The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold

by William Goldman

  But what I do want to talk about now is college, and Zock’s departure to it. He wanted to go to Harvard, so, naturally, they accepted him. Since not only was he a great guy but was also the number-one student in our class, going through the entire four years without getting anything lower than an A.

  College was never a real problem for me, as there wasn’t any doubt but that I would go to Athens. There were reasons, many of them financial. But mainly it was because my grades were not very good, being low Cs, those of a gentleman. To tell the truth, I’m lucky I got accepted anywhere, as none of my teachers were for me. And probably Athens would have given me the thumbs-down too, had it not been for my father being such a big deal, not to mention America’s leading etc., etc., etc. So Athens it was, and there an end.

  The night before Zock left for Harvard, we doubled-dated for the last time. He was with Bunny, naturally, which irritated me, seeing as it wasn’t a tragic parting, what with her leaving for Wellesley in three days. And so, probably for spite, I took out Marjorie Bluestone, a college freshman at Athens who did the trick. She was sort of a slob, Marjorie was, with absolutely nothing else to recommend her, but still, I had been keeping company with her, off and on, for some time.

  We went to the Palace, strictly for old times’ sake, the three of us and Marjorie, who thought it was corny. We danced a little, then drove out in separate cars to the Crib, a little bar some miles from town.

  As I said, I was pretty peeved to start with. And Marjorie didn’t help things any, for she kept gassing on about sociology, her way of showing that she was in college while we, as yet, were not. Every time Zock or Bunny said anything, Marjorie jumped right in and put her foot in her mouth, which probably accounts for the peculiar shape it had.

  Finally, I told her. “Why don’t you shut up,” I said.

  She laughed, thinking I was kidding.

  “I mean it,” I said. “Shut up.”

  So she did. Which only made things worse. We sat around drinking beer, not talking. The jukebox there played nothing but loud brassy saxophone music, and right then it was going full blast. I began getting itchy. Zock, too.

  “I think maybe Bunny and I will move on,” he said.

  “What’s the matter? We bore you?”

  “Intensely,” he answered.

  “Run along then,” I told him. They got up. “See you at Christmas,” I called.

  Zock turned. “Fine,” he said. Nodding once to Marjorie, he took off.

  “Thank God,” Marjorie said, the minute they were gone. “Where did you dig them up from? I’ve never seen such rude, unpleasant people.”

  “Take a look in the mirror,” I told her. “You’re no rose.”

  Naturally, being drunk, she started to cry. Sniffles at first, then the real thing, with tears running down her face, streaking her make-up.

  “Cut it,” I said. “Cut it out right now or we go home.”

  And with that, she started. I was Cruel, she said. And Heartless. And Totally Without Understanding. Not to mention Sympathy. Her voice got louder and louder and people turned to watch as she pointed at me with a stubby finger.

  “Let’s go,” I said, grabbing her by the arm. “I told you once and once is plenty.” I pulled her outside, shoved her in the car, and began the drive home.

  As we passed Half Day Bridge, she reached over, switched off the ignition, grabbed the key, opened the door, and stepped out.

  “Marjorie,” I said. “Cut the act and give me the key.”

  “Make me,” she said, half laughing, half crying. “Make me. Come on, you son of a bitch. Come on.”

  So I got out of the car and started wrestling with her. She bit me and clawed and the next thing I knew, there we were, half naked, sprawled on the warm, muddy ground. Which was, I figured, just a perfect way to end a perfect evening.

  Afterward I drove her back, said good night from the car, and went home to bed.

  But not to sleep. Tossing, turning, swearing out loud, I lay there watching the clock. Then, about three, I threw on some clothes and went over to Zock’s house. I hit his window with a couple of pebbles and right away he was there, looking down.

  “That you?”

  “The same,” I answered.

  “What’s up, Ripper?”

  “Nothing. I just thought we might take a drive. Or a walk. It’s nice out.”

  “Be right down,” he said, and a minute later, he was. “Well,” he asked. “Walk or drive?”

  “Walk,” I said, and he headed for the beach.

  “That Marjorie’s a fine girl,” he began. “You’ve really got something there.”

  “I know it,” I told him. “I already married her in secret. For fear she might get away.”

  “Good move,” Zock said. And then: “Did you?”

  I nodded. “In the mud near Half Day Bridge.”

  “Why?” Zock asked.

  Which stumped me. “I don’t know. Why not?”

  “I guess you must be state champion by now,” he said. “Why don’t you retire and rest on your laurels?”

  “Gee, thanks,” I told him. “I wanted to ask you for advice only I was too shy to come right out with it.”

  “Free,” Zock said. “Tonight everything’s for free.”

  “Just don’t tell me to find a nice girl and settle down. Please.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “But why don’t you find yourself a nice girl and settle down?”

  I didn’t bother to answer because by then we were on the beach, walking slow along the sand. It was a beautiful night, with just a sliver of moon shining down on the smooth top of Lake Michigan. Way off in the east you could almost feel the sun, stretching, about to make its move. Peaceful. That’s probably as good a word as any. With everything exactly right in place, right where it ought to be. And you just knew, as sure as God made green apples, that nothing wrong was ever going to happen; that come flood or war or famine or anything else, we were going to make it, Zock and me; come what may, we were going to live forever.

