Perception

By Dan Catalano

Hugh Lambert is a man of many problems: problems with professors, problems with his glorified student squat and, most of all, problems with women. A parapsychology student in the 1980's, Hugh has no job prospects and only one friend—Abby Stoltz, a profane and ever-indignant artist. But then, late one night, Hugh accepts a tarot reading from a beautiful stranger, and everything begins to change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Catalano
• Release date: May 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452497402

Dan Catalano

"A wild boy of no particular clan, ready for anything, always armed. Prefers fighting to toil, drink to fighting, chasing women to booze or battle: may attempt all three concurrently."-- Nelson Algren, A Walk on the Wild Side

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a novel

Dan Catalano

Published by Language Monster Press at Smashwords

©2010 Dan Catalano

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Author's Note: The Division of Parapsychology presented in this novel is an amalgamation of many such programs around the country, and in no way reflects the true structure, faculty or history of any one university.

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Zero. Zilch. Nothing. Null set. Nobody.

The circle blurred for a second in front of Hugh’s tired eyes, doubling suddenly into linked rings, and then a figure eight. He slid his thumb and forefinger under his glasses, rubbing his eyes back into focus, trying to steady his train of thought. He was holding the card too tightly and too close to his face, he realized, like a paranoiac at a poker table. He took a mental breath and started over, moving the card back an inch and working to recapture the image in his head.

Mouth. Lips. Language. Singing. Stuttering. Screaming.

If Bernard, the student receiver across the table, was getting anything, he sure wasn’t showing it. In fact, at this very moment the dude was leaning back in one of the university’s stiff-backed wooden chairs, flicking spit bubbles from his chapped lips with the tip of his whitish tongue, staring dazedly at the ceiling. If Hugh had been in a more charitable mood, he might have taken the Deadhead’s distant stare and slack jaw as a sign of yogi-like concentration. As it was, however, Hugh was sleep-deprived and felt a migraine creeping on, and therefore couldn’t quite shake his suspicion that this particular test subject was stoned out of his dreadlock-covered gourd.

Circle.

Hugh flicked his eyes up quickly, trying not to betray any obvious signs of surprise.

Well, what do you know, he marveled, marking a positive on the test sheet; maybe the new system is working after all. He had recently switched his methodology on the telepathy tests, having grown weary of trying to simply capture and project the ESP card’s stark symbols. All of those endless circles, squares and stars had been seared into his brain by now, anyway, making it difficult to discern if he was projecting the right one. And so he had begun sending out images associated with the chosen card instead, playing a sort of extrasensory version of The 20,000 Dollar Pyramid with his receivers. It was still too soon to tell if this was actually making a difference, but the results had been fairly promising so far.

And hey, Hugh reasoned, if I can get through to an acid casualty like this...

Waves.

Hugh stopped mid-draw, smiling to cover his irritation. Bernard, I haven’t even looked at the card yet.

Well, whatever, Bernie said, still scanning the ceiling with his bloodshot eyes. "I’m telling you what it’s gonna be."

"Well, now, that would be clairvoyance, Hugh explained patiently, trying to keep the edge of condescension from his voice. What we’re trying to test here is telepathy, which means that, y’know, you should be concentrating on what I’m thinking, not on the next card in the deck."

Okay, sure. Go for it.

Hugh glanced at the next symbol — a square — already knowing exactly what was going to happen.

Trap door. Television screen. Album cover. Cornbread. Sugar cube.

Waves.

Of course.

Hugh marked a negative without even looking up, his hangover gaining ground. Why the hell had he allowed Abby to keep him up until four in the morning, anyway? They hadn’t even done anything worthwhile — just sucked down a case of Black Label and played shitty video games on Ab’s recently purloined Atari 2600 (stolen, pathetically enough, from the local Salvation Army). It was typical, though — Abby had been in the house less than four months, and already Hugh had lost count of the number of times the guy had screwed him over.

Circle.

