Celeste.

(Spring, 1995) Finally, the time has come in graphic design class where Mr. Roberts assigns us the one project I’ve waited on all year to work on: Redesigning a corporate identity for a well-known business. The objective of this project is to pick a well known business such as McDonald’s, Bank of America or Budweiser and create a new logo, a new slogan, and a new look for that chosen business. I had already assembled an idea in my mind when I read the syllabus at the beginning of class back in August.

“For the final layout you will present your idea for your chosen business’s corporate identity mounted on the same board next to that company’s current corporate identity.” Explained Mr. Roberts. But this dude has no idea the length I’m about to go to create this masterpiece of a project. I chose Southern Comfort as the company to give a new look to. Creating a new logo would be the easy part of the project. Just spend a few hours in the computer lab experimenting on Aldus Freehand with some fonts. Take the “C” of ’ Comfort’, elongate and rotate it to where it is horizontal. Take the “S” of Southern and simply place it within the horizontal “C”. and Viola - a new logo.

You see, as time went on I scouted around the art department looking for the perfect female to showcase in my ad. None of the females in the area really strike my fancy as model type material, then one day I come across her. As I’m walking out of the photography lab with some new prints I made she’s sitting on a bench outside the studio just down the hall thumbing through a magazine.

I can’t see her face for her long blonde hair but it was her legs that catch my attention. They’re long and shapely and crossed in a very sensual way. The way she bounces the foot suspended in air from her legs being crossed is very arousing. She sort of moves her foot in an ovular motion, pointing her toes downward as her foot curves at the arc of the ovular motion she’s making with her foot.

As I get closer I notice how perfectly shaped her thighs and calves are even in the faded, slightly ripped up jeans she’s wearing. As I walk closer, analyzing every move she makes, she lifts her head, looks at me and smiles. “Hi.” She says. “Hey.” I say in response. Damn. She’s just damn gorgeous like a supermodel. Her facial features are a cross between Mick Jaggar’s ex-wife, Jerry Hall, and the lead singer, Sara Dallin, of the 80’s girl band Bananarama.

Her skin is porcelain smooth with just a hint of blush and eyeliner. Her lips are perfectly shaped and she’s wearing a radiant shade of red lipstick. “Excuse me, what is your name?” I asked her. “Celeste.” She responded. She smiled a little more and focused her eyes closer on my face as if she was thinking about something. “Do I know you?” She asks me. “No, I’m sure you don’t.” I said with a slight chuckle. “I’m sure I’d remember knowing you.” She leaned back into the bench and covered her mouth as she let out a sort of goofy laugh. “I’m sorry,” she responded, “you just remind me of someone i know.” Hmm. There was a slight twinkle in her eye when she first looked at me, I’m thinking to myself, but I’ll deal with that later.

“Are you an art major?” I asked her. “No,” She responded. “Actually, I’m majoring in Psychology but I wanted to take this photography class.” She said as she maintained her friendly smile. Ahh. One of those cerebral girls, I’m thinking to myself. “I’m making an ad for my graphic design class. Do you mind posing for some pictures for my project?” I ask her. “Sure,” She responds but at the same time she has this perplexed look on her face like she’s caught between a rock and a hard place. “Do you mind if my boyfriend comes along?” She asks. “Nah, that’s cool.” I said to my disappointment. But, then again, how many females do I know that look like they can walk down a catwalk in Paris, France like this girl and not have some clown slobbering all over her? “When do you need me?” She asks. “Can you be at The Chucker on Friday at around 4:30?” I ask her. “You mean that bar downtown? Sure!” She says. “Cool,” I tell her. “ I’ll see you then.” She looks at her watch and bucks her eyes.” My photo paper should be dry by now.” She says. She uncrosses her fabulous legs and stands up from the bench. I take in a sly look at her 5’11” frame as she walks away like an off duty runway model in her red high heels.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

(Friday, 5:45pm) This girl isn’t going to show. Shit. “Another Corona.” I tell the bartender. “Want to start a tab?” He asks. “Nah, this is it.” I tell him. Just as I slowly spin around on my bar stool and take my Corona to the head, Celeste walks through the door. She’s fumbling through her purse and walking nervously. “Sorry I’m late.” She says in a hurt tone. “What’s up?” I ask her. “My boyfriend is being and asshole again.”  She says in a pouty, frustrated tone. “He took my car keys last night - I’m sure he did - I’ve been looking for them all day.” She says as she’s still shuffling through her purse. She has such a perplexed look on her face and pouts even more. “A friend of mine had to drop me off here. Can you do me a favor?” She asks in an unsure voice. “Yeah, sure.” I responded. “Can drive me back to campus when we get through?” This is the opening I was looking for. I mean, sure I wanted to find the perfect girl to pose for my pictures so I could have a slammin’ ad but…my dark side is beginning to creep out of me. “No problem at all.” I tell her. “This won’t take long,“ I assured her. “I only need a few pictures and we’ll be on our way.”

