As Gonzales went back toward his mower on the opposite sideline, Henry heard him mutter, “Next thing they gonna pay ‘em for taking a chit!”
Henry headed for the exit, noticing as he crossed the field that all around him small, copper-colored sprinkler heads were rising from the grass. And then suddenly the sprinklers had been turned on. Water sprayed all over the huge field. Within seconds, Henry was soaked.
Frantic, he shouted toward Gonzales. “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t touch that box! Honest! I didn’t turn the sprinklers on!”
Laughing, Gonzales shouted back, “Are you kidding, man? You couldn’t turn ‘em on if you wanted to. They automatic! They turn on by themselves.” He was still laughing as he started the big mower, and then the machine’s thunder drowned out his mirth.
Confused, Henry sprinted fifty yards through the watery spray to the exit.
==========
The second small disturbance of those first weeks had occurred when he called his tutor, the day after his meeting with Gonzales.
From his room, Henry dialled the number B.J. Rudolph had given him. He sat at his desk, holding the phone receiver between his shoulder and cheek, and picked up a basketball from the floor. Listening to the number ring, he spun the ball, Harlem Globetrotter style, on the end of his index finger.
Finally, a young woman’s voice said crisply, “Hello.”
“Is, uh, Janet Hays there?”
“This is Janet Hays. Who’s calling?”
“My name’s Henry Steele. I’m callin‘ about gettin’ tutored.”
“Fine. What’s your classification?”
“Oh, I’m just a freshman.” He made the spinning ball travel down his finger, over the back of his wrist and up his arm to his elbow, where he flipped it into the air and caught the still-spinning ball again on his index finger.
“I see.” Janet’s manner was businesslike. “Then there are a couple of things we’d better get straight. You come to my apartment at my convenience. And you only stay one hour. I’m pretty booked up, and I’ve got my own studies to think about, too.”
“Sure,” said Henry. He transferred the whirling ball from the index finger of his right, hand to the index finger of his left hand. “Um, when should I come?”
“When you have a problem.” Janet laughed. “My Lord, classes haven’t even started yet”
“Oh. Uh, when do classes start?”
Again she laughed, a warm, rich sound. “I don’t believe this! Didn’t you pay attention when you went to freshman orientation?”
Henry knit his eyebrows together for a moment. “What’s that?
When she spoke again, he sensed the change immediately. The warmth was gone; her voice was cold, flat.
“You’re a jock, aren’t you?”
Henry stopped spinning the ball and held it in his lap. “Yes, ma’am. And they told me—”
“—to report to the coach,” she interrupted. As if talking to an imbecile, she said, “But they didn’t mention anything about enrollment or what subjects you’re taking.”
“Right,” Henry said.
He thought: Two in two days. First Gonzales, and now this tutor, both jock-haters. Wow! He had never before encountered anyone who disliked athletes.
Janet’s words came quickly, as if she wanted to get the conversation over with. “Well, I’m not a damned freshman counselor. Get the coach’s office to pick your courses and get you registered. Then call me. Get a pencil.”
Frantically, Henry searched the clutter on the desk until he found a pencil.
“I live at four-six-one-five East Wood Way, Apartment seven, second floor.”
“Just a minute, please.” Henry could find no paper. “Would you mind sayin‘ your address again?”
She repeated it, slowly intoning each word, then spelling it, as if she were instructing a fool. Henry inscribed the address on the handiest available surface— his basketball.
When it was done, he said, “Thanks. You know, I’m really goin‘ to need your help. When it comes to books, I’m not too smart.”
“No shit,” she said and hung up.
He stared at the dead receiver for a moment, then shook his head. “Holy crud,” he whispered.
==========
The third disturbing incident of those early weeks happened that same night. This incident, however, produced only faint unease.
Only an hour after Henry spoke to Janet Hays, B.J. Rudolph solved his registration problem, simply by sending one of her assistants, a graduate student in the school of educational administration, to register for him. Then, when he asked how to go about getting Chris’ phone number and address, she took his hand, led him to her office and dialled the registrar. While she was getting the information, she did things to Henry’s hand that made his jeans seem terribly tight in the crotch.
