4 Desmond, Friendship
Until then, Raj hadn’t known about Cosette and guns. Come to think of it, few of the Residue Class knew anything about her except her math. Maybe that’s all they cared about. She told me she couldn’t complain. “I didn’t know much about them, either. Besides their math, they were a rather straight bunch. Or so I thought.”
She told me, “If they knew of my private life, none of them would approve. Most straight people didn’t. Living in a small village, I had to conceal my true self, my desires. Living in Hurlsburg, and close to The Big Apple, hiding my private life isn’t going to be much of a problem. At least I hope not. I just have to find some additional friends outside the group. To do that, I’ll have to escape once in a while.
If she’d been a guy, her sexual behavior would have been accepted without question. Raj’s tomcatting was accepted. As a girl–a woman–Cosette had to keep some things secret. Much later, she apologized to me for keeping her secret life hidden from me. “I could have told you, but you were too young, too virginal. At barely fifteen, you might have been a mathematical genius, but socially–sexually–you were a blank slate. Which was as it should be.”
She was right about me, of course, but that didn’t make me resent her secrecy less. I might have been a virgin, but I wasn’t exactly virginal. After all, I had the Internet.
Once Raj and I left her apartment, Cose told me she spent another hour thinking about her situation. It was a classical double bind. Raj wanted her body, and he was not an unattractive guy. But if she allowed him to have his way, she could never be a part of the Residue Class. Josh had made that clear to all of us–we were like a family, and sex among us would be like incest. But if he still wanted her, he’d oppose her election to the Class, because of Josh’s rule. If she were part of the family, Raj would have to leave her alone, and maybe even start appreciating her contributions.
With that depressing thought, she headed for bed. She might as well have stayed up all night, though, because she was totally unable to sleep. She was not yet officially enrolled in the university, but she was auditing an American history class at noon. Someday, she hoped to become a citizen.
Having been up all night, she dozed through most of the next day’s class. She couldn’t remember much about it except for Thomas Jefferson’s black mistress. She told me that was no loss. “It probably wouldn’t be on any citizenship test.”
But the day was not lost. Here’s what she told me, in her own words so I don’t miss any of the details:
“Leaving the class, my stomach loudly reminded me I hadn’t eaten a crumb since a midnight cheese sandwich. I needed a few calories or I wouldn’t be able to stay awake though another lecture.
“As I headed for the Student Union, a good-looking man about my age caught up to me and starting walking alongside. He was slightly better dressed than the average grad student–a decent black sport jacket, white shirt open at the neck, gray slacks with a fresh crease, and neatly polished black loafers. His loafers seemed untouched by the dusting of snow, just as he seemed untouched by the cold. Everyone else, including me, wore a heavy winter coat, but he didn’t even have a scarf. I noticed all these details while trying not to show I was looking at him.
“He definitely wasn’t shy. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘My name’s Desmond. Desmond Quincy. I’ve seen you in American History. Are you a History major?’
“It was a simple, unaffected pickup line, which I liked. He seemed natural, and friendly enough, as well as a fellow student. Except for our Residue Class members, I hadn’t made any friends on campus. Here, I thought, was a good opportunity to be a small part of my new community. I didn’t give him my name, but I said, ‘No, I’m not a History major. Are you?’
“‘Political Science, though there’s a lot of History to that. So what’s your major?’
“A bit embarrassed by his question, I confessed, ‘I’m not actually a student. Not yet. I’ve been in America for less than two months. I’m auditing this course to capture a bit of American culture.’
“He puckered his lips and offered a slight bobbing of his head. I took these non-verbals for a show of understanding and appreciation. My interpretation was confirmed when he asked, ‘Are you heading for the Union?’
“I told him I was thinking about it, still not quite sure whether I wanted to continue with his obvious pick-up. ‘I was up all night and didn’t have time for breakfast.’
“He frowned and adopted a tone of serious concern. ‘Hey, you mustn’t forget to eat properly. How about you let me buy you a proper breakfast?’
“The image of a hot meal made my decision. ‘Well, I was thinking of a snack to substitute for lunch, and I’d love to hear what you thought of the lecture. However, I won’t accept your offer of a free lunch. Don’t you Americans have a saying about that?’
“He didn’t respond right away. I appreciate a man who doesn’t have all the answers on the tip of his tongue. I was already right behind him in the snack line when he finally replied, ‘Yep, we say there’s no such thing as a free lunch.’”
I guess I’m sufficiently virginal to find this pick-up story fascinating. I wondered when some cool guy would try to pick me up, and if I’d be able to handle it as well as Cosette. I urged my friend to tell me the rest of the story, but I was so excited I forgot to write down her exact words. I’ll do my best to capture the essentials as she told them to me.