by Ben Masters
Just as I began to wonder if they had forgotten about me (all day long I had been haunted by a strange feeling that I didn’t exist … perhaps they had already chosen the students they wanted … or maybe they were just watching me fidget and sweat on CCTV), I heard footsteps reverberating from below, winding around corners, growing progressively louder, hunting me down. I sat up rigid. Tense and formal. A girl appeared, decked out in a blue dress that ended just above the knee, a multicolored pastel scarf studded with sequins, and a pair of heels that boldly solidified her calves. Her hair was astonishingly straight (a light brown flirting with blonde) and her face came close to conventionally desirable, though some unidentifiable feature just offset it from being so (was it the nose? the chin? the mouth?… impossible to tell). She carried a skinny latte and a black Americano. A reassuring smile peeled from ear to ear.
Phew, just some postgrad, I thought. Ignoring her I slouched back down in the chair, reacquainting my mind with Knox’s toosh and giving my nose an experimental poke. I lodged the greased-up digit into my gob for some interview sustenance. The girl had stopped and was watching me.
“Hiya,” she beamed. “Sorry—desperate need for a caffeine boost! Just let us settle back down and we’ll call you in a minute.”
A noise that I can only describe as a thirteen-year-old’s voice breaking in slow motion shoulder-barged its way from my throat; a stuck sound clogged with alarm and farce: “O~k~a~y.” These two syllables wobbled and clanged like a hand-chime. She disappeared into Dr. Fletcher’s room and I could hear much giggling and bustling about.
Fuckety fuckety fuck, I squirmed to myself. What a dick. Supreme start, Eliot, supreme start, mate.
With little time to compose myself, I was asked to enter.
“Sorry about the wait,” said Dr. Snow, sincerely but lighthearted, as she tiptoed amongst the piles of books that were flung about the floor like land mines, back toward her armchair. “It’s been a long day.”
The room was a dream come true, lined wall to wall with ceiling-high bookshelves. Auden, Wilde, Hardy, Eliot, Atwood, Dickens, Austen, Pinter, Yeats, Heaney: the names leapt at me in a flurry of ecstasy, all brandishing intimidating promise. In the center was a low coffee table, surrounded by a sofa on one side and matching armchairs on the other. The table swayed in haphazard splendor with stacks of red-scrawled essays and books, some lying open and bent, others teetering suicidally over the edge. A fridge whinnied in the corner, decorated with postcards and photographs: William Burroughs disdainfully pursing his lips, smart and plain like some demented bank manager; Wilde posing as aesthetic poster-boy on American lecture tour; George Bernard Shaw scowling like a reformist Santa Claus; Salvador Dali balancing a novelty-pencil mustache on his top lip; the startling cheekbones of Virginia Woolf. Modernist prints, all of which I was embarrassingly ignorant of, were dotted about the few patches of available wall space and a perplexing charcoal sketch of a naked female torso and genitalia hung above Dr. Fletcher’s chair. It felt like something was being revealed to me … something I could never have known. Piercing winter sunlight illuminated the room and set me slightly at ease.
Dr. Fletcher was sprawled on his crimson throne, watching me intently as I maneuvered my way through his scholarly maze. He was a short man on the younger side of middle age and his fashion sense reflected a longing to be hip: his thick black hair was molded into a chunky quiff (possibly a throwback to a Morrissey obsession from his own student days), and he wore a fitted gray blazer over a white V-neck T-shirt (Topman), blue jeans, and some classic Converse sneakers. Despite his attempts at retaining a youthful cool, the flecks of silver peppered through his barnet instantly gave him away. I had convinced myself that I would be slightly starstruck by Dr. Fletcher, though I wasn’t quite sure why. He is the type of academic who fancies himself a darling of the media (he calls himself a “public intellectual”): dabbles in radio, obliging the BBC whenever they come looking for an “authority” on any random matter (he was on Radio 4 last month ad-libbing about metaphors of money in a debate about the economy), and has appeared once or twice on Newsnight Review as that vaguely good-looking one from academia (though he despises the label “academic,” settling instead for “writer” or “creator of ideas”). And, of course, he pens the occasional book review for several literary supplements. He is the Hendrix of the scholarly world and I was desperate to be tutored by him.
