The Best Medicine

Conned, decieved, bamboozled, fooled... those words didn't quite match the sensation of being lied to, then getting beaten to death with a phone book, but they were close enough. The college freshman thumped his forehead against the heavy wooden door again, a dull sound that indicated to his roommate that he had forgotten his dorm key for the third time that month. Paul thought about how hungry he was, and he even spared a second to think about his unfinished English paper, but those were the least of his troubles. 1

He thumped his head against the door yet again, certain that his forehead was purple-red but not caring. Dressed in Goodwill's finest, he couldn't give a shit if his head was bruising or if his hair was messy or if Mom said he was too thin. Getting inside his dorm was all that mattered; it would mean one more heavy door between him and the damned Residence Life office. His head thumped once more, and he was ready to curl up on the filthy hallway carpet and die when the doorknob rotated. Jack, propped up on his crutches, opened the door slightly, and Paul slid inside. He took the necessary step or two towards his bed before falling on it face first, backpack, shoes, and all. 2

"Hello to you too, dearest roommate," Jack said with a faint British accent as he limped back to his computer desk. "You should just quit if you hate it so much." Jack had never heard the moan of a dying whale before, but he imagined that Paul's response would be the closest he'd ever get. He scratched his red hair in puzzlement. 3

"Paperwork and filing can't be that bad. It's the people, right?" Rewarded with another moan from his roommate, Jack asked another question. "Is it your boss?" The sound Paul made was lower. No, the boss wasn't his problem. 4

"Paul, buddy, you don't seem it, but you can be such a drama queen." He grinned when an amusing thought occurred to him. "Is it a girl?" 5

There was no verbal response this time, but Paul's head did lift up, staring directly at Jack. A faint twinkle in Paul's brown eyes confessed that there was a girl, but flushed cheeks, a frown, and his bruising forehead together screamed a tale of woe and despair as his greatest efforts to woo her all failed miserably. She had seemed interested, so Paul thought. But it had never occurred to him that some girls like to lead on clueless boys so that when the lad finally summoned the courage to make a move, the sport of shooting him down became much sweeter. 6

Jack didn't deduce all of that though: he was a roommate, not a psychic. Still, he reached into a desk drawer, fished out an appropriate cure, and tossed it across the room. The magazine landed right on Paul's head, and his eyes rolled up to greet the centerfold layout of Scarlett Keegan, Playboy's Miss September. Jack got his crutches and set towards the door again. 7

"Well," he said, "I'm going to dinner with Fraise, but I expect to find a happy camper when I return." Their eyes met again, briefly, and they grinned like the cheeriest pair of idiots ever. 8

"Don't worry," said Paul, "I'm already feeling better."9