Unannounced, Henry went to Chris’ lodgings, an ancient rooming house in a neighborhood packed with rooming houses.
The front door was open. In the living room, students lounged on old sofas and armchairs. Most of them wore jeans, sandals, beads. Henry asked for Chris and was directed to the topmost floor.
He climbed the three flights, repelled by cooking odors and by the dank smell of unwashed clothes and bodies. Chris was not in his room.
Through the open door, Henry surveyed the tiny cell.
The ceiling was too low to stand up straight anywhere but in the center of the room. There was barely enough space for the cot and tiny desk. For a bookshelf, Chris had stacked reinforced cardboard boxes, which were filled with his texts and papers.
Gloomily, Henry went back downstairs, where a young man with hair halfway down to his waist said that Chris might be at the meeting over at Indie Hall.
“Where’s that?” Henry asked.
Through thinly veiled contempt, the hirsute student told him where Indie Hall was located. Henry was glad to leave. These dreamy-eyed, overly-relaxed aliens with beards made him uncomfortable. He did not know why.
At Indie Hall, a large wooden building that had once been a church, some kind of rally was going on. Students of both sexes milled about on the front lawn, fiddling with signs that proclaimed Cesar Chavez this, and Cesar Chavez that.
Henry entered the auditorium. On the stage a speaker harangued the packed house. Henry’s quick eyes found Chris near the back of the room, his arm around a girl’s shoulder. She was attractive, but a little plump, and she wore an Indian band and a red feather in her long, loose hair. Both the girl and Chris seemed absorbed in the speaker’s words, but occasionally, during the audience’s cheers and shouts of agreement, they kissed.
Disoriented and confused, Henry wheeled and walked swiftly out into the clean night air. At his dorm he picked up his workout gear, then went to the gym and sought refuge on the basketball court. That night he practiced for almost three hours.
==========
Aside from the small discomforts caused by Janet Hays, Chris and Gonzales, those first weeks were as Henry had written his parents—paradise. He bad especially enjoyed the banquet for freshman athletes, held his second day on campus.
The banquet hall, a ballroom high in the student center, reflected the importance of athletics at Western University. The room glittered with silver, crystal, flowers and white cloths on long tables. Behind the speakers’ table, a massive sign read, “WELCOME WESTERN U. FRESHMAN ATHLETES.” At the head table were coaches, Moreland Smith among them, and athletic department officials, university administrators and alumni. These elders glowed benignly at the young men at the lesser tables. The boys themselves all wore badges proclaiming their respective games and names. Henry’s said, “Henry Steele is my name; Basketball is my game.”
As the boys ate, nubile sorority girls served plates of cookies and pitchers of milk. Regular waiters moved about doing the real work.
The mountainous tackle to Henry’s left looked over and said, “Hey, Tiny Tim, ain’t you gonna finish your eggs?” Without waiting for an answer, he t
ook Henry’s plate, put it on top of his own empty one and dug in. “Pass them rolls this away,” he said.
The basket of rolls was twelve feet away to Henry’s right, where sat Wheeler, a seven-foot-tall basketball center.
“I’ll get ‘em,” Wheeler volunteered. Standing, he tilted his huge body toward the rolls, stretched his right arm to its limit and easily palmed the distant basket. He handed the basket to the tackle, who dumped its entire contents into his plate.
A dapper man in his sixties, sporting a sand-colored regimental mustache, rose and clinked a spoon against a glass for attention. The room fell silent.
“My name is Howard Brunz,” the man’s deep voice intoned, “and I’m the new president of the alumni association. Before our first speaker addresses you, let me introduce our lovely hostesses and the houses from which they come.” In turn, he presented each sorority girl. The last to be named, and by far the most dazzling, was one named Julie, who stood near Henry. As she took her bow, she smiled directly at him. Henry returned the smile.
She was stunning—a Norse goddess with silver-blonde hair in a silken waterfall to her waist.
