Those Who Dare

I look at my right wrist for the seventh time, but they confiscated my watch before escorting me to this room, so I still can’t tell how long I've been sitting here. At least they gave me a cup of water, but I finished that off two wrist-glances ago. So instead I look around the room once more, taking inventory. Wooden table: check. Two wooden chairs on opposite sides of said table (one occupied, one empty): check. Video camera in the upper corner: check. Three different signs advising me of my rights (a laminated page taped firmly in front of me; the other two as posters attached to opposing walls on each side of me): check. Pair of cold steel handcuffs, not-quite-too-tight, attaching my left wrist to a U-bolt in the center of that table: check. (I hope that they won’t need me to sign anything, since I'm left-handed.) And, finally, one wide-ass mirror, probably one-way-glass, on the wall opposite from me: check.

For a change of pace, I study myself in the mirror. Blonde pageboy haircut, just shy of my collarbones. Thick black glasses that have been compared to Buddy Holly's. Bloodshot hazel eyes. A face that looks like I haven’t slept for at least 20 hours (true). Black wife-beater without a bra—not that I need one, with only A-cups. Hidden beneath the table are my khaki cargo pants, with all the flaps opened and unsnapped, and my black leather combat boots, women’s size 6. My khaki army jacket (courtesy of my father) and my black hoodie are not present, as—like my watch and keys—they've been taken from me.

The solid black door in the back, catty-corner to the camera, opens inward, and the Hispanic woman who left me here however long ago walks in. She has a folio notebook with her, and clicks a ball-point as she takes the seat opposite me. She glances at her watch—nice that one of us got to wear one—then looks up toward the camera. “Officer Olivia Martinez, University of Houston Police, badge 1-4-8, beginning questioning at 0215 Central on 6 October 1990, Saturday.” She looks at me. “Name?”

“Dorothy Ann Randall. And it’s still Friday.” A friend of mine once described my voice as sounding like a cross between Marlene Dietrich and Peppermint Patty. Having heard a recording of it, they weren’t wrong.

“After midnight, it’s Saturday.” She sighs, opens her notebook, and starts taking notes. I’ve been able to read handwriting upside down since I was in middle school, but she’s writing in Spanish (I’d taken German, which was far more useful in the Dakotas than in Texas), so I am S.O.L. in that regard. “Date of birth? Student I.D.?” I give those details to her without extra comment; it's not like she doesn't have them already. “Current residence?”

“O.B. 202.”

“Oberholtzer? You’re one of the honor students?” She’s skeptical.

“Yeah. National Merit finalist, South Dakota,” I grin. “One of 25 for the entire state, last year. There’s more than that living on my floor.” I quickly tilt my head to each side, eliciting a couple of loud cracks. She raises her eyebrow. “Sorry, getting stiff.”

“Well, the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you get to leave.” She gives me the fakest smile I’ve ever seen, and I’m the queen of fake smiles. “We’ve already talked to your friend, so it would be nice if your stories match.”

“Can’t imagine why they wouldn’t. Where do you want me to begin?”

“Why don’t you start with the chair? Just remember, you’re the one who wants to leave.”

***

The story actually started on the roof of Oberholtzer Hall—O.B., as everyone calls it—about 8pm, but I wasn’t going to tell her about that part. Mainly because Steve had brought half a case of Bartles & Jaymes up for the three of us to drink; since we were all underage, she did not need to be informed. The “three of us” were myself, Steve Jennings, and Walt Decker, all freshmen that year, and three of the four founding members of the O.B.-Servatory Club. Which basically meant that we hung out on the roof—the only dorm in the Quad with roof access, though it had pretty secure fencing to prevent any “incidents”—listening to emo and goth C.D.s and bitching about whatever our issues of the day were. If we were lucky, Steve would be able to sneak wine coolers from home (he was the only one from the Houston area), and we’d people-watch down below to see what, if anything, was going on in the interchange of humanity between the five dorms.

Steve was a tall lanky guy from nearby Katy. Light brown hair in Billy Idol-ish spikes, thin face slightly scarred by acne, prominent Adam’s apple (I occasionally called him Ichabod). He had the personality of Cameron Frye, usually, but we’d peer-pressured him to the point where he just brought the alcohol without us having to ask. He was wearing his usual denim jacket, denim pants, Don Johnson t-shirt, and cloth loafers. I would have done anything to sleep with him, but he had an obvious crush on Walt.

Walt was only a little taller than me, tanned, dark hair, glasses, and a half-assed beard and mustache that looked like it had been shaved that morning but he’d been trying to grow since before he arrived from San Antonio. He wore polos, jeans, and velcro sneakers (he claimed he could never keep his shoes tied; as much of a klutz as he was, I believed it). He completed the third leg of our unrequited love triangle, lusting after me. His hair was too oily and he smelled perpetually of garlic, but he was a nice enough guy that I put up with him. Besides, sometimes it got him to do me favors.

