Fall 1979


      Ten more minutes, then his stint on the Gauntlet would be over. A pledge brought up a pitcher, good for him. Mooch marked the dweb's battered notebook.
      "Five points, Scab. Keep the pitcher full and I'll give you five more." Mooch never gave any pledge more than five service points at a time, so he always had one at his beck and call. Getting a hundred points took a long time at a nickel a throw. "Heads up!"
      A girl group turned up the sidewalk. Always in threes or more, the strategy seemed to be if one of the friends got lucky there would still be someone to share the walk back to the dorms. Toad and Ray-hog scoped the group. One girl, a leggy blond in tight jeans and tee looked promising. Ray gave thumbs up. Toad, who hated tall girls, turned thumbs down. Mooch see-sawed. Michael shrugged; he'd seen one of the blonde's friends tutoring a Knight in the library. Who knows, maybe the jock invited them and planned to show up. Football players attracted cheerleaders, cheerleaders attracted other guys, and other guys attracted pretty wanna-bees. Thumb up.
      "You're in. Buck each, ladies," Mooch leered. The blond grinned at him and blew a kiss to Ray-hog.
      Two Knights wandered in. Chi's never charged for jocks in season. Bung, resident Knight and one of three in house, yelled down the hall to his comrades. Some jocks joined frats, usually Sig's or Xi's but if they had brains too, the Chi's. The pair eased through the doorway, scary how broad they could get. One raised a massive paw in a languid half wave, a royal indulgence.
      "Hey, Geez. Thanks for the help. I passed."
      "No prob, Terrel."
      Coach Aimes wanted these guys to leave Placid College with some semblance of the education promised; paid for in torn knee cartilage and pulled groin muscles. Tutoring math to the Knights paid pretty good and got some of them to the Chi house parties. Win - win situation.
      Butzie showed up to relieve Michael.
      "How are the Morlocks?" He referred to the crowd in the basement.
      "Getting deep and happy, Tiny turned up the sound."
      Michael stood, ready to head down to the party room in the basement. He wanted to change his shoes first. The snurr of the party room floor infiltrated, ruining many a pair.
      "Head's up. We got ourselves an only," Mooch said in a mocking tone. A loner was usually a loser, trying to score a good party. She'd get in, if she had ten bucks. Laughed out if she didn't. This one had short dark hair, wearing no make-up, but a more than passable face and figure. Dressed oddly; short black jacket, white top peeking out, short black skirt, and black high heels. Looked like a teenager dressed up in mom's clothes — if mom was a hooker.
      Uh-oh. Michael sensed jailbait, maybe a townie. No way he'd let her through the door. The cops ignored bashes unless a local baby-girl got herself in trouble. Coeds only. Michael stopped her on the porch.
      "Got ID?" he asked. She glanced up at him from the corner of her eyes. Big brown, flecked with light. Deep. Mysterious. Michael shook himself from his contemplation of the half-secrets he'd glimpsed there.
      "ID?" Her voice soft and husky, stirred him as darkly as her eyes. A voice made to whisper and encourage.
      "Driver's license, college student pass?" Michael felt a slithering shiver up his spine.
      "Which?"
      "Either." He couldn't identify her perfume, like nothing he'd smelled before. Almost like musk, or vanilla, or ice cream.
      "Yes. Do you want to see?"
      Mooch laughed. "Oh yeah, we wanna see what you got." Toad and Ray sniggered in appreciation of the innuendo.
      "This?" She pulled a student pass from her coat pocket. "Or this?" She slipped off the jacket; the white halter-top bared her entire back.
      "You're in," Michael said, surprising himself with forcefulness of his instant response and also in the realization of his sudden intent to scheme on this one.
      "Hey, a buck!" Mooch complained.
      "My pass." Michael ushered the solo flier into the chaos of the Theta Chi house. Ray-hog laughed as Toad pantomimed casting a fishing line and reeling in a catch.
      "The Geezer's going fishin'."
      Michael heard the parting shot and flashed a bird behind his back.
      "Liz will be pissed," Butzie commented.
      "Who's gonna tell?" Toad replied reasonably.
