"William Lynch" 
by Michael Dell

--- CHAPTER TWO ---
     
The telephone woke William for the second straight day.  That's the risk of sleeping until five
o'clock in the evening.  It was Norm.  He had everyone coming over at eight.  And eight o'clock
came in a hurry, especially since Norm showed up at seven..  

"Dude, it's only seven."  Nothing.  William tried again.  "I didn't think you were coming until
eight?" 

"It's not eight?"
  
"No, it's only seven," repeated William.  

"It feels like eight."

While Norm took a seat on the couch, produced a Yoo Hoo from his coat pocket, and watched
"The Simpsons," William tried to prepare for the meeting.  It must have been the previous night's
visit to Meghan's, but he suddenly felt the need to tidy up.  He moved all the painting supplies to the bedroom and dug out a vacuum from the hall closet.  This was only about the third time the
sweeper had been used since his mom handed it down to him when he moved out.  It was like
riding a bike.  Except that when you run over a quarter with a bike it doesn't rattle like a chimp
and start to smoke.  The vacuum, now twenty-five cents richer, was promptly ushered to the
closet.     

William wanted to go over an outline with Norm for the meeting, but the Bizarro Jerry episode of
"Seinfeld" put an end to that.  The epic tale was coming to a close when the first of the would-be
conspirators arrived.  

"What's this all about?" asked Lou Wilson before he was even in the room.

"Patience.  We've gotta wait for everyone," said William.

"Holliday."

"Wilson."

Lou was always the overweight kid of the group.  Perhaps to compensate, he would talk a lot. 
He'd try to keep the air filled with chatter and tell comical stories, all of which supposedly
happened to him.  Whether true or not, the anecdotes were usually enjoyed even if they were
looked upon with a suspicious eye.  As an added attraction, Lou's build, along with his black-
framed glasses, enabled him to do a swell imitation of Chris Farley's motivational speaker.     

William was probably the closest to Lou of the immediate circle.  While everyone else went away
to school, Wilson was one of the few that stayed in the area and went to a University of
Pittsburgh branch campus.  The two would talk on the phone two or three times a month and
William would sometimes visit him at work.  Wilson hawked electronics at the Montgomery
Wards.  Being such an accomplished talker, he made an excellent salesman.  He also sported a
pair of sideburns that would do the 1971 Larry King proud.

It wasn't long before a second knock found the door.  Sean Frye was a man of few words.  He was
at the other end of the spectrum from Wilson when it came to verbal communication.  He was,
however, a big, sturdy kid and a natural athlete.  Even though William had never actually seen
Frye involved in a fight, no one ever challenged him for fear of what might happen.  He was a
quiet, affable guy and it was considered best by all he remained that way.  

After exchanging brief salutations, Frye slumped into the blue easy chair and everyone listened to
Wilson regale them with recollections from high school.  Some of the stories were flat out wrong
or exaggerated to great lengths, but they were somehow better for the errors and no one bothered
to interrupt.  About twenty minutes had passed before it was realized that four members of the
party were late.
Surprisingly, just then there was a knock at the door.  William opened it to find Matthew Miller.

"Hey, what happened?  You're only about a half hour late."

"Well, you know," said Matt as he walked into the room, as if that was all the explanation needed. 
Matt's twin brother Martin was making it up the stairs, followed close behind by Dom Bauerchuk
and Brian Kovitch.  

Matt and Martin may have been identical twins, but they couldn't have been more different in
personality.  It was almost as if Matthew got sole possession of the right side of the brain, while his brother held firm to the left.  They both graduated from Penn State with degrees in chemical engineering, but only Marty was now employed.  He worked for a burgeoning technology
company in Pittsburgh.  He walked right from college into a $50,000-a-year job.  Meanwhile,
Matt had a lucrative gig at some chemical place over the summer but got whacked when the
company disbanded his department.  He didn't work long enough to collect unemployment,
missing the target date by one week.  Now his days were spent playing his guitar and getting
drunk.  While it had become easier to tell them apart with age, since Martin often employed some
sort of gel in his hair and Matt went with the blow dry look, William never had difficulty.  To
him it was easy.  He just looked them in the eye.  Matt always gave the impression that there was
mischief afoot or that the creative wheels were turning.  Marty's eyes hid no such imaginative
thoughts.