Our fourth Musketeer, who was absent that evening, was Kim Peters—a male Kim, not a female one. He was stocky—shorter than me, even—with dirty blonde hair and pale skin, often dressed in flannel, always looking like his Minnesotan forebears. He and I were both from the same floor in O.B.; Steve and Walt were on separate floors in Taub Hall. I don’t even remember why we started hanging out together, but it became a thing, especially on weekends, shortly after we moved in.

At any rate, this particular night was the first of a three-day weekend. Which meant that the campus was going to be dead for much of it, especially late at night. So we sat around discussing the meaning of life, all while listening to a steady stream of The Smiths, Yaz, Siouxsie, and Depeche Mode, and making good friends with Ed B. & Frank J.

When I finally looked at my watch, it was well after midnight, and the other two were half asleep in the lawn chairs we used for furniture. “Hey!” I harshly whispered, poking at them with the last partial bottle of strawberry daiquiri. “Better get back to your rooms, feels like it’s going to rain.” Houston, at all times of the year, felt like it was on the verge of rain; the only way to tell the difference was if you could feel the water droplets falling. I helped them get down the stairs and even made sure they got into Taub without incident (both had a habit of forgetting their room keys). I then reentered O.B., and went through the study hall to get to my dorm—the two floors of residences in the building were all “quiet rooms,” and any noise louder than a mouse, no matter the time of day, was subject to write-up by my resident advisor (R.A. for short), so the stairs at my room’s end of the building were the safest to climb.

That’s when the next bit of trouble occurred: Patrick Kinney, a sophomore who was friendly to our gang, came out of the computer lab stretching from whatever he’d been working on. Either early work on a paper (possible) or some extended gaming competition on the Quad’s Mac network (much more likely). He saw me, waved, and said, “Hey. Know anyone who needs a chair for their room?”

“A chair? What kind of chair?”

“A recliner. It’s up on the 4th floor of P.G.H., in one of the study rooms.”

“How much?”

“Free to whoever wants it. Just have to haul it off yourself.”

“Who do we need to talk to?”

“My prof said to just take it. She just wants it gone.”

“Cool. Thanks.” We nodded and parted ways.

Now, as I mentioned, there had been two six-packs of wine coolers. And Steve and Walt, despite both being larger than me, weren’t drinkers prior to coming to U.H., which meant that I usually drank more than them. Which was, by my most accurate count, about six bottles that particular night, so I was most definitely over the limit. And one should never make a decision at 1 in the morning when one is intoxicated. Decisions such as: Damn, I would really love to have a recliner in my dorm. Bet it would be more comfy than reading at a desk or on the bed.

***

The first issue was figuring out how to get it. I needed someone to help me. Not just anyone: a real friend. Friends help you move; real friends help you move recliners in the middle of the night. And I knew my roommate—Jenny Ellison, who had (unlike me) actually wanted a bed in the 24-hour quiet rooms—would not participate. Hell, she’d probably complain once I got it in there.

So I went down the hall to room 210, as quiet as possible, and tapped on the door. No response. Tap again. A little louder this time. “SSSSHHHHHHH!” I saw a head stick out from the RA’s room a couple of doors back, so I waved, and quietly made my way down to the lobby instead.

Once there, I dialed Kim’s number. It rang four times before a sleepy voice muttered into the receiver. “Kim?” Another mumble, then a brief silence, and finally a different voice spoke unintelligibly. “Kim! Get dressed and down to the lobby. Now! I need you.” I didn’t actually yell; the student helper-on-duty wouldn’t have tolerated that. But it was a very loud whisper. In response were some more mumbles, and then dial tone. He arrived within five minutes.

Kim and I first met on our campus tours back in the spring, and then again at the big orientation shindig that they held after Move-In Day for the honors students, during which we participated in an informal debate on whether sex was an art form or a sport. (Given the nature of the students participating in said debate, I’m surprised nobody took the side of “a game of solitaire.”) It was all a bunch of silliness, really; highly intelligent students who likely had never been away from mommy and daddy suddenly thrust into adult situations. But Kim and I bonded like brother and sister; unlike with Steve and Walt, there was no sexual tension between us. Like I said before: a real friend.

So I led the way, cutting across campus, past the fountain, the English building, the Library, and the Administration building. There, lit up as if anyone was still inside—but with full windows allowing those of us on the outside to see it was empty—was Hoffman Hall, a.k.a P.G.H., the Social Sciences building. The doors were, of course, unlocked, allowing us easy entry. Poked around until we found the elevator. Up to the fourth floor.

The first time I laid my eyes on him, I was in love. He was olive green with dark brass tacks lovingly holding the vinyl upholstery in place. Now, he wasn’t in the best of shape: bored students had punctured his cover hundreds of times; others had connected those with Sharpie into a series of inventive constellations, some of which wouldn’t be proper in polite company. But I didn’t care: it was love at first sight.

