Tom Wolfe - I Am Charlotte Simmons

Beverly left. Charlotte sat on the edge of her bed, hunched over, hands clasped, thinking and thinking, glancing at Beverly’s edifice of cartons, looking out the window at the dusk. She could hear people talking and occasionally laughing in the hall outside. Finally she worked up her nerve. Ashley, the R.A., had said they could knock on her door anytime. This would be pushing it perhaps, approaching her barely an hour after the meeting, but…She stood up. Now was the time to do it, if she was going to do it at all.

The R.A.’s room was on the second floor. As Charlotte walked down the hall, she was startled to see a boy in cargo shorts, no shirt, emerge from a doorway and come dashing toward her. He was holding a small spiral notebook in one hand and glancing back over his shoulder and laughing in breathless bursts. As he hurtled past Charlotte, he said, “Sorry!”—scarcely even looking at her. Now running toward Charlotte was a girl in a T-shirt and shorts, yelling, “Gimme that back, you little shit!” She wasn’t laughing. Charlotte noticed that she was barefoot. She didn’t say a thing as she ran by.

Charlotte hesitated in front of the R.A.’s door. Then she knocked. After a few seconds the door opened, and there was Ashley Downes, with her amazing mane of curly blond hair. She had changed into pants and a rather low-cut tank top. “Hi,” she said in a puzzled fashion.

“Hi,” said Charlotte. “I’m really sorry, Miz Downes—”

“Oh, come on, please. Ashley.”

“I’m really sorry. I was just at the meeting, and I tried to get to talk to you afterward, but there were so many people.” Blushing and lowering her chin: “You said come by anytime, but I know you didn’t think this soon. I’m really sorry.”

“Well—come on in,” said the R.A. She smiled at Charlotte the way you might smile at a lost child. “What’s your name?”

Charlotte told her and, once inside the room, stood there and began expounding, in an embarrassed way, upon how valuable the meeting had been and how much she thought she had gotten out of it, all the while noticing that this was a single room and a surprisingly messy one…bed unmade, clothes strewn on the floor, including a pair of dirty thong underpants. “But there was one thing…” Now that she had come to the point, she didn’t know how to put it.

“Why don’t you sit down,” said the R.A. So Charlotte sat in a plain wooden chair, and Ashley Downes sat on the edge of her messy bed.

Charlotte struggled some more with her phrasing, finally saying, “But you didn’t really talk about the coed dorm part. I mean you did, you certainly did talk about it, but there’s one thing…” Words failed her again.

The R.A. now looked at her as if she were about six. She leaned forward and said quietly, “You mean…sex?”

Charlotte could feel herself nodding like a six-year-old. “Yes.”

Ashley Downes leaned forward still further, resting her forearms on her knees and intertwining her fingers. “Where are you from?”

“Sparta, North Carolina.”

“Sparta, North Carolina. How big is Sparta?”

“About nine hundred people,” said Charlotte. “It’s up in the mountains.” Just why she had added this bit of geographical intelligence, she couldn’t have explained, not even to herself.

Ashley Downes averted her eyes and thought for a moment, then said, “Let me put your mind at ease. Yes, this is a coed dorm, and yes, there is sexual activity in coed dorms here at Dupont. What floor are you on?”

“Five.”

“Okay. This is a coed dorm, but that doesn’t mean boys are going to be running back and forth across the hall and jumping into bed with girls. Or for that matter, boys from any other part of Edgerton. In fact, if anything, it means they won’t. There’s no actual rule against it, but it’s looked down upon. It’s considered pathetic and dorky to be reduced to hooking up with someone from your own house. It’s called dormcest.”

“Dormcest?”

“Dormcest. You know, like incest. As a matter of fact, Edgerton always has a T-shirt for everybody at the end of the year listing all sorts of funny or stupid things that have happened in the house. Last year’s had a line that said DORMCEST: THREE. That’s three cases out of two hundred students. That’s how dorky it is.”

Now Charlotte could feel herself smiling like a six-year-old who has just stopped crying. She kept smiling and nodding and expressing profound thanks, and she really hadn’t meant to take up her time on the very first night.

Charlotte stood up, and Ashley stood up and put her arm around her shoulders as she walked her to the door. “I’m sorry, tell me your name again?”

“Charlotte Simmons.”

“Well, Charlotte, I’ll tell you something. This isn’t Sparta, North Carolina, but I think you’re gonna find it isn’t Sodom and Gomorrah, either.”

By eight-thirty, back in room 516 once more, Charlotte felt as tired as she had ever been in her life. She had been up since three o’clock this morning and on edge the entire time. Watching “Jeff” and “Valerie” of Sherborn, Boston, and Mather Insurance and “Billy” and “Lizbeth” of County Road 1709, Sparta, and the next thing to unemployed, fend with the problem of breathing the same air—had been draining, excruciating. She decided to take a shower, get in bed, read for a bit, and then go to sleep.

Her heart sank. My God…take a shower? In a coed bathroom? The thought was mortifying, yet she had no choice. She changed into her pajamas, her slippers, and her Scottish plaid polyester flannel bathrobe, picked up her toilet kit and her towel, screwed up her courage, and headed down the corridor. Things were quiet, thank God. On the way she nodded tentatively at a girl and then a boy, each alone and looking as lonesome as she felt.

She entered the bathroom slowly and softly, as if stealth was of the essence. It was a large, windowless, feebly lit room with rows of weary old yellowing white basins and urinals, gray sheet-metal toilet cubicles, narrow shower stalls with old mauve-gone-russet curtains for privacy…One of the showers was running…Other than that, the place seemed to be miraculously empty. Perhaps if she hurried—into a toilet cubicle. She had been sitting down no more than fifteen seconds when she thought she heard a faint grunting sound. Then—a prodigious pig-bladdery splattering sphincter-spasmed bowel explosion, followed by, in rapid succession, plop plop plop and a deep male voice—“Oh fuck! Splashed right up my fucking asshole!”

Filthy! The crudeness, the grossness, the vulgarity—above all the fact that there was a boy or a man inhere…egesting…no more than three or four cubicles down the row from her!

“Shit—a—brick!” said a deep male voice in a cubicle only slightly farther away. “What the fuck you been eating, Winnie—month-old sushi?” He made a mocking vomiting sound. “You’re fucking…morbid, dude. I need a gas mask.”

Sure enough, a nauseous, putrid, gaseous odor was in the air.

Charlotte lifted her legs and pressed her feet against the door, lest these brutes see her slippers in the space beneath the door or the walls and become aware of her presence.

“Don’t be so fucking heartless,” said the first voice. “My asshole’s cold. That was a fucking bull’s-eye.”

The second one laughed. “You’re a human disaster area, Winnie, is what you fucking are.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That was a terrible performance, dude! Terrible! You want to see a perfect, noiseless turd? I mean perfect? Just swing on by here before you leave. I won’t flush it.”

“And you know what you are, Hilton? You’re a pervert.”

“Don’t try to talk your way out of it. You got to come by here and learn how to take a shit.”