They may not have been brothers, but Dom Bauerchuk and Brian Kovitch were living under the
same roof.  They shared a trailer in neighboring Delmont, PA.  It was a yellow rectangle
containing two small bedrooms separated by a cramped living room and kitchen.  Considering the
two had never really been close, it was a marvel that they were able to coexist under such
circumstances.  

Dom was born in Canada.  His family moved to Hadleyville when he was seven.  He ventured
back to the Great White North for his freshman year of college, but attended more happy hours
than classes and flunked out.  It was a full six months before he told his parents and moved back
home.  Now he was working as a bagger at the local supermarket.  

A boisterous redhead, Dom's goal in life was to be cool.  Sadly, he never quite made it.  There
was simply too much effort on his part.  He went out of his way to try and impress people, often
leaving himself open for playful ridicule.  Take for instance the time in high school when he was
too young to chew tobacco so he opted instead for construction paper, hoping no one would
notice the difference and respect the lump in his bottom lip just the same.  Then there was the
occasion when Dom achieved immortal screw-up status by committing a blatant give-away in
overtime of a championship hockey game, passing the puck directly to the other team's best
player in the slot without even token pressure having been applied.  The resulting goal against
earned Dom the nickname "Center Pass" Bauerchuk and pretty much brought an end to his
hockey career.  

Kovitch didn't come around much.  He hung out with more of a bar crowd, only dropping in with
the old chums on special occasions.  He, too, worked at a supermarket, except he cut meat, and
his finger on one grizzly occasion.  

William stepped out into the hall and greeted his final three guests with a "What up, boys?"  They
answered back with three distinctive, yet simultaneous, calls of "Billy!"

As he was shaking the last of their hands and gesturing them into the apartment, the door to 3E
opened.  Meghan appeared, carrying a bag of laundry and a book.  She looked up and smiled at
William.

Despite Kovitch showing some interest in meeting her, William abruptly pushed him into his
apartment and pulled the door shut.  "Hey, how's it goin'?"

"Having a party?" asked Meghan.

"Not really.  I'd invite you in but my friends are all idiots."

She laughed.  William pressed the advantage. 
  
"Doing laundry on a Friday night?"

"Yeah, I live a real exciting life, I know.  But it has to get done sometime."

"Are you familiar with the laundry room?  It's quite lovely."

"Oh, yes."  She took a few slow steps towards the stairs.  "In fact, these clothes really aren't that
dirty, I just like hanging out down there."

"Well, good luck."

"Thanks."

William watched her until she disappeared from sight.  

"Who was that?" asked Kovitch upon William's entering the room.

"She's my new neighbor."

"Did you hit that yet?"   

"Watch yourself.  She's a lovely young woman, show some respect."

"Sorry."  Kovitch paused.  "Did you fuck her yet?"

"No, not yet."  

"Speaking of girls," began Wilson, directing his attention at Kovitch, "are you still dating that
chick from Eat'n'Park?"

"No, I'm going out with someone else now.  She's a bartender at Bobby Dale's," said Kovitch,
referring to a local watering hole.

"What's her name?" 

"Jolene."

"I didn't even know you liked country music," cracked William.

"Fuck you, dude.  What are we doing here, anyway?"

"If you'd sit your ass down we can get started."  

"Just hurry up, already," urged Kovitch.  "I'm missing valuable drinking time.  Where are we
gonna go?"

"Mr. Toad's," informed Matthew.

"Do we have to?" whined Wilson.  "I don't know if I feel like seeing our entire senior class
tonight."

"You can decide that later," interrupted William.  "We've got business to attend to first.  Norm?" Holliday left his place on the couch and joined William at the front of the room.  "The floor is yours."

Norm tried to put on a serious expression.  This prompted some reflexive laughter from the
crowd.  

"The reason we called you here today is that we need your help on a very important mission."

The air seemed to go out of the room.  "The Big Boy?" asked Marty in disgust.

"Yes," answered Norm proudly.  

The revelation didn't impress everyone.  

Kovitch immediately got to his feet, walked across the room, shook William's hand and said, "I'll
see you at Toad's."  He was solid gone.   

His swift exit drew some laughter from the gallery.  Marty was next to voice his opinion.

"I thought you gave up on that.  I mean, don't you think you guys are a little old to be stealing the Big Boy?"

"You're never too old to steal the Big Boy," responded Norm with conviction.

"Didn't that one kid you know try it and get caught?" asked Wilson.

"Henry Mathis," supplied William.  "Yeah, he tried it.  But him and his buddies did a half-ass job. Even with the lack of structure, the only reason they got caught was one of them locked his car door when he got out."