“Lo! For his name shall be Bob!”

Kim gave me a look. “Bob? Bob the big brown Barcalounger?”

I returned his look. “He’s green, not brown. What’s wrong with you?”

He sighed. “Color-blind, sorry. Still, looks the color of baby shit.”

We did some quick stretches, then picked him up. After a couple attempts, we figured that the best way was to extend him out to full recline, and then pick him up by the footpad and headrest, flipping him upside-down. We took him in stages, managing to get him into the elevator. That was when we noticed the smell. He had an aroma, a very strong one, that smelled like a pile of socks after gym class. A week after gym class.

“And you’re going to put this in your dorm?” He gave me a look.

“I have some Glade.” I was very defensive of my beloved Bob.

He shrugged. “Need a whole bucket of it. Jenny’s going to kill you.”

The elevator opened (to the relief of our sinuses), so we continued out the doors. I think we carried him about five minutes each leg, once we got him outside, past each of the other three buildings, and then on to the fountain.

It was at this point that the police car pulled up, turning on its lights, and Officer Martinez stepped out.

***

I finish my version of events—sans anything prior to Patrick first speaking to me, of course—and look expectantly at the policewoman. She’s been scribbling in her book non-stop. Once she ascertains that I'm finished, she starts with her questions.

“Patrick who?” I spell out his last name, and even volunteer that he lives on O.B. 3, not sure which room. “And which professor said you could take the chair?”

I shrug. “He didn’t say.”

She sighs. “Anything else you’d like to add?”

“I really, really like that chair, and I didn’t do anything wrong.”

I've used puppy-dog eyes on my father for years—which is how I’d gotten his jacket—but apparently Officer Martinez is immune. She picks up her notebook, to the camera says, “Interview suspended at 0235 Central,” and then leaves without any further comment.

I don’t know how much longer it is—no watch, remember?—but Kim and I are eventually reunited. (Kim thinks they need his room for something more urgent.) The male officer who brings him in lets Kim sit in the other chair (previously used by Martinez), attaches his cuff to the same U-bolt as mine, and walks out, all without saying a word. I smile at him. “Sorry.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. I managed to get some sleep first.”

I nod. “Where were you, anyway?”

“Honestly? The tension between you three drives me nuts sometimes. I wish you all would just do a big circle jerk and get it over with.”

I laugh and drop my head on the table. It smells distinctively of Pine-Sol. That might be an idea for Bob. I don’t mention it to Kim. “Wake me when they come back.”

He grins, grabs my cuff, and yanks it, bringing me back up. “No, ma’am, sorry. You got me into this mess, you’re going to stay up until I’m out of it.” And for the next however long it actually is—turns out to be maybe three more hours—he keeps true to that promise, yanking my arm or kicking me under the table any time I even look like I’m slipping into slumberland.

Officer Martinez returns and starts uncuffing us. “You know how hard it is getting in touch with people on a holiday weekend?” She is definitely more amused since the last time I saw her, hours before. “Your friend Patrick was fairly easy. His assistant professor, Ms Collins? She’s less than happy.” Kim and I exchange looks and shrug; not our problem. “Anyway, y’all are free to go now. Git!”

I stand, but don’t move to leave (unlike Kim, who takes it as a command). “What about Bob?” She blinks at me, not comprehending. “The recliner?”

“That pedazo de mierda? Nope, sorry. You’re lucky you're not getting a citation.” She rolls her eyes. “Now, go. Vaya con Dios.” Sadly and sullenly, I stomp out of the station, putting my stuff back on once we’re outside; my watch confirms that it is well after 6.

Of course, at this point it decides to finally start raining; a drizzle more than a sprinkle, probably, but still, it's wet. We trudge past the Athletics buildings, the Moody Towers (the other residence halls for undergrads), and the library, until we reach the Quad once more. I pat Kim on the shoulder as he leaves me at my door, and I go into my room to flop down on my bed and sleep for the first time in over 24 hours.

Well, I would have done that, except the phone chooses to ring right now. Jenny loudly rolls over, ignoring it, so I pick up the receiver. “Yes?”

Officer Martinez’s voice sounds tinny. “Miss Randall?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you want it?”

“What?” Did I hear her correctly?

“Your chair. Where do you want me to drop it off? Sarge said to get it the fuck out of here.”

Within the minute I’m back to tapping on Kim’s door. He answers this time, and reluctantly follows me back down to the nearest parking lot, in the drizzling rain, where Martinez meets us with Bob hanging out of her trunk. We haul him back to O.B., climb the stairs to my dorm, and set the chair up as quietly as possible.

I plop into Bob’s loving diaper-shit green arms and sleep like a baby, the best I’ve had since I moved from Rapid City two months previous.

Well, after I shoved some cotton balls up my nostrils. Kim’s right, that thing stinks.