Prophesizing for the Eton Boy, Talking Lolita with Joy

Day I - August 30, 2006

Ted offered me a cigarette just as we were leaving Keeney on our way to a party at a frat.

"Zack," Ted said in a distinctively pure Enlish accent, "Were you christened as Zacharias."
"No man," I hurried to explain. "I was christened Zachary."
"Ah, Zachary," The Brit continued, "Now that is a prophet's name."

He offered me a cigarette and told me to prophesize. Was he drunk? I had no way of telling. Drunk though he may be, the British gentry are renowned for being able to hold it together.

He was holding it together.

I pulled softly at the Marlboro blade, letting the smoke fill my lungs, then drift down my throat and into the chest. Ted, citizen of South Kensington, and emperor of Eton was demanding fortunes.

So I gave him some.

I told him that he would be successful at Brown ultimately, but not without much trial and tribulation. He told he was an exceptional student, and that he would have no trouble rocking the University's courses.

"Ted, my man," I explained slowly, "we're all exceptional students, That's why we're here."

He laughed.

"Tell me more prophet."

I told him more. The clock struck twelve and we slid into a frat party of Wriston Quad. The frat boys didn't notice Joy and I until we were well past the bouncer and deep in the crowd downstairs.

Unfortunately, there was no beer at the party.

We went back up the stairs, pushed through the opened Emergency Door, and out into the Quad. I called a friend who was year older and asked for a party. He gave me walking directions to another frat with the promise it would be fun. When I got there, Joy and I shook hands with the assembled members of the house, and took hospitable beers. I talked with my friend and found about a liberal liqour store and a way to get pot quickly should the need arise.

Realizing suddenly that Joy had left the party, I bid adieu to my friend and the boys at the frat whose names I knew. I slid up the stairs, ran through the door and caught Joy standing there in the rain smiling because I'd came.

"That's cute," she sair, "It's nice to see someone care."

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A couple minutes later and we were on my carpet. Joy was telling me about Lolita and Ian MacEwan while I tried to control the sensation of mental orgasm on account of the unprecendented intellectual dialogue. She went back to her room for a moment, and waited as I crashed on the floor spouting nonsense about commitment and satisfaction. Eventually, we found ourselves tired and disagreeable.

I said goodbye and excused myself from the tumult of social interaction.