…suddenly stopping, as if on cue. In fact, they were.
"Cut!" yells the director, named George Stanhouse. “Print it! Wrap it!”
The man with the mustache and leisure suit steps away from me, and I sit in a nearby chair. Samantha, wearing tight red slacks and the sheerest of sheer blue tank tops, sits in a chair next to mine.
Director Stanhouse now turns to me and asks, “Did I make my point or not?”
“You certainly did, sir,” I answer. He has me sign some release forms and writes out a pass, and gives instructions to his secretary on his cell phone. The camera crew finishes up and leaves; only the director, the on-stage extras, and ther mustachioed pudgy man in the orange leisure suit remain on the sound stage with Samantha and me. There were 20 extras; then all these other people present with Samantha and me take us by surprise: they all shed all of their clothing! In come 22 other people, each of which goes to one person on the sound stage, of the opposite sex. I notice now that the dark-gray floor isn’t linoleum, concrete, wood, or even deep-pile carpeting, but rather has a quilt-like texture, and in places outlined in white the floor is particularly soft.
Samantha and I are quite agitated by this; even as we note the many doors to the sound-stage–all of which are open to the outside of what must be a movie-studio back lot–she comments:
…“Pooloo see bagoomba!”
“What?” I offer.
“Mershancks. Yaddo im bertome! Kali! Kali!” She spouts.
“Goddammit! What is going on here?”
A large, purple ferret, wearing a bright orange leasure suit, floats slowly down from no where in particular, ogling Samantha’s breasts as he alit. Then he turns to me and says, “So, we meet again, Mr Phipps.”
His voice is very high pitched and he has a Brazilian accent. (All magic ferrets do, by the way.)
He reaches into his pants pocket and removes…
…a dictionary and a microcassette recorder for the language he is speaking. “Your ears will turn red when you understand what I’m saying,” he said.
“I figured as much,” I answered, “being as how you and all these other people are naked.”
We left the huckster with the naked film crew and walked out the main entrance to the sound stage; we checked out at the studio entrance gate. As Samantha and I stepped out onto the street, approaching a Metro Red Line subway station…
she begins to float off the ground.
“It’s been great working with you,” Samantha says. “We should do more stuff in the future.”
“Uh…what,” I say confusedly. “Excuse me? Is this over? Are we breaking up?”
“Breaking up,” she replies. “We were never together. You really should get too deep into your roles.” Samantha is now hovering at an elevation of five feet and is parallel with the ground like Superman when he flies.
“You mean we never had a relationship? All that crazy stuff that happened wasn’t for real? This is all some big confusing movie?”
“Yes, yes, and yes. You need to relax and decompress from all this or else you’ll flip out.”
There’s an awkward silence between us that seems to last for hours but is actually for only a couple seconds.
“I’d love to stay and chat with you but I’ve got to pick up my clothes at the dry cleaners before it closes,” she says trying to end the discomfort we both feel. “And I’ve got a date this evening. I think you should spend tonight just getting some rest. You need to be a little more coherent.” Samantha slowly begins to fly away down the street.
"Uh…yeah, " I slowly say. “That is a good idea.”
“Oh, just remember to drop those two classes you never attended,” she says looking back with a smile. “You don’t want a couple ‘F’s’ on your permanent record.”
“Thanks,” I say. I pause. Samantha is now more than 15 feet off the ground. I yell, “Will I ever see you again?”
“Of course you will,” she yells back. “This is a small town.” She than increases her speed and flies upward over the surrounding buildings. I don’t know what dry cleaners she’s going to.
I’m sad, confused, and suddenly motivated by the need to drop those two classes. I walk into the Metro Red Line subway station, buy my ticket, and get on a subway train that’s just stopped. However, when I step on board I find that…
…I have company. Specifically, Sally, Vera, Olivia, Betty–and Phoebe, the only real intellectual in the group. She hands me a note from Samantha. The message is:
"I am not giving you a rude kiss-off. You and I spent plernty of time together but I have commitments I cannot neglect. You can be sure I will maintain constant contact with you, by e-mail, your cell phone, and postal mail, as well as meeting you at various places I know you go to in Southern California.