      The girl stood in the middle of the meeting room, looking at the rummage sale furniture covered with discarded jackets. Greek Week trophies, pledge paddles and Charter documents drew her eyes for a quick read. The series of framed composites merited a longer study. A finger on one, and a quick glance at his face told him she had identified him.
      "Michael Beiler, Sergeant-at-Arms?"
      He smiled and sketched a flourish with his hands. "In person." Looked good in the light too, though taller than his initial impression.
      "And what does being a sergeant-at-arms entail?" Her voice had a subtle accent and cadence.
      "Mostly stupid stuff at meetings, lock the door, hand out fines. Use the paddle for pledge infractions."
      "The paddle?" She looked at the ones hanging from the wall, then back to him.
      He shrugged, better him than somebody with a sadistic streak.
      "You're correct," she agreed. "Incredibly stupid stuff."
      He privately agreed, but replied, "Tradition."
      "Some traditions are better forgotten, Michael."
      "It's not up to me to change them."
      She flashed the look again, a quick glance from her partially averted eyes. "If not you, then who?"
      "Somebody who cares, I guess."
      He thought she would disapprove of his answer, but she laughed.
      "And you don't."
      He shook his head. "I joined for a cheap place to live and for the Chi legacy ties after graduation." He told himself to shut up. He didn't owe anyone any explanations. She looked at him a moment.
      "No, you don't owe me anything. Should I leave this here?" she asked, swinging her jacket on her finger.
      Michael paused, her coat looked like leather. If she left it in the front room, it would be ripped off fer-sure.
      "Well, you could put it in my room, if you want. But then you'd have to find me before you could go home."
      "Is that a problem?"
      "Not for me." He motioned for her to follow. "Are you from around here? Placid County?"
      "No. I lived last in New York."
      "City?"
      She nodded.
      "Which explains the clothes, I guess."
      "My clothes are inappropriate?" She stopped and looked down at herself.
      He laughed. Inappropriate? "Different, but really good."
      She smiled. "Thank-you, but I sincerely doubt any of those men in your Gauntlet have given one thought to how I look — with my clothes on," she said.
      Michael unlocked his door, laughing again at her candor. Strange girl.
      She glanced around the room curiously. His desk and worktable covered in notes and diagrams. A pile of laundry lay strewn against one wall, his bed hung suspended from the ceiling with four heavy lengths of chain. The acoustical guitar his aunt had given him. Posters of Linda Ronstandt, Steven Hawking, and the Millennium Falcon adorned the scarred paint. Class schedule and tutoring sessions posted on his bulletin board along with a picture of Liz. Oops, damn. She asked no questions but he knew she saw it.
      She ran her fingers along the strings of his guitar.
      "Do you play?" she asked, glancing over at him as she moved on.
      Michael shrugged. "Some, not lately."
      She nodded, and then tapped the pile of papers covered with figures and numbers.
      "You like math?"
      "Yeah, and computers."
      "Computers?"
      "Building, programming, miniaturizing."
      "You mean those punch-card machines."
      "They've come a long way. Within twenty years, everyone will own one. Like a telephone, or a TV."
      "Oh?"
      Most girls hated math with almost as much passion as he thrived on it and he could almost feel his excitement starting to push her away. Shut up! He searched for another topic.
      "What's your major?"
      "Smooth line."
      He grimaced. "Only one I've got, unfortunately."
      She laughed. "I'm here to monitor a guest lecture series. Technology and Ethics. Placid State has a notable philosophy program. Dr. Wenton is quite respected. Now I think we've quite exhausted the subject, let's move on. Show me your party."
      Not 'let's go to the party', but 'show her his party', he mused. As if it were another course to be monitored. He opened the door for her, considering his options. Take her up to where Farmer had his pot gathering and played head music or downstairs for beer and rock and roll?
      "Hey, Geez. Keck says the tap's screwed, come quick," one of the pledges shouted from the end of the hall.
      That decided that.
      Michael grabbed the spare tap from its hook by his door.
      "It's your job to fix the tap?" she asked.
      "Not exactly, but I do own the spare one." He grinned.
      "Ah, a position of responsibility, indeed."
      He directed her down the hall toward the stairway with a light touch on her bare back. Silky, warm, and softly tanned. His eyes stayed fastened to the sight of his hand on her golden skin. At the door to the basement she stopped and looked over her shoulder. He felt his face flush at her little smile. Did she know what he'd been imagining?
