The sound of tires scrunching over gravel reaches me, and a green security car comes driving up the road. It stops right across from me and a short guy in a uniform steps out. He's got black hair and a bushy black mustache, and silver reflecting sungla.s.ses. "Can I see some I.D.?"

he asks.

"What?"

"Did you know this is a restricted area?"

"Restricted to whom? I'm a Professor in the biology department, I collect specimens up here."

"Can I see your I.D. please?"

I stand up, too quickly, and there's spots in front of my eyes. I feel dizzy and sick. Fumbling in my back pocket, I pull out my wallet and flip it open, handing it to him. "I don't feel so good," I tell him.

"Can you give me a ride back down to the campus?"

"You know, sir, that even though you're a part of the faculty you are still not authorized to be in this area."

"No, I did not know that. Arrest me. Anything, just get me out of this sunlight." It's the lack of sleep and too much to drink, I must have some sort of brain damage. This explains everything. "Please, I don't care, just get me out of here."

"Okay." He hands me my wallet and opens one of the back doors. I climb in, he closes the door, then gets back in the driver's seat. I stare at the back of his head through a heavy-duty black metal screen.

Air-conditioned air flows past him and into my face. It feels good. I don't care where he's taking me, I don't even care that there's no handles or window cranks on the doors. I close my eyes and sleep comes slithering up into my head like a snake.

Minutes later he's letting me out on the main campus grounds, warning me not to pull this again. I say yes to everything, heading for my cla.s.sroom, praying for my next cla.s.s to be over with quickly so I can go home and get some sleep. I've convinced myself that sleep is all I need, that everything that's gone wrong today is due to the lack of it.

Sleep deprivation causes confusion in test subjects, that much I know. I also know I'm pretty d.a.m.n confused.

Once again I reach the cla.s.sroom and find it empty. The carpet is still the wrong color, and cla.s.s is still a half hour later than I remember it. I stare at empty chairs facing me in neat rows, wondering what is wrong with me. It has to be the lack of sleep, it has to be. By sheer determination I remain awake as the students come trickling in, and when cla.s.s starts I give probably the longest and most cryptic lecture on the metabolism of cold blooded animals in the history of Herpetology. Even as I try simplifying what I've just said to the poor students, I'm making it even more complicated. I have their attention, too, I guess from the anger and frustration in my voice. I see beads of sweat forming on foreheads, and furrowed brows, and no doubt their thinking I'm going to include all this in their finals.

After cla.s.s I plod on tired feet all the way across the campus grounds, across Hearst Avenue and up the steps of the Euclid. I make it to my bedroom and lie down, thinking that I should at least take off my shoes, but I'm asleep before I have the chance. My last conscious thought is me wondering at the sensation I'm feeling; a sinking, settling sensation, as if I were melting into my bed.

I awake to the sound of a bell and heavy footsteps pounding down the hall outside my bedroom door. The phone is ringing and Tom has just come home, and he's running to answer it. I sit up, yawning, feeling much better. I look at the time: it's 10:10 PM. G.o.d, I think to myself, what a weird dream. The dream was about schedules being mysteriously changed, and buildings changing shape, and police persecuting me.

Yawning, I make my way out of my room and to the kitchen, pulling a beer out of the refrigerator. I plod into the living room and sit down across from Tom, who is talking in a low voice on the phone. He silently waves h.e.l.lo. To the phone he's saying, "Uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah, really.

Uh-huh." It's his "on the phone with a woman" voice, he's no doubt talking to Heather. I tune it out, and concentrate on drinking my beer.

"Yeah, he's right here," Tom says to the phone. "Okay, bye." He holds the phone out toward me.

I give him a puzzled look.

"Pris," he says. "She's calling for you."

My heart picks up it's pace and my hands are suddenly damp. I take the phone, which is still warm from Tom's hand, and say, "h.e.l.lo?"

"Hi," says Priscilla's throaty voice. "Are you doing anything?"

"No, not really. I just woke up."

"I haven't slept at all."

"You must be tired."

"I am. Well, I am, and I'm not. You know? It's like I've got my second wind." Both of us are silent for a few seconds. "You want to come over?" she says suddenly.

"Oh, uh, sure."

"I've got a bottle of Portuguese wine I want to drink, but I don't like drinking alone. Do you like Lancers?"

"Uh, yeah." My throat has gone dry. If there were a little devil on one of my shoulders and a little angel on the other, the devil would be saying, "All right man! You're gonna score tonight!" and the angel would be saying, "No, don't listen to him, she just needs someone to talk to."

I clear my throat and ask, "Do you want me to bring anything?"

"Just yourself," she says. She gives a little nervous laugh. The little devil on my shoulder is doing somersaults of glee.

"Okay," I tell Pris, "I'm on my way now."

"Bye," she says, and I hear her take a breath.

"Bye," I tell her.

We hang up.

Tom is sitting across from me on the couch acting like he hadn't heard a thing. As I stand up, he says, "Did you find out anything about the government project?"

"Only that it exists and that it's secret."