My plan is to get pictures of her and me pretending like we’re having a good time shooting pool in this rough, artist colony hangout of a bar. “Hey man, could you shoot some pictures for us?” I ask one of the guys that’s shooting pool. “Suuuuuure, man.” The scruffy, skinny, John Deer baseball cap and motor oil drenched jeans-wearing white guy said as he eyeballed Celeste like a T-bone steak cooked medium rare. “Just press the button here.” I instruct the guy as I hand him my camera. I position Celeste behind me, holding the que stick as if she’s trying to show me how to bank a ball into the side pocket. Just before I tell the guy to take the picture I say to Celeste: “Are you grabbing my ass?” She lets out a bashful laugh. “You’re crazy!!” Just as she’s laughing I tell the guy to shoot away and he starts clicking. “Okay, that’s cool, man.” I tell him. “Is that all you need?” The scruffy guy asks. He looks at me with this look on his face as he asks me that question like he wanted to say: “Damn, you gonna keep that find woman all to yerself?”

“Are you any good?” Celeste asks as I shoot the remaining balls into the pockets. “Ah, gee, I dunno.” I respond. As I stare her dead in the eyes with a smile I shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket. “I guess you are!” She says as the eight ball makes a loud crashing sound in the pocket, almost hoping out of the pocket before dropping down in the net.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

(11:30pm) “You don’t have to go.” Celeste tells me as put my boots back on. “What would your boyfriend think about me being here?” I asked her. “Fuck him.” She says in a low but angry tone. “He’s been acting like an asshole for nearly a month now.” She says as she throws a pillow across her bed. “How long have you two been dating?” I asked her. “Since high school.” She said as she sat Indian style at the head of her brass bed tightly embracing a big white teddy bear. “He wants to get married but he creeps me out.” She says with a bewildered look on her face. “Why do you stay with him if you can’t stand him?” I ask her. “Because my dad is crazy about him.” She responds. “That’s a picture of my dad and mom over on the dresser.” She tells me as she points to the picture frame over on the dresser. Her dad looks like he could be Jeffrey Dahmer’s grandfather.  Her dad has this 1960’s, Roy Clark hairstyle with huge axe blade side burns and a big Superman curl drooping down the front of his head. He’s wearing one of them redneck-looking 50’s style brown leisure suit with a white tie, a yellow dress shirt, and fishbowl-like, tinted glasses. “I want to show you something.” She says as she digs into her hair on the left side of her head. I walk over and look where she’s pulled her hair away. There’s a long, deep scar the curves across her head. “I was at the lake with my little sister. I was swinging on a rope and lost my grip.” She says as I look closer at the scar to see the faint impression of holes left by the stitches. “I hit my head on a steel drain pipe when I fell.” Damn - that explains those moments when she gets incredibly frustrated over something simple like trying to find her keys or laughs uncontrollably for no reason.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

(Summer semester) “Can you to stay with me tonight, Romulus?” Celeste asks me over the phone. She’s been crying and sounds distraught. “Bill carved satanic signs in my front door last night.” I kinda figured some shit like this was going to happen. The graphic design project was done and I got an “A” for it a long time ago. But I’ve been spending almost all my free time with Celeste these last few weeks.

I met her boyfriend, Bill, about two weeks ago over at the photography lab. He came over there looking for her because she hadn’t spoken to him or returned his calls in two months.  He’s a typical-looking, overprivilaged white boy. He drives a blacked out Jeep Grand Cherokee with a Baja kitt: Oversized mud bog tires, a Yakima rack on the top, and bushwacker guards on the headlights and tail lights. He wears a ripped up, faded Timberland baseball cap, a blue Patagonia hiking jacket and brown cargo shorts with Birkenstock flip flops.