      "I'm Casey Zurin, by the way."
      "Oh, and you already know I'm Michael." How stupid could he get, not to ask her name first thing?
      "Not Geez?"
      "My frat nickname is Geezer."
      She looked puzzled.
      "Old man. I did two years hard labor in the flooring factory at home before coming to college."
      "Ah! I see. You make it sound like a punishment."
      "It was. Pure hell. My dad's idea of gainful employment."
      "Why?"
      "He thinks my choice of majors is ridiculous." Michael hitched his thumbs through imaginary suspenders. "Never make a living there, son." He lowered his voice in a gruff imitation of his father.
      "And now?"
      "Still certain I'm throwing away money, but since it's not his…" Michael shrugged. "Kids will be kids. He thinks I'll have to crawl back someday."
      "You don't get along?"
      "Sure — if we talk sports and weather. Nah, really — he's okay — just stuck in the 50's."
      "And you? Where will you get stuck?"
      "I won't. I intend to go with the flow."
      "You won't know you're stuck until you are. Life plays tricks, Michael." She appeared quite serious.
      How did small talk get so deep? Talking about parents and life's rotten tricks to a girl in a tight black skirt and the legs to wear it. No nylons that he could detect.
      She opened the door and the music flooded out. Tiny had the system cranked. Bad Company's "Feel Like Making Love" reverberated up the cement block walls. Michael flinched, catching the suppressed smile on Casey's face, the song too appropriate.
      "Lead on, sir."
      "Stay close," he warned, abruptly worried about taking Casey into the crowded party room. He slipped by and felt a tug as she hooked her finger on his belt loop.
      "The wolves will close in?" she asked, eyebrow arched.
      "Worse yet, my fraternity brothers." He started down the dimly lighted stairs. "And don't let Loser pour your beer."
      Couples groped in the half-light of the exit signs. He saw Casey's eyes flit over each pair. Raunchy introduction, he should have used the other steps. The music intensified at each step and, rounding the corner, the vibrations became a physical presence. Every square foot of space held at least one body. Girls, in pairs and trios, sipped from plastic cups. Guys chugged eagerly, nudging one another, seeking courage. The room, damp and cold an hour ago, had warmed up a little. It would become a sauna by midnight.
      Slipping through the crowd required agility and a quick eye. Keck waved him on and the people nearest parted upon seeing the new tap in Michael's grip. The slight drag on his jeans assured him of Casey's continued presence. A cheer lifted as the beer began to flow again. Michael filled two cups and, sighting a pair of pledges in one corner, steered a course for them.
      "Move it." He motioned with his head. "Twenty points each if you keep our cups safe and full," he yelled in one's ear and received thumbs up in answer. He handed Casey a cup and turned his back to the noise.
      "What do you think?"
      "Loud, hard to talk here."
      He shrugged. Nobody wanted to talk at these things anyway. He noticed goose bumps on her arms and glanced at her breasts. Yep, nice view. God, what was wrong with him? Liz, even with her homecoming queen beauty, never had this effect on his libido.
      A wobble in the crowd, a fortuitous bump and Casey lurched into him. He kept one arm around her. Moving his thumb slightly he could feel the curve of her breast through the silk top.
      Tiny kept a good mix going, playing a couple of up-tempo songs to get the girls dancing, always great entertainment. Predatory males scanned the gyrating dancers, eyes judging and appraising. Occasionally joining in, once eye contact had been established and the non-verbal signals deciphered. Laying temporary claim to territory and possibilities.
      Casey leaned into his arm and crooked her finger at him. She said into his ear, "Meat market, have them take off their clothing at the door and just have an orgy."
      He laughed. Town clowns would love that one.
      She swayed to the rhythm of a Foreigner tune, hips moving slightly.
      "Dance?" he asked. He handed their cups to the waiting pledges, who would guard the beer and reserve their square foot of standing room.
      Michael's approach had always been; 'No one knows how to dance, or cares if you can. So just dance.' Casey proved him wrong. She knew how to move. The music became her partner, its notes and rhythms holding her, turning her, guiding her hips and arms. She danced as if no one watched, but everyone did. Michael put a hand on her waist, wanting to connect somehow and felt drawn in by her energy. She twisted into his arms as the song ended and a slow song began. He sent a mental note of thanks to the deejay and the Eagles.