She came down the table toward Henry, bestowing milk and cookies. When at last she stood directly behind him and leaned forward to- fill his glass, her breast touched his ear. He heard her heartbeat, smelled her gardenia perfume. His whole body tingled.
As Julie moved away, she dropped a small piece of paper in his lap. Henry read the note. It said, “JULIE— 475-5099—Tri-Gam House.” She was already a few yards away, but she was watching him. He grinned at her and she nodded with her eyes.
The principal speaker at the banquet was Simon Bell, Western University’s athletic director. Henry agreed with every word he said.
“I welcome you freshman athletes! You are the chosen few. The Western University varsity athletic program is THE HOME OF CHAMPIONS. And you have been chosen because we believe that you men have the ability and desire to be winners
“Yes, WINNERS!
“Now, certain people say WINNING is a dirty word. To them I say this: high-school and college athletics are the last bastions of self-discipline and devotion to duty left in America! If folks like us don’t stand strong, our nation will succumb to the forces of weakness and subversion.
“So, for the sake of our great nation, we must pledge ourselves to WINNING!
“I’d like to recite a poem written by a poet—and a man—Brother Howard Brunz, president of our great Alumni Club.
“Heed these words, young warriors, Ere your struggles begin; Winners never quit, And quitters never win.
“Heed these words, young warriors,
For soon the battle ensues;
And my lads, it’s not how you play the game,
But whether you win or lose“
==========
After the banquet, Simon Bell stood at the ballroom door so that he could shake each athlete by the hand as he departed. Moreland Smith came up behind Henry at the door.
“This is Henry Steele, our little oil well from Texas, Brother Bell,” announced the basketball coach.
“Oh, yes?” Bell looked Henry up and down. “Kind of small, isn’t he, Brother Smith?”
Smith put his arm around Henry’s shoulder, an uncharacteristic gesture of affection. “Yes, sir, Brother Bell, he’s kind of small.” The coach emphasized each of his words knowingly. “And—kind—of—fast! This young gazelle here is going to out-quick a lot of very surprised folks. If I may paraphrase Samuel when he spoke of Jonathan and Saul, Henry is swifter than eagles, stronger than lions.”
Bell beamed. “Well, well! Splendid! I’m looking forward to seeing you in action, Henry!”
Henry was in hog heaven. “Thanks a lot, coach! Thanks a whole lot. Thanks, Mister Bell!” He shook their hands and backed out of the room, still gushing. “I really mean it! Thanks! Thanks a whole lot. ‘Bye, Coach Smith, Mister Bell. I really do like it here!”
* * *
III
He rang the bell at the door of Janet Hays’ apartment and waited. When no one came right away, he looked into the peephole on the door. The peephole opened, and he found himself staring into a lovely green eye. Embarrassed, he stepped back.
Janet opened the door a crack.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Henry Steele.”
She opened the door wider, and his smile of greeting froze in astonishment. Another green eye, as lovely as the first. A strong straight nose. Cupid’s bow lips. A perfect, rounded chin. Reddish-gold, shoulder-length hair.
Henry’s gaze took in the rest of her. Her full, firm breasts were in no way diminished by the overly large sweatshirt she wore, and her legs, in tight, faded jeans, were shapely.
Janet had also looked him over. She laughed. “You’re pretty puny for a jock.”
He winced.,
“Come on in.” She stood aside so he could enter.
In the apartment, he saw a man sitting on the unmade bed. The man was about thirty, bearded, barefoot. His shut was unbuttoned. He sat absorbed in the book on his lap and did not look up.
Janet closed the door, bustled into the kitchen alcove and began rinsing some dishes. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she called.
“Can I sit down?” Henry asked.
Janet stopped her dishwashing. Half contemptuously, half teasingly, she addressed the other man. “Malcolm, what do you think? Can Henry sit down?”
Henry flushed, but saw that Malcolm was paying no heed to Janet’s hazing.
“If your legs bend the right way, Henry, then yes, you may sit down. Over there.” Janet indicated a chair at the dinette table in the center of the large, one-room apartment. “That’s your first lesson in English.” Sensing that Henry was debating whether to stay or not, she smiled. “I’ll be through in a minute, Henry.”