Hugh snapped back, looking down to find himself holding another card — a star. He contemplated starting the whole damn test over, but decided against it. What would be the point? This particular subject was obviously hopeless. In fact, given his current uncharitable state of mind, Hugh imagined he could do better with a receiver from the university primate center. But he pulled the final card from the deck and concentrated on it anyway, wanting to remain as positive about his work as possible.

It was a plus sign: two brick-thick lines crossed like a sniper’s site, drawing a steady bead on the middle of that waxy white card. Hugh cupped it in his palm and looked up, trying to ignore the fact that one of Bernie’s spit bubbles was now stuck in the matted ends of his hair.

Crucifix. Propeller. Crossroads. Gravestone. Weather vane.

Triangle.

Hugh dropped the card, defeated. "Bernard, there aren’t any triangles."

Oh — sorry, dude. Waves.

When Hugh finally made it back to the Red House — the two-story, notoriously low-rent hunk of student real estate he called home — he found the front door wide open, which annoyed him to no end. Not only was it thirty degrees out, but less than a month ago some jerk had strolled in off the street, picked up the house TV and walked right back out again, completely unmolested.

Hello? Anyone home? Hugh’s voice faded flat and staticky through the hollow wooden house, bouncing off the bare walls as if broadcast from a department store intercom. Ab?

The house looked deserted, which wasn’t really a surprise. The punk band that shared the first floor were still on their indelicately named Fuck Christmas tour, while Abby had probably wandered across the train tracks to get stoned with the Corner Parking Lot attendant.

Hugh stomped inside and kicked the door closed behind him, taking a second to warm himself in the rush of dust-dry heat that flowed from the ancient floor vent, wondering for at least the hundredth time why he was still living like this. He had really hoped to get out of this rickety deathtrap after graduation, but it just hadn’t worked out that way. After Professor Holloman, his academic sponsor, had managed the miracle of getting him into the psych graduate program, Hugh had done the math and come to the sad conclusion that he simply couldn’t justify the price of his own place.

He could, of course, have simply asked his father for a loan, or dipped into his trust, but both of those options seemed too painful to contemplate right now — especially since they would necessitate explaining to dear old dad just how, exactly, his sole progeny and heir had managed to burn through his generous college fund so quickly. Besides, after Abby had gotten himself kicked out of his girlfriend’s house and started squatting in the spare Red House room, the poor guy had practically begged Hugh to stay on — ostensibly out of friendship, but really because Hugh was the main leaseholder, and as long as he was there Ab could pretty much stay for free.

Hey, Ab! You up here? Hugh ascended slowly to the second floor, feeling the gas-fired furnace fade behind him, the inefficient heat flow dissipating into the cold and cavernous air. As he hauled himself up the last step, already winded, Hugh began to wonder if something might actually be wrong. He walked deliberately down the length of the hall, peeking first into his room and then into Abby’s. Both seemed undisturbed — although with Ab it was pretty hard to tell the difference between a recent ransacking and the bedroom’s natural state of entropy.

What the hell? Hugh backtracked to the stairwell and started creeping up toward the Sanctuary — Abby’s ludicrously inappropriate name for the attic. In reality, the place was an unfinished accident waiting to happen; a raw, ill-fitting wood floor and a sloping low ceiling spiked with random rusty-nail tetanus traps. Abby had furnished it, in his own inimitable style, with numerous punk rock posters, a pile of moldy pillows, a busted, banana-yellow beanbag that spat skin-seeking styrofoam pellets everywhere, a barely functional dorm fridge, a tiny black-and-white TV and, of course, his two-foot-high blue bong.

Hugh hesitated at the ceiling-capped end of the staircase, staring apprehensively at the trap door hovering above his head. What if someone had come in to clear out the house, been surprised by Hugh’s entry and decided to take refuge in the attic? As he put his hands flat against the hinged door, Hugh told himself he was just being stupid. He took a quick breath and pushed up stealthily, sticking his head, Kilroy-like, over the edge to squint into the dark alcove above. It seemed empty enough. He could see a few beer cans scattered around at eye level and, off to the right, the softly glowing Zenith — still flickering with the animated maze that opened Atari’s crappy home version of Pac-Man.

