A Change in Gravity
Mark Nelson
About 92,600 words
About 92,600 words
A Change in Gravity
01.) GAUNTLET – San Francisco, CA : Wed., Dec. 16th, 1998
Fresh off my afternoon flight from Chicago, I looked
through the taxi window at what might be my new home.
Exiting the cab, I stumbled, adjusting to the steeply
inclined San Francisco street.
There I stood, suitcase in
hand, wearing an orange parka that is way too heavy for the
local climate.
Standing on the sidewalk, I heard a buzzing that
sounded like a model airplane being molested by a leaf
blower.
Coming over the top of the hill, out of the fog, a
scooter appeared.
The rider wore round welder goggles and
a scratched red helmet.
As the driver approached I could
see the back fender held a bungee-corded milk crate full of
groceries.
The scooter pulled up on the sidewalk and
quickly chained to a telephone pole, need a brand new slick
black SUV and a lightly rusted baby blue El Camino. The
driver walked up and beamed a big smile accompanied by a
cheerful wave.
“Maybe.
“Hey!
You here for the room?”
I dunno yet.
I’m just meeting everybody for
the first time.”
“Come down and help me with the groceries, and I’ll
put in a good word!”
The gangly-looking teenager ran up the stairs, gave me
a big hug, and ran back down to the scooter.
I was
startled, but the accompanying wall of bubblegum and
vanilla-scented perfume led me to believe that this person
was indeed a girl, despite all outward appearances.
My
overly friendly attacker removed her goggles and began to
un-bungee the groceries.
“What was that for?”
I tried to regain my composure.
I stammered.
“Have you gotten a hug yet today?”
“Ahh . . . no.”
Looking incredibly concerned, she looked up at me with
big brown eyes
“That sucks.”
My new friend looked like a cross between a thirteen
year old boy and a Japanese anime character: skinny body,
big eyes, big head, and big feet.
A brown paper grocery
bag was shoved into my chest, making the distinctive
clinking sound that only bottles of alcohol can make.
bag appeared to be much lighter and squishier.
Her
I juggled
the bag and my suitcase around my parka-wrapped body,
adjusting to find the most comfortable carrying position.
The girl removed her helmet, revealing a shock of orange
hair, and gave me the once over.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
I smiled.
“Does the parka give it away?”
“No, the fact that I was able to lift your wallet.”
“Son-of-a- . . . “ I exclaimed, spinning around, arms
full, attempting to examine my back pocket to try and
confirm the theft.
She laughed, “Just kidding!
Come on in.”
She gave me a wink, and ran past me up to the house.
My new acquaintance kicked open the heavy wooden door,
and raced down the hallway.
As I peered down into the dark
tunnel, I could just make out a lit room where three people
sat looking directly at me.
A small box sat in the middle
of the table.
“Hey guys, look what followed me home!
Can I keep
him?”
The hallway led into the dining room, made of mostly
old dark wood paneling, with a long green carpet running
its length.
The dining room, though brightly lit, were
wallpapered in a deep red “fleur-de-lis” pattern that one
usually only sees in turn of the century whorehouses.
Local 1930’s WPA era park posters hung on the walls.
The man sitting at the head of the table spoke, “Now
Wendy, it’ll be your responsibility to walk him and clean
up after him.”
She pouted.
“W e l l . . . all right . . .” scooter
girl replied, sounding put in her place.
“Hello?” I said sheepishly, ducking my head in the
room.
“You guys have a room for rent?”
I glanced around briefly to survey the occupants.
Besides Wendy and myself there were two guys in their late
twenties and a girl of Asian descent.
I noticed they each
had little note pads and pens, along with red plastic party
cups.
The table was a repurposed green door, and the
larger of the two guys had set his cup in the hole where
the doorknob used to be.
The other smaller, paler male
wore a purple silk robe and a red ascot.
very out of place.
I began to feel
A circa ’77 Radio Shack speaker box sat
in the middle of the table.
This was starting to feel more
like a casting session for a porno than a roommate
interview.
Mr. Ascot spoke first.
presents.
“I see you’ve brought
Well done.”
“I know!
Isn’t he sweetie?” Wendy asked no one in
particular as she came over to relieve me of my bag.
She
began to distribute various bottles around the table.
A small bottle of root beer schnapps appeared,
followed by a six-pack of Jolt, a liter bottle of Dr.
Pepper, and a dozen miscellaneous bottles of tiny airline
alcohol.
Everyone dove into the liquor store booty, and
began to mix their own unique and individual concoctions.
