Chapter 1: Enter the Antagonist

My story is one of either failure or immense good fortune, depending on your point of view. Something that I wanted very badly was given to me as a gift, but as with almost all things we most greatly covet, it came to me at a price. I was faced with a terrible temptation, and succumbed. Almost every day, I ask myself if I should have done this thing, or if perhaps I should try to undo the knots in this web I've made. Should I forsake my unbridled happiness for what I know is the "right" thing to do? But then I figure... don't be stupid.

I will attempt to write this in the formal way. Step one: introduction of characters. In the first part of this story, there are four or five in our drama: two protagonists, one antagonist, and a couple "others," who were such minor characters that I won't even mention their names. As for the antagonist, I won't mention him now, either, since I can hardly be dispassionate enough to describe him without prejudice. We'll just get to him as he enters this narrative in the next page or two.

Of the two protagonists, I'm definitely the least noteworthy, so I'll quickly dispatch with myself first. I've always been a bit of a slow starter in life, and while I should have entered college immediately after high school (I even had a scholarship), I went into the Army for four years instead. It wasn't a total waste, since I wound up writing for numerous military newspapers and periodicals; learning the practical side of writing, so to speak. I earned a couple more foundation scholarships in the meantime, and wound up with as much free education as I wanted when I got out. Now, at the time our little story begins, I'd soaked up seven years of higher education, and I found myself a 31-year-old student; the "old man" in just about every class I took. Of course, all good things end eventually, and I knew that very soon, after I got the doctorate, I'd have to move over to the other side of the fence permanently as a prof. The school already had a spot waiting for me. I figured I'd take it.

I was the school's most published student. I did, and still do, freelance magazine articles for the most part. My claim to fame was my appearance. I am so average in every respect that I tend to blend right into my surroundings. No one of any repute ever noticed me. When I asked a guy a question from a crowd, he never looked at me when he answered, he looked at someone else. And that's a real plus in my line of work. You'd be surprised what someone will say when they think the person he's talking to is of no importance. I've gotten some remarkably candid quotes in print. Of course, the "unobtrusive" look has a lot of disadvantages, too; especially in the girl-department. THEY all tended to overlook me, as well.

One of the strange, unimportant "others" in my cast of characters was a famous author who had been given a fellowship at the university. Great deal, a fellowship. A six-figure fee, usually a free apartment or rental house and a living allowance. All one has to do in return is lend his or her name to the university for awhile and either teach or be a guest speaker in the class of his or her choice. This lady, with one successful novel in print and one on the way, chose this opportunity to "get away" and write a third during her fellowship. As a course, she chose a little one-hour, 400-level creative writing seminar for a small class of 30 hand-selected students. 400-level. Read that as: undergraduate. I didn't qualify. I pulled some strings, called in some favors from the dean, and was finally allowed to "sit in" as long as I didn't get involved in the discussions.

And on the first day of the class, there she was. You guessed it, Protagonist Number Two, the real topic of this missive, Brenda Breakman, hand-selected senior English student.

Now, this is the point where I'm supposed to go into great detail about her overwhelming beauty. The truth of the matter is that I wouldn't have really called her beautiful at all. Cute. I'd definitely say she was cute. Small (maybe five-one or two), slight, shy. Mysterious. Maybe that's what attracted me to her. I just couldn't figure her out. She had a sort of unassuming curiosity about her, a sharp intelligence wrapped in a soft exterior. A puzzle.

I'd first met her two years before when I'd been a TA for a sophomore Shakespeare course. I'd considered asking her out then, but there are pretty strict rules about such things, even for Teaching Assistants. And, of course, I'm a pretty shy sort myself. For whatever the reason, I'd blown my chance to get to know her better then, and I hadn't seen her since.

She'd changed. She wore large, owlish glasses that seemed to have very little magnification. Her long, straight, dark hair was now pulled up into a severe bun on the back of her head. She didn't seem to wear makeup, though that didn't do much to distract from her clear complexion. But it was her clothes that really made the difference. Baggy sweatshirts over loose-fitting jeans and suede boots seemed to be the only thing she would wear to that seminar. Week after week, the outfit would change in specifics, but always remain the same in effect. I got the impression she was hiding her figure, which, as I remembered, was really very nice.