Uh, hey. Hello? Anybody…?

"Here!"

Abby grabbed Hugh’s ankle from below, making him shriek like a clubbed seal and whack his head against the sharp wooden edge of the attic doorframe, almost smashing his new glasses in the process.

Shit! You m-motherfucker! Hugh grabbed his forehead and lashed out with his right foot, swinging his gumsoled boot so wildly that he missed Ab’s head by a good six inches — although he did manage to spray him with a few drops of dirty snow.

Hey! Watch the hair!

"What hair, you freak? Hugh dropped heavily against the attic steps, rubbing his swelling brow and taking a half-hearted swipe at Ab’s newly shorn skull. In a vain attempt to get some action, Abby had let some girl massacre his hair at a party over the weekend — although, predictably, all he had gotten out of it was a lopsided mohawk and a two-day hangover. You could give me a goddamn concussion and my head would still feel better than yours looks."

All right, okay, I’m sorry, Ab lied, still laughing as he leaned in to take a closer look at the wound. I just forgot what an excitable little rabbit you are, s’all.

"Oh, piss off, Ab. Where the hell were you, anyway? And why was the, the, y’know, the front door open? Do you want all of your stuff ripped off?"

Ah, they can have it. Abby waved dismissively toward the front of the house, completely ignoring the fact that Hugh’s room — Hugh’s neat, orderly, easily plundered room — was only a few feet away from the stairway. It’s not my fault that the furnace in this rat trap is about to blow us all sky high. The first floor’s gotta be like ninety degrees, but my room’s so cold my sperm count’s gotta be scraping into the single digits.

Nice. Hugh grimaced as he eased down the stairs, checking his fingers for blood. You’re such an asshole, you know? I’ve got a meeting with Holloman in, like, two hours, and now he’s gonna think I’m in some sort of abusive relationship or something.

"Oh, you are, honey — you are."

Ab cackled uncontrollably at his own wit, but Hugh refused to give him the satisfaction. He dropped to the second floor and ducked quickly into his room, slamming the door behind him. Of course, it was all of twenty seconds before Abby started whining loudly from the hallway.

C’mon, Hugh, I was just funnin’. You know I’d never pound you on purpose.

Hugh kept quiet, lowering his forehead in front of the gilt-frame mirror his mother had sent him for Christmas. As it turned out, the wound wasn’t too bad — at least it hadn’t broken the skin. But still, it was just so damn typical; one more annoying byproduct of Ab’s thoughtless, destructive behavior.

"Hey, Hugo! C’mon, lemme make it up to you, okay? I got some beer, and we still haven’t played E.T., The Extra Testicle."

As much as Hugh wanted to remain silent, he just couldn’t restrain himself.

"E.T.? Abby, that’s got to be about the single worst title Atari ever fucking put out. That’s the best you can do?"

I’m sorry, man — it’s not my fault. The Starvation Army must’ve got the thing from that Special Ed farm out in Crozet, where they let the head retard pick out all of the cartridges.

Hugh laughed in spite of himself, wishing, once again, that he had even half of Abby’s obnoxious charm. He waited a second longer, prodding the growing lump above his left eye, before cracking the door open half an inch.

You’ve got beer?

Ab was hovering right outside the doorframe, his pinched nose pushed forward like the beak of a hungry bird.

Well, almost — I was just heading to the Corner Market. C’mon out. Want me to kiss it and make it better?

Christ, Ab. Why do you have to act like such a prepubescent child all the time? Hugh let the door swing open and sulked into the hall, still rubbing his forehead for effect.

Look, I’m really sorry, Hugo — really. I’m just trying to lighten things up around here, y’know? Ab ducked his mohawked head, searching Hugh’s eyes for signs of forgiveness. I probably shouldn’t have taken that dual major in Child Development and Abnormal Psych, huh?

