said as I stood up, “you got lucky the first time.”  We both cracked a beer and started chugging.  Sanders probably would have won again, but Spencer dashed in from the kitchen and gave him a solid smack to the groin, and we all lost ourselves in a fit of laughter.

“First rule of boat racing,” I gasped between laughs, “always guard your nuts!”

“Seriously, fuck you all,” Sanders said, once we had calmed down.  “We need to figure out what we’re doing tonight.”

“Tonight? Dude, it’s two p.m.  Settle down, let’s learn about some frogs, and we’ll figure that shit out later,” I replied.

“Caulfield, fuck you!”

“Okay, fuck me.  Pass me a beer?”

“Sure.  Here.  You vagina.”

I took a big gulp and belched.

“Okay, fine.  Let’s decide what we’re doing tonight.  Any suggestions?”

“I heard Tommy’s got a keg,” offered Spencer.

“Dude I don’t know if I’m feeling Tommy’s,” I said.

“Yeah,” Luke added. “The people there are usually not that cool.  Remember that hippie girl from last week?  Oh man, that girl was annoying!”

“Nah, man, that girl was hot,” argued Sanders.

“Not at all.”  I looked at Sanders after I said this.  I was expecting a retort, but instead, he looked at the floor and said nothing.  Oh shit!  “Sanders, did you hook up with her?”

“Shut up, man.”

“Wait, you did?”  I prodded.

“I said shut up.”  Sanders was getting defensive.  This was funny.

“Woohoo!  Atta boy, Sanders!  You stallion!”

“Shut the fuck up, Caulfield!  You saw how drunk I was that night!”

“Must have been pretty damn drunk.”

“Okay, fuck you, man.”  Sanders was mad.  I was enjoying myself.

“All right,” Luke said.  “Both of you, chill out.  What are we trying to do tonight?”  I looked back at Sanders.  He was giving me the if-looks-could-kill.  I smiled back.

“Why don’t we just throw down here?” asked Spencer.

“I’m down with that,” I said.  “Sanders, you want to fill the keg?”  The deadly look instantly turned to one of excitement.

“You know I got it.  Fork over the cash, fuckers!”

One of the benefits of living with Michael Sanders was that he had recently turned twenty-one and could therefore legally purchase alcohol.  This right was one which he exercised frequently, and we were all too happy to take advantage.  We each handed him fifteen bucks for the keg, and Spencer and I handed him an extra seven each for some liquor.  Sanders squealed like a little piggy as he dashed out the door.  I shook my head.

“We should tell people to start coming around nine thirty so they’ll be here by eleven.  In the meantime, Escher,” Luke said, “help us move this table to the back yard.”

“Aye aye, Captain.  Oh, and by the way, anybody feel like getting a Wich?”