NetNews Usenet Archive 1993 #3/NN_1993_3.iso/spool/alt/non/sequitur/987

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Subject: And the Faucet Drips On (a story dating way back)
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Date: Sat, 23 Jan 93 15:07:26 EST
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Date:         Sat, 23 Jan 93 13:49:54 EST
From:         SENDIAA@YALEVM
To:           sendiaa@YALEVM

And the Faucet Drips On

You see, there were two roommates. I'm sorry to disappoint you with a college
story, not to mention a Yale story, set in New Haven, the town I know best.
But see, certain disturbing things have been going on, and will go on forever
unless someone records them. This won't be like most of your college stories.
I'm sure you've heard the one about the four female roomates in Wright Hall.
One was rich, another poor, another Icelandic, and another a compulsive eater.
They began the year tensely. The conflicts mounted. Then they talked things
out, grew through  each other, and remained close friends for the rest of the
semester. Then there's the story about the woman who came out of  the closet
in her Sophomore year and had to take time off because her parents stopped
sending checks. She went to Alaska, canned lots of fish, and returned. Oh, and
I'm sure you've heard about the Yale mini-mafia, the things that transpire
underground, in the steam tunnels. But the story you're about to hear is
different. And yet things like this happen all the time.

As I was saying, there were two roommates. They were Juniors and shared a
double in Trumbull College. I was a Sophomore in Saybrook at the time, and
became aware of their existence when browsing through the Trumbull directory
in search of someone from the Southern Hemisphere (more about that later).
Their faces were from then on tattooed into my brain, and I would recognize
them forever after. Jason was the member of the duo whom I saw everywhere. I
ran into him at Store 24, the Copper Kitchen, the line to the confessional,
the JE Buttery, Hellhouse parties (before they defuncted), the Babylonian
Collection, Yale Station, Grand Central Station, the weight-lifting room, the
crack district known as Kensington Street, the GPSCY, the Bursar's Office.
In fact, I often forgot his last name because I never had to look him up
again. Even as I write this, I glance around to make sure he's not looking
over my shoulder.

He had the unusual ability not only to be everywhere, but also to crawl into
everything. I saw him, I heard him writhing within the contours of a sax solo
at a jazz concert. No, you must understand, he was physically contained within
that sax, and the music contained him too. If you looked carefully, you could
see that the sax, like the melody, was just an outline, and there was Jason
twisting and convoluting himself within it. I'm sorry I sat in the front row,
I apologize to the musicians, because the sight and the sound made me laugh so
hard I thought I'd have to run out of the room. But what is music if it never
makes you laugh? I cried later on, so it all balanced out.

So that was Jason. It's the other one I was interested in, Juan Schneider (I
did remember his last name). An Argentine whose parents (German and Jewish)
had fled Germany during World War II, Juan represented everything I desired,
and had everything I wanted.

As I hinted before, I am intensely attracted to people who come from below the
Equator. Argentines, Australians, Africans, all of these titillate me with the
fantasy of uniting the two hemispheres erotically, of letting the two halves
of the earth come together with a Big Bang, the Source of Creation. Well, I
had bad luck with an Australian when I first got to Yale, and yet my hopes
never flagged (although I did switch flags now and then). Now here was Juan
Schneider. Handsome. Dark wavy hair. Tantalizing eyes. I had to do this.

Of course, there was a problem. Juan Schneider slipped by everyone and
everything like a garden snake, gone as soon as you see a rustle in the grass.
It was ridiculous. I would see him heading into the library, follow him in,
and discover he was gone. I would see him at Ashley's Ice Cream, licking an
ice cream cone, but then, upon rubbing my eyes, I would dsicover that it was
really a giant ice cream cone slurping away at a little Juan. One day I went
to Lighthouse Point, and saw him at a distance, walking along the beach. I
called out to him, but he didn't turn his head. I followed him, but the tide
was retreating very fast, and he with the tide, growing smaller and smaller
until I could no longer distinguish him from all the specks of sand.

Sometimes I took drastic action. One day I stationed friends at all entrances
of Yale Station (the post office). We were all holding helium balloons. The
first one to see Juan enter would let go of her balloon, so that the others,
upon seeing the signal, would guard their posts with heightened vigilance.

You can guess the upshot of this: he went in (Dorothy saw him) but never came
out. And yet he continued to flicker everywhere.

I began to have my doubts about this relationship. I thought of the sheer
hassle of going out with someone who is never anywhere. Imagine trying to meet
for dinner. I always hate it when I go to Broadway Pizza, tell teh waitress a
friend is coming, and then sit like an idiot for an hour, staring at the
motionsless knife and fork across from me.

Or what about going to New York together? I couldn't just get on a train
without him, hoping he'd show up later! I don't know my way around New York!

And the children! WHat if they turned out like that too?

I did try, I swear, I made every effort to reach him. I called every day for
weeks. Every time I called, Jason would answer. "I'm sorry, Juan's not in," he
would say. "Can I take a message?" After a while I got fed up and started
asking where Juan was. The answers were standard: the library, the squash
courts, the TV room. But several times I ran down to the TV room only to be
informed that he had just left.

There is a tree in the middle of the Trumbull courtyard, and I would sometimes
climb it in order to soothe my anguish and to spy. It so happened that Jason's
and Juan's suite faced out into the courtyard, so that by climbing up the tree
some, I could peer at it directly. Juan's blinds were always drawn, so I could
only see his silhouette. His motions were simple: if he wasn't sitting at his
desk, then he would be undressing. Then he would turn out the light, and the
rest would be silence.

Jason loved to dance. He would open the window, crank up the music, and writhe
and twist within its contours. I was always hoping that Juan would enter
Jason's room, if only to complain about the noise. That never happened. But
something else did happen that changed my life.

