A Life On College Hill

by Lawrence F. Dooling

Without even looking, he said, “I don’t see a Randy Duffy on my list.”

  I told him, “Ask Tom Martin, I helped him pick up the beer.”

  “Look, punk, you don’t tell me to do anything. I said your name isn’t on the list. Besides, we don’t need any kitchen help tonight.”

  My Irish was up, and I considered asking him if he knew how to read, but the two bouncers outweighed me by five hundred pounds, so I bit my tongue. If I’d learned nothing else in high school, I’d learned I wasn’t good in a fight.

  My one high school fight had been completely one sided. I was eating lunch in the cafeteria when Billy Hanson walked by and poured a can of soda over my head. I jumped up to knock the can out of his hand, and he punched me in the face. Blood gushed from my nose as I fell back into my chair. He put me in a headlock and hit me a couple more times.

  Not one of the nine other people sitting at the table lifted a finger to help me. A few even laughed as I bled. Being laughed at again hurt worse than the pounding I had taken. It made me wonder if I had a single friend.

  Billy claimed he thought I was my twin brother, Ricky, who had just stolen his girlfriend. I think Billy figured hitting me would feel just as good and be a little easier. The worst part was that I got a detention for fighting. It was like being arrested for bleeding on the sidewalk after a mugging.

  Now, on the Sigma porch, I was in something of a standoff with the bouncers. I felt the stare of every girl in the line. Looking like a loser and walking away with my tail between my legs was not an option. Getting in a dustup with the goons at the front door was an equally unattractive proposition. Then TM showed up, grabbed me by the collar, and pulled me into the house.

  The bouncer yelled at him, “Is this guy your date, Martin? Why didn’t he bring you flowers?”

  TM responded, “He’s the reason you have beer tonight!”

  The bouncer fired back, “We don’t have to let in a stray every time your car won’t start.”

  TM could see I was pissed and said, “Relax, that’s how he talks to everyone. If he stopped being miserable, he wouldn’t have a personality. Let’s go get a beer.”

  I had seen the Sigma house from the outside plenty of times. I had always wondered what it looked like on the inside. Imagine a museum trashed by a mob. It must have been opulent at one time, but that time was a long time ago. There were high ceilings, large windows, and big rooms with elaborate woodwork.

  There were also holes in the walls, scratched floors, and broken chandeliers. The overpowering odor of stale beer and cigarettes was omnipresent. If you got anywhere near the bathrooms, the smell of urine and puke was inescapable.

  TM was absolutely right about the girls, though. There were at least two for every guy, and they were all good looking. Standing in line for a beer, in the kitchen, I was watching the crowd in the big room. In walked Eric Stultz, pulling Meghan along with him. They were something of a celebrity couple on campus. He was the starting quarterback, and she was the cheerleader whose smile rendered me weak. TM told me Eric and Meghan had been dating since high school.

  Eric was sloppy drunk and groping every girl within reach. Understandably, Meghan looked less than happy. Eric, it seemed, had developed a bit of a drinking problem. Some people thought he was the reason the football team was having such a bad season. Many fans were clamoring for him to be benched.

  I had waited in line for ten minutes to get to the keg. TM was just ahead of me, pouring his beer. Eric walked in and pushed TM away from the tap, so he could fill his own cup.

  Eric saw me in line and yelled right in my face, “Who the hell is this guy?”

  It should not have been a surprise that the football players were surly. They had had their heads handed to them that afternoon. The team lost by thirty-five points because Eric threw three interceptions and fumbled twice.

  This was the first time I’d stood close to Eric. Two things were immediately obvious. First, he reeked of alcohol. I had to take a step back in search of better air. Second, we were roughly the same size. I often saw him and his friends when I was at work. I never took note that he was no bigger than me.

  What did I do to deserve this kind of treatment? Once again, I felt the stares of every person in the room. I had no intention of backing down. As wobbly as he was, I’d have a fair chance if I had to throw a punch. Many football fans would probably thank me for putting him out of action.

