The New and Improved Romie Futch by Julia Elliott

rest of the BAIT crew had also spent the morning writing essays. Everybody but Al (who’d wanted to write about queer theory) had selected the same question I had, and had also erupted into angry passion over the ironic connections to our own pitiful states of subjectivity, with the exception of Irvin, who usually maintained an aura of Zen-like calm. We spent most of our lunch break rabidly discussing our essays, until Irvin rapped his plastic knife against his Coke can to silence us.
    â€œWhy’s everybody ignoring the mastodon in the room?” he said. “Big hairy son of a bitch up on its hind legs roaring. They suddenly decide to forgo the usual download schedule and fake us out with an essay test the morning after Vernon’s brain blows a fuse and he checks out of Dodge, supposedly on his own volition? WTF? Do you copy?”
    â€œRoger,” said Al. “Let’s just wait and see what they do after lunch.”
    â€œAnd tomorrow’s Sunday,” said Skeeter. “A whole ’nother day download-free.”
    â€œNo way Vernon had the competency to sign a release form,” I said.
    â€œHe’s out on the street for all we know,” said Al.
    â€œSomething’s rotten in the state of Denmark, dogs,” said Trippy, drawing a piece of sushi to his nostrils and taking a good whiff.
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    Sure enough, our postlunch sessions involved nothing but multiple-choice tests, featuring such tedious brainteasers as the following:
    Women, LGBTQ people, people of color, people with disabilities, and ________________ are often defined in binary opposition to dominant groups.
    A) Other others
    B) othered others
    C) other Others
    D) each Other’s other
    E) each other’s Other
    On and on the idiotic questioning went, entrapping me in busywork for nearly three hours before I was released—brain numbed, fingers cramped, left foot prickling with pins and needles. I stumbled down the empty hallway to the pisser. There I ran into Trippy,and we strolled toward the Nano Lounge for a quick cup of preprandial Pep.
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    It was Hawaiian night in the dining hall, 1950s exotica on the sound system, elderly cafeteria ladies wearing plastic leis and grass skirts as they dished out huli huli chicken and loco moco. The powers that be, who lacked imagination, tried to spice things up with predictable Saturday-night theme meals (like Disco Daze!), which most of us ignored. Over by the grub line, the head dietician stood grimly with an armful of plastic hibiscus garlands. Every now and then, she’d catch the eye of some ghoul-faced wretch and attempt to bedeck his neck with flowers. But most of the men steered clear of her, or else tossed their leis into the trash. They reviled the lame Muzak. They picked chunks of canned pineapple from their pre-grilled frozen chicken breasts and defiantly thumped them onto the floor.
    To our left, a table of compulsive gamblers discussed a recent cockroach race, their yet-to-be-cashed stipend checks already divvied up in an intricate array of IOUs. To our right, various druggies gathered around Big Eduardo, who supposedly had a line on some generic OC.
    â€œDespite the potency of our beloved Pep,” I said, “I wouldn’t mind a short jaunt to Ocean City—just a weekend in some swank time-share.”
    â€œWord.” Trippy sighed. “Except Big Eduardo’s punking their asses.”
    Al walked up, followed by Irvin and Skeeter. They sat down and started hacking at their leathery chicken breasts with plastic knives.
    â€œHey, Trippy,” said Skeeter, “we still on for cocktails tonight?”
    â€œSure thing. Got that cask of amontillado chilling in my wine cellar.”
    â€œHey, anybody get Percival Everett yet?” said Trippy.
    â€œ Erasure ,” I said. “Holy fucking shit. Brilliant.”
    â€œYou get Glyph too?”
    â€œYep,” I said. “Kind of a