"He locked his door?" asked Wilson, as if hearing it twice would somehow make it more
plausible.  

"They were all pretty ripped to start with.  He was fumbling for his keys when the cops pulled in. 
Everyone else got away but he dropped a dime on 'em."

"What happened to 'em?" asked Matthew.

Norm turned to William.  "They let 'em off, right?"

"Yeah, they got busted for underage drinking but the Elby's folks didn't press charges or anything.  I think they even gave them all little banks of the Big Boy."

"Sweet," Norm said gleefully.  "See, they knew it was just a joke."

"But the key there is that they were all still in high school at the time," countered Marty.  "People tend to be lenient with minors."  

"They'd know it would just be a prank."

"And who doesn't love a prank?" assured William sarcastically.  "But there's no sense even
sweatin' it.  Because we won't get caught."

"Oh, you won't?" asked Marty in a rather condescending manner.

"No, we won't.  We're talkin' an A-Team quality strike here.  Everything planned out to the
second."

"That's right," supported Norm.

It was clear by now that Marty was out.  But Dom, Matthew, and Wilson all seemed to be
interested.  Frye was on the fence.  William felt a little extra incentive was needed.  

"Norm," started William, confidently looking away and throwing a thumb in the direction of the
doubters, "show 'em the shirt."

Norm smiled and obeyed the command, dutifully unbuttoning his top shirt to reveal the glory of
Larry King.  Norm and William looked at one another with a shared confidence that all was right
with the world.  The confidence was shaken in the face of indifference.  Apparently, as far as the
rest of the crew was concerned, all the Larry King shirt inspired was confusion and dismay. 
William stepped in front of Norm and began buttoning his shirt for him.  "Okay, dude, cover up
the shirt." 

Dom was the next to speak.  "What would we do with it?" 

"We want to leave it in front of the Court House," answered Norm.

"That's the belly of the beast, gentlemen," said Wilson with some admiration.

"Like I said, we're gonna do this right," proclaimed William.

"Don't you guys have anything better to do?" asked Marty, unconsciously twirling the gold watch
on his right wrist.

William took note.  "Like what?"  

"Oh, I don't know... get a job."

"You're a big enough corporate whore for the both of us," countered William. 

Wilson gave Marty a shove.  "Yeah, shut up, ya whore!  So how would we transport the Big Boy? 
I don't think it will fit in Ol' Blue."

"My cousin's band has a van," said Norm.  "I think I should be able to borrow it for the night."

"And he won't mind his van being used in a crime?" punked Marty.

"The thing's practically a bong on wheels.  I don't think the kid's gonna care," said William.

Matthew broke his silence.  "When did you want to do it?"

"After a great deal of scientific study, we've determined that the best possible time to make our
move is 4:08 AM on a Sunday night."

"So that's like what, noon for you?" quipped Wilson.

"Granted, you guys might have to alter your schedules a bit, but it'll be worth it."

"But what Sunday?" followed Matthew.

"I'm not sure," William looked at Norm and received no help.  "We haven't really picked a
definite date.  We've still got a lot of details to work out, we just wanted to see if any of you guys were interested in being a part of it."

"It would help if I knew what day, though," said Matthew.

"Well, how about next Sunday?  Is that cool for everyone?  Norm?"

"Sure."  

"Well, boys, what do you say?  You in?"

"I'm in," confirmed Dom.  "We're gonna steal us a Big Boy!"

"What the hell?" said Matthew, shooting a look at his brother.  "It's not like I've got anything
better to do."   

"Exactly.  Wilson?"

"With you two guys being the brains behind the mission, how can we go wrong?  Let's kidnap that
mother."

"That's what I'm talkin' about.  Frye?"

"I'll pass."

"What are ya, yella?"

"I feel sort of like he does," explained Frye, motioning Wilson's way.  "Except with you two guys
running the show, I'm not sure how we could go right."  

"Aw, that's just wrong.  But no pressure.  I mean, if you want to be a pussy that's cool.  Marty, I know you don't want to do it..."

"I would, but with work and all..."

"Whatever."

Wilson sat up and pointed to Frye and Marty.  "Since you boys aren't in, I think you should leave
before we get too detailed.  And no rattin' us out!"  

"Yeah, you've gotta keep this quiet," added William.  

Marty got to his feet and followed Frye to the door.  "Who would want to hear about it?  We'll
wait for you at Toad's." 