      She let him hold her very close and moved her hips against his. His hands caressed her back and the curve of her hips. Her tongue glided up his neck and Michael felt the nip of her teeth. He winced, hoping for no lasting marks, which would need an explanation. Casey pulled away slightly. Her lips looked so red in the darkness and so close to his. He kissed her, the salty metallic taste of his sweat still on her tongue. Her mouth felt hot and slick and he felt light-headed, but stayed upright, supported by his arms around Casey. How very cliché, he mused. All the blood rushing from his head ended up in one place. She couldn't possibly miss it. Her eyes stayed closed, still moving as the music's puppet.
      "My room?" he whispered. No way she heard him and he couldn't find the volume control on his voice box.
      But she opened her eyes. "Why?" she asked.
      "Talk?" he mouthed.
      Her eyes laughed at his answer.
      He shrugged. Okay, too fast. He rested his cheek on the top of her head and enjoyed the intimate sway of her hips. The room smelled of beer and sweat, but Casey still smelled like ice cream. She felt nothing like Liz, strange and wonderful, instead of familiar and reliable. The song ended, too soon. He led back to their corner. Good pledges had full cups waiting. First taking a deep swig of his beer, he turned to give her cup back. No Casey, then he saw her disappear around the corner. Damn. He fought through the crowd, jostling cups, stepping on toes, earning more than one elbow in retaliation.
      Michael raced up the stairs and pounded down the hall toward the front door. Toad manned the door alone. The Gauntlet had disbanded.
      "Did she go out?"
      "Who? Oh! Her! Yeah. I saw her cross the street. And Liz came in, she said she'd wait in your room."
      Michael slid to a halt, Liz? She was supposed to be in Pittsburgh, visiting her sister for the weekend.
      "Damn it!" He made up his mind. "If Liz comes looking, tell her I went for more cups." He raced out the door. By the streetlights in the science-building parking lot he could see a receding figure. Casey.
      He caught up as she reached a small black Fiat convertible.
      "Hey!" he called. "Your coat is in my room. Don't you need your keys?" He'd figure something out with Liz.
      She pointed to the ignition, the keys dangled.
      Grabbing her arm, he drew her around. "Don't go, I guessed wrong."
      "No, Michael, you guessed correctly."
      "I did?” Anger flared. “Are you playing hard to get?"
      "No, but you should." She tapped his chest. "I'm a stranger."
      "I feel like I know you."
      "Your lines are improving."
      "No line, really. Come back and we will just talk." He thought of Liz, in confusion.
      "What of the splendid red-head who asked about you as I left? She's waiting for you, Michael. Go talk to her. She's safe."
      Safe, yes. Liz would be safe. But did he want safe?
      "And you're dangerous?"
      Her eyes rekindled him. "Very."
      "I like dangerous."
      Emboldened by her smile, he kissed her softly. A moan escaped, his or hers, he couldn't be certain. She wrapped her arms around his back and with surprising strength jerked him against her. Hard kisses, lips, chin, chest and neck — barely feeling another bite, lost as he was in the heat of her seeking hands. Dizzy with passion. Against the car, he felt the fender on the front of his legs, a solid thing in the whirling. Lifting her with the combined force of mutual urgency. The skirt posed no barrier and she wore nothing at all beneath it. God. Cold metal chilled warm velvet skin. The smell of asphalt, leather, pine tree sap and the indescribable scent of Casey filled the air. The subtle swiveling of her hips against his. Wanting more. Maddeningly slowed by the stubborn button rivet on his jeans.
      A passing car blared its horn, the wind swirling as it raced by.
      "Get a room!" someone shouted.
      Michael pulled away from the conflagration, dazed and self-conscious. Collecting his composure.
      "Go back to safe, Michael." Casey said, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine.
      He clutched the top of the door. Keep her talking — say anything. "What about your coat?"
      She looked at him, amused. "I have others. Keep it." And with a squeal of tires drove off. Still breathless, he watched her taillights flash at the corner, and then she was gone.

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