"Hi Carl," said Margery as she slid onto the couch next to me. "Haven't seen you around lately. How've you been?"
Five weeks ago Margery had taken my virginity in a fuck-filled night that left me exhausted. We'd parted after breakfast as she promised to "spread the word" about my virility, or perhaps the little squeaky sounds I made as she blew me into a blinding orgasm. Of course I fell in love with her but my roommate Pete cautioned that Margery liked to get around, so I let her go. She became just a friend at the regular Sunday-afternoon club meetings held at the old Victorian house owned by the president, Ruth McGowen.
Since then, the club had provided me with three new lovers and I'd lived for two weeks with one of them. My last "date" had turned me into a quivering mass of psychologically-disturbed doubt that took nearly a week of shrinking to get past. I'd blown off a date with another member of the club but made amends by taking her to a lacrosse game, where she took a photograph with my camera that made the front page of the college paper. We'd agreed to meet again at the club today but she hadn't shown up.
So here was Margery. Again.
"It's been an interesting month," I smiled, awkwardly. "But one good thing was I got to know Ruth a little. She's really nice. And she really cares about us."
"Ruth's kept the club going for a long time," Margery replied, then paused. There was something on her mind.
"Carl, can we talk?"
"Sure. My place or yours?" Dumb and crude, and I regretted it instantly.
"Union. Coffee. Half an hour?"
"Sure." (
Phew! She wasn't offended.
)
I spotted Margery at a back-of-the-room table. She waved and smiled that smile.
"Tea, right?"
"You remembered."
While we waited for our orders, she mused on the new "talent" that had joined the club since New Year's. "There are so many newbies, they seem to think of the club as a place to post a help-wanted note, nothing more.
"Pete and I were thinking about how to get everybody more involved, as a club, with each other. We decided to have a potluck picnic like there used to be."
"That sounds great! Pete told me about them, but I've never been to one. They stopped a year ago, right?"
"Yes. They're really a lot of work. But Pete and I think it's worth having one before exams. In fact, we want to have it next Saturday."
"Not much time."
"Plenty of time if we can get a few people to help out."
"Okay, what can I do?"
"Great! I knew you'd pitch in!" and she leaned across the table and kissed me.
The picnic would be, as before, in Ruth's spacious back yard. Every member of the club would be assigned a contribution. A setup committee, a serving committee, and a cleanup committee, totaling 10 individuals, would manage everything. Expenses for paper goods, fuel for the gas grill, ice, and the like would be met by passing the hat.
All the members would be asked to come, as a show of support for Ruth and for the club that was doing so much for them. As always, they would be encouraged to invite potential new members.
"It surprises me how reluctant people are to reach out to their friends and say, 'hey, there's a group I hang out with that you'd like.' It's not like joining a sorority, we're all too involved in our own worlds for that kind of life. But there are benefits," and she grinned that raffish grin.
Since Thursday was my no-class day, I volunteered to run the assorted errands, picking up what had to be bought or fetched. Margery just happened to have a detailed list in her pocket.
"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" I teased.
"I know you well enough," she teased back.
"Wanta eat dinner?"
"Sure."
"Italian?"
"You remembered."
We wrapped up the potluck arrangements conversation and segued into more personal things. She had just landed, as a mere sophomore, a teaching assistantship for next year. If teaching didn't work out, she was thinking of going into publishing, since she read a lot and liked editing other people's work — "and I'm the best fact-checker I know."
I neglected to mention my recent bout of impotence, regaling her instead with tales of my and Cindy's two-week dorm-cleaning stint. Then I picked up her theme of what the club meant to me.
"For the first time in my life, I'm hanging out with very different people, talking to them, listening to them, instead of being with just my camera, alone and shooting loneliness pictures. I got Carol to go to a lacrosse game and we took action pictures. She's got a real eye for sports photography, much better than mine. Did you see her shot on the front page this morning?"
"That was hers? The rag is improving."
I asked her advice about a major. "I'm thinking about sociology or psychology. I don't really have any passion for them, but they want a decision by the end of finals. I've done well enough in the classes, but . . ."
"Sometimes you pick a major that's like a safety school when you were applying to college. Remember?"
"Oh yeah. God that was awful."
"Well, this isn't nearly as bad. You stay in the College of Liberal Arts, you're safe. It's the skills you develop that matter. How you handle language, how you communicate your interest to others. You're good at that. You've made a lot of friends in the club, everybody likes you. Even Ruth, who's not easily impressed."
We finished dinner around seven and I signaled the waiter for the check, pulling out my student union debit card. Margery put her hand over the card. "Dutch," she said.
*
