The Question of Karma

The last year of my undergraduate career two boys moved into the apartment next to us. Both of them were named Kevin. One was cute and one was, well, a little heavy. I had names for them. Together, they were the Kevin & Kevin Show. Individually, they were known as Cute Kevin and Fat Kevin.

The Kevins liked to come home from whatever bar or party they'd attended—and they attended a lot—and play "Like a Rolling Stone" at four in the morning. There were countless nights I blinked awake to the opening notes of that song and the sound of the Kevins yowling the lyrics in their beer-slow voices.

The Kevin whose bedroom shared a wall with mine was in charge of the music. He was also in charge of waking me up in other ways. The Kevin whose bedroom shared a wall with mine had loud, loud sex with his girlfriend many, many times a week. A Tuesday at one AM, a Thursday at six AM, a Saturday at three PM. I heard it all. I woke to the heavy clang of headboard on concrete wall, to the girlfriend's breathy panting, to the sounds of them flipping and changing positions. And then I'd have to lie there and try to block it out so I could go back to sleep, which was a nearly impossible task. Those sounds are not easy to ignore.

Those are the memories of my last year in that apartment. The Kevin & Kevin show consumed me. There were nights when I'd get so angry at the Dylan-blaring and the sex-having that I'd rip all my blankets off the bed and go sleep on the futon in our living room. Ex-Keith and I spent a few nights out there, too. It's unsettling to wake up in the middle of the night next to your boyfriend and listen to strangers have very expressive sex.

Now, when I'm lonesome for college and old times, I will put on my Bob Dylan, and I'll sing along in a voice as loud and off-key as the Kevins' voices were, and I'll miss Fredonia very much, even the strange Kevins and the cloud of pot smoke that always cloaked their front door.

Last night, though, I didn't so much have to miss Fredonia or the Dylan or the Kevins. That's because when I opened the door to Amy's apartment at 12:30 AM, Fat Kevin was standing outside it. What's even stranger: he was standing there with Ex-Keith and Ex-Keith's girlfriend, Big Head. [Note: I am committed to using this nickname less, but for identification purposes, and because I refuse to use the BH's real name, it's imperative that I utilize the nickname for this post. It should also be noted that I think the BH is a pretty girl, and I have some guilt about calling her Big Head.]

A few hours before opening the door to the apartment, Amy, Rob, and I had been out at a sports bar that was lousy with people who wanted to watch the Sabres game. We spent the first two periods hovering near one of the flat screen TVs and nursing our drinks until we were finally awarded for our patience with a table and a waitress and an order for a large chicken finger pizza. After the game was over, and after we'd demolished our pizza, I got a message from Keith. He said he and BH were coming over to see us.

The five of us stayed at that sports bar for as long as we possibly could, and it was a chore. Not only was it playing host to a giant crowd for the Sabres game, but it was also having some sort of Halloween costume contest and, later, a really awful band played. They were celebrating their first anniversary together and subsequently rolled out two awful Power Point presentations set to Motley Cru songs before playing for their groupies. The groupies were over forty, sausaged into school girl uniforms, Cruella Deville outfits, and angel costumes. They writhed on each other. They showed off for men with thick mustaches. They humped in front of the guitar players.

"I can't do this anymore," Ex-Keith said. He tipped his beer up and drank until it was gone. "We've got to go," he said.

Earlier that day I'd had a marathon shopping session where I'd picked up a small gift for Amy—this amazing Hurricane mix we drank in college. We had plans to finish our drinks at the sports bar and head home for late-night Hurricanes and some dancing in the living room. We were perfectly happy with calling it a night.

And so we left. We walked to our respective cars and got ready to leave the parking lot. That's when Ex-Keith was pulled his car around behind mine, then came over and knocked on my window. He asked what we were doing, where we were going, and if it was okay if he and BH came over. "She just doesn't want to go home right now," he said.

We said sure it was okay, because what else can you say? It seemed unnecessary and redundant to stop and explain that it seemed weird to have my ex-boyfriend and his current girlfriend come over to my best friend's apartment late on a Saturday night.

"Good," Ex-Keith said when we said sure, sure, come on over. "We could play cards. We'll stop for beer."

And so we went home to wait for them to show up with beer and an eagerness to play Asshole—a game I learned to play the first night Keith told me he loved me. I couldn't stop thinking about that, and I couldn't stop thinking that this all was a little too strange, even for me.

But then it got stranger. My phone rang. It was Ex-Keith. "We're bringing BH's brother," he said. "Is that okay?"

Ten minutes later, I was opening the door for them, and there he stood in all his post-college, post-Dylan, post-pot smoking, post-sex having glory: Fat Kevin. Still, I didn't know it was one of the Kevins just yet. I stood there looking at him and trying to shake the nagging feeling that I knew him from somewhere.

"This is my brother," BH said. "His wife is pregnant, and he's been drinking beer in the basement for hours."

After we set them up with drinks, fridge space for their beer, and a table where they could shuffle the cards, Amy dragged me into her bedroom. "We need to have a conference," she said as she shut the door behind me. "We know that guy. He must've gone to Fredonia. We know him, Jess."

I went back into the kitchen and cornered Ex-Keith. "Hey," I whispered. "Listen, did Kevin go to Fredonia? We think we know him from somewhere."

"Yes," Ex-Keith said. "Oh,God. Did someone sleep with him?"

The mystery went unsolved all night. It went unsolved as I played several stunning hands of Asshole, where I was president or vice president more times than I've ever been. I tried not to get angry when Ex-Keith announced that there were new rules and that this was how they played now, like the old way hadn't been good enough, like it was somehow inferior and they'd had to make up new things to make the game better. It went unsolved through a pitcher of Hurricanes that stained my mouth, lips, and tongue red. It went unsolved while BH, her bother, and Ex-Keith cheered Hot Rob on to jumping to touch the highest part of the ceiling. It went unsolved as we broke out the bust of Abe Lincoln, a Mardi Gras mask, and a feather boa. It went unsolved as we did the Electric Slide in the living room.

It was finally solved this morning when I woke up, tangled and disoriented from the time change. I sat up straight in bed. I thought, My God... that was Fat Kevin. My ex-boyfriend was dating Fat Kevin's sister. It was very possible that Fat Kevin knew things about me and Keith and our relationship, and it was definite that I knew things about him and his woman, who was now pregnant with what he kept calling his human baby. The swirling implications of all that made my head spin. There has to be fate or karma or something wrapped up in all of that. I tried to wrap my thoughts around it, so I could understand it, but I just couldn't. I don't understand what it all means, but I feel like it means something. Something that's maybe important. Something that could teach me about myself. I just wish I knew what that something was.