(not to be confused with B Moe)

Why did we call him C-Mo?  His actual name was George.  He was my big brother at my frat.  We called him C-Mo, in part because his last name was Lester, and in part because it just fit.  When George graduated and was still working at Annie’s, just outside of Hanover, we rented a really cool home just outside of town, up on a hill, at a very good rate, with the proviso that we keep it warm enough not to kill the tropical plants.  There was one bedroom downstairs (mine), George’s upstairs (his), and a guest house over the garage that we warmed up when it seemed likely that people might stay over.  There was a terraced garden out back.

Occasionally, we used to have some pretty interesting parties.  We’d invite some of the women from town, and some of the folks whom George knew from his bartending gig, and a handful of students from the college.  One of our invitees on one occasion was Paige, who was tiny and cute, studying Mandarin Chinese, and whose boyfriend was from Harvard.  Joel was a philosophy prof who’d been recruited from Berkeley to teach logic, but who’d fallen under the spell of Menza, another philosophy prof whom students would catch a glimpse of on subways in The City when they went there.  He turned Joel on to Nietsche, and Joel never looked back, which lost him his job at the College–because really he was a crap prof.  His wife, whom he called The Dutchess, was a beautiful, though none-too-bright, flaxen-haired woman from Edinburgh, where he’d been a visiting professor, who worked with George at the restaurant.  On the occasion that I have in mind, Joel had overindulged in the variety of drugs that George generally had available, and passed out on the floor.  I’d very thoughtfully draped a sheet over him, and during conversation with the Harvard guy who was dating Paige had the following exchange:

Me:  You look pensive, Alex.  What’s on your mind?

Alex: *Sigh* Nothing.

Me:  Are you all right?  Would you like another beer?

Alex: No, I was just thinking . . .

Me: What?

Alex, looking at the sheet draped figure of Joel: The thoughts that must be running through that man’s mind.

Me (guardedly): What?  What do you mean?

Alex: Ivy League professor, philosophy.  Genius.

Me: He’s passed out, Alex.  On my floor.

Alex: You can tell he’s thinking.

Me: There’s a sheet on him.

Alex: You can tell.

I started laughing.  The mushrooms were kicking in.  He called me a Philistine.

Terrence, the mentally challenged busboy, dropped by from Annie’s once he was done with work.  He came in the door and I was pleasant to him.  He was carrying a carton of half-full bottles that he’d stolen.  I helped him put them away.  He grabbed my nuts.  I said, “I don’t think you want to do that, Terrence.” He said, “Why not?” I said, “Because I’m not gay, you stupid motherfucker, and I’ll smash your mouth if you do it again.” He grinned a stupid grin, and said, “Okay, but where’s George?” I said, “In his room, I expect.” He said, “Alone, or with Loretta?” We called her Low-renta when she wasn’t around.  “With,” I said.  “Should I knock?” Terrence asked.  “Probably a good idea,” I said.

Loretta was just out of high school, and C-Mo was recently graduated.  Personally, I felt that the arrangement was unequal, given the way that he talked about her when she wasn’t around, and when she came downstairs to have a heart-to-heart later on, I let her know what I thought, for which George never really forgave me.  I walked past the stairs, and found another high-schooler, Hot Little Heather, sitting halfway up.  I sat down next to her.

“Hi, Heather.  What are you doing here?”

“Becca got invited by George, and asked me along.”

“How’s it going?  Are you having a good time?”

Being Heather, she looked straight at my crotch, smiled, and said, “Could be having better.”

I asked her to excuse me, and got Norton, who would appreciate the situation, I was sure.  I found him out on the terraces, with Savitt and a couple of other guys, and a whole group of the Hanover high school girls.

“Matt.  What’s going on?”

“Nothing.  We met them down at the falls.”

“What about Heather?”

“Oh, yeah.  She and Becca were at the video game arcade.”

“Well, fuck.”

“No shit.  Smaller Large Dave got us some good blotter.”

“Well, fuck.  I mean, why are they here?  Why are they drinking?”

“Don’t worry about it, Dan.  I brought them here, I’ll take them back.”

I went back inside after fixing one of the connections to a speaker that we had outside.  Bose.  Talking Heads “Remain in Light.” When I walked in, the phone was ringing.

“Is George Lester there?”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Campus Police.”

I figured that it might harsh George’s mellow to have to talk to them.

“He’s sleeping.  May I take a message?”

“Yeah.  Tell George that if he’s engaged in any activities that he shouldn’t ought to be, he might think about ceasing for awhile.  Locals.  Crackdown.”

“Anything else?”

“Tell him to bury stuff well away from the house.”

“Thanks, officer.”

“Good night.”

That kind of freaked me out, so when Savitt came in, I was already nervous.

“Danny.”

“What, Mark?”

“I need help, now!”

“What is it?!”

Oh, my God, I’m thinking, he’s killed one of the kids.

“Fucking A!”

Oh, my God, he’s killed her, and he wants me to help bury her.

“What?!”

“Help me clean up!”

Whispering: “What the fuck, Savitt?  What did you do?”

“Nothing.  Bitch!”

“What?”

“She choked on my dick and puked.”

Well, let’s just say that at least she was of age, though I wasn’t happy about it.  And when I announced that everyone had to leave, Hot Little Heather offered to have all the non-College girls stay at her place, since her parents were out of town.  And I made Norton drive them back.  And the cops didn’t come.  And the next morning, George asked me why I was so grouchy and I berated him for twenty minutes, since he’d organized the party and hadn’t come downstairs since 9:30.  And I never, ever hosted another party during the entire time I was at college.  And George left to work for an environmental organization, eventually.