There were dance parties in the small student union, but the music was hit or miss. Or you could admit your nerd status and go to the library on Friday or Saturday nights. The junior and senior women had warned us never to hang out in the apartments of guys who lived off campus, unless they were our official boyfriends. Because that’s how you got raped. Sets in one of the off-campus apartments were even less safe, because the college rules didn’t apply. That’s how you got raped. Under no circumstances were we to attend off-campus fraternity parties, and don’t ever drink hunch punch, which was a homemade concoction of pure grain alcohol, red or purple punch, and diced tropical fruit. Hunch punch was sneaky, and that’s how brothers got you blind drunk. And that’s how you got raped.
There were no warnings about Pat Lindsay, though. Just like every young woman on campus knew who the rapists were, every sister knew the identities of the gentlemen. Pat was the latter, and you were lucky to be invited to a set in his room. He was safe, sweet, and he shared his supply of weed. In the refectory, he sat with Abdul Wilson and Steve Jefferson. They were known as “The Three Amigos,” which seemed friendlier than the nickname my roommates and I had received.
The connection between the three wasn’t clear. Abdul was from Philadelphia, and Steve was from Harlem; both were engineering majors, but Steve was in his mid-twenties. He wouldn’t say what he’d been doing in the years in between high school and entering college, only that he’d gotten himself together. Pat was a sophomore and was majoring in French. Both his parents had graduated from Routledge, and he was the grandson of Robert “Rob-Boy” Lindsay, the late college friend of Uncle Root. In the refectory, he mostly ignored his two friends in favor of reading, usually Fanon or one of the Negritude poets. He put aside his book if a young woman stopped by the table, though, standing and kissing her cheek and hand.
There was speculation about who he was sleeping with, but Pat was secret with his sexual business. The sisters told it all, though: that he could control himself for hours in bed. He wasn’t a selfish brother, either: he not only accepted oral sex from a woman, but performed it quite eagerly. A story had circulated that he’d gone down on someone for so long, she’d blacked out on her fourth orgasm; when she’d revived, Pat was between her legs, still licking away. No one knew the young woman’s identity, and that only lent the story another layer of fascination.
*
One early October evening, Abdul let us into Pat’s room, then sat on a twin bed by Steve. Roz and I perched on the other bed, but when joints were produced, she stood. Without asking, she opened the window on the other side of the room. Roz had been invited by Pat, with whom she’d attended high school, though he was a year ahead of her. She’d asked Keisha and me to accompany her, though Keisha had demurred. There was no way Roz was going to a dude’s room by herself, even Pat’s.
Pat offered me a red plastic cup and a drink from his bottle of Chardonnay, because he didn’t play around with hunch punch. That shit was uncivilized. After he poured my drink, he sat against the closet, legs splayed on the floor. His curly hair was nearly the same golden color as his skin, and he was tall and on the heavy side. Freckles were scattered across his nose.
He was two drinks in and wanted to get deep, philosophizing on the uselessness of organized religion. I was relieved Keisha had turned down the invitation to the set.
“Black people, we need to ignore that Christianity shit,” Pat said. “I’m an atheist, myself. No—Wait—I guess I would say I’m an agnostic. But if there is a God, He’s not on his job, because this country is fucked up. So we need to stop praying and start thinking about the bigger picture.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like Reagan was the Antichrist. And now his former vice president is his satanic minion. Bush is destroying our communities.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Sure, Ailey.”
“Aren’t you scared somebody is going to smell this weed?”
“Naw, I’m not pressed. My granddaddy’s name is on this building. What they gone do, give back his million dollars?”
He passed the joint to me. I took a long draw and passed to Abdul, who sucked in smoke and was quiet. Steve had joined my roommate at the window, and the two of them politely refused their turn.
“This country is about to crash,” Pat said. “Like, boom, goddamnit.”
“You really think so?” I called to the window. “Roz, what do you think about boom?”