“Despite the descriptions given elsewhere about the five women you are meeting in the Red Line car, I assure you that they are not mere sex objects–Phoebe and Sally in particular. Stay with them. Granted it isn’t I you are spending time with, but if you will excuse a slightly out-of-place metaphor, you probably already know it’s not best to keep all your eggs in one basket. So long for now, Samantha.”
I’m glum at this message. The five women have clustered around me. All are in very modest clothing–granted their figures are certainly immodest. Sally, in particular, speaks to me with an intelligence and circumspect outlook belying her 48-inch bosom. They are certainly sympathetic with me in that they know I had such hopes for Samantha.
Olivia Short–whom I had pegged as the biggest bimbo in the group–said, “Remember, you weren’t married to her. It’s not wise to concentrate on one person unless you’ve tied the knot; and we know you’re not ready to do that.”
I glumly agree.
Now we’ve reached the transfer point and change to the Blue Line. We ride until I exit at my station; the girls follow me to my car. Getting five women in the car and driving home safely will be a challenge, but I somehow succeed.
I pull into the driveway and swing the doors open. With the five women in tow, I step into…
a college frat house where a party is ending. The place, as you would expect, is a mess. Empty booze bottle, beer kegs, potato chip bags, pizza boxes, male and female underwear, and CD jewel boxes litter the floor to such a degree that the carpet isn’t visible. Aside from me and the five women, there are only three people left and they’re asleep.
“Is this where you live?” asks Olivia.
“Well, I think so,” I say. “I don’t remember renting my place out to a fraternity. Of course, I don’t seem to remember a lot things.”
“Yeah, Samantha told us your memory is little buggy,” says Phoebe.
“Maybe we can dig up the fraternity president somewhere beneath the ruins of this shabby bacchanalia,” says Sally. “He might be able to fill us in on the situation.”
“I think we should split up and see who’s in charge here,” says Betty. “Vera, Phoebe, and I will try to roust the guys who are sleeping. You and the other girls should take a look through the house.”
I agree and tell them I’ll search the upstairs first. I walk up the stairs and, after getting to the top, open the first door to my left and discover…
…this guy named Woody, a neighbor whom I left in charge of the place while I was gone.
“Woody! What the hell have you done here?! I didn’t leave you here to let these idiots turn my home into a pigsty!”
“You said I could stay here–”
“Yes! I said you could say here! Not Sigma Alpha Epsilon! Now you get those slobs back in here, make them clean up this mess, and get their buts out the door!”
My angry tirade attracted the five women, who gathered around me and glowered at the elderly neighbor, who had really dropped the ball. It also attracted the park manager. I told him what I’d found when I got home and he ordered the frat pack out.
“And these women–are they part of the party too?”
“No. They came home along with me. I’m really embarrassed to see my place in a shambles.”
The frat guys came in and the manager bawled them out. Totally contrite, they cleaned up; along with me, Woody, and the five women who came with me. Since the frat pack had paid the piper I didn’t yell at them now, but I said they’d have to leave–and I prefer they not return.
Woody and the manager left too, and now the five women, Sally, Betty, Vera, Olivia, and Phoebe followed me through the bathroom door–at least what was supposed to be the bathroom door! But the six of us now appeared at the entrance of…
…The Taj Mahal In Las Vegas.
The girls were all dressed as vegas showgirls (or very slutty nuns) and I looked the Joel Grey from Cabaret.
We went on stage and did one hell of a show, let me tell you.
Then…
I walk through a door and find myself alone outside in a cobblestone courtyard. I look around and see that the surrounding buildings have an academic appearance to them–apparently I’m on a college campus. Remembering I have to drop a couple classes, I figure this is as good a time and place for it as any. Now, if I can just find the administration building.
I walk across the courtyard. It’s chilly with a soft rain falling. It’s also somewhat misty as I can barely make out the three-story red brick building on the other side of the courtyard. The courtyard is decorated with small evergreen trees, stone benches, and oddly-shaped topiaries. The topiaries have a bluish hue to them and, while abstract, are a little disturbing to me.
