The Evil B.B. Chow & Other Stories by Steve Almond Page A

adventurer.’ I told her, ‘Hey, unless you’re my personal physician, you don’t get to fifth base.’ I dunno, man. I’m from New Hampshire. You know what I mean?”
    I nodded.
    â€œShe was all, like: ‘Are you afraid you’re gay?’ And I was like, ‘No. I don’t like stuff put up my ass. Does that make me gay?’”
    It wasn’t clear whether Brendan wanted me to answer this question.
    â€œSo anyway, that’s part of the reason I might have gotten sort of crazy today. Because here she is coming off all, like, puritaniacal, like, I’m so gross and I’m so sick, when the truth is she’s the freak. Freaky deaky.” Brendan had halfway crushed his cookie and he stared at the pieces in his hand, then crammed them into his mouth. “I just wanted to say sorry. I guess there’s no need to go into detail. You probably don’t need to hear this stuff, seeing as you’re married and everything.”
    â€œHow do you know I’m married?”
    â€œThe ring, bro.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œHow’s that working for you, the marriage?”
    â€œFine,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œI dunno. I just figure it’d be weird to be around all these hot young chicks all the time and have the ball and chain at home.”
    â€œYou learn to live with it.”
    We were both silent for a while. Brendan had slumped down so low his head was resting on the back of the chair. He closed his eyes and said, “I’m pretty sure Mandy Shaw wants to fuck you, dude. Man, I’d like to fuck her.”
    I made my thoughtful professorial noise.
    â€œWhat do you want to do long term, Brendan?”
    â€œLong term?” he said. “Probably brain surgeon.”
    â€œDon’t you have to have pretty good grades for that?”
    Brendan looked down at his hand and realized, with visible disappointment, that he’d already eaten his cookie. “Yeah, that’s kind of the catch-22 of the situation.”
    â€œCan I ask if you’re stoned, Brendan?”
    â€œNot really anymore.”
    â€œWell, for what it’s worth, I thought your comments today were very insightful.”
    â€œYou did?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œYou weren’t pissed?”
    â€œNot at all,” I said. “A for the day.”
    Brendan gazed at me shyly, as I imagined a child might gaze at his father upon receiving a gift. “I still kind of miss her,” he said.
    My own wife had loved me once so fiercely that she clung to me through the night. In the moments after love, our skin had glowed and our lungs had screamed with joy. It was her belief, though, that something had died within me, a certain capacity for tenderness. She had me convinced.
    Brendan had gone a little misty on me now. “It sucks to be alone,” he said. “It sucks shit.”
    I got up from behind my desk and looked down into his face, a smooth, open face, with so much woe still to come.
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do?” he asked me. “At night, I mean.”
    I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Forgive her. Forgive yourself. There’s no other way.”
    I know this sounds depressing, but it was a lovely little moment, the both of us sitting there in my office with tears pooled in our eyes.
    A number of unpleasant things happened later. Nicole Buswell filed a complaint with the dean of students, alleging that my class was “overly sexualized.” Rob Tway testified on my behalf. So did Mandy Shaw. But the whole thing put a cloud over me and I agreed to go on leave. My wife filed for divorce and took up with a Tae Bo instructornamed Jericho. The hard-on difficulty was diagnosed as a partial stricture of the vas deferens, which required a costly and painful surgery. Clinton staggered from office, a disgraced eunuch.
    But all that was still to come on the day I’m describing. On that day, Brendan Mahoney