“Trevitt,” somebody said. I snuck one eye open and saw Kelly standing there in his underwear shorts, the flab of his belly hanging over. Kelly was a big blonde kid, our platoon leader, only not because of anything he could do, but rather on account of his father, who was a colonel and a West Pointer and a hell of a great guy. I knew all that and so did everyone else, since Kelly told us about him every chance he had. His old man won the Silver Star on D day, and I think every man in the company with half a mind, about ten of us, could quote the citation by heart.
I closed my eye and tried a few snores, which wasn’t too clever, but it threw him for a while. Finally, he said my name again, and then a third time, and then he shook me.
“Trevitt,” he said. “Are you asleep?” Which should show how bright he was.
“Who wants to know?”
“Me. Kelly.”
“Don’t know you,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not Trevitt. Trevitt’s gone AWOL. I’m covering for him.”
“C’mon,” he said, all excited. “Quit kidding around.” He shook me again. Harder.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. “I could have sworn I was trying to get some sleep,” I said. “I guess I must have been mistaken.” He didn’t say anything. “I understand your old man won the Silver Star on D day,” I went on. “Is that true? That’s a story I’d really like to hear. You bet. A story like that is worth waking a man up for.” He was shaking a little so I stopped, waiting for him to say something. He did.
“I’m going to kill myself,” he said.
“You go do that,” I told him. “You couldn’t have picked a nicer day.” With that I shut my eyes again.
“I’m not kidding, Trevitt. I’m going to kill myself.”
I sat up. “What the hell are you telling me for? I’m sure not going to stop you.”
He swallowed hard. “I wanted company.”
“Sunday is God’s day,” I said. “Leave me alone.”
“I want somebody to talk to while I do it,” he explained. “I don’t want to die by myself.”
I stared at him. He wasn’t kidding. At least he thought he wasn’t kidding, which is what counts. “Kelly,” I said. “I’m your boy. Go kill yourself. But do it here.” I pointed to the next bed. “Because I’m not moving.”
“O.K.,” he muttered. “Then it’s settled. I’ll get my stuff.”
“How you going to do it?” I yelled after him.
“I’m going to cut my wrists with my bayonet,” he answered.
“Attago, Kelly,” I said. “That’s a swell way.” I lay down again, waiting. Not so long after he clomped up the stairs and came over, sitting down on the next bed. He held out his bayonet.
“Like a razor,” he said. “I spent all morning sharpening it.”
“Fine,” I told him. “You do nice work.”
“Here. Feel.”
“I believe you.” But he kept holding it out so I did what he wanted. It was sharp.
“How about that, Trevitt? Isn’t that like a razor?”
“Kelly,” I said, closing my eyes. “I only paid for the main event. Wake me up when the preliminaries are over.”
“You better watch,” he said. “ ’Cause here I go.”
He took the bayonet and, very slowly, very carefully, brought it down until the tip rested on the blue veins in his wrist. I waited. He began to exert a little pressure and the flesh of his wrist dimpled.
Then he looked at me. “I bet you wonder why I’m doing this.”
“No, Kelly,” I said. “No, I don’t.”
“I’ll tell you why.”
“Kelly, believe me. I don’t care.”
“It’s on account of my father,” he began. “On account of all my life I’ve been filled full of crap about the Army, and I’m going to be an officer someday, because he’s going to make me. And as far as I’m concerned, you can take the Army, fold it three ways, and...”
“Shove it,” I finished. “O.K. You told me. Now do it.”
“What does your father do, Trevitt?”
“He teaches Greek in a little college in Illinois,” I answered.
“There,” he said, pointing his bayonet at me. “See?” I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. “So I got a no-good bastard for a father.” What can I do about it? But this.” He gestured with his bayonet. “You tell me, Trevitt. What’s the point of living?”
I thought for a long time. “Beats the hell out of me,” I said, finally.
“Well then,” he said. “Here I go.” He began pushing the bayonet down again. I watched his face. He closed his eyes. I waited.
Then he opened his eyes. “I mean, what’s the point of living? Tell me. You’re a smart guy, Trevitt. Tell me. I’m asking you.”
“Jesus Christ, Kelly,” I exploded. “Are you going to kill yourself or aren’t you?”
“O.K.,” he muttered. “This is it.” He took a deep breath, flexed his muscles and closed his eyes. I remember how hot it was in the barracks right then. My bed was soaked with perspiration and as Kelly grabbed hard onto his bayonet, sweat ran down across his white knuckles. He pushed down on his rigid wrist, farther and farther down.
