4) ## Brookline Ave

The next day John came by and he, Penny and I hauled all of my shit to South Boston where Wendell lived. Wendell had an adorable three-year-old daughter named Veronica. She had long blonde hair and wore white tights and saddle shoes. Sipping an Old Speckled Hen from Wendell�s fridge, I watched her closely as she played jacks on the kitchen floor.

I had let Penny in on my secret but couldn�t bring myself to tell John. He was behaving cordially, as though we had once been bridge partners instead of lovers.

Fucking bastard.

The day we spent hauling shit out of that apartment was as constricting and uncomfortable as a JC Penney�s whalebone girdle squeezing in the mushy waist of a depression era housewife.

At around midnight I finally got to Eric and Krist�s place. Angus was there, as was Meg who lived across the hall. I matter of factly told them the whole story, and then I collapsed sobbing into the slim yet capable arms of Eric. Looking back on the degree of tenderness with which he held me is causing me to sob right now in much the same manner as I did then.

Eric poured me a rum and coke with vanilla syrup and sent me off to sleep in his enormous feather bed. I stayed in that bed for three days and he brought me breakfast every day and we drew obscene greeting cards and read each other Shakespearean sonnets. Krist made amusing wise cracks and ordered us all food from Dining In at night. They told me I could stay for a couple of months if I wanted. I thanked them over and over again.

And I�ve thanked them in my head at least once week since then.

There is nothing better to bring out the best in the character of rich white college students than the melodrama of others.

Krist and Eric were rich beyond your wildest dreams. They lived across from Fenway Park in a two-floor five-bedroom penthouse apartment with a spiral staircase. They had a mahogany pool table, a big screen digital television, a wetbar, a black leather couch, a DVD player, a Sony Playstation 2, a Nintendo 64, the best surround sound stereo system money could buy, a Fry Daddy, white wine glasses, red wine glasses, several pairs of raybans, and this contraption called a kegerator that allowed them to have beer on tap at all times. Krist drove a brand new jeep. There was a TV in the jeep. I am not joking.

They were both college students and had lived next door to me in the dorm the previous year. It hadn�t occurred to me then that they were rich as we all lived in cramped uncomfortable quarters and ate flavorless ARAMARK dining hall food. But I had gotten scholarships and loans up the wazoo to be there, and they were coughing up the full price. Or rather their dads were.

Eric wasn�t actually rich. He had a part time job and although his parents paid his rent, they didn�t give him a whole lot beyond that. Krist on the other hand had a father who invented some kind of silicone valley superconductor and was a multi-millionaire. Krist was a decent enough guy, but he didn�t know what to do with his money. So he had Eric spend it for him. Eric had excellent taste. Eric was brilliant. Eric was an enormously gifted writer, actor, and carpenter. And he was a witty dinner companion to boot. Eric gave Krist an air of respectability and charm he desperately needed. And Krist gave Eric the means to live life as though he were a member of the Algonquin Round table. It was really quite a nice arrangement if you like that sort of thing.

Krist didn�t dislike me but I was a tad rough around the edges for his taste. However, Eric and I adored each other and Krist went along with whatever Eric wanted. Thus, I was their guest for three months. I always thought of Eric as the Benchley to my Dorothy Parker, which is admittedly pretentious but I�ve never claimed to be anything but. I would be dead in the gutter most likely if he hadn�t come along. I loved him more than I can possibly explain. And I still do.

Three days after I first got there I finally crawled out of bed and hung out at Meg�s Soho style studio across the hall. A year from that thime we would wind up sleeping together. But on this day we were talking about John and how I should break it to him that I was knocked up. As we commiserated over what a heel he was, I became angrier and angrier. Nothing bad ever happened to him. He lead The Life of Riley while I was worrying about abortions and housing. That motherfucker.

So I called him at work.

Hey what�s up? You digging the rich kid pad?

He said it in such a snotty way indicating he was both jealous and contemptuous of my temporary housing arrangement.

Gee I�d like it a lot better if I wasn�t fucking throwing up my guts every morning.

Pause.

What do you mean?

I mean I�m pregnant you lousy fuck.

I slammed down the phone.

I felt better than I had in a long time.

Stay tuned for part the fifth