Yeah, right. Hugh pushed past him, heading for the first floor bathroom. Abby had actually entered the University of Virginia as a business major — which was a pretty big joke in and of itself, since the guy was perpetually broke. The odd thing was that Ab had tons of natural drawing talent — his spot illustrations and cartoons filled half of the punk show flyers in Charlottesville — and yet he had never taken a single art class at UVA. Although he swore up and down that he had entered business school just to piss off his hippie parents, Hugh had never been certain that was the whole truth. Abby was the sort of guy that you just couldn’t take at face value.

Not that his reasons really mattered, in the end — he had stopped attending classes after a single semester, and had thereafter ceremonially burned his tuition bills until the university finally struck him from the rolls.

You’re just lucky you didn’t break my new glasses.

Hey man, I’d be doing you a favor. Those Lennon specs went out with Mark Chapman’s sanity, okay?

"Yeah? Well, one of the second years in, uh, that Intro to Cognition class I’m assisting? She said they make me look ‘huggable.’ Huggable. When was the last time someone said that about your scrawny ass, huh?"

Huggable? Jeez — not since my stint in that Turkish prison.

Ha fucking ha. Hugh bounded down the steps two at a time, adjusting his round, gold-frame specs against his pudgy face, hating himself for letting Ab get to him. Everyone he knew had complimented him on the damn glasses — even Lorraine!

Hey, be careful in there, Abby warned, still tailing Hugh as he headed for the medicine cabinet. I just had the granddaddy of all bowel movements. In fact, that’s probably why I didn’t hear you come in — my grunting was, like, ear-burstingly loud.

Hugh ignored him, prying open the soap-smeared mirror above the sink and poking around for the square bandages that the punk band’s guitarist used to cover his track marks.

Abby finally gave up hounding him, chattering his way toward the kitchen. By the way, we need more toilet paper.

Great, Hugh sighed, shutting the medicine cabinet. You know, I’m getting pretty goddamn tired of being the only source of house supplies. I mean, does anyone else around here ever buy anything except, y’know, condoms and beer?

Not it. Ab popped back into the hall with a couple of Hugh’s granny smiths, as if to prove his point. Apple?

"No, thanks."

Well, anyway, Ab paused to take a crisp bite out of one apple, pointedly ignoring Hugh’s sarcasm. Could you try to avoid buying rolls that’re decorated with all of those annoying prints and patterns? It’s really hard for me to concentrate on pinching the perfect loaf when I’m sitting there staring at a sheet full of tulips and teddy bears.

All right, just stop talking about it, would you? Hugh decamped into the kitchen, his hands clapped over his ears in disgust. Aren’t you supposed to be out buying beer right now?

Say no more, my friend. Say no more. Abby slipped the second apple into the safety-pinned pocket of his torn-up high school band jacket and spun around, affecting a quasi-military air as he marched toward the front door, munching happily on his stolen fruit.

Hugh yanked open the freezer door and began rummaging around for an ice tray among the fossilized boxes of frozen corn and half-eaten cartons of Sealtest Ice Milk. He quietly counted Ab’s steps as they faded toward the front door, doubting that he’d make it to five.

But, as he sometimes did, Abby surprised him. His combat boots stomped all the way up to eleven — just shy of the front porch — before they finally stopped and Ab made a show of loudly slapping his ass where normal people carried their wallets.

Oh, damn. Hey, Hugo, can you lend me a fiver? I forgot, I dropped my last dollar on jet fuel for the ol’ supersonic rocket today.

Hugh rolled his eyes, although for whose benefit he couldn’t really say. Abby’s puke-green Pacer — which he had charmingly christened the Snot Rocket — hadn’t left the gravel parking lot of the Red House in months. God knew if the thing was even still running. I’d love to, Ab, but I had to give my last ten bucks to, uh, a test subject over at the Institute.

"What? Abby came charging back down the hallway, and Hugh could already picture the look of pure disgust contorting his bony face. You gave good beer money to some fucking pseudo-psychic doofus? What’s wrong with you?"

Hugh spun around, his breath frosty with stale freezer air. Ab rounded the corner and stopped short, his angry expression faltering beneath Hugh’s cold glare.

"Nothing’s wrong with me, Ab. It’s my fucking job, okay? The guy couldn’t wait for the, the, y’know, the psych department to cut him a check, is all."

