Unclosed Mouths (Chapter 1, full PDF attached)
Something I started in college and never finished.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
PDF of the full 47 pages attached at the bottom for paid subscribers.
1 Le Bishop et La Bamba
"I wonder how much Georgia's Amazon Echo knows about me," Jeffy says, not looking up from his lukewarm mug of coffee. "Like, remembers."
Bart, clenching his jaw, puts a finger to the mosquito bite on the nape of his neck. "Your ex’s? More than she does, I bet."
It's a rainy June in Madison, Wisconsin. Jeffy and Bart are staying overnight for a film festival that Bart’s mom has a short in. The city is mysteriously tiny to these two, used to the unrelenting scale of New York City. The nuances of urbanity were not lost on them, out of their comfort zones; Bart found marijuana in record time.
"I ran into her at that party last week," Jeffy says. Georgia had texted Jeffy to ask if they could speak again. "She's going back to school in September."
"She’s sick still?"
"Uh-huh. I feel like shit about it. She's been telling me about how supportive I was, important I was, and how isolating it is, and it's like, well yeah, we were dating then. I can't do all that anymore."
Bart's fingers twitch on the table. "Yeah… totally. Don’t feel obligated if she’s not asking for anything."
The hotel has these minute-long power outages that remind Jeffy of school. Hotels are terrible, sure, but you're paying for shelter. Jeffy never understood the need for all the luxury. Whenever Paula'd stay over she'd say his dorm was like a Holiday Inn or something. Jeffy argued that Holiday Inn's didn't have any natural light, didn’t smell funny, and that he wouldn’t bring someone he was dating to one.
"I wouldn’t say, uh, dating."
That had been the gist of that month. Jeffy played pretend but really was not pretending. How could someone just sleep with someone? Sit around all day, not meaning anything, and then - boom, fuck and cradle one another all night! It was ridiculous.
"When are you coming back in, baby?" Bart is watching a Jersey Shore rerun on MTV. Jeffy is finishing a roach on the tiny balcony, after sifting through the ashtray.
Oh, and his drinking got really bad.
"Do you smell the weed?" Jeffy says.
"Can you close the door? The AC turned itself off."
Back in March, Jeffy and his mother spent 5 days at a resort in Jamaica on a whim. His father had brought a lover back to New York, as if to meet Jeffy after his first year or so at school, so his mother had some free income after a tumultuous split. The sprawling resort was walled off tight, protecting with armed security those sunburnt Americans from poverty or death or waste, whatever burned out the homes of drug lords that Jeffy’s uncle would point out on drives to his grandfather’s house. Sometimes, Jeffy and his mom would sit on the resort’s beach over daiquiris and she would try to find him a wife.
"Y'know, with your father moving on-"
"Oh my god-"
"I'm looking at everyone from 17 to 20 for you," she said, to which he blew a raspberry. "I could see you dating a twenty-year-old."
"I dated a twenty-year-old," he said, through a blue daiquiri. "Well, I saw a twenty-year-old."
"Huh, how was that? Was she white?"
"Yeah, it was too bad."
On that first morning in February Paula and Jeffy walked side by side down an icy path to the dining hall, a pair of lined denim jackets between them. Two college sophomores. Paula thought Jeffy was a photo major and Jeffy thought the same of her. Jeffy could not ignore the thought that he had been abruptly fucked that morning. Fucked. He imagined a chart of those Paula had fucked there at school so far. Bart was on it. And Miranda.
"You good?" Paula said. She was a taller woman, and she carried herself as such, with her shoulders pitched back and her stance wide. Or, I guess, she pitched them back to account for her large breasts. Paula was strong and her dark brown hair was stark and she’d walk around campus with Jimmy like studio art Beavis and Butthead or something. Chortling about something said in a crit. No. Sure. Her nose was Roman and Jeffy’s was Sub-Saharan and they had to tilt their heads a bit to kiss.
Jeffy stirred, blinking. "Yeah, what?"
"I asked how the party was, and you just grunted."
"Well, that's how I feel about it."
"You’re a caveman. Wake up, it's 10 AM."
There was Dana. Dana Clarkson. Dana was nice. Dana was intensely depressed. Dana was up here last weekend for a concert. Dana transferred to art school far away this semester. And he couldn't open up. Was Jeffy stupid? Therapy hadn’t been working? Didn’t get theory?
