The Riot Party

The Riot Party

by TRELAWNEY

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2011 Trelawney

Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

the best truth that I have been able to think

Contents

Prologue

Part I Roll-Call

Part II Mid-Terms

Part III Finals

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

BREAKFAST IN LA, proclaimed the headline of the Daily Student, in all its obscene, mocking glory.

Yesterday morning, continued the story, a student was shot on the way to breakfast, and died in the arms of a friend. The incident occurred a few blocks from the Auditorium, the university’s flagship residential project downtown. The assailants have not been located, but a vehicle containing at least four black men was seen to accelerate rapidly towards South Central shortly after. This seems to have been the only casualty of the riots among the university community. Your Investigative Reporter contacted the L.A.P.D., who confirmed they will treat it as a homicide, but say they are totally busy at the moment.

I just don’t understand how someone could write that, said the Director of Residential Life. Could we say it wasn’t the real student newspaper? It looks a bit crude.

The jagged edges of the headline suggested a dot-matrix printer. The rest seemed the product of an actual typewriter, the columns cut and pasted below, then photocopied onto several folded foolscap sheets. 

It was quite widely distributed, said the Assistant Dean. I gather the regular print shop was closed. Look, I agree it’s tasteless. But surely a student being shot is more important?

We don’t have any control of students getting themselves shot, said the Director. But we’re supposed to be supervising their newspaper. And this student journalist actually lives in that building? What was she thinking?

I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t get on. Why don’t you ask her?

You expect me to speak to a student? I can’t see the board renewing the project after this. We could survive a student being shot, but not students laughing at students being shot. And what are your esteemed resident advisers doing about it?

Looking for new jobs.

They both pondered morosely.

Well, said the Director, finally, at least that only leaves one person I have to fire.

Reddening, the Assistant Dean fiddled with his bow tie and stared at the newspaper folded on the desk.

PART I - ROLL-CALL

***

Do you think you could hit the homeless guy with this bottle?

They looked over the low wall at the edge of the roof, ten stories up. Although the sun had yet to rise, the floodlights around the empty parking lots made it easy to see him down below, beside his shopping cart. There was no smog as yet, no mist in the air, and no morning chorus.

Down there? said Greg. It’s difficult. You’ll have to get the angle right.

Well, if there’s a roof, someone’s going to jump off it. Or throw something from it. Or something else like that. That’s what they say...

Tugging a blazer pocket laden with change off the ledge, Greg turned round.

Who says that?

Some Russian, I think?

Was it in the film?

At this suggestion Jonathan visibly turned up his nose, tilting his head back and flaring his nostrils. After five hours watching robotic dancing in a confined space he had a headache and felt slightly dizzy. His t-shirt was drenched in sweat, clinging to his body and making him shiver in the dawn air. Drawing his jacket tighter, he raised the lapels. But its worn cashmere did not help much, despite the stylish leather elbow patches.

You’ll be asking me to throw myself down, next, he said.

Yes! Go on then, said Darjeeling, the third member of the group, named after the only tea he condescended to drink. He peered down with difficulty through the small, orange lenses of a pair of white, plastic spectacles. I’ve never met anyone who’s jumped off a building.

There may be a reason for that, said Jonathan.

But start with bottle. Would it fall faster if we finish the Red Label first?

It would hit a bit harder, said Greg, but I guess the guy’d be more grateful to get it.

Don’t be silly, it would break.

Then he could lick it up.

What, from the sidewalk, mixed with the public urine? said Jonathan. That would be sick. What a waste. Here, I’ll drink it.

You’re such a fag, said Darjeeling. Why don’t you run around the ledge, all around the roof, right now? Isn’t that what you really want to do?

No, said Jonathan.

OK, watch me, said Darjeeling. Jumping onto the ledge he did a sort of pirouette, and then stepped down, panting slightly at the unaccustomed exertion.

Greg was unperturbed by the sudden escalation of the conversation. He looked back over the ledge.

Look, I can time you. One minute to run all around the edge!

Oh, shut up, said Greg.

You would need a bear, too, said Jonathan.

A beer? asked Darjeeling.

No, a bear to dance with on the ledge.

Oh, I have some bear spray, said Darjeeling.

There aren’t any bears downtown, said Greg.

No, I have bear spray, repeated Darjeeling, affecting puzzlement.

Maybe the homeless guy is hibernating, said Greg. He pointed to the shadowy figure slumping against the eight-foot, chain-link fence that defended the parking spaces from furtive, desperate defecation. The homeless man was sitting on refuse sacks full of his possessions, with one arm linked through the handle of the rusty shopping cart packed with yet more bags. He was a feature of the block as prominent as the Auditorium itself. Known as The Owner, it was rumored he had signed over the deeds to the building in a contested divorce, or for a phantom oil well in MacArthur Park, or simply on one last cut of the deck.