He nods, then lets loose a tremendous yawn. "We'll talk more about it tomorrow," he says. "It's been a long day."

Tom goes to bed, and I grab my jacket and head out the door. As I hit the street, I feel a strange calmness from the cool night air and the sounds of the rock band playing in the bar up the street. Everything is familiar. The parking places all up and down Euclid Street are filled with cars, and there's a parking meter at every s.p.a.ce. It was a dream, I tell myself. It really was. This is an enormous relief.

I brave the walk up to my car, and find that, yes, it's still there. A green, beat-up old Toyota land cruiser. There's a thick coating of dust across the windshield and numerous parking tickets stuffed in the windshield wipers. It seems I keep forgetting to move it when it's time for the street sweeper to come by. It's a wonder it hasn't been towed. Gathering up the tickets, I unlock the door and get in. I put the key in the ignition, give it a turn, and the engine goes "click" and nothing else happens. Well, it hasn't fixed itself yet --- the starter hasn't worked for two months. Fortunately for me, it's parked on a hill.

I push down on the clutch, pump the gas pedal, and release the emergency break. There's a lurch, and I fight like mad with the steering wheel as the car and I go rolling away, gaining speed. When it's up to 25 mph I pop the clutch and the engine sputters, dies, sputters again, then backfires like a shotgun. By the time I reach Hearst Avenue the car is running, and I turn west and head toward the freeway.

The trip to San Francisco takes twenty minutes. Traffic is light, and the view from the Bay Bridge is beautiful. For once I feel in control, like tonight marks the start of a new life. As I come gliding down the bridge and into San Francisco I feel like I should be in a movie, and that a helicopter should be filming me right now, and some sort of wonderful Hollywood soundtrack should be playing. It does, in my head --- which is the closest thing since the radio doesn't work.

There's a parking s.p.a.ce just up the hill from Priscilla's place; I maneuver into it and shut the engine off. The car is aimed downhill. I laugh, thinking that I don't really need a new starter if I can continue to park like this.

The walk down the hill to her apartment house is quiet. There's a mist in the air, and a stillness. In the distance I can hear a ambulance, probably miles away. I can hear an occasional car pa.s.s several blocks over. All the houses and apartments I pa.s.s are either dark or only have a low light coming through the windows. It gives me the impression that everyone in the neighborhood is either asleep or copulating.

When I arrive at Priscilla's I feel very calm, so much so that I'm amazed. I would think my heart would be banging away against my ribs, which is usually how Pris effects me. She answers the door and says h.e.l.lo in a soft voice, and she's wearing a silvery silk blouse with no bra.s.siere and tight jeans. There's still no sudden increase in my heart rate, I just feel this high, transcendent fountain of pleasure, and I say h.e.l.lo back and smile at her smile. Her hair falls over her eye and she pushes it back, then steps forward, reaching up with her thin, graceful arms, and gives me a hug. I hug her back, feeling I could die right then and there, the happiest moment of my life.

The hug lasts a long time. It seems she's going to let me stand there and hug her for as long as I want. I'm afraid she's going to catch a cold in this chill air, though, so I pull back and she lets go, then leads me into the apartment. I close the door behind us.

One of her roommates, Lori, is sitting in the front room in her night gown watching television. She glances up and gives me a look through a lock of her hair, and smiles, and says, "Hi there."

"Hi," I say back, but Pris has a hold of me by my arm and she pulls me through the living room to the kitchen. In the kitchen she pulls a red bottle out of the refrigerator and hands it to me along with a corkscrew.

"I always break the cork," she says. "It's a total nerk."

I take the bottle and the corkscrew and go to work. As I'm doing this she pulls a couple of wine gla.s.ses out of a cupboard. I get the cork out without a problem, pour the wine as she holds the gla.s.ses, then follow her into her room. She shuts the door, then hands me my gla.s.s.

"Do you have a dictionary?" I ask her.

"A dictionary?" She smiles and turns to her small bookcase, which holds mainly romance novels, and pulls out a small blue paperback. I set down the wine bottle and take the dictionary from her, and sit down on her bed, thumbing through it. She turns on her stereo and puts on a record.

"How are you doing?" I ask her.

She sips her wine and sits next to me on the bed. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Well, no . . . not really."

"I thought the whole deal sucked."

She gives me her sweet little Pris smile, but it's much more intimate than I'm used to. "It sucked," she agrees.

I find the word "nerk" in her dictionary. The definition reads: 1) an exclamation denoting amused frustration at an ironic or just plain stupid situation or mishap; 2) an expression of disgusted despair.

"Nerk," I say out loud.

She nods. "Nerk."

I close the dictionary and hand it back to her. She tosses it carelessly across the room. "Do you want talk about it?" I ask.

"No. I can handle it. It was an open relationship anyway, no strings. I just hate the way Tom just . . . it was just so totally insensitive."

"Yes."

"He could have just told me. Instead he . . ." Pris starts tearing up.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. "We don't have to talk about it."