Then he screamed, “Ouch,” dropped the bayonet, and began to swear. “Goddamit, goddamit. That hurts.”
I started laughing, kicking my feet in the air. “What the hell did you expect? Of course it hurts.” He was standing up now, bleeding a little at the wrist, the blood dripping down red in a pool on the barracks floor.
“I’ll bleed to death,” he said. “What’ll I do, Trevitt?”
“Try the chaplain,” I told him. He was licking at the cut with his tongue and making faces.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, kicking his bayonet across the floor. Then he ran down the stairs and I heard the water running in the sink. I lay back and began thinking of Zock again, and the temple of gold. But the sight of Kelly standing up and yelling “ouch” kept getting in the way and I just couldn’t help laughing.
Then he was back, walking stiff and looking determined as hell.
“Hi, Kelly,” I said. “What’s new?” He didn’t answer. “You know any more games?” I asked him.
“Same one,” he answered, looking more determined than ever. “I’m going to swallow a bedspring.”
“I don’t know,” I said, scratching my head. “Maybe I’m losing my marbles but I swear it sounded like you said you were going to swallow a bedspring.”
He brought one out from behind his back. “I said it and I meant it.”
“Goddamn, Kelly,” I told him. “You pick the nicest ways. Did you ever think of roasting yourself over a spit?”
He looked at me. “I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “Something I never told anyone else.” He paused. “I’m going to die a virgin.”
“You can’t blame the old man for that,” I said. “It’s nobody’s fault but your own.” I started drawing numbers in the air. “There’s a billion women in the world, Kelly, one nine zeros billion. And out of all of them the law of averages says there must be one who would do the trick for you.”
“Well, I never found her,” he said, staring at the bedspring.
“First, you got to look,” I told him.
“It’s too late now,” he whispered. Then he stuck the bedspring in his mouth.
I’m not going to describe what happened next in too much detail, for it gets a little messy, even though it was pretty funny at the time. Kelly’s face turned different colors, most of them green, and his eyes started watering, and then the bedspring hit the floor, quickly followed by his breakfast and lunch.
After he was done we just stared at each other, me trying not to laugh. He broke out crying, turned, and tore downstairs. I heard him blubbering in the bathroom with all the faucets going full, trying to block out the sound.
I went to the top of the stairs. “Hey, Kelly,” I yelled down. “Best you come back here and clean this up. ’Cause I’m sure as hell not going to.”
I sacked out
again, waiting. A while later Kelly appeared, carrying a mop and a bucket of water.
“Clean it up good,” I told him. “Every bit.” He didn’t say much so I just stared at the ceiling and listened to the mop make swishing sounds along the floor. “You know,” I said, after a couple of minutes. “If you want a woman, I’ll do what I can for you.” He didn’t answer. “Goddamit, Kelly. If you want a piece of tail I’ll get you a piece of tail. Now don’t say you never were asked.”
“How you going to do it?”
“I’m magic,” I answered and that was all. I could hear his brain working.
“How you going to do it, Trevitt? How? You really going to do it? Naw. You’re just kidding. You’re not really going to do it. I know you’re not.”
“O.K.,” I said. “I guess I’m not.”
He grabbed me by the arm. “Tell me. Go on. Tell me.”
“Just get your clothes on and we’ll go into town and find somebody.”
“Who?”
“How do I know who? Just put your clothes on.”
“What if you don’t?”
“I will. I already told you once about the law of averages.”
“O.K., Trevitt,” he said, patting me. “O.K. Great.” He was jumping around like a Mexican bean. “Terrific.” He headed for the stairs. Then he stopped. “It means we’d be AWOL.”
I started groaning.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What if we get caught?”
“Look, Kelly. Just make up your mind. I’m not going to come apart if you don’t want to. If we’re caught they’ll probably blast us with a firing squad and all your troubles will be over. So make up your mind.”
He thought on that for a while. Then he went downstairs.
We didn’t get caught. ...
All of which is, as I said earlier, typical of me. Not the taking into town part. That’s just incidental. Anyway, Kelly was killed two weeks later when he froze up holding a grenade after he’d pulled the pin. The fact that he didn’t die a virgin doesn’t really count for much in the long run.