The dining hall was surprisingly dead for a Friday morning. As if only unfucked Freshman STEM students up for their late-morning labs and those fucked and hastily pushed onto that first shuttle back to campus were patronizing, Jeffy projected. At a small table in a well-lit back corner, he unsurely ate a bagel BLT while Paula worked through two bananas.
"You seen Todd around?" she asks.
"Hauser?"
"Bishop."
"Ah, 'fighting the fight' hardcore kid?"
"Yay-high, jumpy."
"Yeah, yesterday at dinner."
"I hit him up last night and he was super cold to me."
"Uh-huh?" Jeffy was happy he didn't choke.
"Well, anyway, there you were," Paula said, without endearment. Standing up, she said "Kadisky lecture."
"What are you, what are you, um, doing later?"
"Party. Maybe Under-the-Bridge. Is Tracy playing?"
"Tracy is indeed playing."
"See you." she squinted.
"Uh-huh."
With her jacket on, she was off.
Jeffy spent the four-or-so minutes before Bart and Yura showed up squinting at the oil on his plate and trying to find something good in his last 12 hours. He wondered what fucked up plant seed they used to fry this bacon. Yura often joked that living on campus destroys your GI system.
He did not want to like Paula, he noted. He had been stressed about the party. He had descended upon the building, an eight-bedroom off the main road of Dealership, New York, the tiny village with 30% of its population made up of his school’s faculty and upperclassmen, students pouring out of the campus shuttle already drunk. Yura and Bart and Jeffy rumbled down the road, a little too loud, their forty ounces converted to ‘brass monkeys’ and one Steel Reserve a little too conspicuous. A blacked-out car rolled by, American muscle, and when it was close the group could make out “POLICE” on its doors. Jeffy was only a little spooked; either Dealership was worse for people like him than New York City was, or it was better. One couldn’t know.
"Remember last term," Yura said, across from Jeffy, scooping out an avocado, "When Miranda was trying to fuck us both at the same time?"
"You practically got with her," Bart said. He looked out the dining hall’s window across the snow-stacked field.
"She's not my type at all - total fluke."
"There's just something in the air Under-the-Bridge," Jeffy said, "Something sinister."
"Speaking of, what about you and Paula?"
"Dude," Yura started, "This man disappears like, 15 minutes after we get to that party. I was so lost!"
"That house is a maze," Jeffy said.
"Then I run into them with Curtis, upstairs, by the bathroom? And they are going at it, Jeff and Paula, it's disgusting, like hand in pants-"
"I remember that,” Bart started. “You could see her pubes-"
"Dude!"
"What'd you end up doing to her after we left?" Bart said, to surprised looks.
Jeffy frowned, mumbling that he didn’t do anything to Paula. "We went to her dingle and, like, passed out."
"That's it?" Bart said.
"Well, in the morning…"
"Okay," said Yura, "we’re done with this."
Jeffy spent the day trying to forget his Latin assignments and smoking lavender spliffs in Tracy from high school's minivan. After a trip to a Five Guys in another town that ended up closed became a similarly satisfying trip through a Dunkin drive-thru, Tracy parked her vehicle in a forested rest area so the group assembled could eat. Conversation arrived at Jeffy’s ‘tryst’ as the Spotify account streaming from an iPhone to the dashboard computer neared the middle of the debut album of a Captured Tracks band.
Tracy was 17 and Jeffy 16 the first time they’d made out, in the den of their friend Brandon’s townhouse. Jeffy actually thought that Tracy’s friend Dana Clarkson had the hots for him that night; he was not disappointed but surprised. Tracy prodded at his crotch and Jeffy asked to go down on her - a fixation of his early sex life, as though he lacked everywhere else, he felt he could phone it in there very well.
"No regerts, I say." Tracy from the front seat of her minivan.
"Was it a one-night deal?" Todd Hauser, shotgun.
"Did you text her? Like an 'I had a good time'?" Bart.
"I don't have her phone number." And he wouldn't get it for another week and a half.
"Hit her DMs," Todd said.
"You gotta drop at least a 'thanks for letting me inside of you-"
"No!" Tracy said, laughing, "Not in the van, Bart."
"Let us all whet our whistles, in celebration," Todd said.
"At breakfast, Paula asked about you but she meant the other Todd."
"Huh. Oh no."
Tracy asked Todd to light her a cigarette. "Want one?" She looked grown-up behind the wheel. Like Jeffy didn't know her. "Todd," she says, "Miranda's been asking about you in Sculpture. You you. About massages. Tell him, Bart."
