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CHAPTER 2: MEET THE RENTERS
 By Jim Caple |
Previously at 24 College Avenue: A new group of renters has moved into 24 College
Avenue along with English major Josh Williams and school newspaper photographer
Steve Hamilton. Their first house party of the school year ended when a riot broke
out over a terrible officiating call that overturned State College’s last second
victory over the University of San Marco Brawlin’ Italians. . . .
Steve studied the broken window, the black marks left from where the flames
crawled up the wall to the ceiling and the remains of the torched carpet. He
couldn’t help but laugh as he turned back to Josh. Did these things happen to
anyone but his friend?
“You’re right, there’s some pretty extensive fire damage and I’m not sure how
you’re ever going to get the smell of tear gas out of here,’’ Steve said. “On the
other hand, I think it’s still in better condition than your old room.’’
“How did this happen again?’’
“The police lobbed a tear gas canister through the window during the riot,’’ Josh
replied. “I could have put the fire out quicker but because of the tear gas we had
to keep jumping in and out of the room with the fire extinguisher.’’
“We?’’
Josh picked up a charred psychology textbook and tossed it in the garbage bag.
Another $110 down the drain.
“Yeah, that’s the worst part,’’ he said. “I had a girl up here and things were
going pretty good until the tear gas kind of ruined the mood. After the fire, she
wasn’t much interested in resuming where she left off.’’
“Oh, well. Just make it up to her by taking her out to dinner some place nice. But
probably without candles.’’
“I would but I don’t know how to get ahold of her. I don’t have her phone number.
I don’t even know what her name is. She told me when we first met but it was loud
and I didn’t hear it real clear. And when she was leaving for the night, it seemed
a little awkward to say, ‘Oh, by the way. What’s your name?’”
Steve laughed again. “So, what’s the skinny? Is our beloved landlord going to
repair all this?’’
“Yeah, right. What do you think? I called Richard Duvall and he’s blaming me for
letting a party get out of control. That SOB says he’s going to charge me for the
damages. Said he’s coming over today to get an estimate. Like it was my fault?
Hell, I’m going to have to sleep on the couch until the last bit of the tear gas
is gone. That riot was the last thing I needed with tuition due.’’
“Yeah, but dude, you should have seen it,’’ Steve said. “I’ve covered a lot of
riots here but this one was the best. An apartment complex even caught fire.The
administration is seriously pissed. They’re estimating $10 million in damage, not
including your room. Heads are gonna roll. And best of all I got an awesome shot
of the guy who tossed the canister. They’re running it across the entire top of
front page tomorrow.’’
“Who threw it? I’ll send him a bill.’’
“No one knows. My best shot was from behind the guy and his body is in silhouette,
so you can’t see his face. I think I got a couple shots of him from the front when
he started running away but they’re a little blurry and the composition totally
sucked.’’
Hearing footsteps crunching across the ash-covered floor, Steve turned around to
see Paul Fairhaven, the film major who had just moved into John Higgins’ old room.
“I told him, if I don’t get my stapler back, I’m going to set the building on
fire,’’’ Fairhaven muttered. “It's my stapler, the Swingline. It's been mine for a
very long time.’’
Fairhaven spoke only by quoting lines from movies but the interesting thing about
that is it didn’t seem to limit his conservational skills. The way Fairhaven saw
it, scriptwriters had already conveyed every thought worth expressing in the 78
years since Al Jolson said, “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet’’ in “The Jazz Singer’’
(1927, three stars). But after nearly eight decades of talking pictures, we HAD
heard it all. Why bother with mundane original thought when there already was an
appropriate quote for every situation? It was just a matter of seeing enough
movies and not only had Fairhaven seen plenty, he also had, as Marty Feldman tells
Gene Wilder in “The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother’’ (1975, two and
a half stars), “photographic hearing.’’
Fairhaven was recording the fire damage for a class film he was tentatively
titling “Backdraft II: Backerdraft.’’
“Hey, Paul,’’ Josh said, putting up his hand. “If you don’t mind, could you not
film my room? I’d really prefer not to have this all over YouTube tomorrow.’’
Fairhaven ignored him and went on shooting. “We are going to finish this picture
just the way I want it,’’ he said, “because you cannot compromise an artist's
vision.’’
Josh looked to Steve for help. “Do you recognize the movie?’’
Steve nodded. “Johnny Depp in ‘Ed Wood.’ The one where he’s the cross-dressing
director? It was on last week.’’
Josh considered grabbing the camera out of Fairhaven’s hands but thought better of
it. What difference did it make anyway if his room did wind up on YouTube? It
wasn’t that bad was it?
“Oh. My. God.’’
Josh and Steve turned to see Mandy Stevenson standing in the doorway. She had a
State College duffle bag in one hand and a look of horror on her face. More than a
week had passed since Mandy had moved into the house and neither Josh nor Steve
could believe their luck. She was a three-year veteran of the State College
cheerleaders, the Red Devil Hotties.
