The Heavyweight
It could be a sitcom except when his stupid suitemate barrels into Evan's room at almost two in the morning through the bathroom they share, I scream and scoot to the edge of the bed next to the window, clutch the wool blanket up to my neck and keep yelling. More like howling, Evan says. Like one of the lambs that Starling tells the doctor about in the horror film. And Lunatic Nick from next door just cackles and hoots Boo! Boo Paulie! like the genetic fluke that he is until Evan shoots him a look and tells him to screw off. I must seem as wild as spooked horse since Evan approaches real slow, speaking low with his hands raised in front of him like a grocer in hold-up. Jeezus. Loosen up a little, Paulie. But, he is almost crooning. It's not like he's mad, he just has no clue what to do to the soothe me. The truth is that as soon as he asks, I understand how acutely. I wanted him to. He says, you need to tell me what happened. By