“Take a seat.”
“Thanks,” I said, dropping onto the sofa.
Shitting arseholes: I had forgotten to shake their hands. Oh dear god, no. I might as well get up and leave now. It’s all over. (My well-meaning but foolish deputy head teacher, in all her ignorance about Oxbridge applications, had made me practice the art of handshaking in her office the week before: “Now this is vital, Eliot,” Miss Hill had said. “Absolutely vital. Look them directly in the eye and say, ‘Pleased to meet you’ … And don’t forget to read the newspapers. Current affairs, Eliot. Current affairs.”)
Dr. Fletcher filled his chair confidently though his frame was negligible, one hand massaging the back of his head, the other his crotch, every now and again venturing upward to wipe across his nose. The eccentric choreography was oddly reassuring.
“Good to see you. Welcome to Oxford University and Hollywell College? I’m Dylan Fletcher and this is Polly,” he said in a private-school voice that had been self-consciously toned down, spiced with fashionable glottal stops and rising intonations that he’d picked up from his students.
“Hi, I’m Eliot.”
“How’s your day been so far? Have they been looking after you?” quizzed Dr. Snow. Great: small talk. This I could handle.
“Yeah, it’s been good. Everyone seems really friendly.” Who? The pansy existentialist? Spade face? I’m so full of shit.
Dr. Snow rested a pad of lined paper on top of her carefully crossed legs.
“Right then, feel free to dive in and tell us about the poem,” said Dr. Fletcher, sipping from his takeaway coffee. I was fixed in his authoritative stare while Dr. Snow sat waiting, ready to scribble notes on me. Silence.
“Urmmm, well, it’s a poem, I feel” (oh Christ) “about the pleasure of the chase.”
Dr. Fletcher continued to stare unflinchingly, Dr. Snow already penning entire paragraphs and chapters.
“The voice is racked with doubt, almost as if he is like deluding himself, sort of thing. Urrrr, there are moments of kind of clarity where he can like face up to his shortcomings, but these are like quickly urr overrun by outbursts of temptation and stuff.”
A stare, a grin, and silence.
“And the form like encapsulates this” (What the fuck is she writing down? “Grade A pillock” or “state school simpleton?” … Or maybe she’s stealing my ideas …) “in the way that like it’s like a sonnet.”
My sweat expanded and rarefied into the perspiration of terror.
“Coz like it doesn’t break down into neat quatrains … it’s as though the form can’t like contain his psychological and urrr” (say it, say it) “sexual turmoil?” (Oh god, I’m blushing. Now they’ve got me down as a prize pervert.) “You know, it like bleeds over the boundaries and runs back and forth, kind of thing.” Woooooooooooooo, take some air.
“But isn’t he just some toff talking about hunting?” asked Dr. Fletcher. Dr. Snow rolled her eyes, somehow managing to keep her smile aloft.
“Errrrrrrrrrrrrrr?”
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate,” he said with a smirk. “No, I think you’re right. Absolutely.”
“Of course, the hunt is like a metaphor for the pursuit of love,” I continued, stressing my flashy use of a poetic device, “and like the deer is a sort of symbol for the evasive, perhaps even teasing female. A bit sexist really” (a supportive nod from Dr. Snow) “but then again the poet is totally alive to male hypocrisy—the other man’s ownership of the woman is clearly shown as a negative, I guess, yet at the same time the speaker has like possessive, predatory urges hims
elf.”
This seemed to go down well, in that no one was cringing, vomiting, or rolling about on the floor. Dr. Snow continued to jot notes, passing sentence, while Dr. Fletcher placed his coffee cup by the side of his chair.
“So did you like the poem?”
“Am I allowed to?”
“Of course, why not?”
I thought long and hard.
“I think I will do if I get in.”