Okay, okay, Abby muttered sullenly, flattening his greasy mohawk with one callused palm. I just hate to see you throw your money away on the parade of freaks that wanders through that place. I mean, it’s not like the school’s even paying you more than a pittance in the first place.

Hugh turned back to the fridge, knowing full well that Ab would never understand his devotion to the parapsychology division. That’s not what it’s about, and you know it. Hugh finally gave up on finding an ice tray and started scraping freezer snow into his open palm. "It’s hard enough to get anyone to take part in psi testing these days, okay? We have to do everything we can."

"But paying people out of your own pocket? C’mon, Hugh. Abby clumped over to the kitchen sink and popped the paper towel roll, spinning a half-dozen perforated pieces into a fluttering, airborne carpet. He ripped them quickly off the roll and folded the entire mess into a sloppy paper square, holding it out like a peace offering between his grimy hands. Well, I certainly hope that the beneficiary of your largess was some amazing, white-hot coed who, in an uncontrollable fit of gratitude, immediately began polishing your poor, neglected sump pump to within an inch of its tiny little life."

Sump pump? Hugh fought back a smile, pouring a mound of quickly melting ice crystals into the sagging towels. Where the hell do you come up with these things?

Stop ducking the question, Ab snapped, twisting the napkins into a makeshift icepack. Who’s got our damn beer money?

Hugh grabbed the sodden bag and pressed it against his aching head, hating himself for always having to tell the truth. Just a student subject, is all. You know, one of the guys from the house…

Next door! I fucking knew it. Abby snatched up his half-eaten apple and took another bite, fuming. Those goddamn redneck hippies. They don’t give a shit about ‘psychic experimentation,’ and you know it. I’d bet you anything that your ten bucks is being smoked up in their scummy communal hash pipe right now.

Hugh leaned back against the kitchen wall, too worn out to argue. He tuned Abby out and tried to will his headache away, visualizing the pain as a burning red sun — a slowly fading supernova folding into its own ancient center. Unfortunately, Ab’s droning and familiar rant made this sort of mental exercise almost impossible.

"…stinking leeches. They need to wake up and realize that it’s nineteen eighty-fucking four, you know? The sixties are dead, Ronald Wilson Reagan has taken up permanent residence in the White House and their goddamn long-haired lovefest is way over, okay? I mean…"

Abby.

…you think they woulda taken a cue from their old pals Hendrix and Joplin and choked on their own vomit years ago, but I guess they didn’t get the fuckin’ memo…

"Abby."

Ab finally stopped, a fine spray of apple pulp dripping from his lower lip. What?

Please, man, I’m tired. Just go grab the beer, and we’ll talk about it later.

Sure, Hugo, whatever. Abby regarded him quizzically for a second, and then backed slowly into the hall. I’ll just take it out of my condom fund.

Hugh nodded weakly, waving him on. Good man.

Oh, hey, I meant to remind you…

"What?" Hugh tried not to sound exasperated, even though he was pretty much ready to strangle Ab right about now.

You remember the Circle Jerks show is tonight, right?

The Circle whatzit?

"Come on, man, The Circle Jerks! They do that kick-ass cover of ‘Put a Little Love in Your Heart’ — the one you stuck on that mix tape?"

Oh, yeah. Hugh gamely affected interest, all the while thinking that he’d rather have a box of rats strapped to his face than attend one of Ab’s sweaty punk rock shows. Where are they playing?

Muldowney’s, of course. Abby stabbed his finger indignantly at the refrigerator door, where, sure enough, a poster advertising the gig was taped up, right under Hugh’s bulbous nose. The flyer featured a typically outrageous Abby Stoltz illustration — in this case, a gaggle of pimply teenage boys sitting in a circle, naked from the waist down, their disturbingly engorged phalli angled up like a row of rifles readying a military salute. The focus of their erotic interest appeared to be a spiky-haired kid, who was performing some weird Indian war dance in the circle’s center, apparently oblivious of his homoerotic entourage.