"Later, Lynch," was Frye's final involvement with the conspiracy.

After the two doubters left, Dom got up from the floor and took Marty's place on the couch.  He
also slipped a pack of Marlboro's from his front shirt pocket.  "When do we start planning?"

William once again looked at Norm.  And once again it was a worthless action.  It was clear now
to William that he'd have to take charge of this fiasco.

"Well, we have to make sure we can get the van first.  Norm, can you check on that?"

"I'll call my cousin tomorrow."

"Everything is pretty much up in the air until we find out about the van.  No sense getting too into it until we know for sure.  How about we get together again early next week?  Is Tuesday night cool?"

"That's good with me," said Dom, holding an unlit cigarette in his right hand out of respect to
William's hatred of smoke.  "I only work Wednesday and Thursday this week."

"Let me check my schedule," joked Matthew.

"I know you're free.  Wilson?"

"Yeah, I should be able to make it.  I think I have to go in for some meeting at work, but I should be out by like nine at the latest."

"Okay, nine o'clock Tuesday night.  I'll have a definite plan in mind by then and we'll work out all the details.  If you guys have any suggestions you'd like to try, bring 'em with you on Tuesday.  And remember, keep this quiet."

Wilson blazed a stare Dom's way.  "Yeah, Dom!"

"Hey, don't look at me," snapped the Canadian.  

"Are we done?" asked Matthew.

"Yeah, I'm done," said William.  "Norm, you got anything else?"  
 
Norm stood there a moment, his hands in his pockets, transfixed in deep thought.

"No."

"Cool," said Matthew, relieved.  "Let's get fucked up."

"Do we have to go to Toad's?" argued Wilson, opening a door for sarcasm.  "I just don't think that
place is loud enough.  I might actually hear someone talk to me."    
     
"We'll start there but we could always move on later," compromised Matthew.  "You comin',
Billy?  They've got water."

"As much as a I enjoy standing in a darkened room full of strangers, I think I'm going to sit this
one out.  But you guys go have a good time."

"You've gotta stay home and plan anyway," said Wilson.  "Because if we get caught I'll pimp you
out in the joint."  

"Fair enough."

As the newly assembled squadron left the apartment, Wilson began to make a pitch for Dino's
Sports Bar.  It was wing night and he wanted to make sure he didn't miss out.  William held up
Norm a minute at the door.

"It's finally coming together.  You excited?"

Norm smiled and let out a little laugh.  "Yeah."

William was hoping for something with a bit more meaning, but then again he did ask Norm.  He
shook his hand, reminded him one more time to call about the van, and then sent him off on his
way for a night of drunken mischief.

The moment the door closed William made his way to the bathroom mirror.  He gave himself a
quick once over, running his left hand through his hair, guiding it into its natural part on the right side.  Once satisfied, he crossed to the living room window to watch his friends leave in Norm's red Mazda.  He did have plans for the night, but they didn't involve plotting the heist of a portly restaurant mascot. 

William locked his apartment door behind him and made his way down the back stairs to the
laundry room.  It was a cramped basement of cement block.  Four washers lined the east wall,
four dryers the west.  A cheap folding table split the middle of the machines, along with three
equally inexpensive orange plastic chairs.  It seemed to William that there used to be four chairs
when he first moved in, but those things happen.  Damn crooks.
  
The room itself was lit by a bank of fluorescent lights running the length of the ceiling above the table.  They gave the entire scene below a convenience store feel, the benefit of which was open to debate.

As he began to make his way down the final flight of stairs, William paused for a moment to
compose himself.  He could hear the crisp rustle of the dryer as it echoed its way off the exposed
walls.  He took a few deep breaths, thought to himself "I am calm," and entered the room.

She was sitting in front of the last dryer on the left.  Her legs were crossed and she held an opened book across her lap.  While she was fully engrossed in her reading, William didn't feel at all guilty about speaking up.

"Hey..."

Startled by the noise, she lifted her head and seemed genuinely happy to recognize her visitor.  

"Hey," Meghan smiled and pushed her hair behind her ear.  "Did the party break up early?"

"Yeah.  It was just a quick get-together.  I figured I might as well get some laundry done myself."

"Where are your clothes?"

William dropped his shoulders and glanced at the ceiling a beaten man.  "I knew I forgot
something.  You mind if I stay and keep you company anyway?"

"No, not at all.  I'd like that."

"Thanks."  William sat down in the orange chair at the opposite end of the table.  He gestured to
the book that was now lying closed and said, "I hope I'm not interrupting you." 