  So we walked along, not speaking but just walking quiet on the sand, under that sliver of moon. We walked for miles, hours, never once saying a word. Because right then, we didn’t have to. We knew all there was to know; ourselves, the world, each other, everything. Then, before dawn, we sacked out on the beach, like we had done that night in Chicago years ago. And, as I was slipping away, all I heard was the slap, slap, slap of the waves against the shore. ...

  Those hours are the happiest I have ever had in all my life. And they are mine. Mine alone, now. And I don’t give a shit what anybody says or what anybody thinks or what anybody does. Nothing, nothing in this world is ever going to take them away from me. ...

  We woke in the early morning and made our way home, jabbering like jaybirds. Throwing stones, joking, wrestling, singing, jumping around in the sand as if we were crazy. We were pretty tired when we got to Zock’s house, but we kept right on horsing, standing there in the middle of the yard.

  “So they’re actually letting you into Athens,” Zock said.

  “In three days I start. They had to accept me. Because, and this may come as a surprise to you, my old man happens to be America’s leading expert on Euripides.”

  “Do tell,” Zock said. “Now I wonder who is America’s second leading expert on Euripides? Just think of him. ‘Here I am,’ he probably says to himself each morning over tea. America’s second leading expert on Euripides. Now, when is that lousy Trevitt going to die?”

  “A sad tale,” I said.

  “Tragic,” Zock nodded. Then we were both quiet.

  “Well, Zocker,” I said, belting him one on the arm. “Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

  “My mother has already warned me.”

  “And stay loose.”

  “I shall,” he said. “I shall endeavor to try.”

  “Do endeavor so,” I said, imitating him.

  We shook hands. “Good-by,” I said. “Good-by, Euripides.”

 
“Good-by.”

  But neither of us moved.

  “I hear you’re an absolute angel,” I said finally.

  “I hear you’re not,” he said.

  Then we both ran.

  The College

  THE TOWN OF ATHENS is separated from the college by Patriot’s Square, which is so called because of two students, Mark Dawes and Philip Morgan, who left during the Civil War and got blown up by mistake on their way to Shiloh. The town itself lies along Lake Michigan, with the college stretching inland for a couple of miles. Most of the school buildings face onto the square, and behind them the college owns a few hundred acres of woods and swamp that they have been trying to raise money to fix up ever since I can remember. It is a sort of constant battle between the two, the college and the swamp, to see which is going to swallow up the other.

  If you believed the brochures, you would probably think that as far as beauty is concerned, right after the Taj Mahal comes Athens College. This is not true. For it is an ugly school, being made up almost entirely of buildings that are eyesores and which they would like to tear down, except they haven’t got the money. If it wasn’t for Elias P. Farmer, plus a few graduates who were lucky enough to make good, it is my opinion that the swamp would have won out long ago. But instead of admitting that their school is ugly, the old graduates speak of it as being “quaint.” Talk to anyone who ever went to Athens and that word is sure to pop up. Quaint. And more than that, they’ll tell you they like it the way it is and wouldn’t change it for the world. Because Athens is a school that is strong on tradition.

  There is, naturally, Patriot’s Square. And Kissing Rock. And the Ancient Oak, a huge tree which Elmer Houston, a legendary goofball, tried valiantly to poison in the spring of 1927. Plus about half a dozen other places that the mere mention of makes old graduates misty-eyed. Athens was founded by missionaries, and their spirit still hangs over the place like a rain cloud. The girls are mostly muscular and unattractive but interested in “things”; the boys are pipe-smokers who love to sit around and gas about what’s happened to the Monroe Doctrine. Social life at Athens is based on talk, since there isn’t much else you can do. It is one of those co-educational-white-Protestant-no-drinking-no-driving-no-swearing-no-especially-not-THAT-schools where mothers can send their kiddies in complete confidence that nothing awful is ever going to happen.

  And if my memories of Athens do not center on Kissing Rock, a name I really hate, this is not to say that I don’t have my memories too. The greased pole I remember. And of course the two girls, Harriet and Annabelle. And most of all what happened that beautiful night on Half Day Bridge. But none of these have much to do with the college itself, which is as it ought to be, I suppose, for I was never much of a part of it.

  I knew that, the first day of school, as I walked from my house to classes. I could almost feel myself moving from the one world, the town’s, to the other, ruled by the college. And as I walked I guess I realized that even though I was a member of both, I really didn’t belong to either of them.

  But being the only town boy in the freshman class, as well as the son of a famous professor, I was something of a curiosity. Many were nice to me, out-of-their-way nice, for people, as I have already noted, like to show they are open-minded, particularly when such is not the case. So the first days went pleasantly enough, if you don’t count the classes, which I disliked, especially chemistry with Professor O’Brien, whose wife had helped me bury Baxter in the ravine that day years before.