  After the experience with Billy Hanson, my dad gave me some advice for my next fight. He told me to make sure my first punch landed on my opponent’s nose. Nothing takes the fight out of a guy like a shot to the nose.

  It was time to put Dad’s advice to the test. First, I tried to calculate how many Sigma brothers it would take to throw me through a window after I hit him. Math not being my best subject, it was taking me longer than I had hoped. TM jumped between us and told Eric I was his friend. I was at the party because I helped him pick up the beer.

  Eric shouted, “That’s great, Martin, you invited the delivery boy to our party!”

  Eric laughed in my face and said, “Tell the delivery boy to get me a pizza because I’m hungry.”

  If I stayed any longer, I was going to do something I’d regret. I told TM he could buy me a beer another time and started for the back door.

  TM grabbed me and said, “Sorry about him, Duffer, he’s back on two-a-days.”

  “The football team doesn’t practice twice a day this time of year.”

  “Parties, not practices!” TM replied. “He’s been drinking since breakfast.”

  “Eric drinks before a game?” I asked.

  “Did you see the score?” TM replied.

  He handed me the beer he had just poured and offered another apology. I walked out through the screened-in porch and sat, in the darkness, on the back steps. One of Central Valley’s many ordinances prohibited carrying an open container in town.

  I was actually stupid enough to think a few of the Sigma brothers might thank me for delivering their beer. All I got for my efforts was a heaping helping of humiliation. Being publicly humiliated didn’t bother me all that much. With a job like mine, humiliation was practically a daily experience. What really bothered me was that the beer tasted awful.

  A sudden commotion at the porch door startled me. I turned my head to investigate just as the heavy screen door flew open. The bottom corner of the door struck me in the face and knocked me backward off the step. I landed on my head and was rendered, briefly, completely senseless.

  I was slowly brought back to reality by the familiar taste of blood in my mouth. What did Ricky do now? That was actually my first coherent thought. A girl’s voice was the first thing I remembered hearing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”

  It was Meghan. She had left the party in a huff and vented a great deal of anger on the door as she flung it open.

  She became hysterical. “You’re bleeding! Are you alright? Are you alright?”

  I felt more embarrassed than hurt, but that would quickly change. I tried to tell her I was okay. It was probably difficult to understand me, though, because I was choking on the blood.

  “No, you’re cut, your face is cut. I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were there, I am so sorry!”

  My new jacket was already stained with a streak of red. I coughed as I tried to clear my throat, and blood sprayed onto Meghan’s sweatshirt.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I’ll get that cleaned for you.”

  Not having anything else to stop the bleeding, I took off my jacket and pressed it against my face. I looked up to see a couple of Sigma brothers watching me from the porch. They laughed and shut the door. Have I said that I hate it when people laugh at me?

  “Forget about my shirt, you need to get to a hospital,” Meghan said. “I’m a nursing major, you need stitches. I am so sorry!”

  “If I
can just get a towel or something, I’ll be okay. It’s just a nosebleed,” I replied.

  I touched a finger to my nose, and the intense pain told me I was wrong. I could feel the gash in my face. Bleeding to death was infinitely more desirable than going back in the Sigma house for help.

  I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost eight o’clock. “I know where I can get something,” I said as I started walking down the driveway toward Main Street.

  “Are you delirious?” Meghan shouted. “You need to get to the hospital!”

  I replied as calmly as I could, “That’s okay, I know where I’m going. Why don’t you go back to the party?”

  She followed along as I crossed Main Street and stopped in front of Chet’s Grill, home of the best chili in the Valley.

  Meghan must have been convinced that I was out of my mind and protested, “That’s a restaurant! You can’t go in there, you need to get to a hospital!”

  “It’s okay, I know the owner,” I told her.

  “How do you know Chet?”

  “I work here.”

  Surprised, she asked, “You work here? Why?”

  “Because I couldn’t hit a curve ball,” I replied.