"No, it's okay, I've already read it three times."

"Wow.  I can't think of anything I've read three times.  Except maybe the occasional warning
label."  William tilted his head a bit to read the spine of the unjacketed book.  "The Great
Gatsby?"

"Yeah, it's really good.  But I guess you never read it, huh?"

"Can't say that I have.  Although..."

"I know, you thought Robert Redford was excellent."

"I was gonna go with Mia Farrow, but yeah, Redford was good too."  He looked again at the thin
blue book.  "I always imagined it being bigger."

"No, it's a small one."  She pushed it across to him.  "But it's quality that counts."  

William picked up the book and began leafing through it.  He found the dedication on page three
and read it aloud.  "Once again to Zelda."  He paused a moment.  "That was a good game and all,
but I don't know if I'd dedicate a book to it."

Meghan smiled.  "That was his wife."

"Wasn't she nuts?"

"She had a hard life."

"So did Mary Tyler Moore, but not many people go around dedicating books to her.  Hey, when
you write yours think you could..."

"No."

"It was worth a shot."  William placed the book back on the table.  He began to pull his hand
away only to stop and shift the book ever so slightly to the left.  Studying its placement on the
dark brown background of the fake wood table top, one more adjustment was needed, another
slight tilt to the left, before William took his hand away for good and sat back in his chair. 
He watched the book intently for another brief moment, as if it would try to move the first chance
it got, and then looked up to Meghan to find her more than a little perplexed by what she had just
witnessed.   

"I'm sorry," grinned William shyly.  "It's kind of a habit I have.  I guess it's the artist in me, but if something isn't placed just right it drives me crazy.  Like it screws up the whole composition for me.  Looking at it from here, the line of the book no longer matches the line of your body, it slides a bit to the left and it makes things much more interesting."

Meghan cracked a smile and waved a finger in the general direction of the book, "So you do this
sort of thing a lot?"

"No, not all the time," said an embarrassed William.  "Just whenever something is painfully out
of place."

Meghan held her hands out in front of her as if afraid to move.  "And everything is fine now the
way it is?  Nothing else has to be moved?"

"Now you're just making fun of me."    

"Me?  Never.  Why don't you tell me more about your art?"

"Like what?"

"Who are your favorite painters?"

"That's a tough call."  William slid down a bit in his chair and folded his arms.  "It may seem kind of weird, since I don't paint anything like him, but I've always admired Michelangelo."

"Really?" Meghan asked with a sense of surprise.

"Yeah.  He didn't even like to paint.  He considered himself a sculptor first and a painter second. But his figures were so powerful and thick with life.  For me, I think it all started with him."

"Is it true he died while painting the Sistine Chapel?"

"I believe so.  Either that or he slipped in the shower.  I can't remember which."

"Whom do you paint like?"

"I don't know.  I'm just trying to paint like myself.  I had these images in my head my whole life
and I've just been trying to put them on canvas.  I really don't study someone else's work and then try and implement something of theirs into my style.  Know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"If I do have an influence it would be Van Gogh.  At least I try and pattern my life after his
whenever possible."

"You're not going to cut off your ear are you?"

"He's a lot more than just a guy that cut his ear off.  Van Gogh's really an interesting story."

"He did cut off his ear, though, right?"

"Sure.  But not his whole ear.  Just part of it."

"Didn't he give it to his girlfriend?"

"Actually, she really wasn't his girlfriend.  She was what we like to call a 'professional
girlfriend.'"

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah.  I mean I think he knew her, but they weren't real close or anything.  He just walked up to
her one day, handed her his ear, and said 'Be careful with this.'"

"I always thought he mailed it to her to express his love?"

"He might have been trying to express something, but I doubt it was his love.  Van Gogh was kind
of messed up.  He used to drink some serious alcohol.  He also had a habit of putting his brushes
in his mouth.  The various paints and chemicals took quite the toll on his mental health.  Then, of course, he also had the syphilis."

"And you admire this guy?"

"Well, not for the syphilis, but yeah, I admire him.  Van Gogh was never a success when he was
alive.  He painted over 700 pictures before he made the first and only sale of his life."

"I didn't know that."  

"Yeah, he only sold one painting his whole life.  To the world around him, Van Gogh died a
failure."
 
"If he didn't sell anything, how'd he support himself?"

