The Bed Moved: Stories

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THERE WERE film majors in my bed — they talked about film. There were poets, coxswains, guys trying to grow beards.

“Kids get really scared when their dad grows a beard,” I said.

Finally, I had an audience. I helped a pitcher understand the implications of his team’s hazing ritual. I encouraged indecisive dancer-anthropologists to double major. When a guy apologized for being sweaty, I got him a small towel. I made people feel good.

Then I took a break. Then I forgot that I was taking a break. Spring was here. Jake was here. Also Josh. One dancer-anthropologist dropped anthropology, just did dance. He danced with honors.

“Mazel tov,” I said.

The bed moved. Movers moved it. Movers asked what my dad did, why he wasn’t moving the bed.

New guys came to the bed. New guys had been in the Gulf War, had been bisexual, had taken out teeth, had taken out ads. Musical types left CDs with their names markered on — I kept a pile. I was careful not to smudge them, scratch them. (Scratch that, I wasn’t careful.)

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