I talked to her on the first day of the author's seminar. She remembered me, and seemed to like to chat about this and that. But we never really had much time immediately before or after class, and I either never found the opportunity or the courage to ask her for a date. I think it's what we both wanted. I hated myself for being such a wimp. Maybe I feared a rejection. Whatever the reason, I found myself thinking about her more and more as the weeks went on, and actually fantasized about her at night in bed. She was slowly becoming an obsession. On the Friday our little drama took place, it was the next to the last class on the schedule. If I didn't make my move soon, she might have to remain a fantasy forever. (Is that what I really wanted?)

When I saw her that day, I froze. Gone were the sweatshirt and baggy jeans. A crisp, white blouse, tucked into a pleated skirt, was unbuttoned enough at the top to reveal some ample cleavage provided by an under-wire bra. Her long hair hung behind her in a ponytail. On second glance, I came to believe that the small amount of makeup she wore was intended to hide a sort of permanent blush that gave her a glowing aura. She looked fashionable, sharp and innocent. And provocative. I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

She gave me a little wave from across the hall and started walking my way, when she was suddenly intercepted by a guy who wore a baseball letter on his sweater. She smiled at him and talked for a little while, constantly casting glances my way. I got the impression that she wanted to talk to me, but I didn't know whether I should interrupt their conversation. Then the class started, and my opportunity was gone. After the lecture, the scene was repeated almost precisely, but this time it was a guy from the drama club that nabbed her before she could make her way over to where I stood. Again she kept looking my way, but didn't seem to be able to end her conversation with the guy. I had an important appointment (with "other" #2), and I finally chose to leave her there with her new fan club. Almost immediately, I regretted my decision, but the interview I was rushing to had been planned for more than a week, and I couldn't risk being late.

The article I was considering was about the alleged abuse of "mail-order brides" from India. America men of Indian descent arranged with matchmakers back home and paid a dowry to the girls' families, as well as the costs to have the young women flown to the States for marriage. It was an increasingly popular occurrence that, according to the lady I was interviewing, was leading to consequences that included physical violence and even murder after amorous "buyers" became bored husbands. I met her on campus, took her to my house, and talked to her for almost three hours before she finally left. I wasn't sure how I was going to write the article. It was most certainly going to sell, probably to a large national mag, but I was in the middle of my thesis, and taking time out for this was going to be difficult.

When there was a knock at my door, I originally thought it was my interview subject returning to further plead her case, but to my surprise, it was Brenda. Her appearance had shifted slightly again, and I took in the differences in a few seconds. Her hair, still braided behind her, had worked loose into a few little wisps in places, and her makeup had been retouched, so that there was slightly too much on her cheeks. Her glasses were gone. But the most pronounced difference (it didn't take a trained investigative reporter's eye to see it) was that the under-wire bra was now missing, and her full breasts jiggled slightly when she moved, her nipples prominent beneath the thin fabric of the white blouse. She stood looking up at me with a pleading sort of look, and quietly asked if she could come in. I told her that of course she could, and stepped aside before I realized she wasn't alone.

Enter the antagonist, stage center.

Brenda paused just inside the door and turned back to me uncertainly. "Fred," she said to me, "this is The Great Menlo." She raised a hand slightly, indicating her companion. The guy was dressed in grey slacks, a double-breasted blue blazer, and a white turtleneck shirt. He must have used half a can of mousse; not a hair was out of place. His broad smile showed a mouth full of straight, white, perfect teeth.

"Greg Menlo, Freddy. I'm really pleased to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

I hesitated before taking the outstretched hand. His grip was weak. He sounded just like a used car salesman scenting a sale. Nobody called me Freddy.

"Mind if we come in a minute, Freddy?" he continued smoothly. "I'm a magician and hypnotist, appearing at the Student Union Theater this week. Maybe you've heard about it?" He looked at me questioningly and the smile faded for a moment. "Guess not. Well, I'd like to show you something." He stepped over to Brenda, put a hand lightly on her back and led her through the foyer into my living room.

I felt disoriented and not a little pissed off. Who did this Bozo think he was, coming into my house with my girl and making himself at home? But then, she wasn't my girl, was she? Quietly, I closed the door and followed them.

When I got to the living room, I found Brenda looking around her with a bit of that old intelligent curiosity I'd found so intriguing, but when she saw me again, she seemed uncertain and maybe a little ashamed. Menlo just looked at me and smiled.

"What's this all about, Brenda?" I asked.

She jumped. She obviously hadn't expected me to put her on the spot. She glanced quickly to Menlo, then back at me with a sort of shaken, pleading look. Tears formed in her eyes. I suddenly realized that she had no idea what this was all about. I turned my gaze to her companion, and perhaps he read something in my face. His broad smile faltered for a second, but he pasted it back on for my benefit.