by Peter Gent
As soon as I opened my car door, I saw that the glove compartment had been rifled. I quickly looked in. Nothing seemed to be missing. I placed the new baggie next to my last two joints and closed the glove box.
I started the Buick, pushed a tape into the deck, pulled into the street, and steered indirectly toward Rock City. I turned off Mockingbird onto Airline Road and wound my way through the sprawling campus of Southern Methodist University. Lovely rich girls in Levi’s, long hair, and moccasins, strolled purposefully across the wide lawns that divided the military-looking brick dormitories. Young bursting women, looking riper and naturally more beautiful than anything I could remember at 1960 Michigan State. I would never have believed it could seem so long ago; the old times and faces flashed yellowed through my memory.
But she came clearly back to mind. Her madras pleated skirt, white tennis shoes, and blue cardigan sweater thrown casually over her shoulders. A white round-collared blouse that often wrinkled open to reveal a small, firm breast tightly guarded by a stiff white 32B. She had dressed exactly like every other girl in the Kappa Kappa Gamma house. I loved her for her consistency.
I took great confidence from her exactness and conformity and began to dress myself in a blue blazer, gray slacks, and white Keds.
My outfit lacked the fraternity patch and it concerned her that I never resembled an intense Greek quite as much as I looked like a refugee from the big-band era.
I never joined a fraternity; I once pledged but refused to go through Hell Week. It seemed senseless to let accounting majors from Detroit or aspiring coaches from Kalamazoo perform comradely perversities on me just so I could live in a dirty little room in the bowels of a twenty-room house full of people I barely knew.
The act of pledging had given me a Big Brother, who was responsible for my emotional and physical development into a full-fledged Sigma Chi. He called every night during Hell Week and pleaded with me to come join in the fun. I refused politely, more out of laziness than conviction. I was touched by the man’s desire to have me as a lifelong fraternal friend and felt considerable guilt over “all the great contacts” I was going to miss.
A week later, I was in the center of the student union grill, sitting in the green circular booth reserved for athletes of distinction, when Big Brother, along with several other Sigma Chis and their dates, entered and took a booth in the Greek section at the opposite side of the cafeteria. I was delighted to have a chance to say hello and quickly excused myself from two black sprinters and a strangely deformed hockey player. I ambled across the crowded room in the half-limp, half-stumble perfected by college letter winners.
They all turned and watched my approach. The girls were dressed in madras skirts, white round-collared blouses, tennis shoes, and blue cardigan sweaters. I walked up and extended my hand to Big Brother, who was sitting inside next to a pretty girl. Before I could speak, he lunged past the girl, his hands clawing for my throat. I stepped back and pushed his hands away. He kept coming, swinging his fists wildly at my face.
It wasn’t much of a fight, the tiny Sigma Chi stood barely five feet six inches off the ground. He had to jump to try and land a blow above my shoulders. I held my arms in front of me and just let the blows rain off my chest and forearms. I was shocked and thoroughly embarrassed. I thought about getting mad but didn’t know how, or why.
Finally the infuriated man fell to his knees.
“You son of a bitch,” he sobbed. “I was the only man in the house with a depledge.”
I tried to tell the man it wasn’t his fault and also explain it wasn’t my fault, all the time wondering whose fault it was.
Now, crazed on mescaline, driving across another college campus twelve hundred miles and several light-years removed, I was beginning to understand. If a man is lonely enough, he will eat raw eggs, carry olives in his asshole, and let homosexual history majors from Flint beat his butt bloody with a paddle. He does it all in the belief that with the new morning they will have learned to love him by brutalizing him.
But when the ritualized humiliation ends, how can he admit to himself that it had no meaning and he is still alone, only momentarily distracted from the fear and loneliness and hatred that consumes us all?
Three girls passed in front of my Riviera and crossed the street to the art center. The girls were dressed, properly shabby, in Levi’s and work shirts. One, a pretty blonde, wore wire-rimmed glasses. They all had long straight hair that showed signs of bleaching at a point down their backs maybe two years ago.
