“You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not interested in your chicken. If you knew me at all you’d know I’m a funbag man from way back. I adhere to the 3B principle: The Bigger the Boobs the Better. To tell you the truth, I’d really like to deal on Weston’s friend, Cindy.”

“Cindy?” I said. “You mean, Cindy with the—” I cupped my hands in front of my chest.

“Yeah, Cindy Biddle. The one who looks like the mouseketeer, what’s her name, Annette Funni-big-boobs.”

“I always liked her, too,” I lied.

“Amazing funbags, huh?”

“Majestic,” I said.

“Unfortunately, she’s going out with my roommate.”

“You live with Creature?”

He nodded. “Dumbest motherfucker who ever lived.”

I checked out of the infirmary the following morning and spent the next couple days dallying around Jane’s friends, classrooms, and hangouts trying to enter her orbit. There was a dance coming up on Saturday night, but when Saturday rolled around and I still hadn’t seen Jane, I took Jack up on an offer to party with him and his friends.

When I got to Rafferty’s room at seven that night, I found Creature staring into a mirror examining his large, rubbery beer belly and bristly chest. His hair was wet, revealing a prematurely emerging scalp. A damp bar of soap camouflaged with pubes rested in a puddle on the dresser beside him. Standing with just a towel around his waist, he was idly singing “You’ll Never Get to Heaven if You Break My Heart.” Except Creature sang, “You’ll never get to heaven if you smell my farts.” He was probably right.

“Excuse me,” I said, “is Jack around?”

He continued his serenade.

I tapped on the door and said, “Yo, I was supposed to meet Jack up here around seven.”

Creature faced me and snorted. “Yo, he’ll be right back.” With his Flintstone’s beard and puffy face, he didn’t look a day under thirty-five.

He walked over, looked me in the eye, belched heartily, and then asked, “Get any on you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said.

“You lucked out.”

A sour expression twisted Creature’s lips, and, having grabbed a comb off his closet shelf, he stomped back to the mirror.

Jack walked in the room. “D-man, you fuckhead, you made it!”

I smiled.

“Sorry I’m late, man, but I have some serious bitch troubles. You meet Creech?”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s been super.”

Jack handed me a six-pack of St. Pauli Girl beer.

“What’s this stuff?” I said. “Never heard of it.”

“Me neither,” said Jack, “but it was the beer nearest to the door so I grabbed a case and bolted.”

Creature pulled on a dungaree jacket for a shirt and headed out.

“Can you believe that fucker?” Jack said. “He’s scary, man.”

I flipped open a bottle on the corner of a desk.