One night Juan's room was all dark. Then you could see a sliver of light. Then
it vanished. Then you could see Jason coming back into his room, carrying a
large, luxurious beach towel.

Now I have never seen anything like that beach towel. It is large enough for
two, and what's more, the designs on it are the most tropical I have ever
seen. Monkeys climbing from tree to tree, swinging from trees. Parrots that
really fly and squawk. Luscious ripe bananas, coconuts bursting with juice. I
swear, nothing like that has been created since the shield of Achilles.

So Jason started dancing with it, pretending he was a torero at the rodea. A
banana would fall out here, a kiwi there, but the abundance never ended. A
parrot flew out at me, perched on my shoulder, and said, "Sandy, I want you,
Sandy."

Now that was too much. Sandy, that's me! How many times must Juan have
repeated my name in solitude, clasping the luxurious towel to his perspiring
chest? I looked for the parrot, but it had flown. Jason stopped dancing,
gathered up the towel and returned it to Juan's room.

I had to have that towel. In fact, I had to have it by the weekend, since I
was going sailing in Rhode Island with some friends. It would be like having
Juan with me, wrapping a whole jungle around me, a real jungle (although
Argentina is hardly jungle terrain). Oh, of course by "have" I only meant
"borrow." I would return the towel immediately, as soon as I got back. But the
towel would be mine for the whole day, and Juan would be with me, like it or
not.

For the first time ever, I went up to their room, and stood for a long time
staring at the door. There was a board with messages that read: "Jason! Where
ARE you? I've been looking for you all day!" and "Juan -- thanks for the
notes. I'll get them back to you in class tomorrow." So Juan actually went to
class, lent people his notes? I knocked on the door.

Jason answered. I started trembling and stammering. "I just thought, well, I
sort of wanted..." I started.

Jason interrupted: "Hey, Sandy! Great to see you! Come in!" I entered on
tiptoe, since I have always heard that the balls of your feet give you the
greatest leverage when it comes to turning around and running in the opposite
direction. Jason strode across the room, picked up a parcel from the
mantlepiece, and flopped down onto the couch. "Like some chocolate? I got some
in the mail today. And is there any chance I could bum a cigarette?"

So we sat and ate chocolate and smoked. I told him about the towel. He said it
would be no problem, no problem at all for me to borrow it, but the thing was,
Juan was sleeping *with* the towel right now, so it would be improper to
disturb him. He promised to ask Juan about it in the morning, and let me know.
I left him, smiling and dreamy, enveloped in the thought of Juan's
sweat-soaked towel, the taste of chocolate still in my mouth.

But you can guess most of the rest; why should I belabor it? As Saturday
(sailing day) approached, I saw more and more of Jason. Every time I ran into
him (at Strawberries, at Naples Pizza, on the Green), he would say, "stop by
and pick up the towel whenever you want." But every time I stopped by, Juan
would be out, and the towel with him. I left messages on the board. I left
message after message with Jason. Jason seemed perplexed by my persistence; he
would say, "hey, don't worry so much! You'll get the towel! Maybe Juan'll even
give it to you! He's a generous guy, you know!"

Once I answered him (we were standing under the High Street archway, in the
rain): "No, I wouldn't want him to give it to me, because then" -- and I felt
the flush, the redness -- "it wouldn't be Juan's any more."

"Say, are you in love with my roommate?" asked Jason with a wild smile. "He'll
be psyched. He's kinda lonely these days, you know. Say, why don't you stop by
at nine tonight. I'll make sure he's there."

Friday night at nine. My last chance to get the towel (we were taking off
early the next morning). I knocked on the door, and stood waiting for a few
minutes. Then I heard strange sounds coming from the bathroom.

"Now you listen here" (Jason's voice). "I came in to brush my teeth, and my
toothbrush was wet."

"Of course it was wet. I used it."

"That sucks, that really sucks. How do you expect me to brush my teeth now?"

"Just bare your teeth and grit it. Ha ha ha."

"Juan, if you're thinking of rooming with me next year, forget it."

"I was not thinking of it, actually."

"But while we're still together, you've got to have some consideration. Do you
hear that? CONSIDERATION!!!"

"You are asking too much of me, Jason, although I appreciate your optimism."

Jason burst out of the bathroom, banging the door into my head. "Oh you, oh
you," he muttered. "Yeah, the towel. Well, Juan's taking a shower right now,
so all you have to do is sit down and --"

"I'm not waiting any longer!" I barged into the bathroom. Indeed, the shower
was running, and something was making the curtain move. "Juan!" I shouted. I
saw the towel hanging over the stall.

"Who is it?" The shower grew louder.

"It's me, Sandy. I want your towel."

"Of course. Let me wash it and dry it for you. It is not very clean right
now."

"I don't want it clean."

"But you must. It is not my custom to give dirty things--"

"But Juan, I want your sweat!" I grabbed the towel. He was right. It stank.

I pulled the shower curtain open. Standing in a blasting spray of steaming
water was Jason, not Juan! I flung the towel aside and stared. No mistake: it
was Jason, cheerful and naked!

I turned for the towel, but it was gone. I turned back to the shower, but
Jason was gone too. I could hear the faucet dripping when I left.

And the faucet drips on! Things like this happen to me, to my friends, to you
-- admit it, to you -- again and again! Can we be silent any longer? Please
tell your stories, all of you, so that we can finally put an end to these
injustices!

THE END

Note: I wrote this story in October 1991. The namesare permutations of
friends' names: Jason comes from Sanjay (not the Sanjay you know, but another
Sanjay), and Juan Schneider comes from Nighswander, the last name of someone
who shares a first name with someone on the net, but is not that person.
Indeed, there is also a Jason on the net, but this Jason is not a permutation
of a Sanjay, real or fictional.

Diana