I stared down the hood as they passed, the mescaline playing tricks with their faces. The girl in the wire rims looked into the car. I smiled into the eyes behind the glasses. Instinctively she turned back to her companions, offended that I would try to join her, even for an instant, a stranger uninvited.
I wondered if I had been younger, and driving a Volkswagen that towed a motorcycle: then would she have waved? It was hard to admit that I was passing to the back side of the generation gap and the future belonged to those people who called me mister. But I knew I would never try to join anything again, even youth.
I reached Lovers Lane and turned east, passing the house my wife and I occupied during our brief and stormy life together. Blind luck and laziness had saved me from Sigma Chi, but raw passion drew me to the Kappa parking lot and the steamy back seat of her car. Not long after we had moved into the house I came home early from a twenty-five-dollar speaking engagement and found her on the living room couch hidden beneath the naked mass of Jo Bob Williams. It was the only nice feeling I held for Jo Bob—he supplied the inescapable reason for ending the marriage.
The ensuing divorce proceedings were quite sticky, Jo Bob apparently only one of several teammates, mostly married, who had streamed through my house. A lopsided settlement leaving me broke and deeply in debt headed off a jury trial and Clinton Foote’s plan to trade me to Los Angeles before my court hearing exploded the always uneasy family situations of a good part of his team.
Later, I came to suspect even Maxwell, but I avoided the subject, as further repercussions would send me at least to Los Angeles and very possibly to Pittsburgh. She told the court I was a homosexual. I probably am, nothing would surprise me anymore.
The first rushes of the mescaline had smoothed out and I was sitting in the car watching the landscape zoom by when I suddenly realized Rock City was approaching me from the north. I had no idea how I had gotten there.
The marquee advertised Little Richard, currently promoted as “The Redman of Rock.” If it were true, Wounded Knee was more disastrous than currently believed.
“They’re inside, Mr. Elliott.” A black man held the outer door for me. I stepped into the foyer.
A large man with slick black hair and flaccid white skin swung his arms wide open in a grand gesture of embrace. A flesh-colored Band-Aid did a poor job of covering a huge boil on his chin.
“Phil—Phil baby.” He moved toward me. “Tony ...” he continued. “Tony Perelli. I met you in Vegas... . I’m the maitre d’ here.”
I flinched and shrank back. I tried to smile but only one side of my face responded.
“They’re all inside,” he said, grabbing my hand and pumping it furiously. “How many points you givin’ against New York?”
I pulled my hand free, still smiling lopsidedly, and moved past him through the double doors into the dark.
“How many ...” His voice trailed after me.
The show hadn’t started yet. The stage and house lights were off, and except for candles flickering on tables, the darkness was impenetrable. I recognized some laughter down close to the small raised stage and moved toward it. Shortly, I sat down next to Andy Crawford and his “Sock it to ’em” sweetheart, Susan Brinkerman.
The other faces at the table were familiar. Claridge and a redheaded Texas International stewardess named Fran that he dated often. John Wilson, the safety, had left his wife and kids at home and was in the company of a pumpkin-headed girl who resembled the class
ic Texas cocktail waitress. The black running back Thomas Richardson and his girl, the one who so horrified Donna Mae Jones at Casa Dominguez; and Sledge, the black rookie with the intimidatingly large penis. Steve Peterson, the stockbroker Jo Bob had harassed so unmercifully at Andy’s party, was at the far end of the table flanked by two very pretty girls. I just smiled, lowered my eyes, and didn’t say a word until the excitement and confusion of my entrance faded.
I leaned back in my chair and tried to comprehend what was going on at this particular table out of all the other nightclub tables in time and space. Most of the female faces around the table, with the exception of Richardson’s blonde girlfriend, registered varying amounts of fear. Claridge was obviously on the pills, his spasmodic movements and insane chatter seemed almost manic; in addition, he was drinking heavily. Andy appeared irrevocably drunk, while Susan kept glancing nervously at him from the corners of her eyes. Peterson just seemed crazy.
Richardson and his girl and Sledge huddled together and observed the group with an amused awe. Sledge’s mouth hung slightly open.