I think I saw a schnapps-Dr. Pepper combination, and was
thankful I skipped breakfast on the flight in.
Mr. Ascot announced, “Twenty points, you’re well on
your way.
dwelling.”
I’m George, supreme commander of this fine
He looked down at his notepad writing the
number twenty.
I saw “GTJ” embroidered on his robe.
As
the rest scribbled in their notepads, they began to
introduce themselves.
“I’m Free,” said the larger roommate, as if it were
the most natural thing in the world to say.
He had rolled
his eyes at George’s previous comment.
George asked, “Are you now, or have you ever been a
member of the Republican Party?”
“Hey about the booze, I didn’t . . .”
“Just answer the question,” George interrupted.
“Ah, once in college . . . but I got better?”
Free (Free? I must have misheard his name,) sat stone
faced, until after my answer.
He was a large man with a
small mustache, who appeared to be of Latin descent, or
maybe Italian.
Wisconsin doesn’t have much of either, so
it was hard for me to tell.
Free looked over to George, as
if to check in as how to react.
“Good answer
Ten points for being funny, but minus
five for collaborating with the enemy.”
More scribbling
amongst the roommates.
“Hey, look, about the drinks . . .”
The Asian girl spoke up.
“Hi.
My name is Crystal.
Who are your major musical influences?”
She had an
athletic body with a severely askew bobbed haircut that
didn’t look quite right.
“Umm, 80’s stuff, New Wave, some Punk.
Jazz?”
I
replied, annoyed at myself for not saying something cool,
like “Trance” or “House”.
“Hmm . . . A little frat-boyish for my taste, but
acceptable. George?”
“You do realize it’s the 90’s, don’t you?
I’m afraid
I can only give you five points, Casper?”
George tapped on the small box with speaker holes in
front of him.
It crackled to life.
“Wendy, did you grab a Big Gulp for me?” the box
spoke.
“Half Mountain Dew, half Orange Crush?”
“Who knows me best?” the box replied lovingly.
“Me!” Wendy yelped proudly, as she bounded up from the
table and bolted out of the room with the vile beverage.
She had the energy of a barely contained explosion.
It was at that moment I noticed the dining room had a
rear exit on the opposite side of the hallway entrance.
From the rolling thunder that Wendy produced, I could only
assume that there was also a descending stairwell.
It must
lead down to the garage I saw from outside.
The speaker box crackled “Hi there, my name’s Casper.
What’s your operating system of choice?”
“Mac” I replied quickly, “But I also did a lot of UNIX
in college.”
“On what platforms?” The box asked, as I heard Wendy
in the background of wherever the other end was.
“Old Mac II’s, Sparc servers . . . uh . . .”
struggling to remember “Old Digital VAX machines?”
“Really? Hmm . . . was your college poorly funded?” I
heard some faint snickering followed by background
whispering emanating from the box.
“I have a good feeling
about this one,” said the crackling Wendy-like noise.
“I think we inherited a lot of old gear from other
departments.
Uh, I just wanted to let you guys know that
Wendy brought the alcohol, not me.”
“Plus fifteen points, excellent come from behind.”
exclaimed George.
“Minus ten for honesty,” said a flat, disinterested
voice from behind me.
I looked over my shoulder to locate the new voice.
I
saw a woman inspecting me over her horn-rimmed glasses.
Sitting in an upright beach chair, she cracked open a
bottle of “Pina Colada For Two” and poured it into a
martini glass.
Had she been there the whole time?
She was
dressed like a cross between a Eisenhower era debutante and
a cast member of the X-files, yet strangely office
appropriate.
I stood mesmerized watching her stir her
martini-coloda with a red swizzle stick.
She wore black
lace evening gloves.
She slowly pulled the stick between her dark red lips
then spoke.
“Sit down, you’re making me nervous.
And for Christ’s
sake, will you take off that ridiculous parka?”
“Be nice Jessica.” The speaker box crackled again with
Wendy’s voice. “Roger, you didn’t have to fess-up, I was
trying to earn you brownie points!”
“Shuuut uuup.” Casper scolded under his breath in the
background.
“Ah shit! . . . sor-ry . . .”
It just occurred to me that this was the first time I
had heard anyone use my name.
I was pretty certain I
hadn’t had to opportunity to introduce myself yet.
As I
took off my jacket, I brushed my hand against my back
pocket; that little bandit actually did lift my wallet.
Wendy actually conned me into believing that she hadn’t
lifted my wallet.
