Is That You, Ted?

On Wednesday, October 5th, there was a special Board of Director's meeting at DMTC's rehearsal space, which unfortunately coincided with a rehearsal of "Victor/Victoria" at Runaway Stage Productions. Forced to choose between the private humiliation of not knowing what was happening at DMTC with the public humiliation of not knowing the words of the songs in "Victor/Victoria," I chose the private humiliation, and remained in Sacramento, at RSP, for vocal practice. Afterwards, I raced over to Davis, and found the Board meeting had adjourned, but several of us regrouped at Applebee's, where we relaxed, and told risque stories.

This strange story from my college days seemed unusually popular with the folks at both DMTC and RSP, and so I thought it was time to write it down.
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In the spring of 1978, I was living on the second floor of Coronado Hall, a large, multi-winged dormitory on the campus of the University of New Mexico, in Albuquerque. Early in the semester, I had a roommate named Ted, but round around midterms, Ted got an off-campus apartment with some friends and moved out, leaving me with two beds in the dorm room: one bed mine, and the other, formerly Ted's, now completely bare.

One random day, about two weeks after Ted moved out, I took out a hunting knife and used it for some purpose. I left the knife in the middle of Ted's empty bed. I went out in the evening and eventually returned. I lay down on my bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep, but unaccountably, I had failed to lock the door of my dorm room.

About twenty minutes after I fell asleep, the door of my dorm room opened. Fluorescent light from the hallway spilled in. Confused, and struggling to wake up, I said, "Is that you, Ted?" The stranger said, "What?" Squinting against the light, I could see the stranger was thin and had curly hair, much like one of Ted's best friends. I addressed the stranger as if he was Ted's friend, even though, at some sleepy level, I KNEW he couldn't be the same person:

"Ted's not here anymore. He's gone, he moved out."

The stranger responded:

"I'll be Ted if you want me to."

With every incentive, I sat up and struggled to awaken. The stranger closed the door and walked decisively over to my bed and sat beside me. I could smell alcohol on his breath. The stranger grabbed the covers on my lap and with a single motion, swooped the covers down to my ankles. I reached to my ankles and pulled the covers back to my lap. Again, the stranger grabbed the covers on my lap and swooped them down to my ankles, and again I reached down to my ankles and pulled the covers back to my lap. I asked the stranger, "OK, what do you want?" He said, "What if I told you I was a flaming faggot looking to get &*%$#@?" I said, "Then I'd say you are in the wrong place."

What to do? I was worried about the hunting knife, left out on Ted's bed. Did the stranger see the knife? Apparently not: with darkness restored when he closed the door, even a big knife was hard to see. Could I get to the knife first? Very risky. Not only would I have to jump over the stranger, from sitting in bed (a position of weakness if there ever was one), but there was no reason he couldn't get to the knife first, or wrestle it away from me even if I managed the feat. Violence wasn't the answer for this problem. The fellow was clearly living out a fantasy of some sort. I had to pop his fantasy bubble, and fast. But how?

So, I began talking to the fellow in a dull, drab monotone, about all manners of tedious, picayune things. I can't remember my dull monologue anymore, but I can imagine - U.S. Gross National Product under the Nixon Administration, the importance of well-written car repair manuals, the recent spread of standardized testing into the high schools, the advent of new computer-card-punch machines - you get the picture. After a while, I noticed the stranger's shoulders slump in drunken fatigue, his stubbly jaw slacken, the tension slowly disappear. Suddenly, the stranger stood up, went to the door, opened it, and left.

A dullard needs friends. Maybe I should have pressed my luck, and invited him to be my special pen pal. We could have recited the telephone book to each other, or the classified ads, or perhaps read deconstructionist literature together.

I don't often fight, but when I do, I fight dirty.