C’mon, Hugo, Ab prodded, what else are you gonna do? Head over to U-Hall with the rest of the rah-rahs and watch that freakish collection of pituitary cases we call a basketball team get their asses kicked by the Tarholes?

"Heels."

What?

Heels, Hugh repeated wearily. "It’s the UNC Tarheels."

All right, Mr. Cosell, you’re the expert. Now stop stalling — are you coming or not?

Well, I’ll do what I can. But, you know, I have this late meeting with Holloman, and it sounded pretty serious when I talked to him this morning.

"Oh christ, what isn’t serious to that guy? I doubt Mr. Mystical has cracked a smile in his entire spaced-out life. What does he wanna do, discuss the psychic emanations of the Appalachian earthworm?"

Something about the division, I think.

Okay, whatever. Abby took a final bite from his apple, gnawing all the way through to the black-seeded core. It’s just that Lorraine’s gonna be disappointed, s’all.

Lorraine? Hugh flicked his eyes open, not even attempting to feign indifference.

Yeah, Lorraine, you putz. You promised her you’d go.

I did?

Duh. Ab flipped his decimated apple core toward the kitchen wastebasket, missing by a full half foot. Last Thursday? At the Rising Sun?

Oh yeah, Hugh said, still drawing a complete blank. But then, he often went catatonic during his rare interactions with Lorraine — usually coming away with little more than a fuzzy memory of her sleek, licorice-red hair and sexy oversize smile. So she’s, uh — going?

Yep. Abby headed back toward the front door, knowing that he didn’t have to say anything more. So if you’re not here when I get back, maybe I’ll see you there?

Hugh peeled the paper towel mush from his forehead, his headache feeling just a tad less severe.

Yeah, maybe.

Although he wasn’t scheduled to meet with Holloman until seven, Hugh decided that it might do him some good to get out of the house early — stroll around in the open air, get some much-needed exercise, clear his aching head. And so, after hunting up his cashmere cap and leather gloves, he headed for the front door, sadly reflecting on the fact that this was the first time all winter he had actively decided to break the six-block radius bounded by the Red House, the university grounds and the clutch of restaurants and bars lined up along the Corner. In fact, when he really thought about it, Hugh realized that he hadn’t left the house in weeks unless it involved going to class or the Rising Sun Bakery, where he got the same cup of coffee (light, three sugars) and same damn chocolate croissant every single day. What the hell was wrong with him? It seemed to Hugh that he had reached a point in his life when most people would be gearing up for some grand adventure — putting their college days behind them and heading out to conquer the world. Or, at the very least, torpedoing the entire exhausting exercise and tearing happily into the life they had, like Abby.

But not Hubert Lambert, Jr. If anything, Hugh felt as if he had taken a step back — retreated from the blinding light of the real world like a mole fleeing the morning sun.

As he tugged his soft hat over protruding ears, Hugh tried to keep from beating himself up too much. After all, his decision hadn’t been simple — there were all kinds of complex reasons keeping him around. First and foremost was Holloman, and the work that remained to be done in the parapsychology division. There were few students, now — few believers, as Ab dismissively called them — willing to devote themselves to a division that had been marginalized almost to the point of extinction. Besides, Hugh thought ruefully, where else could he go? It’s not like there were hundreds of huge multi-conglomerates out there champing at the bit to hire experts on extrasensory phenomena.

Even more impelling, although it killed Hugh to admit it, was the matter of his meager social life here in Charlottesville. Yes, he could number his friends on one hand, and some of them, like Abby, seemed more of a nuisance than an asset. But still, at least he knew that his small social circle was always solidly there. Hugh had never been good at meeting people — making a decent first impression, working the room, acting all witty and funny and urbane. He had lived in this town most of his life, and he knew that the friends he had here were in it for the long haul — they would never judge him harshly just because he displayed an occasional stutter, unconventional beliefs and a penchant for pork rinds. To be completely honest, the very idea of starting over somewhere else — some other town, some strange school — made Hugh clammy with anxiety.