As I get closer to the red brick building, I can see two woman standing in front of the door underneath the eaves talking and smoking cigarettes (no doubt forced outside by anti-smoking laws). I can’t make out the details of their conversation but I do notice their accents: English (London, upper class) and Scottish. I walk a closer and see that the woman are around 30 and are dressed in a style that can be best called “chain-smoking grad student.” The one with the Scottish accent has shoulder-length red hair with streaks redder from her natural color indicating she used to have a dye job but was now letting it fade out. She has a small pert mouth framed by bright red lipstick and a white complexion off-set by her rosy cheeks. The Scotswoman’s wardrobe is also the funkier of the two: a worn short-sleeved green pullover, a blue tartan skirt that ends right below her knee, red stockings, and black boots. She has a wiry frame and looks as though she’s about 5’7’’ with her boots. Her English friend is a short, petite, brunette with an oval face and very prominent big brown eyes that almost black with intensity. Her hair is pinned up and piled up on her head but a few strands dangle loose around her ears. She’s wearing a black sweater, black high-water jeans that end tightly around her calves, and blue tennis shoes. She also wears a pair of round-rimmed eyeglasses that accentuate her owl-like appearance. The Englishwoman holds a plastic grocery bag around her arm as she takes a drag with her cancer stick.
I hear the Scotswoman say something the Englishwoman finds funny. The big-eyed brunette lets go with a hearty smoky laugh that belies her petite appearance.
I approach the woman to ask where the administration building is but just then the Englishwoman’s flimsly plastic bag breaks and spills its contents–two oranges, two 20 ounce bottles of Diet Coke, three beets, a pack of Virginia Slims, and two bars of soap–onto the courtyard. The oranges roll over to me and I pick them up. I walk to the Englishwoman and hand her the oranges.
“Thank you,” she says. “I hate plastic grocery bags. They never seem to hold enough.”
The Scotswoman, who has a cigarette in one hand, gives her one of the Diet Coke bottles with her other hand. I notice a wedding ring. I feel a slight tinge of disappointment.
I go out into the rain to fetch one of the beets. When I bring it back to the Englishwoman, she’s trying to tie up her groceries with what remains of the plastic bag.
“I think that bag’s a lost cause,” I tell her. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a folded up brown paper bag. “Try this,” I say.
“Oh, thank you,” the Englishwoman says. She smiles and looks at me with her big dark eyes.
“My good deed for the day,” I say. “But I was wondering if you could do me a favor? Do you know where the administration building is? I have to drop a couple classes.”
“Let me show you,” she says. “Besides, I want to get out of this cold and miserable rain.”
“I like this weather,” says the red-headed Scotswoman. “It makes me happy,” says the Scotswoman. She walks over and puts out her cigarette in the large sand-filled ashtray provided for the outcast nicotine fiends.
The Englishwoman flicks her cigarette into the ashtray and starts walking toward the door. I look at both of them. They look familiar even though I’ve never met them before. I feel as though I’ve seen them in a different surroundings.
I open the door of the red-brick building and let the Scotswoman go through first. Then, the Englishwoman and I go through the door where we find…
…the Administration Building. “Hmm, this door must be defective,” I muse. I thank the two women for their help, and proceed to fill out the necessary forms to drop the two courses.
There is no line at the secretary’s desk, which is unusual. Must be the crappy weather keeping everybody in their rooms.
I hand the forms to the secretary, who types on a computer for about 5 minutes before she announces that the courses have been dropped.
Well, that’s out of the way.
I exit the building, and find myself back in the courtyard. Yep, this is definitely a defective door. I walk over to the next building, which happens to be the Engineering Building, and step through the door. Nothing wrong with their door, because as soon as I pass the threshold I find myself…
…first, the admissions office. I produce my IDs and go right up to ther window; it’s a slow day. “I intend to drop two classes.”
“Which ones?” asks the admissions clerk.
“Differential Calculus, Section 2917, Professor Hoffman. I can’t fathom the course, and I don’t need it for graduation or any other purpose.” I also show my Math Placement Test results, which were not particulary good.
“What’s the other class?” the clerk asks.
“Tort Law II, Section 0989, Professor Stollwitz. He’s missed half the sessions since the semester started–I’ll just hold off until the next semester.” I need the class; I’m a law student here.
