Cereal 3: Pink Lady and Geoff

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Breakfast of Champions
Three: Pink Lady and Geoff

Paul was sure he must be dreaming: that hazy cloud of clean pink chiffon, silk, and fur hanging over his head. Surely no one on thrift planet Reed wore NEW clothing. And the hair: whipped into a frothy confection that reminded him of County Fair cotton candy.

The dream spoke: "Are you all right? You’ve been lying here asleep in front of my office since Friday. Would you like some coffee? or a danish?"

"Co...ffeeee? Please? But, no money, oh no. Oh no no no."

"It’s OK, here take some coffee." She handed him a double cupped coffee with quilted hotness holder. Her hair, so light, so frothy-- it was a halo, he was sure. Or lemon meringue. The coffee smelled just as dreamy as his vision. Sniff… sniff… sip… mmmnh.

"Are you an angel, Lady in Pink?"

"No, I’m Lois Hobbes, the Social Sciences Secretary. Some people call me the Pink Lady." She smiled again and handed him a danish.

He smiled back all trembly; the alien facial expression required some work. He looked at the Vollum hallway, searching for a clock. He looked at a clock. "Here I am. It’s two PM? What DAY is it?"

"Monday."

"MmmmmmmmMMMMMAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR! NOOOOOOOOO!" One of Paul’s eyes acquired a tic. His other eye went kinda squinty. He bolted. He was halfway to the door before he remembered his manners, which had been thwacked into him bodily by his mom’s worn Miss Manners guide. He turned around to face the Pink Lady who fluoresced gently in the sanctified horizontal February twilight. "Um, THANK YOU PINK LADY." He turned around. Must fit in… must be normal…must….SMOKE…He strode for the door with definition, with purpose, and a craving for nicotine. The door clipped his nose. "DAMMIT!"

He exited, checking around him to make sure no one outside thought he was behaving strangely. Think normal thoughts, he thought. Smoke.

He checked his pocket for a nic fix and found a slightly bashed but not unserviceable cig in his jacket pocket. He was extracting it as Sloane whacked him on the back. Paul dropped the cig in a mud puddle. He restrained a sob.

"HEY How are you? Why weren’t you at practice on Saturday? Don’t you know that we’re playing a party this weekend?"

"Um. We’re in a band together?"

"What are you on? You’re the BASS PLAYER for the SNOW MONKEYS. Christ. How are we supposta play without a bass?"

"Spinanes didn’t useta have a bass."

"With all respect Paul, I have seen the Spinanes, I have listened to the Spinanes, and Paul, we are no Spinanes. Especially when we don’t practice. Practice. Tomorrow night. Be there or be square." She whipped the pliers from her piled dreds like an ole west gunslinger. Her dreads flew in his eyes and the pliers threatened the same.

"’Kay Sloane, see ya then."

"Excellent." She smiled, bobbed her head, and waved. In that moment, you could almost see the SoCal cheerleader she had once been.

He picked up the soggy cig. Maybe he could microwave it dry and smoke it later. Maybe… Maybe not.

Paul trodded towards his asylum block room in the sludgy tracks of a million black dogs and several hundred card carrying "I’m not a hippie" hippies. "Stupid STUPID rain," he said.

He ran to catch up with Egg, one of the few short-term memory retaining souls who still had his key. Paul wondered why they even bothered to give out hundreds of keys every semester. It would have been so much more cost effective to just cut the locks off the doors.

"DAMMITT!" The door clipped his nose, which was still throbbing from its last meeting of this particular type. "EGG, You BASTARD, you live down the HALL from me," he whined. He dialed Egg’s personal phone line from the outside the Foster dorm. No answer. What a jerk.

What had he done to deserve this? He assumed his dormie was bitter about the last ten or twelve times he had let Paul in at four thirty in the morning. Or calling Egg ‘Egg’ to his face. Egg had always insisted on being called by his initials (E. G.). Paul thought that was dumb, so he convinced everyone to call Egg ‘Egg’ behind his back. Surely that was no reason to be bitter.

He tried calling again. Ring.... ring.... ring.... ring.... ring.... ring..... ring..... ring.... ring... ring... ring...ring...ring."DAMMIT EGG ANSWER THE PHONE!" He slammed the phone down. "WILL SOMEBODY LET ME IN THE GODDAMN DORM BEFORE I KILL MYSELF?"

"That’s not the solution."

"WHAT?!"

"Hey. Don’t kill yourself over it." Clink. A shiny happy key dropped down from the third floor Foster-side and a blond Rapunzel head of hair appeared through the window. "Could you bring the key back up to the third floor? Don’t steal anything on your way up. Sometimes I think it would be easier if they cut off all the locks. That way the thieves would be less wary and we could figure out who’s stealing our stuff." The head disappeared.

Paul fit the key in the lock with his almost numb fingers. He entered the Foster Scholz complex. He stole the ‘Thank you for Pot Smoking’ and ‘Welcome Thieves’ signs on his way up, cramming them into his backpack. Maybe I should think about feeling bad about stealing. That’s almost as good as feeling bad about stealing, which is almost as good as not stealing at all. He felt less guilty already. It was probably a function of his ethics class.

He made it up to the third floor and found the Rapunzel hair attached to a fearsome death-metal Satan worshipping black clad guy.

"Um thanks."

"I’m Geoff."

"Are you a worshipper of Satan?"

"No I am not a worshipper of Satan. I’m a Quaker."

"That makes sense." Think normal thoughts.

"Don’t worry about it. Want some fresh bread?"

"Sure." The bread was still warm.

"Well, if you ever feel suicidal please talk to someone about it."

"I’m not serious."

"Well I kind of figured you weren’t since you have a copy of ‘The Watchtower,’ pinned to your chest but then again I figured Jehovah’s witnesses could have a pretty severe depression problem ‘cause no one ever lets them in, so I thought maybe I should let him in. But then again, you could just be the victim of some cruel joke. You know, I guess I’ve seen you around. That’s why I let you in."

"WHAT!?" Paul ripped ‘The Watchtower’ off his chest. "What the HELL…"