Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski
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asks, eyeing the glass tube of hash on his desk.
“Jamie,” a deep, low-pitched voice responds.
Nick inhales from his joint and then exhales out the open window. “Come in.”
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Jamie pushes open the door and nods at Nick on the computer chair, and then at me. I’ve made myself comfortable, sprawled across the wooden floor. Oh, man, I’m way too relaxed. My arms, legs and ass are numb. I try to raise my hand in a wave, but find that my body won’t cooperate. Instead my fingers feel like they’re floating on the floor.
“Russ?” he says to me. “Are you conscious?”
Jamie’s voice doesn’t match his body. He’s like an Ewok with Darth Vader’s set of pipes. His rumored sexual prowess doesn’t fit, either. Do women really go for the geriatric look?
He looks at the TV. We’ve been watching the security video. Some rich alumni donated the money for a camera in the entranceway, and now anyone with a TV in his room can watch the entrance on channel two. Sure to provide hours of stoned entertainment.
Nick rolls his chair over to Jamie, then slaps him on the back. “Whassup with you, Mr. Stud?”
Jamie smiles coyly. “Great time at the beer bash, I tell you.”
“You got action, eh?” I say, attempting and failing to lift myself up by my elbows.
“How’d you know that?”
Nick laughs. “People talk, dude.”
I’m not crazy about the word dude. Too wanna-be surfer-boy. Nick’s from California, so maybe he’s allowed. His pale skin and skinny body, however, suggest that the only kind of surfing Nick does is for porn.
But he’s a good guy. A cool guy. He has a guitar in the corner of his room, and cigars on his desk. I’ve always wanted to be friends with the “cool” guy. After making a small fortune at a start-up five years ago and then blowing most of it on two failed ventures, he decided to invest in an MBA.
As for me, I’d planned on coming to B-school since I started watching Family Ties and wanted to be Alex P. Keaton. Later, I wanted to be Bill Gates. I also wanted to be a superhero but decided that Bill was the more realistic role model. And I wouldn’t have to wear tights. I slaved over my B-school application for months and then agonized for even longer while I waited for the schools to get back to me.
I met Jamie and Nick yesterday. They came up to school one day early to settle in. I came one day early to attend the international student orientation. Canadians should not have to sit through a four-hour international student orientation. I learned how to use American money. Thanks. The international student orientation also taught me that in Amerika, people have to tip. No shit.
The only entertaining part of the boredom marathon was the bit about greetings. The lecturer asked two male students, one from Brazil and one from Japan, to come up to the podium and say hello as if they were at a business meeting. The Brazilian guy jumped the lecturer and kissed her cheeks. The Japanese man bowed and wouldn’t go near her. She then taught us that in this wonderful country, you shake hands. Thanks again.
After a full day of more useless instruction, I headed back to my room, pushed my duffel bag off my slightly stained mattress and stared at the wall, feeling overwhelmed. As I lay on the bare, squeaky mattress, I congratulated myself on finally getting here. Of course, I’d paid a price. I’d given up a top-paying consulting job in Toronto. And left my girlfriend. And taken out a massive loan.
Hoping that someone would come by and make me feel better, I left the door open. Ten minutes later Jamie stood just outside my room. When he invited me to join him and Nick in wandering around, I gladly accepted. Nick and I quickly led the group to the closest bar, where we got pissed.
We’d sat together at the dean’s welcoming address today. Nick had occupied himself by reading the Wall Street Journal on his PDA while Jamie checked out the women and promptly fell asleep.
I listened in awe, rubbing the felt of my chair with adoration and amazement. I was sitting in a top B-school auditorium. I was finally here. A B-school student majoring in…well, I don’t know yet what I’m majoring in. There are so many amazing choices. Finance, Marketing, International Business, Entrepreneurship…
“You are the future Fortune 500, the future entrepreneurs of America, the future CEOs of the world,” the dean had told us, sending chills through my spine. I had expected him to look more like Dumbledore from Harry Potter, but he looked more built than wizardly, with his wide shoulders and buff upper torso. Kind of like The Hulk. Sharon would have thought he was hot.
Oh, man. Sharon. “I gotta take off,” I say, carefully rolling myself off the floor. I don’t want to touch the tissues strewn around. I’m not sure what’s in them.
Nick pushes me back down. “Come on, dude, finish this joint with me.”
Why not? I’ll stay a few more minutes. Arm officially twisted, I inhale, hoping it’ll help me sleep. I’ve been too excited to get any rest. “So,” I say to Jamie, “while we were at the sports bar, you were getting laid, eh? We stopped by the beer bash, but someone said you’d left with a chick.”
I pass the joint to Jamie, but Jamie motions it away and grins. “Your information is correct, Russ. I did leave with someone, but I don’t like to kiss and tell.”
Nick boots up his sleek-looking laptop. “What’s her name? Was it the tall blonde?”
“Nope.” Jamie sits down on the corner of the desk. “Oh, why not. Her name is Kimmy. She just got here today.”
“I’m going to need her last name, dude.”
“Kimmy Nailer.”
“Come on!” I laugh. “Nail-her? That’s her name?”
Nick clicks away on his keyboard, and I peer onto the screen. “Are you going to Google her?” I ask.
“Much better than that, dude.” He clicks on to the LWBS Web site. Then he clicks on to a section labeled Calling Card. A list of names pops up on the screen. “Every person in our class is on here. With photos.”
“Why are some of the names purple and some blue?” I lean toward the screen to take a better look. “Why are all the girls’ names in purple?”
“Because I’ve checked them all out,” Nick says.
“Someone’s been busy.” Maybe that’s what the tissues were for.
“Hey, Jamie Grossman,” Nick says, then pauses. “Why don’t you have a picture up? I thought you might be a babe.”
The term babe might be just as annoying as dude. I prefer “chick”—Sharon hates it.
Jamie looks away. “I keep forgetting to bring it in.”
Nick clicks on Kimmy’s name. A sexy brunette with significant breast exposure flashes across the screen. Nick whistles. “Nice work, dude.”
I nod. “Hot.” Too bad it’s not a full-length picture. Nice top. She’d look great in matching tight white pants. Love it when women wear white pants. Don’t know what it is about the white, but it turns me on.
Nick clicks on me. I’m making my best “I’m serious” face. I got a haircut specifically before taking the picture and put on my favorite suit and tie.
“Bet you were wearing jeans underneath that jacket, Russ,” Nick says. “Like everyone does.”
Now why didn’t I think of that? I wasted a clean pair of pants. Stupid. I have a twenty-thousand-dollar tuition loan over my head, and dry cleaning is a splurge. I nod so I don’t look like a moron.
Nick clicks back to Kimmy Nailer. “I didn’t think babes like her went to B-school.”
“They