"He didn't.  His brother did.  They were really close.  His brother sponsored him and then Vincent
sent him all his work.  But the thing is, no matter how crazy he was or how few accolades his art
received at the time, he didn't quit.  He stayed dedicated and painted."

"So it's his perseverance to his dream that you admire?"

"Sure."  William paused a moment.  Meghan's attention remained.  "I'm quite content to die a
failure in the eyes of those around me if I can stay true to my dream."

"That's admirable.  Not real socially acceptable, but admirable."

"I do what I can."

"What happens when your savings run out?  Do you have a loving brother to sponsor you?"

"No, but that's okay.  We're called starving artists for a reason.  I could care less about money.  I just want to stay true to my art, everything else will take care of itself."  

"You said before that you doubted an artist could come out of Hadleyville.  Have you ever given
any thought to leaving town?"

"Sometimes.  But like I said, I'm not really in it for money or fame.  And when you get right down
to it, it's really hard to be an artist no matter where you are.  It gets harder with each passing day."

"How so?"

"Well, just think about it.  Artists have to constantly break new ground.  Like say one day I paint an exact copy of Van Gogh's 'Night Cafe' without ever having known it existed..."

"I don't think I know that one."

"Oh, it's cool.  It's all reds and yellows.  Anyway, so say I've never seen it before, but I wake up and paint it one day.  It would be a masterpiece.  Until I show it someone else, and then they'd say 'yeah, that was great when Van Gogh did it 100 years ago.'  What was genius yesterday is no longer acceptable today.  You always have to keep pushing the envelope, exploring new artistic territory."

"I see what you mean."

"But that's really true with any creative field, not just art.  I mean, take writing.  You could crank out 'War and Peace' tomorrow and it wouldn't be great literature, it would be plagiarism.  It's all about being first to plant the flag."  

"I never really thought of that."

"For all we know, there could be some girl in like Delaware writing the same exact book as you
except she's two chapters ahead, will get it published first, and will render the last year of your life meaningless."

"How does that help me?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it.  I was just trying to illustrate the point.  But you see what I mean, right?"

"Unfortunately.  So are you willing to find that new artistic ground?"

"I'm trying."

"Have you painted your masterpiece yet?"

"I don't think so.  At least I hope not.  I've got an idea of what I want it to be."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but it's just not the right time yet."

"When will the right time be?"

"Probably around the time the money runs out."

"You could always get another job."

"And then what?"

"Well, maybe meet a nice girl."

"Now you sound like my mother.

"Maybe start a family..."

"And then what?"

"Retire in happiness and grow old together."

"And then what?"

"Die, I guess."

"Exactly.  It's all just the same old song and everyone sings along.  But even if you do avoid the
trap nothing lasts forever.  I mean, think of something that would give you the most happiness in
life.  At some point it has to end.  And then what?  I guess that's kind of why I paint; to try and capture those moments.  Make 'em last longer."

Meghan's eyes filled with wonder.  She was realizing that she was in the presence of someone
different.  This was her first encounter with what she perceived to be a real live tortured artist. She wasn't sure she liked it.  

"How did he die?" she asked.

"What?"

"Van Gogh.  How did he die?"

"He shot himself," William said with approval.  He leaned forward and continued with noticeable
excitement.  "But the thing is he didn't shoot himself in the head.  He shot himself in the chest.  It took him two days to die.  That's really all you need to know about Van Gogh.  That says it all."

William fell back in his chair.  He was lost in his thoughts a moment before he remembered why
he was there.   

"Now that I've thoroughly depressed you with the story of my idol, what writers do you like?"

"Well," said Meghan, shifting around in her chair to find some level of comfort from the harsh
plastic.  "I guess my Michelangelo would be Shakespeare.  He's the foundation."

"I hear tell he's pretty good."

"You've had to read some of his work in school, right?"

"Yeah, they made us read 'Julius Caesar' in eighth grade."

"Was it really that awful?"

"No, I kind of liked it.  Then we had to read 'Romeo and Juliet' the next year."

"That's probably my favorite of his plays.  It's pretty much the basis of every modern love story. 
You had to like it."

"Yeah.  But I really like Claire Danes, so..."

Meghan smiled.  "Do you have any knowledge of literature that doesn't come from TV or the
movies?"

"Sorry.  I'd like to read more but I just never seem to get around to it."

"You obviously had to do some reading on Van Gogh."

"No, actually that was a 'Biography' on A&E."

"Amazing."

"Hey, if you don't watch TV how come you're picking up on all these references?"