Quite beautiful, how he stays there, in a loyal way, if you think about it, said Jonathan, nodding sagely again. "And I will have the last few drops, if I may."

Sure you don’t want a clove? asked Darjeeling, producing a thin brown cigarette from a silver-effect holder. Jonathan waved him away.

Fags don’t smoke, I guess. Darjeeling applied a matching lighter to the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He sat on the ledge, staring glumly at his moccasins dangling over the street.

Jonathan finished the Red Label in two gulps. We’ll have to get them some more tomorrow, he added, gasping.

So, you want to help us recycle that bottle? Darjeeling looked round, tapping some ash into the void.

I don’t think that’s a good idea, said Jonathan, but handing it over anyway.

Here we go again! said Darjeeling. He stood up on the parapet, swinging the bottle back and forth, judging its weight. One, and two, and three… he twisted as though he were throwing a discus, and then released the bottle by the neck. It swung upwards, arched lethargically, fell and shattered on the sidewalk. The homeless man stirred slightly and looked up. But he didn’t move away.

You were about six yards off, I think, said Greg. I can’t really tell.

Get down, said Darjeeling. A helicopter roared past over their heads, shattering the peace. Then it vanished behind a tower, suddenly as it had come.

This is a strange place, mused Jonathan, as they crouched there together.

This is a boring place, said Greg. We should get women.

Yes! A good raping! said Darjeeling.

Not the first thing that comes to my mind, replied Jonathan.

All was quiet again. It was not usually that easy to get on the roof. The lift needed a special key to go up to the top level. Since it was an actual mechanical key, the computer scientists could not hack it. But there was also a stairway that had always been padlocked, until the previous afternoon, when Teresa had raised a fire safety issue, and the lock had been removed.

So, despite having lived there the previous semester, it was the first time they had been on the roof at night. To the north the downtown skyscrapers stretched granite-faced, amidst floodlights, hoardings and still-burning office lights, like a desktop pot stuffed with multi-colored pencils and highlighters. The buildings shone brightly, but were empty inside. Around these lay unfinished stumps and anonymous office blocks. To the east, once elegant structures rotted away, not much bigger than their own, choked by slogans in a sinuous Spanish. One whitewashed wall proclaimed in brown over fifteen stories, Coast Savings and Loan. South and west, cheap, brick warehouses lay close to the ground. Curious wooden shacks sprouted on the edges of parking lots, as though a JCB had just missed them and would return later. The palm trees were frondless. Pickups bravely left along the roads were equipped with strong suspension, central locking, and fluffy dice.

Were you really trying to hit that guy? asked Jonathan.

Don’t know, replied Darjeeling. If it happened, it would have happened. He fell silent, and yawned, stretching his arms behind his back. But you handed me the bottle. Aiding attempted assault with an offensive weapon. How many new things have you said ‘yes’ to now?

Would make it, uh, nine, said Jonathan, reflecting that after the first it had gradually got easier. He started to shiver again. He wished them good morning, heading towards the stairs to get ready for class. He had to teach at eight.

***

So you actually agreed to the screening of this film in the Auditorium?

Teresa had gone red. She sat opposite her two bosses, the Director of Residential Life and the Assistant Dean, her knees pressed tightly together, in the administration suite on campus.

I didn’t totally agree. The flyer said it was a foreign art film, from the 1930s.

It’s a famous Nazi propaganda film, remarked the Director. "It was even advertised in the Daily Student. Look here, he jabbed his finger at an inside page of last week’s campus newspaper, turning it towards her on the table. There’s the title, Triumph of the Will. Didn’t it ring a bell?"

I’m not that familiar with Nazi propaganda films, said Teresa.

Well, that sounds reasonable enough, said the Assistant Dean, stroking his beard.

And it doesn’t actually say that. The title is in a foreign language, said Teresa, encouraged.

"On the other hand, Triumph des Willens is German, and quite similar to the English, said the Assistant Dean. English is a Germanic language."

Well, if you’re so clever why didn’t you stop it, retorted the Director. You live there too, don’t you?

I didn’t see the notice until afterwards, said the Assistant Dean, not entirely honestly. Anyway, Teresa is the one paid to do things. I just advise. Who set the notice on fire? he added, to change the subject.

I don’t know, replied Teresa. The Nazis, I suppose.

Why would the Nazis set their own notices on fire? asked the Assistant Dean, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Surely it would be the anti-Nazis?