"Really?"
Bart said, "Yeah-huh. I attested to your skills."
"Miranda's not..." Jeffy stopped. "Maybe she just wants a massage?"
"You get ten free ones with insurance," Todd said. "At the wellness center.”
Tracy made a face in the rear-view. "Massages? What are we? Twelve? That's how Miranda got me last term."
"And that went-"
"Not telling."
"Alright, Trace."
Jeffy and Bart started an episode of Spongebob over a fresh rack of Coors. The thirty-inch television in their room could be louder. Jeffy ought to buy some speakers. Seems like a waste. "To be honest, I don't feel very good about Paula."
"How come?"
"Well, I've never done that sort've thing, and come out with so much, like, dread."
"You’ve hooked up with people. You got with Tracy senior year, right?"
"That's totally different. We were friends, and I knew her ex really well, or sorta well, or I knew him and they were on a break. I got over it."
"Am I following? You don’t feel good about Paula because you don’t want to be into her?”
“Yea.”
“And the last time. you just made yourself get over it?"
"No, that's stupid,” Jeffy said. “I don't know how to do that. You can't do that."
"Well, of course you can."
"Well, I didn't do it myself."
"You just can’t look at life like that."
"Maybe." Jeffy burped.
Spongebob is having trouble with his boss. Bart uses basketball shot form, his hands splaying past each other, to send his first can across the room into an empty beer box by the door. Dorm life was low.
"Let’s just get down to the show soon."
"WAA is opening."
"Waah?"
"Tracy’s band? We're Already Annoyed. Double-U Double-A. "
And they were. WAA was opening second, and the opener-openers were this Wesleyan band no one had heard of, besides everyone, especially this mob of SUNY New Paltz people who flew inside for those first strains of soundcheck. Over the mumblecore DJ set before, Jeffy made shout-conversation with Jamie Bell, the cutest senior on the lacrosse team. Jamie knew the drummer from lax camp. "He was such a punk," he said.
"So they're good."
"So good."
Jeffy knew Jamie from those senior project proposal posters in the swanky science building. The grown man slipped away to grab more beer from his car, so Jeffy waddled into a conversation between Bart, Bart's friend "Bomber," and Jimmy from Philly. Last time Jeffy was in Jamaica his grandfather told him that his rasta name should be Bobo. He'd thought about it.
"It's a gimmick," said Bomber, "everything Bobby does is a gimmick."
"It's Tracy's band-" Jimmy started.
"Tracy's annoying, too."
"Well, come on, that's her thing," Jimmy said. "Not faking being down with folk, or house, ‘bedroom pop,’ shit like that."
“Such is the lifeblood of our scene,” Bomber said, to which Jimmy scowled. "It's like with Paula..." Bomber went on, looking through the blue tint of her phone. "And I know Paula's your best friend, Jim, but it's like, for once, she could take down this fucking wall. For once. This isn't high school. We’re all in this together."
"That’s not like Paula's obligation, bro. She’s not in a band. She’s got nothing to do with this."
Jeffy butted in, "I think Paula's alright-"
"Jeffery," said Bomber, "You're biased."
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, come on. You're fucking obsessed with her"
"Fuck off, Bomber. You don't know who I’m obsessed with." Jeffy does not understand where she might’ve heard about his apparent desire for Paula. Maybe she’d seen them around?
"Whatever, you guys," blurted Bart. "You wanna see this band?"
"I'm smo-king,” Bomber said. “You seen Miranda?" She batted at her iPhone with a finger.
"Paula's got my vodka," Jimmy said. "Anyway, you, yo, your name is Bomber."
"Uh-huh."
"That's a gimmick..."
Bart and Jeffy followed each other through the backdoor of the old chapel.
"Geez,” said Bart.
“Did you tell her? About me and Paula?”
“No, I would never. She’s just like that.”
"No worse than anybody else here, then," Jeffy said. "A contrarian."
"Yura’s contrarian, and Yura's not mean when she wants to fuck somebody.."
"Yura's mean 'cause she can't fuck anybody."
"You're mean," said Bart, "That's not it at all."
"So Bomber wants to fuck you?"
"Bomber wants to fuck you, guy. Did I not tell you?"
Bart pulls up messages from "La Bamba,” pointing at the last one, 3 minutes old: What’s Jeff's deal?
“Did she put you up to this,” Jeffy asked.
“No, I just thought I’d let you know.”