And then, of course, there was the dilemma of Hugh’s family — or, more specifically, his father.

Dad. The very word was absolutely fraught, for Hugh, with layers of guilt and anxiety. As he neared the front door, he stopped and stared at his oily, flat-faced reflection in the cracked hall mirror, marveling at how much of his father stared back. He wrinkled his slightly simian forehead, recalling the old joke about the son of a playwright and a model who was unlucky enough to end up with the writer’s looks and the model’s brains. Hugh had always felt that way about himself — as if he had accidentally inherited the completely wrong part of each parent.

His father, Hugh Lambert, Sr., was a financial wizard who resembled some forgotten breed of giant, swarthy troll — and so, of course, Hugh had been cursed with the man’s broad, greasy features, but nary a sliver of his business acumen. His mother, on the other hand, had been a beautiful and well-bred society girl who — after marrying and divorcing his hapless father for reasons Hugh could never fully understand — had snatched up her eight-year-old son and fled to Europe, instigating an ill-advised odyssey that would, through a series of completely improbable events, culminate with them spending almost three years in a rustic religious community in Northern India. Unfortunately, while that particular misadventure had come to a predictably tragic end, it had all but insured that Serena Lambert’s mystical nature and natural gullibility would be passed on to her son, even as her refined looks cruelly passed him by.

Hugh slowly shook his head, and the overweight, sad-looking creature in the mirror shook back. With a grunt of disgust he spun abruptly away and swept the front door open, refusing to spend another night drowning in self-pity. Thankfully, the air outside provided an immediate, welcome tonic — crisp and crystalline, filled with wind-swept flakes of ice from the fresh banks of plowed snow. Hugh stepped out onto the front porch and took a full, intoxicating breath, the sting of cold air musky and sharp with the aroma of wood smoke from the neighboring house.

It’ll be a good night, Hugh promised himself, double-locking the front door and, as he always did when leaving alone and unobserved, quickly kissing his Ganesh amulet keychain and touching it lightly to his forehead. He had no idea if this was proper Hindu practice or not, but it was what Asha Jaan, his Indian nanny, had taught him to do, and in her memory he had obligingly done it ever since. Of course, if Abby ever caught him laying a wet one on a picture of a four-armed elephant Hugh knew he’d never hear the end of it, but he didn’t really care — some things were simply more important than looking cool.

Drawing a few more bracing breaths, Hugh moved toward Main Street, avoiding the plow-piled snow as best he could. He’d go for a brisk walk, he figured, take his meeting with Holloman and then, if he was feeling up to it, maybe go see Ab’s Circle Dorks over at Muldowney’s. After all, he hadn’t been to a live show in ages, and who knew? Maybe Lorraine really was looking forward to seeing him.

Feeling a bit better, Hugh resisted the urge to duck into the Rising Sun for coffee and a brownie, instead heading resolutely for the corner of 14th and Main. He hesitated when he hit the intersection, unsure of exactly which way he wanted to go. He decided to let his feet do whatever they wanted, and they predictably began shuffling east — toward the downtown mall, away from both the university and his father’s house.

Hugh Lambert, Sr. had moved into a new, starkly white modern monstrosity on Commonwealth Avenue over a year ago, but Hugh had managed to keep his visits to a minimum, dropping by only a handful of times. He remembered thinking, at first, that his dad’s choice of streets was pretty ironic — since no one was less likely to share his riches than Hugh Lambert, Sr. But in some ways, it made perfect sense. After all, no matter how much wealth his father might amass, Hugh knew that many people — his grandmother included — would always consider him terribly common. And rightfully so, Hugh figured — the man was a pathological skinflint, treated everyone like shit and had no taste or social graces to speak of. All in all, Hugh considered it a minor miracle that his father had managed to ignore the wretched cost/benefit analysis and conceive a son in the first place.

