The Philosophy Club in: The Ghost in the Kitchen!
Hey, gang!
We’re taking a one-week break from Henry Collins, Carina, Kenneth, and their exploits. This is in no way meant to give me time to figure out how to end this reality-bending, narrative-abusing epic. ^_^
In the interim, I thought I’d give you guys a sneak preview of the next group of college kids to grace the KWH Presents blog.
Without further ado…The Philosophy Club
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The Philosophy Club in: the Ghost in the Kitchen!
How in the hell did College Nine’s dining hall botch the chicken nuggets?
Why in the hell did College Nine’s dining hall botch the chicken nuggets?
Let me be clear: never in my young life did I plan on hating a batch of chicken nuggets. For that matter, I don’t think anybody anywhere, ever, would have banked on me, a nineteen-year-old college student, hating any chicken nuggets, anywhere. This obtuse behavior was nothing short of a crime against nature.
“Olivia mentioned you were the nugget king last year,” Brendan said in between sips of piss-yellow lemonade, “She also told me you coincidentally broke out into a “volcanic acne explosion” last year,” he used air quotes, and the ‘coincidentally’ hovered between us.
That caricature is not entirely accurate.
I like to think of the oil and bacteria that took up residence in my innocent freshman face as the ‘temporary new management.’
But then, what else do you expect to happen when you eat food that has an unknown origin? Or better still, when the origin is very-well known, and nearly as forgotten about as the Star Wars prequel trilogy?
I mean, really. Hayden Christensen is supposed to be Space Jesus? Every time I watch Episodes I-III, I can’t help but feel like I paid George Lucas to take a personal dump in a DVD box set and hand it back to me in Blu-Ray.
That said, the quality on the Blu-Ray edition is hella nice.
I digress.
I let the suspiciously crisp piece of deep friend “chicken” fall from my limp hand to my plate, beside my perfectly healthy alternatives for tonight’s dinner: two slices of pepperoni pizza and a side of fries. I’d also swiped a few pieces of bacon from the burger toppings.
Clarisse is the one believing in our young actions having future repercussions.
I just eat here.
“What’s wrong with the nuggets tonight?” Brendan asked with his motherly flair.
They just seemed off. Like…someone behind the deep fryer just didn’t care, you know?
“Sam, they’re chicken nuggets. They’re made the same exact way every single time. It’s not something you’re supposed to care about.”
Yeah, but that didn’t make the distinct taste of disappointment and calorie remorse any less sharp and, well, distinct.
You might be wondering why Brendan and I are sitting in the College Nine dining hall critiquing the chicken nugget batch of the evening. Sorry to say, these are not typical Philosophy Club affairs. Neither is actually talking about Philosophy, but you know that already.
It’s now been two weeks and three days since I made the life-changing decision to fight the good fight with the Philosophy Club.
This particular monster-of-the-week episode started that afternoon, around two or so. I had just gotten out of Italian class, and with my Philosophy 28 lecture starting forty minutes afterward; I had no time to get home first.
That’s a blatant lie. I had time to get home, probably play a round of Soul Caliber III, panic at what time it suddenly was, and then run out and be late to lecture. Then I’d realize that I’d magically misplaced my Phil notebook in the rush, and would of course miss out on the most important lecture of the chapter. It never failed. The universe hated me with a passion. Either that or it wanted to get back at me for my SCIII skills. Did you know that every time I play as Talim, I lead in with a square-square-triangle combo, and nobody ever sees it coming?
Anyway, in an attempt to nip the universe’s plans to torment me in the metaphorical bud, I chose to stay on campus for a bit. Right after Italian ended, I went to the clubroom, which is in the Kresge Writing Center, in case you forgot. After going into the bathrooms and smelling the traumatizing combination of pickles and abortions, you tend to remember the Kresge Writing Center.
