Why Won’t You Tell Me Why

When I was younger, I was covertly sleeping with the girl that my best friend loved.

His name was Mark and at night, there’d be a group of us in the dorms, watching Letterman or Apocalypse Now or Italian porn, and around midnight I would head out of the room, out the back parking lot, over the stream, and into the darkened golf course. I figured they’d assume I went back to my room and went to sleep. I figured no one would really pick up that I was not getting back until around dawn.

When the guys started referring to me as The Boy Wonder, I figured it was because I had a Robin figure on my desk and did not really question it.

It turned out that I had gotten the nickname because my roommate thought that I was sleeping with my best friend, and that’s why I wasn’t getting in until dawn.

He questioned Mark about it, and after Mark told him that we weren’t sleeping together, they started to wonder where I was spending the night. If not in Mark’s room, and not in my room, then where?

‘I wonder about that boy,’ my roommate said.

‘He’s The Boy Wonder,’ Mark said.

Even after all the other cats were out of the bag, that nickname stuck.

Part ten of Nashville:

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