The clerk gives me the record, including a “W” noted for the two classes. The English woman produces her ID and asks to have a class transferred. “English Literature III, Section 4448, Professor MCGowan.” Her voice quavers as she says this. “I’d like to transfer to Section 4439, Professor Rothemich.”
“Why are you transfe–oh, I see.” I can see tears start to well up in the woman’s eyes as she notices that the clerk is reading the reason given for the transfer, on the request form. The clerk pokes at the keyboard of the computer behind the counter, and a few minutes later the printer spits out a paper acknowledging the request. The clerk hands the woman her copy, and she insists that I walk over to a far corner with her.
I know a Professor Timothy McGowan in the English division–older, wise, but hardly a disciplinarian to be feared by students. He’d been my own English Lit professor for my first semester, two years before.
“You had a problem with Old Man McGowan?” I ask.
She is very distressed. She hasn’t touched a cigarette since we went into the building; but I don’t assume she is shaking and her voice trembling for lack of nicotine. I press her: “What’s the matter?”
She sobs. “It isn’t ‘Old Man McGowan.’ This professor only started last semester. John James McGowan. I think he’s only thirty or so.” Sounded really young to be a professor here. I asked. fixing my eyes on hers… “Did he do something to you?”
She was on the verge of crying hard. “He told me w-w-hat I n-needed to do to p-pass in his—…” then she broke down. I held her in a conforting embrace. That bastard, I thought. Well, I know what to do about it.
“We’re near your dorm…here comes your Scottish friend. I have someone to contact. Meet me here at 10:30 tomorrow morning.”
Impusively, I gave her a light kiss on the cheek–something I wouldn’t normally do with a stranger. But I was burning with anger.
The next morning I met the English woman at the appointed place and time… She and I had finished with morning classes.
She turned to face me. She didn’t speak–I could still see the distress in those big brown eyes–but she looked at me as if to ask, What are you going to do?
After greeting her I introduce an older man with me. “This is Professor Walter Fields, Esquire, one of my law professors from last term.” The attorney-professor greeted her.
“This is a serious case of sexual harassment, Ms. Terwilliger. Let’s go to the study room in the library; we can prepare a case for you that I shall present to the Board of Trustees in a few days.”
So we went to the library. Alice felt much better now and asked me, “Please come to dinner with me and my parents and brothers that evening.”
“Gladly,” I said.
The Terwilligers turned out to be a charming British family; they all spoke with the most delightful Southern English accent. Her two brothers were mechanics at a local import-car garage, and played soccer for a semipro team.
When the evening was over I bade farewell, for now, to Alice and her family, and returned to my dorm.
The results of the hearing before the Board of Trustees were quite predictable, according to Professor Fields. Alice’s charges were upheld by the Board and Professor John McGowan was suspended indefinitely. Alice wanted to show me, in a very personal way, how grateful she was for what I did. “But not at this moment,” she added. She was continuing her studies and in a more peaceful frame of mine–and I hadn’t seen her light a cigarette in a while. 
Feeling considerably better myself, I headed out of the atrium of her dorm house to attend to other matters.
As I swung the heavy oak door to the outside open, …
I was hit with a snow-laden blast of cold air. Another blizzard. I begin to run; I want to spend as little time in the storm as I can. I head for the first building I see: the cafeteria. I see the red-headed Scottish woman go in the door and I suddenly remember I don’t know what her name is and should find out. (I also can’t escape the feeling that I’ve seen both her and Alice elsewhere.) Since I’m feeling cold, curious, and hungry, I decide to go in the cafeteria. I open the glass door, walk inside, and…
…am accosted by hordes of tiny ('bout 9" tall) humanoid thingies, all jumping around, riding whippets, and screaming, “Whee, whee, whee, whee…US!”
“That’s off-putting,” I think to myself.
I wander up to the counter and place an order for…
a turkey sandwich with swiss cheese and cranberry sauce on extra sourdough bread. However, before I’m finished with my order, the counter person, who looks and sounds like the late Vice President Spiro Agnew, interrupts and tells me this is a buffet and that I have to go through the line before paying. He points the way to beginning of the line at the other end of the cafeteria and I head off in that direction.
