Anandi (Episode three).

(Spring 1995) The Romulus Era reaches all facets of campus as I become known as the only brother on the rugby team, the only brother that comes to the Latino dance parties and dances better than most of the guys there, the only brother that rides in the mountain bike club and rides religiously. I also become known as the only brother to make the cover of the Red Mountain Journal - a local art magazine that showcases local talent in art, poetry, short stories, and photography. Johnson Holmes is another brother that made the cover of the journal a few times before I came along but he wasn’t a student at the university.

An editorial I wrote for the university newspaper lamblasts the “Southern Pride Society”, a student organization on campus that supposedly celebrates the heritage of the state of Alabama . Unfortunately, instead of focusing on historically accurate topics like Alabama ’s Spanish and American Indian origins they focus primarily on the culture of the old South during the booming cotton industry era, which was a blatant excuse for them to uphold the confederate flag. After my editorial uncovered the true intentions of the organization they attacked the African American Students League by alleging they misappropriated university funds. The allegations proved to be unfounded, and the rest of who’s who that’s black and popular on campus jumped on the bandwagon, sending in their scalding letters of their disapproval of the Southern Pride Society forming on campus.

I achieve an iconic paradox as my reputation precedes me amongst the international and the general populous of students as the “it” guy yet I’m all but unknown or considered a pariah, a scourge amongst the black student body. To them I’m that weird art major dude that “thinks he’s white” or at least this is the word amongst the uninvolved, uniformed, negroes on campus that can’t seem to show their faces at a single organizational meeting or volunteer to help run a fundraiser or man a campus event yet they always seem to appear in droves like herd of wildebeests where there’s free food and gift bags from a visiting athletic vendor or block party.

I work harder and longer hours for the African American Students League and the collegiate chapter of the NAACP, I’m responsible for the president of the university probing into the racist and biased grading practices of the professors in the English department, uncovering a covert mission by an operative of Sun Myung Moon to recruit vulnerable college students into his cult. I revealed the counterproductive tactics of several line coaches to the Head football coach of the university that were secretly rejecting walk-on athletes that wanted to try out for the football team, which caused a shortage in eligible players from the previous season - the same shortage that was asked of the local media and had infuriated the head coach.

At the end of every other day I sit by my answering machine with a pen and notebook and posed as my own personal secretary/agent. Some of the messages were from angry department heads that got reamed. Some calls were from coaches that cussed the ever-loving hell out of me for being responsible for getting them fired. The others were from various chairpersons of various student organizations that either needed me to design flyers or assemble a committee or appear at some important board meeting. The rest were from various girls from around the world. I simply memorize the names of the coaches, department chairs and other various faculty in case I run into any of them on campus. As for the girls I write down every single name and number and memorized every single accent or distinguishable quirk in their voices. Take Gabrielle and Ivonne to the Global Café on Wednesday, take Adrienna, Evita and Dolores to the house party held by some Turkish guys on Thursday, and take Cristina to the art opening on campus Friday. Keg party after my rugby game on Saturday.

I bump into my guy friends from Yugoslavia, Portugal, United Arab Emirates, and Germany in the student center cafeteria during lunch and run into my guy friends from Madagascar, Kenya, Ghana, Saudi Arabia, and India during friendly soccer matches on the quad in the afternoon. Rugby practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Keg parties at the Rugby house every other Thursday. Drug and groupie chick fest at the Blue house behind the liquor store every Thursday night. Crash various off campus keg parties during football season. Road trips to obscure little one horse towns in the middle of nowhere once a month to get obscurely and obscenely blind drunk. Oh yeah. My classes. I spend more time sitting outside of my professors offices than in their classrooms and auditoriums begging for extensions on various assignments. Where the hell do I live again? 

* * * * * * *

“Romulus, what’s going on, boy?”

“Ummmmm, nuffin’ Raquel. What’s up?”

“You got a minute, man?”

“Yeah, what’s goin’ on?”