  The second week at Athens is officially known as Frosh-Soph Week. There is a good deal of harassing that goes on, one class against the other, all designed to forge school spirit, which is ridiculous. But naturally, during that week, I was outstanding. I managed to black the eye of the sophomore class president during a scuffle in Patriot’s Square; I threw three dozen firecrackers into the biggest sophomore dorm, not once getting caught and keeping most everyone awake all night long. And I climaxed it on Friday afternoon on the football field, during the climbing of the greased pole.

  There were hundreds of people out there that day, faculty and students, sitting in the grandstand. Probably more than half the school, all of them cheering, waving banners. In the very center of the field was the greased pole, stuck solid in the ground. And ringed around it were about fifty sophomore boys wearing khakis or jeans and T shirts, waiting. We were in a bigger circle around them, also waiting, looking up every so often to the top of the pole where there was set a blue beanie, the object of it all. If a freshman got to that blue beanie, then they won; if the sophomores kept anyone from climbing, they carried the day. Old Man Higgins, the football coach, came out and gave us a brief talk on sportsmanship, by which he meant: “No eye-gouging, boys, and keep your knees where they ought to be.” Then he stepped back, took a last look around, and shouted: “Go get it!”

  Everybody charged, and immediately there were fifty small fights going on, people scuffling, shoving, rolling on the ground, while those in the stands blew horns, whistled, and cheered like mad. Boys were getting thrown all over, this way and that, and I watched them, hanging back, waiting until I saw my chance.

  Finally it came.

  After about five minutes when they all were tired from the wrestling, the action began to ease up, like a camera suddenly switched to slow motion. Right then I saw it, a path, leading straight to the greased pole.

  I tore along that path yelling like a maniac, spilling people right and left and then there I was, by the pole, alone. I jumped up as high as I could. It was slippery, but I held on, digging in with my fingers, kicking down at the hands trying to grab me. Then, after a second, I was safe, over their heads, with nothing left to do but just climb that pole right up to the top, up to that blue beanie.

  Clamping my legs around the pole, holding tight, I scraped with my hands, going an inch at a time, making my way. The crowd hushed suddenly and when I looked out all I saw was hundreds of faces, tense with excitement, staring at me. One time I slipped and the people in the stands groaned, but I cursed, caught myself, held on for dear life. By then I was really tired, so I set to work, clawing away, using my legs as a brace. And at last, with one final push, I cupped my hand over the smooth rounded top of the pole, grabbed the blue beanie and waved it high over the crowd.

  They all went wild. Shot, I slid down, holding onto that blue beanie for all I was worth, and when I got to the ground I was dazed. But still, I can’t say I minded when people began pounding me on the back, laughing like crazy. Because no one had climbed the greased pole in years, more than ten, until me. Then a bunch of boys hoisted me up atop their shoulders and carried me all the way back to the center of campus that way, shoulder high, as the poem says, with hundreds of others crowding around, waving flags, jingling cowbells, screaming. And I sat above them, covered with grease, smiling like a fool, that blue beanie perched on my head every step of the way.

  From that day on, I was the best-known freshman in the school, a distinction I maintained throughout the year. For I was the one who had done it, had climbed the greased pole, and so was a celebrity, at least as far as the students were concerned. But such, unfortunately, did not also apply to the teachers, and in a few days the glory faded and was forgotten in the rush of school work. At which, as I said, I did not excel. English was dull, history duller, and chemistry got so bad I didn’t bother going.

  And one afternoon as I cut chem lab and started across Patriot’s Square on the way to town, a girl appeared from somewhere and began following me. I walked slowly and so did she, about ten feet behind me, right through the Square into town. When I reached Harold’s Drug Store on the corner, I turned.

  “Are you following me?” I asked.

  She stopped, several feet away. “Pardon?” she said.

  “What are you following me for?”

  She came right up then and stared me in the eye. “Because I think you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread,” she answered, after which she whipped on by me into
Harold’s, where she was headed all the time.

  A little flustered, I waited for her to come out. Finally, she did, carrying some pads of paper and eating an ice-cream cone. “Hey,” I called, but she didn’t stop, so I hurried up and walked along beside her.

  “I guess you weren’t following me,” I said.

  “Oh, you’re a bright one,” she came right back. “That’s plain to see.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told her.

  “No need,” she said, not looking at me but instead licking away at her ice-cream cone. “It was a simple error. One any moron might make.”

  “Listen. I’m trying to apologize.”

  “Keep at it,” she said. “It might do you some good.”

  It went on like that all the way to her dorm. Every time I said something, she made an insult out of it. So pretty soon I stopped talking and watched her. She was little and dark and not very pretty. But she had a fine body for a small girl and a voice as deep as mine. Which was cute enough almost to make you forget that her nose was too big and her eyes too close together.

  She was about to go into her dorm when I took her by the arm and spun her around. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

  “Somehow I doubt it,” she said.

  I ignored her. “Listen. Bring a bathing suit. Tomorrow. Three. I’ll pick you up. Right here. We’ll go swimming.” She didn’t say anything. “Please,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered. “It is to laugh.” Then she dashed inside and I started walking away. I was already on the sidewalk when she stuck her head out of the parlor window.

  “Make it four.” she veiled. “And my name is Harriet.”