Henry sat, books on his lap, and waited. After a few moments, Malcolm glanced up, searched the table with his eyes, reached for the notebook he sought.
“You gettin‘ tutored, too?” Henry asked.
Malcolm gave him a glare of contempt, then returned to his book. Henry was insulted by the rebuff. Janet, being a girl, could get away with murder, he thought, but not this snooty cow-chip.
Finished with the dishes, Janet went to a desk behind Henry, sat down and quickly typed a few sentences. Then she handed the typed page to Malcolm, who perused it and nodded approval.
‘That’s better,“ Malcolm said. ”Depersonalization manifests itself in nonpathological, partially adaptive situations of realistic external stress.“
Henry stared.
“Yes!” exclaimed Janet. “I see! And depersonalization is only one example of a regressive ego state?”
“Correct,” said Malcolm.
“Oh, Malcolm, thank you so much. If it weren’t for you—”
“—you’d do just as well, Janet my love.” Completing the sentence for her, he puckered for a kiss.
“You’re sweet.” Janet was about to oblige when she remembered Henry’s presence. She touched her finger to her lips, then to Malcolm’s in a proxy kiss. Embarrassed, Henry looked away.
Malcolm stood and buttoned his shirt. “Have you seen my shoes?” he asked Janet.
“They’re right there,” volunteered Henry. “Under the, uh, bed.”
Malcolm slid his feet into the clogs, gathered his books and moved toward the door.
“Oh, I forgot,” said Janet. “Malcolm, Henry. Henry, this is Malcolm. I’m his T.A.”
“Oh,” Henry said. “Congratulations.”
Janet laughed. “T.A. stands for Teaching Assistant, dummy. Malcolm’s an instructor in the psych department. I work for him.”
“Oh.”
Arm in arm, Janet and Malcolm went to the door. Henry heard them kiss, heard Malcolm say, “Janet, my love, call me anytime,” heard the door close.
Janet came back to the table, sat down and smiled at him civilly. “Sorry you had to wait. Your hour starts now. Okay?”
“Sure,” said
Henry. Placing his books on the table, he sat at attention, ready to be tutored. He saw she was looking at the typed sheet she had shown Malcolm.
“What are you workin‘ on there?” he asked.
“Term paper. For a senior psych course.” She put the paper aside.
“Oh. And, uh, that fella—he helps you out with it?”
She laughed, a superior laugh. “Henry, I ask the questions. I’m the tutor. You’re merely the tutee.” She assumed a businesslike air. “What courses are you taking?”
Henry began searching through his texts and notebooks for his list of courses. All his texts, brand new, crackled when he opened them. In his looseleaf, packages of dividers and notebook paper were still wrapped. A small carton of unsharpened pencils fell from the notebook. Smiling shyly at Janet, he picked them up, explaining, “School supplies.” He put the pencils in a plastic pencil case fitted into his notebook. Entertained, Janet waited patiently.
At last he found his list of courses. As he read each one off, she wrote it down on a notepad.
“English IA,” he read. “History IA. Introduction to Social Studies. Synergistic Techniques in Prepubescent Kinetic Development.”
Her pencil stopped. “What’s that? Synergistic Techniques in—what? What’s the subject matter?”
“How to coach peewee basketball,” he replied earnestly.
“Heavy.” Janet laughed and put her notepad aside. “Let’s start with English. Do you have an assignment sheet?”
He found his English textbook, shook a mimeographed sheet from inside its cover and handed it to her.
“Ummm, by tomorrow,” Janet said, reading, “you’re supposed to be up to page one-hundred-ten in your text and halfway through Moby Dick. All right, tell me— what problems, specifically, are you having?”
Henry grinned. “I don’t know yet.”
“Have you read up to page one-ten?”
“No.”
“Have you read up to page ten!”
He gave an embarrassed shrug. “No.”
She stared at him. “Then perhaps 7 can tell you what the problem is. You never learned to read.”
If she were a man, Henry thought, she would now have a cracked jaw.
Segal, Jerry Page 9