“Drink for my friends.” Claridge was on his feet screaming toward the bar. “And water for their horses.” A waitress hurried to the table to take orders. I asked for a Coke.
“A Coke? A Coke?” Claridge yelled at me. A grin broke across his face. He pointed at me and looked at the other faces around the table. “This guy is doin’ dope—dope—do you understand? He’s crazed.”
I squirmed down in my seat.
“Look out.” Claridge dove under the table. “He’s got an ax. He’s a ritual killer.” The sound of his voice from under the table seemed incredibly funny and I broke into a giggle. Everyone at the table looked horrified.
Fortunately the stage lights came up and an anonymous Texas twang announced, “Rock and roll’s only full-blooded Blackfoot, Little Richard.” To the sound of “Good Golly, Miss Molly” the tiny curtain zipped open and behind a solid-white baby grand piano sat Harlem’s Hiawatha. He was magnificent, dressed in a beaded white buckskin suit with twelve-inch fringe. He wore a leather headband and a solitary feather. His eyes and lips were outlined with eyebrow pencil, grotesquely exaggerating his facial expressions.
Claridge peeked over the top of the table at the stage. He moved his eyes back and forth surveying the assembly of friends. Suddenly, he leaped to his feet and broke into a long high-pitched howl that first startled, then flattered the grinning singer.
Little Richard drew his face into an eye-rolling grin and waved limply at Claridge, who howled again. Everyone, with the exception of Fran, Claridge’s date, laughed. Fran slid down in her seat and tugged at Claridge’s sleeve.
Little Richard was starting into a new arrangement of an old Hank Williams song when the double doors opened, admitting Bob Beaudreau and Charlotte Ann Caulder. My eyes followed them to a small table in the back. I watched her for several minutes before my brain waves overwhelmed her. I could see her eyes clearly across the dark expanse as she looked at me and smiled.
Little Richard finished the set. Everyone at the table screamed, stomped, and whistled while Claridge kept up a piercing howl. As soon as the curtain closed, Steve Peterson abandoned the two girls at the table end and moved next to Claridge. Draping his stubby arm over Alan’s shoulder, he began whispering in his ear. While they huddled, Crawford ordered another round of drinks and began to suck on his little finger. When his finger was sufficiently soaked, Crawford held it up and inspected the saliva dripping down, then leaned across the table and shoved it into Peterson’s ear.
“Wet Willy,” Crawford cried. He and Claridge both broke into cackling laughs. The women all seemed disgusted by the spittle running out of Peterson’s ear. Peterson seemed disgusted too.
“Goddammit, Andy,” Peterson yelled, flinching away. He quickly yanked out his shirttail and dug into the violated ear. “Don’t do that.” He appeared ready to cry.
Richardson, his date, and Sledge got up, said they were going to a club in south Dallas and quickly left. “Wet Willy,” Claridge screamed gleefully as his spit-soaked finger seemed to penetrate at least to Crawford’s midbrain.
Crawford had been turned talking to someone at the table behind him, and he vainly tried to turn away from the invasion. In the process he spilled his drink all over his date, Susan Brinkerman.
“Ooh.” Susan jumped up and brushed off her skirt. “Andy, look what you’ve done.”
“Fuck it.” Crawford tilted his head and screwed a finger into the canal, wiping out the saliva. His face was strangely contorted.
“What did you say?” she asked, her eyes wide and her voice trembling.
“I said,” he pronounced the words slowly, carefully forming each with his lips; he looked directly into her face, “fuck it.”
She jumped slightly as the words hit her in the forehead.
“... and ...” he continued, leaning closer to her twitching face, “... fuck you too.”
A short cry escaped through her nose. She had her hand clamped tightly across her mouth. The daughter of a well-to-do Dallas family and last year’s Southern Methodist Homecoming Queen, Susan just wasn’t ready for unbridled insanity. She turned to run out, but Crawford’s thick fingers closed on the back of her neck, caught her in midstride, and yanked her back to her seat.
