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.”
“Raymond Euripides Trevitt,” I yelled back, bowing. “And the pleasure is mine.”
So the next afternoon we went to the beach. It was cool, but we went anyway, which was a good thing, since we were the only people down there. We chatted awhile, lying next to each other on the sand, Harriet apologizing for the way she looked, as she had to borrow the bathing suit and it was too big. I told her I wouldn’t hold it against her and she went zipping off into the water, horsing around at first, splashing, getting used to it, then swimming out. She was a good swimmer and she went on until her head was practically out of sight. Then she turned back.
“Come on,” she said, when she got to shore.
“Later,” I told her.
“Now,” she told me, starting to throw sand in my direction. Which got no results so she ran back in the Lake and kicked water at me, but she wasn’t too accurate. Finally, she bent over, scooping it out with her hands, me rolling around on the sand, laughing, trying to dodge. She bent all the way over, scooping the water, giggling, and right then her bathing suit slipped a little but enough, so that when she stood up, her twillies were showing.
“Hey,” I yelled, almost hysterical. “You’re cross-eyed.”
“What?” she said, not understanding, trying to smile.
I pointed. “You’re cross-eyed,” I said again.
At which she sort of looked down. And when she saw she gasped, blushed, threw her arms across herself, broke out crying, and tore off to hide behind a sand mound at the back of the beach.
I waited a couple of minutes, then sauntered up atop the sand mound and looked down at her.
“Hi, Harriet,” I said. “What’s new?”
“Go away,” she said.
I sat next to her. “Don’t be a baby,” I said. “And please. Don’t start crying again.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“Why did you have to cry in the first place?”
She looked at me awhile. “Because I’m a lady, goddam it. That’s why.”
“I believe it,” I told her.
Shivering, she threw her arms around me. “And yesterday,” she whispered. “Yesterday. I was following you.”
“I believe that too,” I said, holding her tight.
The minute I got home I sat down and dashed off a note to Zock. “Have found a nice girl and am settling down,” it said. That was all.
A week later I got his answer, which is the only letter I ever received from him. It went like this:
Euripides:
Harvard is a wonderful place. I use wonderful in the old sense. Let me explain. Everyone here is smart and a number are more than that. As you walk to class, you can almost feel all those minds generating full blast behind all those horn-rimmed glasses. Perhaps we should have our I.Q.’s tattooed on our foreheads. Then, instead of saying, “Good morning,” we could just point and say, “162. What’s yours?” It would relieve a lot of tension.
Courses thus far are bearable, but Bunny is already behind, so I have time to myself. Most of it has been spent touring the streets of Boston, which is a strange city, full of age and tradition almost thick enough to eat.
And so to bed. Toodle-oo.
Zock
And if Harriet wasn’t all that Zock said, she didn’t miss by much, being without doubt the finest girl with whom I have ever come in contact. Much smarter than I was, she tried not to show it, which was considerate, but impossible. Like Zock, she had been the best student in her high-school class, and why she chose to come to Athens, I’ll never know. She had a million interests, being president of her dorm and already having made a big splash at The Athenian, the college literary magazine. Also, she was an actress, a good one, as I later found out. But while we went together she threw all that away in the hope of bringing me in line. She forced me into going back to chemistry, which I did, although it was useless and I knew it at the time. She dragged me off to the library every day to study, which I also did, although that was useless too, and we both knew it. She was wonderful, Harriet was, sweet, gentle, and kind, with, to quote Mrs. Crowe, a heart as big as all outdoors. We went together that semester and for the first month or so of the next. Zock came back at Christmas, but they never met, since she was home in Rhode Island visiting her father who sold insurance and I guess did all right. I was sorry for that, because the two of them would have got on so well, Harriet and Zock.
At the end of the first semester, Professor O’Brien flunked me in chemistry, something for which I bear no grudge, as I well deserved it. The rest of my grades being less than average, I was put on probation, which was also fair and which I expected from the first day of school. This humiliated my father, I suppose, assuming that he cared enough, which I doubt, for he never once mentioned it to me.
Right after the start of the second semester, Harriet tried out for a big part in the spring play, a sad one called Uncle Vanya by Chekhov. Naturally, she won it and soon was spending much time in rehearsal. To this day she probably thinks that had a lot to do with our breaking up. But it didn’t. We actually broke up the first time I ever laid eyes on Annabelle, who had transferred into Athens from some junior college up East. Because once I saw her, then everything else just had to follow.
It is very hard to describe Annabelle. As far as looks are concerned, she ranked right up at the top of the list, having long black hair, slanting green eyes, and without a doubt the greatest body in the world. She always wore make-up, but she wore it well. She never laughed much and her smile was slight, being just a quick turn up at the edges of her mouth.
Another thing that should be mentioned about Annabelle is this: she was crazy. I don’t mean strange and I don’t mean troubled. I mean crazy. Nuts. She had a nervous breakdown at the age of fourteen, which is pretty fast work in anyone’s league. For two years after that she saw a psychiatrist three times a week, and why she stopped, I’ll never know. Because if ever a girl needed one, it was her. As a kid, she was afraid to call up her own house when she was out, for fear that she might answer. She sort of smiled when she told me that, as if it was all a thing of the past and now she was Miss-Stability-in-the-Flesh. But later, when I thought about it, I realized I’d never seen her once use the phone.