I look at the room as I go to the start of the line. There are the usual covered steam tables with food in them but, aside from that, this is unlike any cafeteria I’ve ever seen. For one thing, the decor is more like that of an expensive French restaurant than an outpost of institutional food. Instead of the usual folding tables and chairs, there are mahogany booths with brown leather seats. The carpet is a deep rich red. In the back, diners are entertained by a string quartet playing compositions by Raymond Scott. And, floating in the air, are large bubbles with small blue birds flying inside. Whenever one of these bubbles broke, the bird would twitter and fly into what looked like a cartoon mouse-hole in the wall.
Then, there was the food itself. From a distance, it all looked like the usual fruits, vegetables, and meat people eat but–up close-- there was something different and unrecognizable about it in terms of its shapes and sizes. And so much of it was blue! Not an obvious “food dye blue” or a purple “blueberry blue” but a blue that came about naturally.
I got to the end of the line. There, I saw the red-headed Scotswoman but before I could say anything, she broke the silence by saying, “Alice really appreciates your help.”
“It was the least I could do,” I said. I momentarily forgot to ask what her name was.
“I really hated to see her that upset,” the red head replied with her thick Scottish burr. “You may not believe this but Alice told me she was wanted to kick that scumbag in the balls when he said that to her. I dissuaded her from that action but I can understand why she’d want to do that.”
“I am surprised,” I said. “She seems like such a meek girl.” I’m now at the steam tables and am dishing the odd food on my plate (but not before I almost trample on one of the elfin men that’s just been bucked off one of the whippets).
“Oh no,” says the Scotswoman taking a large octagon shaped blue fruit. “Alice usually never takes shit from anybody. That’s why I was surprised that she seemed so cowed by that professor. It seemed like the whole incident just suddenly hit her right between the eyes and she didn’t know how to react.”
As I talk to her, I continue to take more of this bizarre food. Somehow my curiosity trumps my caution. Finally both of us, get to the cashier. He looks like James Watt.
“Card please,” he says.
“What card?” I say.
“Your food card. Can’t eat without it.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then you can’t eat.”
“Oh, put it on my card,” says the red head. She hands the cashier her food card (which is triangle rather than rectangle shaped).
“You owe me,” she says with a smile.
We walk to one of the booths. The quartet is launching into “Powerhouse.” I dodge bird bubbles and drunken gnome jockeys on my way over.
We sit at the table. My plate is overflowing with the strange food. The Scotswoman’s plate just has the blue octagon-fruit, a small serving of a red, green, and purple plaid casserole, and what looks like a paperback book that, when cut, has the appearance of a medium-rare cut of New York steak.
I take my first bite. It’s good. In fact, it’s ecstacy-inducing good! I take some bites of some of the other items on my plate: instant euphoria. Then, I feel a sense of fullness followed by bloatedness. My plate is still full but I can’t eat any more.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“I took too much food,” I say feeling like I’m going to explode. “I’m done eating.”
“Look at the food you took,” the red-headed Scotswoman says with a peeved tone. “All you had you wasted.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I feel like I’ve never seen or tasted this food before in my life.” I now have the sensation that my stomach is filling with helium. My ears are starting to ring. I have to go the men’s room–right now!
I leap from my booth and run across the cafeteria all the while ducking to avoid bird bubbles and leaping over what seems like a dozen intoxicated mini-riders. I also think I might have knocked over the string quartet’s instruments on the way over. Still, in my panic I suddenly remember I forgot to ask the Scotswoman what her name is. However, this is no time to double-back. I barrel through the men’s room door and …
…head straight for a stall. Good God, that lentil soup I ate last night must have given me the runs! It seems like an eternity but I’ve been in there only four minutes. I finish my business, wash up, and return to the table where the Scottish woman waits. She’s still a little annoyed with me.
I remember, however, something I have in my big tote bag–a styrofoam container like restaurants often furnish customers who want to take some of what they’ve been served home. I remove it from the tote bag and carefully put the extra food into it.
“That is a better idea,” she says, observing that I was tacitly admitting she was right.