“Christ. That’s cool, I guess.”
“Is it?” Bart squinted.
The Wes band was not so bad; they probably sound better recorded.
"We're Already Annoyed," Tracy enunciated, with thick lines of eye black on her cheeks. "That's us. Happy to be here, and to be opening for Shitpen. Thanks to Four Liters for coming out. This one's is, uh, 'Dada.’"
Great sound or whatever. Jeffy listens to their EP on the plane back to JFK to jog his memory while Bart watches Frances Ha on the seatback TV. Jeffy thinks he can hear his skateboard sliding about in the overhead.
After the first song, Paula appeared, with a punch to Jeffy's shoulder.
"They're good, huh?"
"Yeah, really."
"Vodka?"
He nodded. "Wanna beer?"
A Gatorade bottle for an aluminum can.
"This song's called 'Tote-Bag Infirmary.’ Uh, fuck you, I guess," Tracy added, grinning. And up came the growl of her Jaguar P/J, then the titter of Bobby's Telecaster, and crunching thuds from whatever Karl's set was. Pearl something. Jeffy didn't play drums. He watched Paula’s face, her mouth slowly opening, as if in awe. The lights set up behind the band played across her features. She sipped the beer, swallowing. Her mouth opened again, and Jeffy admired her lips and teeth.
"...And we're all melting/ Aieee!/ City's slowing smelting/ Aieee!/ All our private parts..."
Paula caught Jeffy’s eyes and soft smile. She kissed him, arm bending over his shoulder, and they swayed, stuck together in this crowd, this repurposed cafe, this unmade chapel, for a while. Paula then walked off without saying much and Jeffy felt bubbles growing in his stomach.
Outside, afterward, Tracy comfortably puffed among a few upperclassmen.
"Damn, you were amazing,"
"Thanks."
"Really thrashed," Jeffy said, patting her shoulder, "or whatever."
"Wow, thanks."
Jeffy, confused, kept walking.
"Jeffery! You going to town later?" He turned and saw Bomber bright under a floodlight.
"Thinking about it."
"Light me up, bad boy. Think about it. And it's Deb."
"Huh?"
"It’s Deb. My name is Deb," she said, smiling. “Bomber is a nickname.”
He put a Bic to her Marlboro and said, "You gotta give it to 'em, uh, Deb, those guys play a good set."
"They were alright."
"You're a stickler."
"I've got some real fuckin' garage rock at my place. Tapes. Fucking noise."
"God, you are, like, insanely forward. I can stream Dinosaur Jr. anywhere."
"Are you messing with me?" For a moment, Bomber broke her sneer and gave Jeffy a bit of a meek look. "You in or not? Don't make this hard."
Jeffy looked about. No Paula. She’d never… "Yeah, sure."
"My car's right out back."
Bomber had the nicest place in Dealership Jeffy'd seen. Big studio.
In the kitchen, Bomber asked, "Were you at the thing on Plum last night?"
"No, the one on Fourth, with Yura and everyone."
"That's what I meant. With Miranda and them." She walked around the countertop, gripping his two hands.
"I like your place."
"It’s cheap ‘cause some girl died here last semester."
"You smell good," he said.
"Smell like beer, sweat and stogies," she said, kissing him.
Later, Bomber watched from the couch as he browsed her bookcase.
"Ooh, Building Nothing Out of Something cassette? Where'd you get this?"
"Poughkeepsie? Maybe bootleg. It's not hard to find."
"They were so good, it's crazy. And The Outsiders! Damn, three copies."
"They were given to me... It's more of a bit-"
"The Outsiders was the last thing I cried to," Jeffy said. "A few weeks ago."
"Huh. It's good to cry." She spoke in short, ordered bursts. Jeffy understood what she was getting at but he wanted to ride it out for a moment.
"I know! It was beautiful. When that kid dies… Good book." He watched her shift in her seat, lying back and kicking one Vans slip-on off.
"Not everyone agrees with you."
Jeffy stood up straight. "How'd we meet again?"
"Halloween, last term," She said. "Under-the-Bridge with Jimmy. I tried to dropkick you and I smashed my phone."
"First night or second?"
"I don't know, Jeffy."
"'Cause I met Jimmy the second night. And Paula."
"What's it matter? Everybody knows everybody. Get over here."
For someone so assertive, Bomber made few other demands. The first twenty minutes were puzzling. At one point she mumbled, "I really like this song."
And thus a dichotomy began.