Clarisse, short and cuddly and blond and pigtailed, sat over her laptop with a face redder than Texas. Olivia sat on our sofa watching some reality show about a guy with an OCD, her one hand scratching her stomach and her other hand holding a Coke Zero. Brendan, as per usual, had a life outside of leading us into the fearless unknown. He calls Molly and helping ghosts find solace ‘a girlfriend and an extracurricular’. I call it a life. You know, that thing I don’t have.
Funny, I just defended playing Soul Caliber a minute ago.
Isn’t there a saying about ‘the friends you make in college’ that could relate to this?
Moving on with the story, I tossed my bag on the floor and sat at the table near Clarisse. The tremble on her upper lip could have caused an earthquake. She hadn’t been this catatonic since we stopped a rogue celestial from almost merging our anthropocentric plane with an equal-and-opposite reaction wave in an attempt to find the unreachable Ultima reality.
It’s a long story.
When I asked Clarisse what was wrong, Olivia took over. “She’ll be fine,” Olivia shouted back, “She just discovered that ‘like a little’ website.”
“You knew about this?” was poor Clarisse’s answer. A hint of betrayal decorated her high-pitched wail.
The hell is ‘like a little’?
“It’s this website thing the whole school’s involved with.”
I call shenanigans. There’s no way a website has the power to overtake physical networking in college.
“Not even,” Olivia ignored the social commentary and turned her head toward us, “You go on there and write a post about someone you think is kind of cute or whatever. It’s completely anonymous, and a little sad when you think about it. If I saw a hot guy in class, I’d just tell him. What’s a website got to do with it?”
It’s funny because Olivia’s a size six on a campus resembling the ‘Pink Elephants’ number in Dumbo.
“That’s got to be the most offensive, misogynistic thing I’ve heard come out of your mouth, Sam,” she said coldly. Then she added, “And of course I know that. Thank you for pointing it out.”
I turned my attention back to our friend’s bleached expression. Don’t tell me some jackass wrote about her on that site. It’s not like Clarisse was any kind of intimidating, sexually or otherwise. She was about as threatening to the opposite sex as I was, and for the record, I still wear a ‘Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers’ shirt three times a week.
I asked if Olivia’s assumption was spot-on, or at least somewhere in the ballpark. Clarisse nodded slowly at first, and then in rapid succession. She had suddenly become a bobble-head with lip-quivering action.
When I suggested she let us see the website, Clarisse’s pale, bubbly hands snatched the computer away and shut it.
Was it that bad? What, was there an intimate description of her every golden-brown lock and the ways they sashayed in a perfect union of feminine performance?
“It’s personal,” she said. “I…I have to go.”
With that, Clarisse had left the building.
I went home a couple hours later and got a look at the ‘like a little’ website. It broke itself down by college campus, and then by locations. Since I didn’t have the passionate desire to see if any poor girl wanted my affection, undying or otherwise, I looked at the San Francisco State page. SF State is just a few hours outside of Santa Cruz, so logically, it would be relatively similar in terms of BS.
As luck would have it, I was completely accurate. The site featured comments such as this:
“Blond in the café, I waved when I left. Thought you were pretty cute. ^_^”
“Boy I wait at the bus stop every day with, I wish I could get to know you better!”
Good grief. We need websites to broadcast this stuff on nowadays? What happened to writing pretentious sonnets with quill pens into expensive moleskin notebooks? Isn’t that we have an entire forest for?
Anywho, fast forward to mine and Olivia’s apartment a couple blocks off campus, about a good six hours later. Now, nights here on weekends were never that crazy to begin with, what with a ten o’clock noise curfew and a notable ban on fraternity and sorority houses. The stoner kids sat around either on campus in the meadows and, well, got stoned, or they sat in their apartments and did the same exact thing. For the Philosophy Club and our auxiliary associates, weekends—if there were any plans at all—were going out to dinner, or to a movie, or just staying in with more friends than usual. You know, mellow kid stuff. A lot of the time, I just bummed around the kitchen.
That said, weekdays were like a normal college town on horse tranquilizers.
With an episode of ‘Viva La Bam’ running in the background, a dumbstruck Clarisse sat on our sofa, me and Olivia on both sides.