All this and more I knew about her at the time. I walked into what happened with my eyes open, so I haven’t got anyone to blame. No matter how hard I try to twist the facts, the fault always comes back and points straight at me.
My first contact with her, if you can call it that, was one afternoon in the Open Shelf room of the library. That was where we always studied, Harriet and me, it being a big place with two round tables, all the bestsellers, and usually some townspeople. I arrived on schedule to meet Harriet, who was to come later, being in rehearsal. It was our usual procedure, her arriving a little after me, then quizzing me on the work I was supposed to have done in her absence.
I clumped in and sprawled at the first table, dropping my books with a crash, also a procedure, for it rattled Miss Blaul, the librarian in charge. She glanced over, gave me the usual dirty look and I smiled right back at her, showing all my teeth. In her own way she was O.K., Miss Blaul, wacky of course, but all librarians get like that after a while. She’d known me for years, since the days when I wailed outside her window at night to scare her, and also my family, especially my mother, who devoured bestsellers as fast as they became one. I looked around the room and, seeing no one of interest, I opened a book, cracked the binding, and began to read.
Right then Annabelle came in.
Wearing a black cashmere sweater, open at the throat, a strand of pearls around her neck. She walked very stiff and fast, carrying a book in one hand, sitting down erect in a chair at the other table. I watched her as she walked, and when she sat down I watched her too, just stared at her, trying to think of some way to make an introduction.
It was after a few minutes, with me getting nowhere, that she stood up and left the room. Once she was gone, I quick dashed over, grabbed her book, checked the title and ran to Miss Blaul.
“Gimme Remembrances of Things Past, by Proust,” I said.
At which Miss Blaul started laughing.
“Please,” I said, half whispering. “I’m in a hurry.”
“You won’t like it, Raymond,” she told me, giggling away. “But why don’t you try this?” She pulled out a book. “It’s called Murder on the Mesa and I just know—”
“Miss Blaul,” I interrupted. “Get me that book.” Still laughing, she walked to one corner of the room, searched around a second, picked it out, came back and handed it to me.
“Let me know how you like it,” she said. “I can hardly wait.”
“Very funny,” I muttered, filling out the card, sailing it back at her. I took the book and sat down at the table where Annabelle had been. I opened it, cracked the binding, put my head about six inches from the print, and waited.
She returned, walking very fast, with quick, sharp movements, sat in the chair again, starting to read, never once looking in my direction. I fiddled around some and then, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I cleared my throat.
“Pardon me,” I said, “but is that Proust you’re reading?”
Startled, she stared in my direction. But not at me. Over my shoulder. She nodded. Once. That was all.
“It’s a coincidence is why I ask,” I went on. “Because I’m reading Proust too.” I held up the book. “You know, I bet we’re the only people in the whole state of Illinois that are reading Proust right now.” This time she didn’t even look up. I should have stopped then, since it was pretty obvious she wasn’t being swept off her feet. But I kept on. “Do you like Proust?” I asked her.
She shrugged and went on reading.
“Do you like Athens?” I said, game to the core. “You’re new this semester, aren’t you? Do you like it much? Some do. Some don’t. I don’t. It’s probably the worst college I’ve ever been to. Of course”—and I forced a laugh—“it’s the only college I’ve ever been to, which puts me in a position to talk. I mean, if the whole place floated away one morning, I wouldn’t shed a tear.” I stopped to catch my breath and looked at her. On her face was one of those “Well, it’s time I got out of here” expressions.
“Matter of fact,” I hurried, “I don’t care much for Proust either. Matter of fact, I don’t like him at all. Not this book, anyway. I don’t like Remembrances of Things Past one bit.” She began sitting up. “Of course, some of his other books. Those are fine. I like some of them a lot.”
“He never wrote any other books,” Anna
belle said, talking for the first time. And with that, she grabbed old Proust and whizzed on out of the Open Shelf room, leaving me there, shaking my head.
“Hooray for our sex,” I heard somebody say, and turning, I saw Harriet sitting at the other table, laughing.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her.
“Just watching a seduction,” was her answer. “Shall I tell you about it? It seems there was this boy...”
“How long you been here?” I interrupted.
“And he said to this girl: ‘Pardon me, but is that Proust you’re reading?’ ”
“The whole thing, Harriet. You saw the whole thing.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I got up and walked over to Miss Blaul. “Here,” I told her, handing her the book. “It stinks.”
“I knew you’d like it,” she said.
I went back to Harriet. “Come on,” I told her. “I’ll buy you some coffee.”
“You know,” she whispered, making her low voice even lower, “we’re probably the only people in the whole state of Illinois that are going for coffee right now.” She started laughing again. “Honestly. I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. ‘Pardon me, but is that Proust you’re reading?’ ”
“Not too good?”
“Awful, Euripides. Just terrible.” She sighed. “But I’ll give you credit for one thing. She is beautiful.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “But you should have seen Sadie Griffin.” Then we left the library and headed downtown for coffee, Harriet giggling every step of the way.
Two afternoons later we were in Harold’s when Annabelle came in and sat down by herself.
“There’s your pen pal,” Harriet said.
“Who?” I asked, all innocence. “Where?”
“How would you like to waltz right over and apologize to her?”
The Temple of Gold Page 9