"It's not like I've never watched TV.  I used to.  I just haven't for the past year or so."

"What shows did you watch?"

"Nothing special.  Just whatever was on, I guess.  There was nothing I really looked forward to."

"Want to hear my favorites?"

"Is there enough time in the day?"

"I'll make it brief.  Just holler if you hear something you like.  'The Dick Van Dyke Show' is
probably my all-time favorite, followed by 'Dobie Gillis', 'Taxi', 'Cheers', 'The Mary Tyler Moore
Show', 'The Bob Newhart Show', 'The Honeymooners', 'Get Smart', 'Dragnet'... and if you get into
dramas, 'Columbo', 'Starsky and Hutch', 'Banacek', 'The White Shadow'..."

"Some of those weren't too bad."  

"What about movies?  Do you like the movies?"

"Some."

"What's your favorite movie?"

"I don't know.  I don't usually rank things like that."

"C'mon!" prodded William.

"Well, I don't know, I guess maybe 'Casablanca'."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"That's impressive.  Usually people our age don't name such a classic.  I was afraid you were
going to say something really stupid.  But 'Casablanca' is excellent.  Humphrey Bogart is as cool
as it gets.  And I love myself the Ingrid Bergman."

"Is it your favorite too?"

"No.  I mean, I really like it a lot, but I don't know if it's in the top five."

"You have a top five?"

"Sure.  Want to hear it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."  William smiled and sat back up in his chair.  "Number five is 'Shaft.'"

"'Shaft'?"

"Definitely.  It's awesome.  And I'm talkin' Richard Roundtree, not that remake garbage.  On my
list of heroes, John Shaft comes somewhere between Van Gogh and ALF."

"Congratulations."

"On what?"

"In the history of the planet, I don't think the names Van Gogh and ALF have ever been used in
the same sentence."

"Like I said, I do what I can.  Okay, number four would be 'Detective Story.'"  

"Never heard of it."

"It follows a cop through a day on the job while his whole world crumbles around him.  Kirk
Douglas is incredible.  He's so intense.  There are times you think he might actually explode. 
It's great."

"Number three?"

"'Cool Hand Luke.'  Paul Newman's a prisoner that keeps escaping from jail.  It's so anti-
establishment.  It's all about being your own man and doing your own thing.  And Newman's my
favorite actor."

"Two?"

"It's gotta be 'Vertigo.'  I'm a big Alfred Hitchcock fan.  And this is as good as it gets.  Did you ever see it?"

"Sorry."

"It's somethin' special.  It's a real psychological thriller type, all about love, loss, and longing.  I've seen it a dozen times and it still gets me."       

"Well, don't keep me in suspense..."

"'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.'"

"I didn't expect that to be number one."

"You've seen it?"

"No, I can't say that I have.  But I didn't expect a Western to top the list."

"It's sort of a Western, but not really.  I like to think of it as 'Starsky and Hutch' with horses.  Plus it's got the best ending in movie history.  And there's also the Paul Newman factor, he's great in it, so that goes a long way to making it number one."

"You know, you're a very unique individual."

"In a good way, though, right?" smiled William.

"It's not often you find someone who wants to be a serious artist, yet is still so involved with
popular culture."

"Odd, isn't it?"

"Yes, somewhat."

"It's more of a gift really.  So let me ask you something..."

"Yeah?"

"Do you like unique individuals?"

The room drew silent.  The whirring of the dryer had stopped.  Meghan smiled and stood up to
check her clothes.  As she flipped open the lid she glanced over her shoulder at William.

"I think so."

Not since "Get Smart Again" have three words meant so much.  Her clothes sufficiently dry,
Meghan began to stuff them back into her laundry bag.  William waited a few seconds before
daring to speak.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way..."  He stopped himself and started again.  "I mean, I
don't want to be too forward..."  Meghan continued to tend to her clothes, although she did slow
down in order to make sure she heard what was coming next.  "I guess what I'm trying to say is...
please tell me you don't have a boyfriend."

Meghan never turned around.  "I have a boyfriend."

His dread for just that response is what tripped him up in the first place.  While he feared those
words - "I have a boyfriend" - would crush him, William surprisingly didn't miss a beat.       

"In that case, please tell me that you sleep around behind his back."

Meghan couldn't help but turn and smile at the line.  It was the only reaction she gave.  And
William couldn't tell if it was an appreciative smile or one of disbelief.  The next few seconds
were deathly silent.  Only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the sound of cloth rubbing against cloth could be heard.  Once the last of her clothes were unloaded, Meghan carefully shut the dryer lid.  She pulled the drawstring of her laundry bag shut and slung it over her shoulder.  