I know that Bam was, and probably still is on all kinds of drugs, but I’ve got a bone to pick with him. I was in Streetlight Records the other day, and I was looking for a CD to buy, because of course I have money to burn as a college student with loans. I spy a H.I.M. CD, and Olivia chimes in, “You know that fourteen-year-old emo girls listen to that stuff, right?”
Of course I knew that, but on the cellophane wrapper, Bam was quoted as saying H.I.M was ‘the best band in the world.’ Who was I to distrust the man who had a penis painfully branded onto his behind in Jackass Number Two?
Seven bucks down the drain. I could have gotten a Subway sammich (that’s how it’s meant to be said) for that much. Goddamnit.
I digress.
Clarisse’s mug of hot chocolate went dry repeatedly, and we were there to refill it and provide moral support. And, of course, Olivia put a shot of vodka into the drink when she was sure nobody would notice. I didn’t blame her; Clarisse is a freshman, sure, but she had to break out of her shell sometime.
“I don’t get it,” she finally used her full voice, “Did he not like me?”
Brendan, resident team leader, complete with the white jacket and brooding mop-top of hair, leaned against our windowsill with 95% James Dean posture and 5% James Dean suave. “That’s ludicrous. You’re a very pretty girl, Clarisse. You know that.”
“Yeah, whatever moron doesn’t want to date you is a complete hack.” Thank you for your kind words, Olivia.
The encouragement did nothing to ebb the hurt, from the looks of Clarisse’s fifth drained mug. I provided a reload while she went on, “He must have just seen me and just left. Did I say something to somebody?”
Here it comes—
“Did he think I was ugly?”
God, the only thing worse than watching girls act like this in movies is when it’s in real life, only it’s worse in real life because you don’t know how you can help.
Well, at the moment, I turned to the advice that never failed: looking at the whole picture.
Think about it: whoever this douchebag is, he saw our blond friend in class, thought she was pretty, and wrote about it online. He said he’d like to meet, but once push came to shove, he either chickened out or he had lost interest. On the whole, this situation had no silver lining.
I made it sound a lot nicer than it really was. Nobody seemed to get offended. Ten points.
“But he apologized for that online,” her voice waxed defensive, “He sounded really sorry about not talking to me, and that’s why he said we should meet up.”
Why were we dealing with an Internet romance? This is college. We were supposed to be having love triangles and political intrigue. I’m supposed to be played by Chace Crawford. That’s just how these things go.
“Oh, to hell with this!”
Olivia bounced off the couch and went for her generic Windows laptop, lying on our kitchenette counter under graphic novels I definitely shouldn’t have been able to afford this month. She pushed them off with a vigorous wave of the arm and started typing away.
Clarisse turned around in her seat, eyes bright and frantic. “What are you doing?!”
“Finding this guy’s comment and replying to it.”
I reminded Olivia that escalation is terrible, just as America proved during the 2000 decade.
“Screw that. This asshole needs to get told.”
Get told…what?
Brendan, who hadn’t been utterly silent so much as contemplative, sat on our coffee table and leaned back on his hands. “Olivia, humiliating somebody online isn’t mature in any stretch of the imagination. If anything, you run the risk of keeping this misadventure going.”
Aren’t misadventures reserved for people like Taylor Swift and John Meyer?
“’Dear Inbred, Insensitive Fuckbag’. That’s an opening sentence right there.”
Olivia’s not a creative writing major, obviously.
An awkwardly silent moment later, Olivia’s hands had frozen over her computer much in the same way Clarisse’s had a few hours ago. Her brow furrowed in that way it usually did when something—anything—crossed the line between ‘my-friends-are-a-bunch-of-dicks’ weird and, well, that other kind of weird.
I had a strong hunch it was that other kind of weird.
“Brendan?” An uncertainty filled her voice where the wasn’t any before, “You might want to take a look at this.” Brendan tapped my knee, so I followed him to the computer.