I yelled at the speaker box, “Hey . . . gimme back my
wallet!”
I noticed that the table’s activity shifted slightly,
as if it suddenly had an unknown purpose.
Focus changed
from me to the speaker box.
Ignoring my request, George asked the box, “You got
anything?”
Wendy giggled “Thirty-seven bucks and the world’s
oldest condom.”
“Yeah, he actually had his Social Security card in his
wallet.
I already pulled his TRW report.” Casper chuckled.
George got up and walked over to me “You really need
to be more careful.”
“Hey, look.
I don’t know what the deal is, but I just
. . “
George put his well-manicured finger on my lips.
For
some reason, I let him and shut up.
“We’ve been just horrible, I know . . . especially
Jessica.”
George smiled mischievously as he looked past me
at Jessica for a reaction.
She replied by flinging her
swizzle stick at his forehead.
George, looking annoyed, wiped the small drops of
colada off of his forehead. “Bitch.”
“Homo.”
“Your Mom.”
“Not in front of the children, George.” Which Jessica
took the time to pronounce as “Whore - Hay”.
This seemingly age-old tirade continued on, presumably
without end in sight.
Crystal motioned with her head for
me to follow her into the back.
As I approached her, she
stood on her toes, resting her hands on my shoulder for
balance.
Crystal quietly whispered into my ear, “These two
are going to be at it for a while.”
We followed Wendy’s recent exit into a cluttered but
surprisingly nice kitchen.
I saw what looked to be a red
door leading into an unknown basement where I assumed Wendy
went.
“We had a former friend . . . ”
“YOU, had a former friend.” Free corrected, following
us in.
“I! Had a former friend. ” Crystal mimicked, glaring
at Free.
“Anyway, short story.
bunch of bills.
She bailed and stuck us with a
So, we’ve felt like we’ve had to be
careful.”
“Did I mention she was French?” Free added halfjokingly as he pulled some Clif bars out of the fridge.
“Plus the other applicants have been your garden variety
jocks, stoners, bible thumpers, preppies, hippies, and
date-rapers.
You get the idea.”
“Don’t forget Windows users!’ crackled an additional
speaker box over the refrigerator.
“Eat it, dude.”
Free said, sounding slighted.
Casper continued, “Hey, if you want to devote the rest
of your life to making Mr. Bill richer from his mediocre
OS, that’s your perogative.”
“Look, I just want my wallet back.”
Casper’s disembodied voice replied, “OK, I’m finished
checking your files anyway.
A few moving violations, some
parking tickets, . . . citation for public nudity?”
Crystal gave me the once over.
“Wow, you must really
work out!”
“I don’t think it’s that kind of citation you’re
thinking of Crystal.”
Wendy chimed in, “Classic Roger . . .”
“What?”
“I like him.” said Free.
“We will be requiring
details on that citation later!”
Caper continued, “Looks like he stole a copy of
“Gravity’s Rainbow” from the Lawrence reference library.”
“How the . . . ?
How did you . . . ?”
I set that book status to missing.
I could hear Casper typing furiously over the speaker,
“You neglected to edit the audit trail.
Don’t worry, I
fixed it for you.”
Wendy came back upstairs and tossed my wallet back to
me. “Here you go, Cap’n!”
I cracked my billfold to check the cash when she
replied, “What, you don’t trust me?”
I stared at her disapprovingly, then slowly closed my
wallet and put it in my front pocket.
My over-exaggerated
movements were completely lost on Wendy as she continued to
smile at me.
“Well, he can be taught!” said George as he
majestically marched into the kitchen with Jessica on his
arm.
Both looked as if they had just strolled off an
expensive ocean liner.
George asked, “Are you an artist?”
This felt like a trick question.
“No.”
George considered my answer for a while.
“Good.
Can’t stand them.
They make a huge mess, get
all moody, stay up all hours, then complain that you just
don’t get it.“
George asked Wendy “It’s your call, he’s going to have
to be your roomie.”
Wendy considered this while my face flushed.
I was
visualizing sharing a room with a girl.
“You snore?”
“U h h . . . I don’t know.
I don’t think so.”
“Sure, let’s go for it.” she replied.
“I think we have a winner, with 35 points!”
George
proclaimed. “Any nay votes?
As everyone looked around the kitchen for dissenters,
I corrected him. “Actually it’s 25.”
Everybody looked around, eventually settling on
Jessica’s impassive face.
She rolled her eyes, “Fuck it.
We need the rent.”
Free looked at me and asked “Any questions?”
“Several hundred.”