William tried to recover.  "Listen, I'm sorry...  it was just a joke... I didn't mean to..."

Meghan silently brushed by him and began to make her way out of the room.  Just when he was
about to punch himself in the mouth, William heard her stop on the stairwell and retrace her
steps.  She reappeared in the doorway.

"Are you coming or not?"

With that she turned around and once again began to climb the stairs.  William was momentarily
stunned.  Did she just say what he thought she said?  After replaying the events in his mind for
confirmation, he sprinted from his chair and raced after her.  

Without slowing down to wait for him, Meghan called out from the flight above, "Don't forget my
book."      

William darted back into the laundry room, swiped the forgotten item, and was half way up the
first flight when he heard her voice once more.

"And turn off the lights."  

Back down the stairs.  Back up the stairs.  It was the most exercise he'd had in months.  He was
already getting woozy.  Despite the significant head start, William reached their hallway in time
to see Meghan unlock her apartment door.  She didn't even hesitate, leaving the door wide open
behind her as she continued on her way.  

William felt a little uncertain about what to do next.  He eased his way into the apartment.  The
only light was spilling from the bedroom.  

"Lock the door behind you," commanded an unseen voice.

Still clinging to the 'The Great Gatsby,' William flipped the lock and then began to feel his way
towards the light.  Having been in the apartment the day before, he was able to make the journey
without much trouble.  A few feet away from his destination he heard a click and the light's
intensity faded.  The door was open but he stopped a step short, as if waiting for permission to
enter.  That permission was granted with a kiss.  Gatsby hit the floor.  

Meghan was the aggressor.  She was in control.  It was a forceful, hurried exchange.  They
stumbled around blindly until they both tumbled onto the bed.  Even though their mouths were
busy, they conducted a broken, breathless conversation.  

"Do you have any condoms?" asked William.    

"No."  

"What should we do?  Is there any place open?"

"We're not going anywhere..."

"But..."

"Are you clean?"

"What?"

"Are you clean?"

"Sure."

"So am I."

"Are you on the pill?"

"No."

"Well... maybe we should just..."

"No."  That was, without doubt, the hottest thing William had ever heard in his life.  "Just pull
out."

"You sure?"

"I trust you."

The usual awkwardness of being with someone for the first time was overwhelmed by the sheer
energy of the encounter.  It was obvious from the start that it wouldn't last long.  Neither seemed to want it to.  This was backed up by the fact that neither one had lost a stitch of clothing more than was absolutely necessary.    

"Ow..." 

William slowed to ask if she was okay.

"Yeah... I think your zipper scratched my leg."

That was about it in the way of verbal communication, save for a few purred commands from
Meghan to offer guidance.  William did his best to oblige.  It wasn't long before a decision had to be made.  While it was difficult, he knew responsibility came first in such matters.    

He collapsed in her arms.  She held him close and gave him a kiss on the cheek.  William rolled
over and a thick silence hung in the air, as they both lay motionless staring at the ceiling.  

Meghan turned her head to look at her new lover.  "That was nice."

William returned the look.  "Yeah, I liked that.  I liked that a lot."  

They both went back to staring at the ceiling.  The comfortable rapport they once shared seemed
to still be down in the laundry room.  William tried to lighten the mood.

"Sorry for the mess, what with you just having done a wash and all."

"Oh, that's okay. I don't mind."

More time passed.

"Do you work tomorrow?" asked William.

"Yeah.  I actually have to open."

He turned again to look at her.  "Then maybe I should go..."

"You don't have to."

"No," William zipped up.  "I probably should."  

"Okay."

With a wet spot on his shirt still clinging to him, William slipped from the bed.  Meghan sat up as he made his way around to the door.  He wanted to kiss her goodbye but the whole idea somehow
seemed awkward.  

"Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," replied Meghan, forcing a smile.    

William gave a quick nod and once again found himself in the darkened hallway, this time
feeling his way away from the light.  The return journey was much more complicated.  He ran
into the wall once and then cracked his shin off something apparently made of barbed wire and
jagged glass.

"Ow!" 

"You okay?" called Meghan from the bedroom.

"Sorry," said William as he continued to limp to the elusive exit.  "Yeah, I just bumped by shin." 

His hand felt the cold metal of the doorknob.  He was out.