“I saw your door was open and…” Doug, as manly as possible, places one forearm against the door frame. Through a jagged sleeve cut, his milk-white bare chest betrays a hairless nipple. “… and… was wondering…”
“Far out, Doug, what’s that smell?” says Spin, both hands cupping her mouth and nose, leaving her guitar to dangle. Monica has transitioned to lobster red from all her sneezing.
“Nothing but my special mix. A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”
“Monica, you want him to leave before he kills you?”
Poor Monica cannot even talk and can only nod yes between sneezes.
“Beat it, Doug. And next time, keep your mixes in their bottle.”
Doug leaves with his eyes twinkling as he heard her say next time.
“… so, wait, you’re only attending D’GSOM to pursue your music thing?”
It is early Wednesday morning, and here is Doug, listening to his neighbors through an opened vent near the ceiling. His roommate has dropped out, giving him the freedom to erect the most unstable pyramid of campus-issued dorm room furniture possible. Once at the top, he used his trusty pocketknife to remove the grill and soundproofing from a vent shared with Spin and Monica. And like stealing ripe cherries, he can hear everything said between his neighbors.
Mindful, a six-year-old aiming for a high-kept cookie jar could have built something better.
“Crazy, huh? Parents would only pay for a ‘real degree.’ Not music.”
Doug’s pyramid creaks and shifts a touch. With effort, he re-balances.
Sniffling, Monica carries on. “… and while you bring home A’s…”
“… I’m free to hunt out gigs. Using here for room and board.”
“… except…”
“Yeah, I gotta launch before MS2. No way in hell I’m working a cadaver. I’ll lose my lunch on the spot.”
Monica stifles a sneeze but presses on. “I don’t know. Like, I’m not one to crush a dream. But taking on the music industry today… this way… seems so analog?”
“Trust me, this is a ‘starting with me’ thing, knowing the world would be a better place if more people followed their heart. Saying all that, I’m not a crackpot. It’s session musician gigs first. Gotta sort pay AND get my foot in some doors AND go through some hard yards AND…”
Both girls laugh on cue, ending with a big, lung-emptying sneeze from Monica.
Half of Doug’s pyramid falls away. In a panic, he grabs onto the grill hole. His ex-roommate’s sled base chair and three-drawer chest crash to the floor with awkward thuds. He shows enough sense not to call out for help. Instead, he does his first pull-up in years back to the grill hole.
Spin asks once his commotion settles, “Reckon puppies raised Doug?”
Monica’s sneezing picks up. “Maybe puppies… living… at a… dump. You know my… cousin, a… third year, says… them Phi Psi boys are… doing… Babe Bets… again.”