Susan sat down meekly, her head down and her eyes tightly closed. Crawford’s fingers were still digging into the cords of her neck. She seemed in great pain but remained silent. As soon as Andy released his grip, she doubled up and began to sob.
Poor Susan, I thought, she finally got to see Andy “Sock it to ’em.”
I waited for somebody to console the sobbing girl. Nobody moved.
Claridge raised his empty glass and began to howl, Crawford raised his glass in response.
“Fucking cunts,” Claridge screamed. They both laughed.
The waitress arrived with more drinks, and everyone, except the quietly whimpering girl and me, continued as if nothing had happened. I frowned and slumped in my chair, saddened by the inconsolable girl caught in her own time warp.
As I pushed up from my chair, I noticed Crawford had his finger in his mouth and was eyeing Claridge. I didn’t even break stride when the commotion behind me signaled the third, but by no means the last, Wet Willy of the evening.
The table Charlotte Caulder shared with Beaudreau was against the wall. There was an extra chair on the aisle; I turned it around and straddled it, my arms resting on the back. Beaudreau was delighted.
“Hey Phil, how’s ever’ lattle thang?” His fat face lighted up.
“Fine, thanks,” I said calmly, not betraying the tricks the mescaline played with his face.
“Honey,” Beaudreau said, gesturing toward me with his open hand, “this here’s Phil Evans.”
“Elliott.” I raised two fingers and waved. “Elliott.”
“Huh?” He was startled. “Oh yeah. What am I thinkin’—Phil Elliott, he plays football.”
Charlotte smiled slightly. “We’ve met.”
“We were wondering if you all might join our party?” I lied, gesturing toward the increasing confusion in front of the stage.
“Great idea.” Beaudreau scooped up his drink and was out of his chair in one movement. “I been wantin’ to talk to ol’ Andy about this letter stock I got.” He started toward the front, hesitated and turned back to Charlotte. “You comin’?”
“I’ll be along.”
“Yeah ... yeah,” I said. “I’ll bring her.”
“All right.” He headed toward the stage. His coat swung open and I glimpsed the blue flash of a revolver stuck in the waistband of his red Sansabelt slacks.
“Why do you date that creep?” I knew my eyes were shiny from the mescaline.
“You’re hardly in the company of the royal family.” Her expression remained unchanged.
“I know. I know.” I watched Beaudreau being greeted. “But at least they’re unarmed. Does he have a permit to carry that gun?”
&
nbsp; “Yes. His father’s a big financial backer of the sheriff. The sheriff made Bob a deputy.”
A burst of laughter and the sounds of breaking glass came from the table.
“What’s going on?”
“Wet Willy.”
“What?”
“Wet Willy,” I explained. “They lick their fingers and stick ’em in each other’s ears. It’s a test. Not unlike jousting.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth in a mock expression of vomiting.
“Puke,” was all she said.
“Twentieth-century man,” I said, shrugging.
I looked up from the ash tray I was spinning, directly into her eyes. Ever so slight movements at the corners betrayed an ambivalence toward me.
“Are you afraid of me?” I asked, continuing to watch her eyes for clues.
“No,” she said quickly. Her eyes couldn’t agree and she dropped them from my gaze. There was an uneasy pause. Finally she began again.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “You’ll think this is silly.” Her eyes came up to meet mine. “But I’ve had this strange feeling ever since I first saw you.”
“At Andy’s party?”
“No, no, long before that—over six months ago—in here.”
My mind raced backward, but as usual I could barely remember this morning. I needed a clue.
“You were with Janet Simons,” she continued. “Chuck Berry was here and you were on crutches.”
Janet Simons came flooding back with painful clarity. I turned my eyes back to the ash tray and unconsciously spoke out loud.
“She was a Lesbian.” The sound of my voice surprised me.
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, why didn’t somebody tell me? I thought she was having her period for six weeks.
“What a scene that was,” I added. “If I hadn’t been in a cast, I think she would have kicked the livin’ shit outta me. I never knew whether it was sympathy or fear that I’d beat her with the crutches.” I laughed again and then fell silent. There was another long expectant pause.