Hugh sighed, trying to push the negative thoughts from his head as he worked his way toward the bridge spanning the railroad tracks, watching for patches of black ice and chunks of frozen snow. His breath quickly became labored, leaking out in warm white clouds as he dragged his bulk up the slight incline over the tracks. Hugh redoubled his effort, remembering his quickly-broken New Year’s promise to stop eating all that sugary crap, shed his extra poundage and get into some sort of shape this year. Unsurprisingly, by the time he finally reached the edge of the outdoor mall Hugh was completely winded, forced to drop the deadweight of his body onto the low brick wall at the plaza’s west end and mentally will his runaway heart to resume its normal pace.

As he regained his breath, Hugh found himself staring into the frosted front window of Eastern Standard, one of the cool local haunts that he could never quite work up the nerve to enter. Of course, it didn’t help that Abby continually dismissed the place as a hip homo heaven and refused to set foot inside.

But then, Abby had all sorts of places to go, and all kinds of people go with. Hugh, on the other hand, didn’t really have much of anything — and sitting here, in the gathering cold and mid-winter twilight, he couldn’t imagine any place he’d rather be. The delicate orange light emanating from behind the bar seemed to infuse the huddled crowd inside with good cheer, turning them into a burnished silhouette straight out of a liquor ad. Everyone appeared to be engaged in intense conversation, romantic nuzzling or, at the very least, drunken, arm-throwing camaraderie. Hugh couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent a school night (and oh, how that childhood designation perfectly pinpointed the current sad state of his life) lost in the alcohol-fueled company of strangers. And why? Because he was dedicated, goddammit — after all, he simply couldn’t see far enough past the end of his own bespectacled nose to break out of his insular academic world and have some actual fun.

With that — and just the slightest subconscious push — Hugh was on his feet and headed toward the bar’s front door. Fuck it! He’d have a drink, maybe two, and then head back to see what Holloman’s dire summons was all about. Lord knows he deserved it — he had practically thrown his life away for a program that was the laughingstock of the entire university. Hugh decided it was high time he stopped letting it rule his free time as well.

He was halfway across the red brick patio before he saw something that stopped him cold. A few feet away, framed by the ragged oval of glittering fake frost that filled Eastern Standard’s front window, was the exquisite Lorraine herself, holding a martini glass and laughing at some guy’s witty banter. She was impeccably dressed, as always — decked out in a fringed, sea green flapper dress and a beaded headband — looking for all the world like she owned the place. Hugh stood there, not four steps from the front door, trying to will himself to continue his charge inside. But it was no use. Seeing the object of his affection there, in that setting, made it nearly impossible for him to enter. What would he say? How could he explain why he was out, alone, on a Thursday night, grabbing a drink in a place that he had never frequented before? It was all too much, for Hugh — a situation that far exceeded his meager creative capabilities and social acumen.

And so he just stood there, hunched up in the cold, watching Lorraine smile and nod and sip her olive-bedecked martini, wishing fervently that he could be the man opposite her — the one making her laugh, giving her a cigarette, buying her another drink. But in the end Hugh just gave up and walked away, terribly worried that Lorraine would look up from her revelry and find him standing there, gazing impotently through the glass like the inveterate outsider that he was.

He almost turned back and returned to the Red House right then, but Hugh eventually summoned the will to continue on. He simply couldn’t give up so easily — not this time. It was one thing to chicken out on Lorraine, but to run home with his tail between his legs would add a level of ignominy that he simply could not bear.

Instead Hugh continued up the mall, keeping his head down and his shoulders up as he trudged past rows of shuttered stores and odd statuary. The latter was the result of a city initiative which, in a lame attempt to spruce up this commercial dead zone, had financed a collection of outdoor art that ran the gamut from ugly to surreal. There were a number of black, die-cut metal outlines of people carrying shopping bags and — right next to where Hugh was walking at that very moment — a disturbingly large, realistic-looking bronze baby who seemed to be staring, mesmerized and delighted, at his own shriveled penis. Hugh resisted the urge to reach over and tweak the little guy’s winky — a practice that Abby swore brought good luck. But with the way his life was going, Hugh figured he’d probably be spotted by the local contingent of high school punks and have to endure the rest of his walk being taunted as some sort of pedophilic pervert.

By the time he reached the far end of the mall,