Now, I’ve heard the stories about the dangers of online dating. I’ve read the horror stories about what happens when the relationship status on Facebook escalates to ludicrous levels of drama. Hell, I accidentally sent an e-mail love confession to my uncle in New York.
Seeing this ‘Like a Little’ page lit up with the same repeated post about explicitly the same girl in the same place—blond pigtails, short and sweet and in the College Nine dining hall—felt like an episode of ‘The Twilight Zone’. Preferably the first ‘Twilight Zone’, as opposed to the lesser sequel series featuring Forrest Whittaker as the host.
Brendan ran a hand through his deliciously conditioned hair. Stupid sexy Brendan. “This isn’t normal,” he grunted.
“Normal?” Olivia chimed in, “Fuck’s sake, guy is obsessed.”
Brendan’s look said something different altogether. I guess that’s what decides if you’re the leader of a Philosophy-Club-Slash-Ghost-Detective-Wannabe or if you’re the narrating lackey. Whereas I was in Olivia’s boat—that of the ‘who does this basement-dwelling Internet putz think he is?’ opinion—Brendan had a familiar glint in his eye. When he turned to look at the three of us individually, I expected our theme music to start playing.
I’m thinking that theme music should be ‘Everything’s Magic’ by Angels and Airwaves. ‘Dream On’ by Aerosmith plays over the credits every episode.
But that’s just me.
“Guys, we’re dealing with a ghost,” He said like it was written on a script penned by the Wachowski Brothers, edited by Zack Snyder, revised by Neil Gaiman, and doctored by Joss Whedon.
“Hold on. A ghost can use a social networking site?” Clarisse asked the dumb questions so I didn’t have to.
I reminded her that some ghosts can interact with physical objects, but to variable degrees. This ghost could interact with a computer. We called it the Patrick Swayze Factor. You know, like in Ghost, featuring the aforementioned hunk and everywoman Whoopi Goldberg.
I mean, who doesn’t relate to Whoopi? On ‘The View’, she’s like a sage. Ten bucks says she knows twenty different types of kung-fu.
That and something like this happened on ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ once. That makes it totally plausible.
Two hours later, Brendan and I were sitting in the College Nine dining hall eating chicken nuggets.
You know this part already, except now you know the whole back-story part or whatever. Moving on!
Brendan watched the clock as it hung over the tables like a silent protector, keeping tabs on how long you’ve been stuffing your face with bad food. At eleven o’clock, it swoops in and kicks you out before the grease and fat intake reaches critical levels.
I felt obligated to point out a flaw in the logic. Clarisse’s specialty lies in her being able to see ghosts clearly, just like we can’t. If she came here and didn’t see him, how were the two of us supposed to?
“She’s got the best vision, but if I’m right, then he’ll just hide away. I need you to try and feel it.”
Because I can do that. Just reach out with my feelings. What am I, a Jedi?
Well, kind of. I can feel the emotions of ghosts and celestials, but it doesn’t work nearly as well as it would if I were Mark Hamill. Not the scarred-in-the-face one, preferably.
My plate became mysteriously devoid of junk food. I got up and went to the pizza counter, careful to avoid the roaming herds of blond-from-a-box and wonderfully out-of-place sorority girls, and the fat, balding shitbags (aka. Computer Science majors). I had already turned away and headed for our table by the window when I felt it.
A distinct coldness: sharp and to the point. Concentrated, specific. Not exactly understood, but clear, understandable with some distance to it. The kind of distance that only time could provide.
The feeling of a person in love.
Bingo.
And guess what? He was right by the chicken nugget station. The plot lines connect.
“I’m sure that’s just a coincidence,” Brendan eyed the counter with Hugh Laurie-esque suspicion, “We should wait until the d-hall closes. Stay close to me; I’ll see what it wants.” Brendan’s our smart guy; he asks ghosts what they want.
Staying for another twenty minutes in a place with more pizza than heaven had no downside to me.