Who cares who it was, fascists, anti-fascists, Jews, Koreans...? shouted the Director. Look, do you know how much it costs to rent that parking lot opposite the building, so your little storm troopers can park their BMWs?

I don’t know, said Teresa, puzzled. "Quite a lot I guess. But we’ve never screened Star Wars."

Quite a lot is right. And do you know what we had to pay the city to re-route the tram so it goes past the building and down to the campus? Even though your students all seem to prefer driving from that same, newly fenced, parking lot?

"They are our students, reminded the Assistant Dean. And I think perhaps we’ve covered the main points now. Tell me, Teresa, how are we getting on with the open door policy?"

Right, said Teresa. We started the all-dorms open-door initiative last month. Hopefully the students will get to know one another better. So they’re not hiding away all the time. We took the automatic closing things off the doors.

But didn’t we just say you had a fire there last month? said the Director.

Not really a fire, just one of the noticeboards. It’s right below the smoke detector.

So you think it’s a good idea to take the fire protection off the doors?

Oh, I see what you’re getting at. I didn’t think of it like that. Well, we checked the fire exits were all OK. You think we should put them back on?

Well, I am truly sorry, said the Director. "But yes, I think you should. We don’t need any more scandals there, OK? I don’t want to see anything else in the paper. The LA Times picks stuff up from there. And we need some sort of initiative to put the project back on the map. Otherwise the administration will close the place. And without the Auditorium we’ll need one less Residential Life Manager, won’t we?"

I understand, said Teresa.

And what sort of events do you have planned? The non-Nazi ones?

Well, we have a gaming evening soon.

A gaming evening? You mean like Scrabble? Really! And we need more cultural variety there. I met your team of resident advisers, and they don’t have variety.

There’s Kurt, he’s European.

I mean ethnic variety. Where’s he from in Europe?

He’s German. So I guess, Germany? Or maybe Austria.

The Director hit the table with his fist. Well that’s a surprise, isn’t it? Next term, I want a proper roster, you understand? Something that celebrates Los Angeles.

Leave it up to me, said Teresa. An initiative, and a new roster. I’ll try to think of something.

Thank you, Teresa. I have no doubt it’ll be good, OK?

Teresa nodded and exited quickly. She headed to the campus parking structure, then reconsidered and made for the tram stop. It would look better if she travelled back with the students. Her car would probably be safer if she left it on campus, anyway.

***

After arriving on campus at about seven, and having peacefully finished a coffee and muffin in the central cafeteria, Jonathan ventured to the basement classroom where, as part of his scholarship, he was leading undergraduate discussion groups. It was about the third week of the spring semester, and his second time teaching the course. He had never been able to establish what the staff of the US Embassy in London, handing over his visa, had found so amusing about traveling to Los Angeles to teach Saint Augustine to freshmen. Nevertheless, Jonathan judged his classes a success if no-one walked out. Being almost entirely nocturnal, he was not so much an early riser as an early sleeper. He always liked to teach at eight in the morning, and go to bed shortly afterwards. This had the advantage of minimizing student enrolment, but brought an increased risk of classroom coffee spills. A senior professor had advised him always to carry a roll of tissue for this eventuality. So Jonathan bore within his briefcase the most absorbent type of kitchen roll he could find that was not embossed with an awkward floral pattern. The class was one third small Asian girls claiming to be business majors, many of whom never spoke, yet stared at him unerringly. But he had not followed a more junior colleague’s advice, and also brought Vaseline.

He usually found the girls quite difficult to tell apart, other than on racial grounds, particularly when they were so inconsiderate as to change their clothes, which seemed to happen quite often. He had done a roll-call the previous week, but dared not do it again in case they realized he didn’t yet recognize anyone. This morning one vaguely familiar Caucasian student was dressed in an ankle-length, low-cut dress with lace frills, as though she were taking the medieval theme rather too seriously. Her hair fell in black ringlets. She said there was a Renaissance Fayre on campus later in the day. Jonathan felt himself reddening as this slight but milky white cleavage rose and fell, conspicuous between the light brown Asians and radioactive orange sorority girls. He considered making light conversation about the authenticity of underwired bras in medieval England, or indeed of her braces. But these lines of approach both seemed to pose difficulties.

In the front row sat two extremely stocky and muscular black men, with gold chains around their necks, in t-shirts and shorts, although the air-conditioning in the windowless basement made it colder than outside even at this time of the morning. They stared him down, but smiled at his jokes at the right times. The other men in the class were uniformly spotty, lanky and short-haired.

Four of the students were eating: one nibbling a muffin; one chewing noisily on an apple smuggled out from breakfast in one of the dorms; one breaking a bread roll. The fourth had actually brought in a bacon cheeseburger with tomato slices and barbeque sauce, which he was holding under the textbook and biting into whenever Jonathan turned to the board. A likely coffee spill was teetering on the arm of a chair at 11 o’clock, where the student appeared to be nodding off.