Raquel is my mama, my PR consultant, my damage control specialist, my sister, my assistant, my conscience, my confidant, my informant, my soldier. She’s Whoopi Goldberg, Samuel L. Jackson, and Oprah Winfrey rolled into one. When she speaks to me in that You-need-to-hear-this kind of tone I drop everything and tune in. “You might need to know what’s going on around you, man.” Raquel tells me in a heads-up kind of tone. “What’s the deal?” I ask her. “Anandi was sitting in the lobby earlier today, “ She says. “AND?” I respond sarcastically. “Ha, ha, shut the hell up and listen, fool!” She says with an easy chuckle. “Anandi was sitting with some sisters in the lobby when your name popped up in the conversation.” Right away my instincts tell me this ain’t nothing but some bullshit. Whenever a group of lonely ass black girls waste the time to lounge around in the lobby of somebody’s dorm nothing good comes of it.

“What the hell is my name being passed around for?” I question her. “Two of the girls told the other girls this,” Says Raquel just before she purses her lips to mimic the bitch that wrecked my character. “Whatever you do don‘t date Romulus Burnett.” I slumped down to my bed and slowly dropped the phone to my lap. “Romulus….Romulus?” Says Raquel, trying to get my attention back to the phone. “One of the main girls,” She says. “is a girl you know from the African American Students League.” I squeezed the receiver of my phone until I could hear a squeak and a pop from the pressure of my grip. “Who the fuck is the bitch?” I ask Raquel. “Now, Romulus,” She says in her motherly tone. “You know I’m not going to tell you that because I know you’ll find her and break that silly ass heffa’s neck and she ain‘t worth it.” I couldn’t say anything for a minute, then the wheels started turning in my head. Everything began to make since. It made sense why when I first transferred here as an upper classman nearly every black girl I tried to talk to on campus would give me mad play in the beginning but all of a sudden disappear like they heard I had herpes or something. A girl doesn’t just throw mad game at a guy and then all of a sudden lose interest overnight to the point of not even answering the phone or returning my calls.

“So, lets hear the reason why I’m on the black ball list.” I tell Raquel. “Anandi said the girl told her little group you was somebody that couldn’t be trusted.” Said Raquel. The way I know news spreads on campus I know there was no way that I was even remotely dating anyone let alone  involved with someone on campus at the time. “What’s so crazy, Romulus,” She says with a seriousness to her voice. “is neither one of these heffas knew Anandi and you were dating or they wouldn’t have said some shit like that while she was sitting there.” Says Raquel. My chest is burning.

They’re talking out of their asses because I wouldn’t give in to the juvenile black politics, the pecking order - because I wouldn’t allow myself to be subjected to their head games, their process of selecting who’s in and who’s out by the ignorant criteria of who acts black enough. These fools expect the black population to lay low and wait for the negro judiciary committee to award people with the right to act in certain ways according to your status on campus. And the dudes that follow them know nothing about life in college outside of the regular routine of playing cards on Thursday nights in their dorm rooms, driving out to The Poindexter, a country ass, hole-in-the-wall little black club in the middle of nowhere, and getting drunk until 3am, once again, in their dorm rooms on Saturday nights.

It’s all good. I’m killing myself day and night trying to see that their voices are heard by the powers that be on campus so they won’t get marginalized. I give them a face by designing innovative t-shirts that promote various black campus events that only end up being bought more by white students than the narrow-minded black students I designed them for. It’s cool. My love for Anandi is strangling me. A permanent snapshot of her face hovers 12 inches from my eyes no matter where I’m asleep or awake, alone or with several of my guy friends or girl friends. My memories suffocate my thoughts. Every time I see her on campus I nearly collapse to the ground. I detour to keep from seeing her because I want to hold her in my arms. I’m afraid to go to sleep as afternoon turns into evening - I can hear her laughs, her baby soft, Sri lankan accent, her “I love you, Romulus” tone that permeates my head like a phantom spectre. My mom knows nothing of this brokenness and despair. How can I kill myself without it looking like it’s intentional? And I sure as hell don’t want it to be painful. Alcohol.