This dude is about 6’5” and 250 pounds. The fingers on his hands are the size of bananas, his damn knees are almost the size of my head, and he has feet like two loafs of bread. Adding to the equation of a calamity waiting to happen is this dude’s insane ass devil-worshipping practices and the fact that Celeste told me he also had a Magnum handgun under the driver’s seat of his Jeep. “I hate when he brings that thing in my apartment waving it around.” I remember her saying one night during another one of our long chat sessions that usually ends about 3 O’clock in the morning. Yep, I’d have a little trouble handling this dude if worse came to worse even with my 215 pound rugby-hardened body. When I arrive at Celeste’s on campus apartment and make it up to her door on the 5th floor I see the big ass demon symbol surrounded by some crazy numbers and other symbols. The depth of the carving looks like it was made with a damn Buck knife.

I knock on the door and Celeste lets me in. She’s barefoot and wearing a white silk pajama top and lacey, pink panties. As she prances back towards her bedroom her ass jiggles slightly and her lean, toned thighs flex aggressively with every step. “Can you cut my hair for me?” Celeste asks. as she plops on the chair in front of her dresser. “Ummm, sure, yeah.” I respond. Damn. This white girl is asking me to cut her hair? The hell? I guess she thinks I can do anything she feels so comfortable with me. She hands me the scissors and I slowly and carefully start cutting away. I try to remember how I saw hair stylists cut white women’s hair in various TV commercials. When I’m done I’m fairly impressed with what I’ve done. It’s sorta shaped like the way Naomi Judd has her hair. Celeste picks up her mirror and turns her head from left to right as she looks in the mirror. “I like it!” She says with a big bright Julia Roberts-like smile.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

(1:30am) “Turn out the light!” Celeste screams from the bathroom. I turned out the lamp next to her bed. The moonlight is shinning brilliantly through her windows as if the moon were directly over the apartment building. Celeste tip toes out of the bathroom toward the bed wearing nothing but a tiny white t-shirt and a faint little white g-string. The moonlight illuminates her perfectly shaped body - hips shaped like the lower half of an accoustic guitar, and legs like tennis star Gabriella Sabatini. Her canteloupe-sized breasts wiggle wildly side to side under her t-shirt and her powder white g-string dips very low in the front towards her groin, revealing her baby smooth, lightly tanned bare skin where pubic hair would normally be. Her navel is shaped like a tiny diamond ring and her belly bulges ever so slightly in an oval shape. As she turns to light a pink candle next to her bed I get a splendid view of her delightful, breath-taking ass, shaped like the gas tank of a customized Jessie James chopper. She jumps in the bed like a mischievous little kindergartener and scoots her booty back into my crotch. She reaches around behind her and feels my boxer briefs. “Why are you wearing those?” She says, referring to my boxer briefs. I slip them off and kick them to the floor. as I turn back around to embrace Celeste again she scoots her ass tighter into my crotch, pressing against my dick. She wiggles to feel the shaft of my dick between her ass cheeks.

“Romulus?” Says, Celeste as she turns her head to face me and press her shoulder against my chest. “Yeah?” I respond. “I wish we could be together but my dad would disown me. He is so racist.“  She says in a tone of voice like she’s actually trying to contemplate in her mind how we could exist as a couple. Ummmmm, okay, I’m thinking to myself. Lets recap this for a moment shall we? Despite Celeste  having a supermodel body that’s literally flawless from her naturally platinum blonde, piano string straight hair and perfectly arched eyebrows to her slightly honey yellow skin, down to her almost mannequin-shaped toes,  she is like an android that has brief periods of malfunctions and crashes due to a CPU planted deep in her cerebral cortex that’s infected with spyware and viruses. Existing as a Psychology major on a college campus in a small college town is a safe environment for this girl. I can’t see her functioning as a normal citizen in the real world, let alone have a stable relationship.  Then there’s the ever present element of her insane, sociopathic, anti-social, deranged boyfriend that never seems to be around but always reminds us of his presence by leaving various calling cards all over the place like the satanic carvings on her door or stealing her car and parking it on the other side of town or wrecking her bedroom while she’s in class. And lets not forget her Son of Sam-looking, Green River serial killer-looking, candidate for the Klu Klux Klan-looking dad. As superhumanly sexy as this girl is my common sense won’t  even allow me to establish any kind of  connection with this girl let alone have any feelings for her. “I understand. It’s fine.” I tell her as I kiss her on the cheek.