Twenty minutes full of Canadian bacon and pineapple later, the staff began telling the midnight munchers and the munchies-afflicted (there’s a notable difference) to hit the road. When the chicken nugget stand became vacant, we took our chance. I shoved the last slice of Pepperoni into my throat and took to adventure.
I walked until the sensation of jumping head-first into a bucket of ice came back. I nodded to fearless leader. Brendan stood as casually as he could, pretending to mull over a thousand-calorie purchase of nuggets, and struck up nonchalant conversation.
“Sir, my name is Brendan. I’d like to speak to you about something. Let me just be clear: my friends and I have a unique relationship with beings of your nature, and know exactly what we are doing.”
He went on, “We don’t mean you any harm. However, we’d like to talk with you about something. A friend of ours claimed that you pursued her romantically, but when she came here to meet, you stood her up.”
He looked to me; no change in feeling. Brendan continued. “If I can be frank, you really hurt her feelings. I mean no disrespect, but I would hope you’d have more important things than breaking the heart of a teenage girl.”
And you’re botching the chicken nugget station, dick.
Holy shit, feeling change. He went from cold to…what, smaller? Withdrawn? No…insecure, that’s the ticket. Our heavenly guest felt remorseful. I nodded to Brendan. You’re getting somewhere.
Another feeling change! This one…warmer. Not lukewarm, but not hot, either. Comfortable.
He wanted to apologize.
When Brendan looked at me like I was stealing his thunder—his role in our group is ‘the talk guy’, after all—I offered a suggestion: get Olivia and Clarisse in here.
Brendan’s expression read, Are you sure?
I nodded.
With that, Brendan ran outside in an attempt to beat the dining hall closing. What’s a guy to do when he’s standing an unknowable distance near an otherworldly entity? Ask it what lies beyond mortal understanding? Ask what is the true way to spend one’s youth?
Or, you know, eat another chicken nugget. So what if I woke up with a face like the Grand Canyon?
Brendan and Olivia held Clarisse’s hands as she walked to us slowly. I waited for a change in emotion, or a reaction, or something.
Clarisse blushed right then and there. When it was certain that she wasn’t going to be running away or crying or something else Clarisse-related, the other two let her go. Our friend of the week held her gaze, captivating and hurt, but understanding something we couldn’t perceive on the outside.
It’s moments like these where I wonder, what must the world look like to other people?
To Brendan, who couldn’t even see them despite knowing everything, did we all seem like a bunch of freaks?
For Olivia, were Brendan and Clarisse just random people from a random city with randomly complementary skill-sets for this particular extracurricular activity?
Or for Clarisse herself, what did her secret admirer look like? Was this particular one a kid our age? Or was he a little tyke with a crush? Or even an ex-professor?
She held out her small, chubby hand to the void before us. Only Olivia could make physical contact with the dead-yet-not; it was a gesture of pure kindness.
That’s the kind of person Clarisse is, I suppose. The three of us could see what the ghost, or anybody around us, could not: she was frightened beyond words. Eyes wide like a deer’s, hand impossibly still, edges of her smile taught. Clarisse couldn’t run away even if she wanted to. For all intents and purposes, most of her body had locked up in an attempt to play dead. Hopefully her suitor didn’t take personal offense.
And with a bob of the head and a ripple of blond pigtail, our tiniest member sent her suitor homeward in a happy mood.
We asked Clarisse about it later that week, in the clubroom at the university-sanctioned club time.
“Did he apologize for being a spineless coward?” Olivia, ever the hopeless romantic, lay on the floor and gazing at the stars through layers of whatever buildings are made of these days. I don’t know…wood?
“Something like that,” she said.
“You’re not gonna tell us, are you?”
“It’s personal,” Clarisse’s voice rose slightly, “It’s between me and him.”
A campus full of idiot Norcal jock guys her own age, and our resident mascot member’s first sweet college adventure was with something dead.
My look of utter bewilderment and empathy must have been noticeable. “Is there anything you’d like to say, Sam?” Pigtails asked.
Honesty is the best policy.
“If you ever see that guy again, could you ask him not to mess with the chicken nuggets?”
