“Hey, Fellas! What’s going on?” It is Tuesday lunchtime, and here is Doug. He has unknowingly interrupted an elitist snob conversation by walking in uninvited.
Max makes his way forward from the far end, tossing a football to himself. “Your name’s Doug, right?” He passes between his lieutenants, two sitting per dorm room bed. Each lieutenant resembles Max in haircut and skin tone, each one dressed as if heading to or coming from the gym.
Even with the window shade up, more light enters from the hallway. Doug’s brown eyes must squint against the darkness to see inside. “Yeah, man. From last night’s pizza thing. Saw your door open and figured best be a neighbor and say ‘Hi’ and ‘Hello.’ Anyone else from the Valley?”
Max stops when close enough to Doug. “You were talking with the latecomer. That girl?”
“Oh yeah. That was Spin. Found out that her and Monica are my neighbors.” One bed’s worth of snobs does a poor job of stifling snorts and chuckles.
Max barks back without looking, “Gents, pipe down. There’s a lady’s man among us!”
Doug corrects him while rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t say all that.”
Max continues, “Well, today’s your lucky day. You’ll find out from others on campus that our families are a big deal. Multi-generations of who’s-who’s. Each semester, we extend our wealth of opportunities only to starters able to PROVE themselves worthy. A challenge, if you will.”
“Wow! I knew when I saw you guys—”
“Not so fast, Tonto.”
“I’m not Tonto. I’m Doug.”
“Sorry. Doug. What I was going to say … you got game?”
There was an uncomfortable pause from Doug as his eyes crunched the question. “Do you mean jimmies? Only the one my uncle gave me when I turned fourteen. Here on me somewhere–” Doug pulls out his wallet.
The bed-seated Max clones cannot contain tear-leaking laughter.
Max stops his game search by putting a free hand on Doug’s shoulder. “That’s fine. Keep your gun in its holster. So, your challenge then is … to get with Spin.”
“What?”
With a hard pass to his center, Max winds Doug, using the football. Then Max says, “Now, don’t embarrass me in front of our crew. Clearly, you’re the right man for the job, so Good Hunting,” while waltzing Doug backward out of the room.
They slam the door in Doug’s face. As he stands stunned, their laughter bleeds out from its grill hole and cracks. While his one hand cradles the “Prop. Of UCLA” stamped football, Doug’s other hand rubs at tender abs through his vintage long-sleeve Mr. Softy T-shirt. Every one of his dark, floppy curls suggests a different way to go.
It is Tuesday night, and here is Spin.