* * * * * * *

“Ro, you gotta slow down, man!” Screams, Coo Baby, my rugby teamate, my scrummy, as the living room slowly rotates upward. “Damn, Ro,” Says Pappie. “You drank that whole fucking bottle of Tequila by yourself?” He says as he grabs the empty bottle out of my hand. “Ummmmm, ummmm, well, actually,” I try to say as I wrestle with one eyeball at a time to keep them straight. “those jello shots were pretty interesting too, “ I told Pappie. “but we’re out of them, man.” Flounder looks at me and shakes his head. “He’s gone, fellas.” He says as he turns up his cup of beer to his face. I walk over to the keg with my one gallon Bud Light pitcher and proceed to fill the pitcher to the rim. “See, I’m not drunk, guys.” I tell my teammates as I carefully walk back to the sofa without spilling a drop. I turn the pitcher up and slowly drink up to a half a gallon when the room spins slowly to the left. My head slowly falls back toward the sofa as if magnetized to the pillow. “He’s passing out!” Yells, Pappie. “He’s passing out!”

* * * * * * * *

(About 4am) This damn car is driving on rails. No traffic. This is too great. Wow. Look how nicely I parked my car. Which one of these damn keys goes to my apartment door? Is this my apartment? Where the fuck is my bed? As I walk towards my bed the room spins faster my legs turn into cement as I can’t walk any further. How the fuck am I going to get in my own damn bed if it keeps racing by my damn feet? Fuck it. If I hit the bed while I fall cool. If I miss it as it passes by so what. I hit the bed!!! Hells yeah!!! I’m sinking….why…..am…I…sinking….? The bed is sucking me through to the floor….?

* * * * * * * *

(3:30pm) My legs still feel like cement. Why in the hell do I still feel like I’m at the party? There must be some kind of drug I can get from the campus infirmary to get rid of this haze. While sitting in the waiting room everything everyone does seems to be so damn hilarious. Why is he flipping the pages in that magazine that way? Why is that nurse tapping her shoe while waiting for the elevator to open. Damn, that chick behind the counter is fat as hell. “Mr. Burnett,” the chick behind the counter says. “You’re next. Go to room 139.” Okay, great. Lets wait some more. Ah, here comes Dr. Doolittle. “Mr. Burnett,” he says. “My name is Dr. Collins.” He pulls out a syringe about the size of my dick. “I’m going to draw some blood from you to see if everything’s alright, okay?” Fucking idiot. “Yeah, okay doc.” I tell him with a smirk. Dude comes back about damn nearly an hour later. “Mr. Burnett,” he says to me with a confused look on his face. “How much have you been drinking?” He asks as he flips through his paperwork. “Damn, man, idunno.” I tell him as he seemingly turns upside down. “I drank a bottle of Tequila and a few pitchers of beer I think.” I tell him as I try to recall whatever else I shoved up to my mouth last night.

“Your blood alcohol level is beyond point 4.” He says as he looks me dead in the eyes like a concerned father. “Is that good or bad?” I ask him grinning like a Cheshire cat. He stares at me for a moment, then looks back down at his chart. “Technically, considering the amount of alcohol in your system you should be dead.” He says with a blank expression on his face. “And I’m still talking to you?” I ask him in a joking tone. “Apparently, you have an overactive liver, which is why you also don’t have any symptoms of a hangover.” He flips through his paperwork again and looks me eye-to-eye.

“Who brought you here?” He asks. “No one.” I tell him. “I rode my bike over here.” He looks at me as if he’d seen a ghost. “You rode your bike all the way over here in traffic at this time of day?” He says in an almost angry tone. “Oh hell no, doc.” Yeah I did. He crosses his arms and pats me on the shoulder. “There’s nothing I can give you to get rid of how you feel.” He says. “The best you can do is go home and sleep it off.” He tells me as he signs the bottom sheet of his tablet and walks toward the door. “Take care of yourself and lighten up on the drinking.” He says as he steps out of the door.

As I’m riding down the middle of University boulevard I remember that my midterm in Anthropology is today. Hopefully I can race across campus and get there in time to catch the professor before he leaves. I make it to the building only to see that it’s empty - not a good sign at all. I run to room 236 where the midterm is being held. The room is empty and the lights are out. It’s over. This shit is a riot. Let me just have a seat over here in the last row - and listen to the silence.