An odd thing had happened to college cheerleaders in the past decade or so. As
women athletics flourished, society changed its concept of what made a female
attractive. Now, it was the athletes themselves (Nicollette was a prime example)
who were desired for their strength and fitness, while the formerly much desired
cheerleaders declined in the pecking order. Further, with the rise of national
cheerleading competition, the emphasis in fielding cheer squads was on gymnastic
ability. The former beauties with the long legs were slowly being replaced by
solid, if not downright plump ex-gymnasts who had been forced from their sport
after gaining an extra 10-20 pounds.
The Hotties, however, remained a throwback to the old days and Mandy was the
prettiest on the squad. She had long blonde hair, eyes as blue as a Dodgers
baseball cap, a smile so bright and dazzling it could be seen from Pluto and the
sort of figure that made men weak in the knees. So what was she doing at 24
College Avenue? Like most of the other residents, she had been desperate for a
room at the last minute after being kicked out of her sorority for supplying a
pledge with alcohol during rush week. Her good friend from the band, trumpet
player Bonzi Bangor, had just moved into 24 College Avenue himself, and
recommended she take the last room available. Josh didn’t even bother asking for
her security deposit before agreeing and offering her Jill Thomas’ room, right
next to his.
Mandy and Bonzi had just returned on the team’s morning flight from the San Marco
game.
“What the hell happened, man?’’ Bonzi asked. “No one told me the WTO was going to
meet here this weekend.’’
Josh explained about the tear gas canister and the fire.
“Like you expect me to put up with this?’’ Mandy asked, her eyes tearing up from
the remnants of the gas. “Look, my mascara is already running.’’
Fairhaven zoomed in on her face with his camera. “Throw your arms across your eyes
and scream, Ann. Scream for your life!’’
Josh glanced at Steve. “ ‘King Kong?’ ’’ Steve nodded. “The original.’’
“Get that camera out of my face,’’ Mandy said, swatting the camera aside, “or I’ll
have you arrested for stalking!’’ She turned to Josh. “And if you don’t have this
smell gone by tonight, I’ll expect my rent refunded.’’ She picked up her duffle
bag, slung it over her shoulder and stormed through the doorway, bumping
immediately into Sirius Winfield.
“Sorry,’’ Sirius mumbled, “my bad.’’
Sirius was the identical twin brother of Orion Winfield, the most anticipated
freshman in State College history, perhaps the most eagerly awaited athlete in
college history. Orion first appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated when he
still was in middle school grade (“The Best Sixth Grader You’ll Ever See!!!), his
high school games were nationally televised and there not only had already been
two books written about him (“Orion: The Promised One’’ and “Orion: The Early
Years’’), there also was a book about his father, Carpenter, a former Special
Forces soldier who boasted that his son would not only be the greatest basketball
player of all time, that he also would literally change the world (“Jesus was the
son of a carpenter and so is Orion – Carpenter Winfield”). The odd thing was that
though they were identical twins, Sirius otherwise was nothing like Orion. He
showed no athletic ability whatsoever. In fact, Sirius slumped so much and held
his head down so much that he even seemed inches shorter than his 6-foot-8 brother. He also spent most of his
time apologizing for everything, as if he felt guilty just for occupying space on
the planet.
Josh watched Mandy stomp toward her room, leaving Sirius standing there looking
confused and hurt. When the tall man saw Josh staring his way, he ducked his head
and hurried toward his room across the hall.
“Weird, isn’t it?’’ Josh said to Steve as the door to Sirius’s room clicked shut.
“That two brothers could be so different?’’
“Yeah,’’ Steve agreed. “Orion is like the brashest guy you’ll ever see. Always
refers to himself in the third person. And the only two words you can ever get out
of Sirius are ‘I’m sorry.’”
Then again, Josh thought, just about everyone who had just moved into the house
came with a little baggage. Why else would they have needed a room at the last
second before the term started when Josh took out the ad in the school paper? He
had no complaints about Mandy or Bonzi but there was Sirius and Fairhaven, plus
Edison Murrow, the 45-year-old going through early mid-life crisis. There also was
Ione Kenmore, an education major putting her way through school by tending bar at
the Blue Moon Pub and playing an occasional gig in an all-girls rock band, “That
Time of the Month.’’ And Gig Harbor, a freshman walk-on quarterback so far down
the depth chart that he wasn’t allowed to even suit up for home games. And Josh
still hadn’t seen the tenth renter who had agreed to move into the house, which
was beginning to worry him. If the guy didn’t show up soon – with his share of the
rent money – where was he going to find someone to replace him? He had spent the
entire summer working and already it seemed as if his money was gone.
His thoughts were interrupted by someone knocking on the door. Great, Josh
thought. It was probably Duvall ready to total up the damages. He stuck his head
out the window and shouted. “Just a minute, Mr. Duvall. I’ll be right down.’’
Only it wasn’t Mr. Duvall.
Next: Whatever Happened to Baby Jenn?
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