They both chuckled.
“Let’s move on. What would you like to talk about?” asked Dr. Fletcher.
Let’s see: basketball—English bands beginning with “The”—golden-era hip-hop—Martin Scorsese movies—Brandy Knox’s body—my chances of being accepted—you …
“Well, I really like the Beat Generation, like Kerouac and Ginsberg—”
“Haven’t read them for years,” said Dr. Fletcher, possibly lying. Dr. Snow continued to scribble. “Anything else?”
And so we talked about some of my A-level set texts—Doctor Faustus, Gulliver’s Travels, The World’s Wife—Dr. Snow throwing in counter-arguments to test me, and Dr. Fletcher revealing a tendency to disappear into soliloquy: “Gulliver’s like a little penis. Being inside the girl’s pocket is about wanting to be inside of a young girl, naturally?” I was quite taken with his dark humor and willingness to say anything at all. There was a sense of freedom that was infectious and invigorating:
“Absolutely, Gulliver’s resemblance to a cock is tantamount in my opinion. It’s a perverted world that Swift creates—everything is magnified or shrunk, and things are mischievously placed in disproportion. But this is the aim of satire, I suppose: to revolutionize the angle of vision and force us into seeing things anew.” I didn’t know where all this stuff was coming from and was even beginning to impress myself.
“Good,” said Dr. Fletcher, finally feeling able to congratulate me. At last I could relax. Palpable relief rushed through my body. “But what do you mean by satire?”
Oh, you bastard.
“Hmm?”
“It’s a term bandied about so much that it seems to have lost its sharpness.”
“Militant irony?” I speculated, this being a phrase I had heard one of my favorite authors use in interviews on YouTube. Dr. Fletcher liked my answer and nodded to Dr. Snow, who finally ceased writing. “Right, that’s enough I think. We shall be in touch.”
Dad picked me up later that evening, rustling a bag of humbugs, the Saints match fizzing away on Radio 5.
“Good day?” (He didn’t simply ask me how it went. Usually direct, he felt the need to be diplomatic on this particular occasion.)
“Hmmpph,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, watching the formidable colleges disappear through the window.
“Well, did you enjoy yourself?”
I told him I had thoroughly hated the experience.
“Oh, right. All of it?”
“No,” I had to admit. “The interview was cool.”
“Cool?”
Yeah, it had been. It was like being let in on a big secret. Characteristically, though, I settled for a negative interpretation. “I don’t stand a chance, Dad. Look, everyone was so bright and more achieved than me.” I slumped a little further into the warm seat. “No, I’m too rough around the edges. Ah well … hopefully one of the red bricks will take me.”
Slightly disheartened, though more than used to this kind of self-reassuring pessimism, Dad turned the radio up and gave me a report on the first-half action.
I came home from school one day, about two weeks later. There had been a sixth-form party the night before. I was hanging, badly. I lay eagle on my bed—the bed that had suffered the salts of my youth and young manhood—left arm draped upward over left eye in best melodrama swoon. My other arm—my batting arm—was slugging downward, slovenly, grubbing after fly and button with disarming predictability. Maybe a quick limp tug would see me through, or at the very least knock me out. Upper half Lady Audley, lower half plain disorderly, there I lay.
“ELIOT!”
Shit. Dad. Awful image.
I bolted into recovery action, like Frankenstein’s monster administered with his first sharp dose of electricity. Trousers up (fly still undone—no time), sat upright, hands conspicuously high in the air: but look how far away they are from down there! Of course I haven’t been fiddling, it’s plain to see! So what if I’m red, it’s hot in here … and besides, I don’t feel so good.
“ELLLIIIIOT.”
“WHAT? I’m sleeping!”
“Dr. Snow from Hollywell College is on the phone.”
O’er me sweeps, plastic and vast, one intellectual shit-storm. Hast thou rung to holily dispraise these shapings of the unregenerate mind? What sinful and most miserable man am I?
“Huh?” Stalling for time.
“Dr. Snow, from Oxford.”