Jonathan’s mission was to elicit good discussion about Ancient and Medieval History, and Philosophy. Since the students knew nothing about Ancient and Medieval History, nor Philosophy, this was not at all easy. He had spent the previous class giving background information about the Roman Empire. Somewhat to his surprise, several girls had been inspired to volunteer comments on the Roman taste for dormice, though their main concern was the health implications of eating them deep-fried. He wanted to move on to the New Testament as soon as possible, since with luck someone would talk about Jesus and he could be quiet. But the class always progressed much faster on the schedule than in practice.

By the way, what town in Italy did you say the Romans came from? asked a spotty boy at the back of the room, without warning.

Jonathan considered his reply carefully, in case the students had planned this and were waiting to see how he would react. Or was it possible the Romans actually originated from some town further downstream, and, unbeknownst to him, but common knowledge among the surfers of Southern California, had ridden a mighty bore to that place on the Tiber?

I think that was Rome, he said warily, pausing for a volley of laughter. But there was none; a few students making notes, most staring blankly, and the boy who asked the question nodding calmly, pleased at having been noticed by the instructor.

As the students filed out, Jonathan was still pondering this exchange. The girl in the long dress came over.

Hi, I’m Sarah, she said, introducing herself in the open, American way.

I’m Jonathan.

I know who you are! You know that essay you wanted us to write about Augustine, and his attitudes to women? Well, I looked at his book, and there’s not much there about women.

"You read his book? You mean the Confessions? He wrote lots of books. Why don’t you see how he treats the women in his life – I think he mentions his mother, and his wife."

Oh, OK, said Sarah, retreating.

Generally, he stopped her, it’s good to see what people do, not just what they say.

I guess so, she said. And by the way, what is his thing with Hippos? We were thinking in the dorm.

Augustine was bishop of Hippo. It’s a town in Africa.

Oh, right, she said, and left, white breasts and all. He fancied she was a little deflated by his apparent lack of interest in her outfit.

Jonathan picked up his papers, which were spread purely for effect, since he always spoke from the top of his head. Was there really a town in Africa called Hippo? He had no idea. Yawning, he went up the stairs and crossed the campus to take the tram back to bed at the Auditorium.

***

Teresa stepped up onto the same tram. Early classes were finishing, and more students than the Director might have imagined had boarded. The driver was playing slow soul music, with a deep and rich bass. She sat on the bench seats at the front, next to Wendy, a Chinese girl she recognized from the kitchen alcove in the basement. There were a couple of hotplates there, which Wendy used to prepare her noodles. She was the only one who used the hotplates. The other residents who occasionally felt the urge to cook for themselves had bought microwaves for their rooms. Teresa was thinking of taking out the hotplates, actually, as a recent inspection had suggested fire retardant cladding should be installed in the vicinity, which would involve some expense.

I just love the smell of your cooking, said Teresa. I wish I could cook with you, but I really don’t have the time.

It is just noodles, said Wendy. I chop up a fresh tomato when I can afford it.

The cooking alcove was just across from the main dining room, where the other students, on mandatory meal plans, gorged on all-you-can eat buffets.

Why don’t you just get someone to activate your meal card? said a short, wide, black woman, panting up the steps at the front. Hey, Teresa, how you doing? Give us a hug...

Teresa froze in alarm for a moment. Hello, Odette, she said, then angled her torso slightly, in mute invitation. Odette gave her as full an embrace as was possible to someone sitting on a bus, pressing first her left cheek and breast against Teresa’s left cheek and breast, then the same with the right. She sat down, squeezing into a space by the two of them, just behind the driver, grinning as though rather pleased with herself. She seemed to feel no need to give a similar hug to Wendy.

Don’t you have your sorority car? she asked. Is it bust?

No, it’s fine, Odette, said Teresa. I like to take the tram when it’s just up from the campus, it saves my gas.

So, are you going to pay? asked the driver, turning round. He was also black, and also quite large. Teresa noticed a sign posted in the window above the rear-view mirror Tips are an essential part of a driver’s income, then realized he was speaking to her.

Oh, sorry, she said, searching for a quarter in her bag, and not finding one. Wendy handed her a ticket, which Teresa took and dropped in the fare slot.

Isn’t it supposed to be free for residents? said Teresa, as the driver closed the door and pulled away.

That was last year, said Odette. Now we need ticket books. But I don’t take it much too. How can they call it a tram when it’s a 1950s school bus?

"They bought it temporarily when the first