  Holding the door open, I motioned for her to go inside, “Ladies before gentlemen,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about being a gentleman when you’re bleeding to death,” she promptly answered.

  In hindsight, I can’t believe I said that. It sounds kind of stupid now, but my mother had drilled the concept into my head.

  Chet was just about to lock up as we entered. I knew he finished at eight on the dot.

  Chet shouted, “Don’t you bleed on my clean floor! I never figured you for a fighter, what’s the other guy look like?”

  “I wasn’t in a fight, I got hit with a door,” I replied.

  Chet laughed and said, “Yeah, sure, that’s what they all say.”

  Meghan, still frantic, said, “Tell him he needs to go to the hospital! He needs stiches!”

  Chet tried calming her down. “Don’t fret, young lady. I have a first aid kit in the kitchen. He’ll be good as new in no time.”

  Chet and I walked toward the kitchen. I looked at Meghan and told her to go back to the party. Not because I was trying to get rid of her; I just didn’t want her to hear me scream like a little girl when Chet started working on my face.

  Chet opened his first aid kit, pulled the jacket away from my face, and shuddered.

  With a look of concern, he said, “You really ought to go to the hospital. It’s a deep cut that’s going to leave a nasty scar. If you promise not to bleed all over the seat, I’ll drive you to the emergency room.”

  “If you provided health insurance for your employees, I might be able to afford the hospital,” I sarcastically replied.

  “I thought you college kids had to have health insurance to go to school.”

  “I have a thousand-dollar deductible,” I told him. Desperate to avoid the hospital, I asked, “Don’t you have a big band aid?”

  Chet gave me some gauze pads and a clean towel to press against my face. He chuckled and said, “You’re right! Who needs hospitals?”

  I applied pressure with the towel while Chet poured some alcohol onto a gauze pad.

  He was grim faced as he said, “Hold on to something because this is going to hurt.”

  He pulled the towel away from my face and cleaned the wound with the alcohol wipe. I let out a shriek but remembered Meghan might still be in the other room. I stuck my fist in my mouth and bit down hard enough to draw blood.

  “Sorry, kid, it’s got to be cleaned out before I close it up. You don’t want it to get infected.”

  I examined the teeth marks on my hand. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Chet?” I asked.

  “If you knew how often a piece of my finger ended up in the chili, you wouldn’t ask me that question.”

  Trying to laugh through the pain, I asked, “Is that the secret ingredient?”

  Chet threatened, “One word of that gets out and you’ll end up in the chili!” He said it seriously enough to give me pause.

  Chet opened a box of butterfly bandages and dumped them on the table. He said I’d have to hold the cut closed while he applied them. We moved over to the washroom, where there was a mirror, and I took the first look at my face. The cut was deepest on the left side of my face and then ran diagonally across the top of the nose. My eye was okay, but the cut continued into the eyebrow and forehead. I was scared and gave the ER another thought.

  Chet grabbed the first butterfly. I used a finger from each hand to squeeze the cut closed, wishing for a bullet to bite. It wasn’t easy to get the bandages to stick. The blood was slippery, and there were too many fingers for so small a space. He applied the butterflies, one after the other, and the bleeding slowed to a trickle. We repeated the process on my forehead and, after using half the box, the bleeding stopped.

  I filled a plastic bag with ice and held it against my face. My heart raced while I tried to compose myself. It’s difficult to calm down when you’re riding the adrenaline surge of a lifetime.

  Chet walked out to the dining area to mop the blood from the floor. He came back into the kitchen and asked, “Who’s the girl?”

  I couldn’t believe she had stuck around and asked, “Is she still out there?”

  “Yeah, she looks real worried. I don’t think she’s leaving until she knows you’re okay. Who is she?” Chet again asked.

  “She was on the other side of the door.”

  Chet stated the obvious. “She’s real pretty!”

  “I can’t say that I disagree with you, Chet.”