“Okay—I’ll be down in a sec.”
Charging downstairs, two at a time, I didn’t have a chance to consider the possible consequences of the call.
“Hello?” I said, masking my dog-pant breath as best I could.
“Hi, Eliot. It’s Polly Snow here.”
S’up. Ringing for a quick natter, are you? I was kinda just getting down to a belter—d’ya mind if I call you back?
“Oh, hi there, Dr. Snow. It’s great to hear from you.”
The shock and the dash colluded with my hangover to bring some sick bubbling into my mouth. Oh god, what if she can sense my hangover through the phone?
“I was just ringing to let you know that Dylan and I would very much like to work with you next year.”
Fuck off! You’re shitting me, right?
“Wow, thank you so much … that’s such great news!”
“We were very impressed with your application and interview, and provided that you get three As this summer, there’s a place waiting for you at Hollywell.”
I always knew you’d come round!
“That’s fantastic! I really wasn’t expecting this. I’m stunned!”
“We’ll be in touch soon with a preparatory reading list. I won’t keep you now though, I’m sure you were busy doing something important” (oh Christ—does she know? How could she? She knows …) “with A levels getting so close. Once again, we are really excited about working with you. Take care, Eliot.”
“Thank you! Good-bye.”
“Bye bye.”
I put the phone down, off my tits on adrenaline and endorphins. Mum and Dad, who had been carefully hiding around the corner, eavesdropping, clattered into the living room and gazed at me with unbearable expectancy.
“Well, what did she say?”
For a second there, I entertained doing the whole false-disappointment jag (“She thinks I’m not quite up to scratch, but it’s okay, guys, don’t worry about me … I’ll be fine”).
“I’ve got an offer from Oxford!”
Dad looked like he was going to cry and did the well-done-son thing with a firm hand on the shoulder, perhaps envisioning a six-figure career in banking and a sports car for Christmas. I performed a victory lap round the living room, eventually collapsing on the sofa.
The next day at school, Miss Hill, forgetting all about her rehearsed handshakes, planted a coffee-creamed slopper on my cheek—“I knew you’d do it!” Then she dragged me into the head teacher’s office to show off her wares: “He’s in! We got one into Oxford!” I wanted to say, “Hang about, I need to get some As first,” but dared not ruin their moment.
Rob ripped me tirelessly at break: “Miss Hill snogged Eliot!” he announced in the canteen.
“No she did not!” I hotly protested.
“Apparently she fellated him.” This was Rob’s verb of the term: he had only recently discovered it somewhere (probably a porn mag) and was using it at an hourly rate.
“This is bullshit.”
“Make the most of it, mate, coz blowjobs are gonna be few and far between at Oxford. I mean well done and everything, but you’ve really shot yourself in the cock
.”
“Cheers.”
My elderly English teacher, Mrs. Booth, with her jittery blinking act, was the one I really cared about though. I knocked on the English staff room door and she answered, fluttering rapidly.
“Guess what, Miss?”
“What have you done now, Eliot?” she said with mock despair.
“I’ve got an offer from Oxford!”
She reached up (a tiny lady) in motherly pride, and gave me a hug, almost knocking her glasses off.
“Oh Eliot, well done. I’m so pleased for you.”
“Cheers, Miss.”
I had just become a big fucking deal. There I was: I knew nothing about nothing, but I was a big fucking deal.
“You’re right: he is a cock,” I say, confirming Jack’s nuanced interpretation of our Terrence.
“Oh, he’s not that bad,” says Ella.
“Well … I like him and everything, but he’s an absolute cunt,” I say, generously allowing Terrence a metamorphosis of genitalia.
Scott brings over a tray of insidious-looking shots—luminous blue—unnatural. These will hurt in the morning. We throw them back and shudder and seethe—sticky hands—bonding. We move to another gunky pub-grub table. A portrait of Prince Charles pulling a pint hovers above us. Heritage.
Megan and Sanjay are conjoined at the end there. He’s pining for her. She’s got a boyfriend.