But what is typical is the fact that I let him try suicide in the first place. Instead of plastering him one, or trying to talk him out of it, or running for the H.Q. For I have always tried to cram as much into each and every day of my life as I possibly could. Once, just as an example, I ate a pound of grass from my backyard because someone told me it was good. I got sick to my stomach and had a case of diarrhea that Doctor Gunn still talks about back in Athens whenever the subject comes up. Which I trust isn’t often. I never ate grass again, but the point is that I had done it, at least the one time, and I knew what it was like. I had experienced it. And I try for that, experience, whether it’s eating grass or watching poor Kelly make a fool of himself trying to commit suicide.
Because, as I have already put down, communication is for the birds, and we all have our own lives to lead in the same place, here, but like concentric circles, they don’t touch. So your life is yours and mine is mine and never the twain, etc.
And what follows now is mine. Put down haphazardly, more or less as I went through it, starting at the start and going to the end, which is as things should be. It might be called “my life so far,” but that wouldn’t be true, because my life so far is about as interesting as a toilet bowl. What follows is really more the people I have known as I knew them; other lives, other concentric circles that have come near to my own and, once or twice, because maybe there is a God after all, have touched my own. And if there is anything that makes life worth a hill of beans, it is those few times, those occasional moments of joy when two lives touch for just a little while, before passing on again, into their own individual paths.
A Biography of William Goldman
William Goldman (b. 1931) is an acclaimed American novelist, nonfiction author, playwright, and two-time Academy Award–winning screenwriter whose works include the novels The Princess Bride and Marathon Man, both of which he also adapted for film.
Goldman was born on August 12, 1931, in Highland Park, Illinois, to Marion Goldman (née Weil) and Maurice Clarence Goldman, a businessman. Goldman’s older brother, James, also went on to become a successful author, playwright, and scriptwriter; his works include The Lion in Winter (1966) and Follies (1971). At eighteen, Goldman moved to Ohio to attend Oberlin College. His interest in writing was born at Oberlin, where he decided to take a creative-writing course, though his grades were poor initially. Goldman’s primary interests were poetry, short stories, and novels. He eventually became an editor of Oberlin’s literary magazine where, he later admitted, he would anonymously submit short stories that his peers unknowingly rejected. He attained his bachelor of arts in English in 1952 and went on to earn a master of arts degree in 1956 from Columbia University, where he completed his thesis on the comedy of manners in America.
Goldman began his career as a novelist with The Temple of Gold (1957), an account of a young man’s rite of passage, which he wrote in less than three weeks. By that point, Goldman had also found success on Broadway, having numerous plays produced. In 1960, Goldman married Ilene Jones, and the couple went on to have two daughters, Jenny (b. 1962) and Susanna (b. 1965).
In 1962, Goldman wrote his first screenplay, Masquerade, followed by a series of acclaimed screenplays including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969), which sold for a record-breaking $400,000. Other notable scripts include The Stepford Wives (1975), All the President's Men (1976), and the 1990 adaptation of Stephen King’s novel Misery. In 1985, Goldman won a lifetime achievement Laurel Award for screenwriting from the Writers Guild of America.
Despite his success in Hollywood, Goldman continued to write novels, many of which he would use as the foundations for his screenplays. The Princess Bride (1973), which he wrote under the pseudonym Simon Morgenstern, remains a classic both as a book and a film. Goldman’s first thriller, Marathon Man (1974), was also made into a film of the same name in 1976, starring Dustin Hoffman.
In addition to his novels, plays, and screenplays, Goldman also wrote a series of memoirs, including Adventures in the Screen Trade (1983), about his experiences as an author and screenwriter in Hollywood and on Broadway, and Hype and Glory (1990), which documents his stints judging the Cannes Film Festival and the Miss America Pageant following the dissolution of his twenty-seven-year marriage.
Goldman has received numerous awards and accolades in addition to his two Academy Awards (Best Original Screenplay for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and Best Adapted Screenplay for All the President’s Men). Three of his scripts are in the Writers Guild of America hall of fame, and Harper (1967) and Magic (1979) garnered Edgar Awards in the screenplay category from the Mystery Writers of America.
Goldman works and resides in New York City.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
These are a works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Boys and Girls Together copyright © 1964, by William Goldman
Boys and Girls Together copyright renewed © 1992, by William Goldman
Marathon Man copyright © 1974 by William Goldman
The Temple of Gold copyright © 1957 by William Goldman
Cover design by Amanda Shaffer
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4831-6
This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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WILLIAM GOLDMAN
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