  I checked myself out in the mirror, again, and didn’t like what I saw. My face was being held together with thin strips of masking tape, my shirt was a bloody mess, and my new jacket was a lost cause. I tossed the coat in the trash can and put on the jacket I used for the walk-in freezer. I zipped it up tight so my shirt didn’t show, took a deep breath, and strolled out to see Meghan.

  “See, good as new,” I said.

  Meghan gasped at the sight of Chet’s handiwork. “Oh, you look awful!”

  I forced a smile and said, “To be fair, Meghan, you don’t know what I looked like before.”

  She laughed and then asked me how I knew her name. I told her everybody on campus knew Meghan Mallory.

  “That’s not fair, I don’t know your name,” she replied.

  “Not many people do, it’s Randy Duffy,” I said.

  “You should be on your way to the hospital right now, Randy Duffy. That wound needs to be sutured.”

  “Come on, Meghan, have a little faith in Chet. He’s as good a doctor as he is a cook. I’ll walk you back over to the party. We can follow the trail I left.”

  I was hoping a little humor would make her forget about the hospital.

  Bristling at the suggestion, she said, “The Sigma house is the very last place I want to go.”

  “Then I should walk you home,” I said. Being from the city, it didn’t seem like a good idea for a girl to walk the streets alone at night. Even in a small town like Central Valley, bad things sometimes happened.

  “Thanks, but you don’t need to do that. I’ll be okay,” she replied.

  I was concerned for her and without thinking blurted, “Someone as pretty as you shouldn’t walk alone at night.”

  She seemed taken aback by my statement but quickly responded, “Someone as hurt as you shouldn’t be walking at all.”

  “Then you should make sure I get home.”

  She asked where I lived, and I gave her an address. She said, “Okay, that’s just where I’m headed.”

  I thanked Chet for the help and apologized for bleeding on his clean floor. He reminded me that I was scheduled to work in the morning. Sunday morning was alw
ays busy, and he needed me in on time. When we got to the door, I instinctively held it open for Meghan.

  “Ladies first,” I said, and started to laugh until it made my face hurt.

  She shook her head and said, “You are absolutely out of your mind.”

  We walked out of Chet’s and turned right onto Main Street. After one block, we came to the intersection of Main and Pine Streets. This is the northern terminus of Main Street and the largest intersection in town. The driveway to the Sigma house comes in there on the opposite side of the street. Once you cross over Pine Street, Main Street becomes College Hill Avenue. Walking from town to campus is referred to as climbing the hill.

  At the top of the hill is a stone wall holding a plaque engraved with the name Central Valley State College. It’s commonly referred to as memorial wall. When a student flunked out, or dropped out, tradition required the student to leave a lit candle in front of the wall. Pretty morbid, but what the hell, we were just college kids. We walked to the top of the hill and turned toward sorority row. As the name suggests, it’s where most of the sorority houses were located.

  She asked for an explanation while we walked. “You’re working at Chet’s because you couldn’t hit a curve ball?”

  “To be perfectly honest, it wasn’t just the curve,” I admitted.

  She was still looking for an explanation. I told her, “It’s a sibling rivalry run amok. My twin brother is going to school on a baseball scholarship. He found a way to pay for his education. I had to do the same.”

  Meghan looked at me as if she didn’t realize that was allowed. “You mean you’re paying your own tuition?”

  “Tuition, books, rent, groceries, and car.”

  “You have a car?”

  She was probably thinking sports car. I was embarrassed to say, “It’s a 1972 Pinto with bald tires, but it gets me where I need to go.” The car had belonged to an elderly neighbor. I always cut his grass and shoveled the snow from his sidewalk. He had a small property, so it wasn’t a big deal. He sold me the car for a hundred dollars when he was forced to give up driving. It was worth five hundred at the time.

  I couldn’t tell if my financial situation impressed her or if she was embarrassed for me. I didn’t think it really mattered because we were almost at our destination. We’d go our separate ways after two more blocks, and I expected that to be the last time we ever spoke.