She nods. "I don't want to talk about it." She says that, then she continues talking about it. This goes on for a half-hour, but I don't mind, I care about this girl --- I love her. I sit there and listen, wishing I could make her happier, willing to do anything for her . . .

I'm happy just sitting in her bedroom with her, having her all to myself.

From there we talk about the year she spent in j.a.pan as an exchange student, and then I hear about her mother, father, and sisters. She's the youngest of three, and they're all very loving and supporting. Her father sounds like a very warm guy . . . as she tells me about them I find myself falling in love with them too, wanting to meet them, wanting to be part of the family.

We finish the bottle of wine, then decide that we're hungry and raid the kitchen. We have to be quiet, though, because by this time all her roommates are asleep. We munch down cheese, crackers and salami and tell jokes and listen to music until 2:00 in the morning. She's starting to look tired, and for some reason I feel like I should tuck her into bed, give her a kiss, and leave. "I've had a nice time tonight," I tell her.

"Me too," she says.

"Maybe I'd better go."

"No," she says. "Don't go." She smiles, giving me a strange look.

"Don't go," she says again. "Why don't you spend the night?"

"You mean, like last night?"

"Yes." Then she laughs. "Last night was a little crowded, though."

"Yeah." I'm smiling. I feel like I'm glowing. If she turned the light off I'm sure I'd illuminate the whole room. "I am tired. It's a long drive back to Berkeley."

"You're probably too drunk to drive anyway."

"No. Well, maybe. Legally drunk. I can drive though."

"Well don't. We'll have a slumber party."

"Maybe we should call Felix and have him join us," I tell her.

She laughs. It seems I've made a pretty good joke, cause she giggles and laughs for a good minute. Then we turn down the bed, and sit there for an awkward moment looking at each other.

"Do you mind if I sleep in my underwear?" I ask her.

"No, go ahead."

Feeling strange, I stand up, unzip my pants and take them off as she sits there watching. I climb into her bed get under the covers. She turns off the light, then takes off her jeans. In the light from the stereo I see that she's also taken off her panties. She does it quickly, then slips into the bed and pulls the covers up. She's lying there next to me, bottomless. I think to myself, This has to be a major hint.

The glow from the stereo is about as bright as a single candle; I can see her face clearly. Her hair is covering one eye. I reach out, push it out of the way, and give her a soft little kiss and whisper, "Good night."

She gives me a soft little kiss in return.

I give her a tender little kiss on her mouth.

She returns it. It's no longer innocent, we are kissing. Her hand slides up my arm and to my hair, her fingers lightly touching. My mind shuts off, I'm in a state of nirvana. I am actually kissing her! Pris and I are kissing! An airplane could crash right into the building and I don't think I would notice. The place could be on fire --- I wouldn't care.

It proceeds quickly, no doubt because she's wearing nothing but a shirt. My hand slides down of its own accord, cupping her breast. She pulls back, and I can see her smile in the light of the stereo. "Why is it that men always go for my left breast first?"

"Huh?"

"It's probably because you're all right-handed." She resumes kissing me, her sweet little tongue tickling and teasing mine. Her left leg slides up and around my right leg, and I move my hand down to the smooth warm flesh of her thigh. I was right, there are no panties. Her kisses are getting intense, full of pa.s.sion. Mine are too, probably. I continue caressing her wonderful bare thigh for a while, then move both hands to the front of her silk blouse, undoing the b.u.t.tons. She sits up abruptly and pulls it off. In the light of the stereo I can see her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They're perfect, just like I've always imagined they would be.

I sit up next to her, and both of us are pulling at my shirt. When it's over my head she starts kissing my chest, and one hand slides down my stomach and gives my erection a squeeze through my underwear. My underwear comes off next, very quickly, and then we're naked together, feeling each other's whole naked body pressing against each other, and we're kissing again.

My kisses move down from her mouth, across her chin, down her smooth neck and to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She makes sighing sounds and cradles my head. I kiss and caress both b.r.e.a.s.t.s, giving each one equal time, then move down her stomach, which is softly undulating. It's a flat, smooth, beautiful tummy; I leave a trail of kisses down across her belly b.u.t.ton and below. Then I'm kissing soft tangled hair, and she spreads her legs apart with a really loud sigh and I find her vertical lips with my tongue. I go exploring with my tongue, enjoying the way it makes her jump and squirm and cry out, then I find this little k.n.o.b with the tip of my tongue and begin to methodically stimulate it. This is a kiss of pure love, I tell myself. I'm kissing her soul. She's arching her back and crying out and clutching at a pillow. I keep it up, I want to do this for her all night, I want to be the most attentive lover she's had in her life. She starts gyrating her hips and caressing the hair on my head, breathing hard, and she says my name. I look up at her and she's looking down at me with wide eyes. "I want you inside me," she says.

I start kissing up her stomach, up to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and then I stop, and whisper, "Do we need something?"

She reaches out and frantically opens the drawer on her night stand, pulls something out. "It's one of Tom's."

"Thank to Tom," I say, grinning.