When
Laurence finished landscaping, he showered and went down to the
lobby. While the limited bandwidth of the dormitory was shared by
many, the slow bit-rate drove the wealthier students to purchase
their own internet services. T3 DSL was common, and FIOS could be
found, but those who might enjoy the privilege were not likely to
invite Laurence to share.
Laurence
was trying to use area-wide library resources, to piece together the
history of Europe. With the advent of cotton clothing, from the newly
discovered Americas, trade amongst the European countries had changed
substantially.
Laurence
peered at the dates, and took notes of the names of treasurers and
generals. Tulip Mania alone, could keep a historian busy for hours.
Bitumen
was sitting cross legged on the sofa, with a pillow clutched to her
chest. Her current beau, Searcy, had his arm around her, and the
pillow obscured his hand. Bitumen was alternately watching prime time
television, and gauging the performance of the various Foosball
competitors.
Bitumen
found it amusing, that Laurence had a laptop, a map of Europe, and a
three-subject notebook arrayed around him in a circle, while those
round about him sought emancipation from ennui.
When
Searcy interrupted his attentions, to demonstrate his own command of
Foosball, Bitumen yawned and stretched. “I'm bored,” she
proclaimed, resting an elbow on her upright knee.
“I
never get bored,” Laurence offered in return. His tone was slightly
combative. These indifferent children of privilege had no right to
protest boredom when there was so much to learn.
“What's
your name?” Bitumen asked.
“Laurence,”
Laurence replied.
“Well,
Laurence, the mechanical workings of a kaleidoscope may be
fascinating, down to the sub-atomic level of refraction of light, but
at eleven o'clock, you're always going to be buying a Coke during a
Letterman commercial. You're predictable – Boring!” Bitumen
pronounced.
Laurence
looked pained. “You didn't mention your name,” Laurence began.
“I'll
agree. I didn't,” Bitumen sparked.
When
Bitumen offered no further comment, Laurence dug in his heels, and
hauled back on the lasso of his etiquette. “You have the advantage
of me,” he grated. “With whom do I have the pleasure of
speaking?”
“It's
Bitumen,” Bitumen clipped. “Now's when I suppose you 'educate'
me?” She said the word 'educate,' with distaste, like a diplomat
might say 're-education.'
“Is
it worth the trouble?” Laurence shot back.
“If
we talk computers, you're gonna educate me; if we talk religion,
you're gonna educate me; if we talk politics, you're gonna educate
me; if we talk weather, you're gonna educate me...” Bitumen paused
for a breath, and Laurence interrupted.
“What
can you do WITHOUT an education?” he decried.
Like
a sailboat tacking upwind, Bitumen abruptly changed direction. “Fine.
Let's talk about sex!” she challenged. Her eyes blazed at Laurence,
as she awaited his inevitable rebuttal.
“...education?”
Laurence sputtered. “or maybe pornography?” His tone ended the
sentence.
“I
probably know more about sex than you, Laurence. I wouldn't be
surprised if you had to PAY for it!” Bitumen fired back. The fact
was, that Bitumen had Laurence's number. Furthermore, if education is
crucial, experience is equally indispensable.
Laurence
was not prepared to concede without a fight. “I'll bet I can find
your G-spot,” he swelled. He had heard that this was an
accomplishment in a lover.
“I
have a boyfriend,” Bitumen protested. “He's gonna bone me like a
Sunday roast tonight, and there's no way I'm screwin' that up, just
to 'educate' you!” Again, the word came out like an
epithet. “You ever wonder why no one ever says 'yes,' when you ask
'em out?”
“I
know I'm not a hound,” Laurence flailed. “YOU probably just can't
do any better!”
“You
gonna tell that to Searcy?” Bitumen flashed.
“Just
so he can have an excuse to kick my ass?” Laurence asked. The
prospect made him quail. “I can get that at any strip club!” The
threat of physical violence had caused Laurence to lower his tone,
and he finished evenly, glowering back at Bitumen.
Bitumen
didn't pull her punches. Pointing at Laurence, she stood up and made
a face. “HE just called me a STRIPPER!” Bitumen bawled, at the
top of her lungs.
In
seconds, the fraternity guns were circling Laurence and his
paraphernalia.
“Who're
YOU callin' a stripper?” one growled fiercely. “Is that any way
to talk to a lady?”
A
double standard was at work here, and Laurence could hardly expect
any explanation to suffice. Every one of these rakes would casually
refer to Bitumen as a bitch without batting an eye, both privately
and in her presence. Yet here, the mere proximity of the word
“stripper,” in an analogy, officially offended their jaded
sensibilities because it was offered by Laurence. They regarded
Laurence as an interloper, and want identified his species.
Protestations
of innocence could not save Laurence, but survival dictated that he
should go down swinging, if only verbally. “It was a simile, not a
metaphor!” he cried, underscoring the importance of his claim, by
adding repetition and volume.
Laurence
would have faced corporal punishment, if Bitumen had not been reduced
to gales of laughter at his desperation. At her intercession,
Laurence was subjected to several minutes of apologies, amd sent
packing with stern warnings not to re-offend.
Over
the next two days, word was passed around the grapevine, and Laurence
endured a firestorm of controversy. A few asked him what he had been
thinking; a smattering asked him what a simile was, but the majority
spoke to one another, and disdained the object of their discourse.
Laurence
began to subsist in a bubble of isolation.