And I say, “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you this–what is your name?”
“Lorna McManus.” I tell her mine. Then, rather clumsily, I drop a portfolio from my tote bag after slipping the food cointainer, properly closed and tied, back in. Samantha had taken a picture of me with the five married women, including Louise Brown, whose likeness Lorna notices.
“That short woman with glasses–she looks like Alice!”
“Yes, she does, now that you mention it. She’s Irish, interestingly enough. She was born Louise O’Hara but now she is Mrs. Stanley Brown. I’ve met her parents and siblings a few times.”
“Stanley must be very happy with her.”
“I believe he certainly is. And someday some lucky swain will feel the same way about Alice.”
“You are very kind. Do not misunderstand me about the meal. I merely feel that it is not wise to order food you do not intend to eat.” Lorna seemed to suggest Maureen O’Hara–the actress in The Quiet Man and Miracle on 34th Street. Somewhat taller than average and with a definite air of assertiveness and independence.
We are about to leave when two people approach–Alice Terwilliger and a brawny man in Scottish regalia; he even carries a bagpipe. Lorna introduces him to me; “You speak of swains–this is my swain, Jock Dumfries.” I greet him.
“Alice told me of your helping her deal with that rogue John McGowan,” he said, in a burr even thicker than Lorna’s.
The four of us leave the restaurant, Lorna arm-in-arm with Jock and I with Alice. we have classes the next day and the Scottish couple have other fish to fry.
Alice and I find some old movies on DVD at her dorm’s common area; we meet later for a light dinner, and spend so much time in ordinary conversation we almost use up the entire evening just talking. I am enchanted by her strong London accent and I wonder how much attention she has given my “American accent.”
The evening does come to an end, of course; but about twenty minutes before she would go to her dorm, and I to mine, into the common room come four women–Sally, Vera, Betty, and Olivia, still lucid and not in a lustful mood. I introduce them and Alice to each other; we head out the oak door, bracing ourselves against the evening cold and the snow…
and see that, with the exception of the college buildings immediately around us, we are surrounded by huge towering glaciers over a mile high. It seems as though another Ice Age has started while we were in the dormitory. We all stand in shock at what’s suddenly happened to the world. Then, Alice turns to me and says…
“I was afraid of this. Here, put this greatcoat on.”
I do so and the other women with us are also suitably insulated against the sudden cold.
We walk a short distance to a parking area, where Alice’s big sedan sits, apparently unfazed by the weather. The six of us get into the car; we’ve no sooner shut the doors when it’s now…
raining blue popsicles. I then see Lorna running toward the car. She’s wearing a green down overcoat that extends down to her shins and black rubber boots. She doesn’t seem to notice the falling blue popsicles. She also looks disturbed about something. When she gets to the car, she says to me…
“…Jock has taken a bad fall. I think he has a broken leg and I can’t find a phone!”
Fortunately, Alice has a cell phone and she calls 911 and summons help. I go with Lorna and the other four women over to help, if we can. We find Jock across the quad writhing in pain near a wall. He apparently slipped when the temperature went up, melting a popsicle; and he slipped on it.
I seem to remember where I saw someone resembling Lorna: She bears a strong facial resemblance to Julie London, of the cast of Emergency!
The paramedics and ambulance attendants do their thing, and Lorna goes with Jock and the attendants in the ambulance. The paramedics hit the reds and siren and speed after them.
Alice and I and the other women go to the hospital, where Lorna is happy to see him being treated adequately. It’s still bitter cold outside. I agree to go back to Alice’s well-heated dorm building. As we go in the door of the building, Alice and the other four women and me…
see that a game of indoor-baseball has just started. An older man in a baseball uniform (who I assume is one of managers) hands me a hat and glove and tells me I have to pitch. He then tells Alice to play shortstop, Olivia to play first base, Sally and Vera to play outfield, and Olivia to relieve me from the bullpen if I get into trouble.
I put on my hat and glove and walk to the pitcher’s mound which is in the center of the dorm lobby right by a couch and a magazine rack. I prepare to toss a few warm-up pitches but before I do, a man in a catcher’s mask runs up to the mound. As he takes off his catcher’s mask, he tells me…