It didn't dawn on me—at least not then—that what I was feeling was the pain of outgrowing my old self, of taking those first steps away from the middle rows and toward the front of the classroom. I was cracking from the inside out, sloughing off old ways of thinking and being. The old me was dying, and the new one was trying to birth. That process, though, would take a long time. At that moment, the cool tile of the bathroom beneath my cheek, I only knew that my heart ached.
CHAPTER 12
As September became October, the cool weather of fall arrived, causing the trees to erupt in a riot of red, gold, and orange. Walking to class, my feet kicking at the fallen leaves, I felt that I, too, was experiencing a change of seasons. Ever since the night in Andy's room when he'd playfully tackled me, I had felt uneasy around him. I shied from his touch, fearing it would arouse me again. I avoided being alone with him, and started spending more time in my own room. Jack noticed my reluctance to make nightly visits with him to Andy's room, and asked me why I was reluctant to go.
"I just have a ton of work to do," I told him, gesturing to the mountain of textbooks piled on my desk. It was true that I had a lot of work, far more than I'd ever had in high school. Jack, too, had a heavy load. The difference was that he ignored his. Used to having me write his papers for him, he was unaccustomed to setting deadlines for himself. Assignments meant little to him because he had never before been controlled by their demands. But now, because we were in mostly different classes and because I had more than my own amount of work to complete, he was largely on his own. Still, he didn't worry. My questions about term papers and upcoming test were met with, "I'll worry about it later." But later never seemed to come, and as we entered our sixth week at Penn, the effects of Jack's nightly parties with Andy became apparent. The first indication of trouble was a D on an English test. Having read virtually none of the assigned work, Jack was lucky to do even that well. He fared even more poorly on our first American history exam, receiving an F to my A-. When we compared our results, he fell into a black mood.
"Why didn't you make me study?" he said, as if his failure were my fault.
"I asked you to," I reminded him. "You wanted to go hang out with Andy, remember?"
"Whatever," Jack said, crumpling his test paper up and tossing it into the trash. "History's all lies anyway."
"You sound like Chaz," I said, mocking him gently in an attempt to cheer him up. "Chaz says everything we were taught as kids was made up by the government to make us think they know what they're doing," said Jack. "You should hear some of the stuff he's told me. It would blow your mind."
"Maybe Chaz should take your next history test for you," I commented.
"Why do you hate him and Andy so much?" Jack asked, surprising me with the question. "What do you mean?" I said.
"You hardly go up there anymore. Don't think they haven't noticed. They think you don't like them." "I like them!" I said. "I just can't hang around up there all the time like you do." "Right," Jack said. "I forgot. You're the smart one. I'm the idiot."
"You're not an idiot," I said. "That's not what I said. I was making a joke."
"It's what you meant," Jack shot back. He picked up his jacket—the letterman one he'd gotten in high school—and walked to the door.
"I'm going out for a while. I'll see you later." He left. Shocked, I looked at the closed door for probably five or six minutes, expecting at any moment that it would open and Jack would come back in. I didn't understand why he'd sounded so angry. A failed test had never been a big deal to him before, so I couldn't imagine that was it. But if not that, then what? Everything had been fine until he'd brought up Andy and Chaz. Was that it? I wondered, my chest tightening. Had he seen or sensed something that night in Andy's room? Did he know what I'd been thinking? He'd never really asked me why I had stopped hanging out with Andy so much. Maybe because he knew. The realization hit me like a punch to the stomach. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt Jack. He meant everything to me. He was everything to me. I just wanted us to be happy together.
I waited for over an hour for him to return, trying to read but unable to concentrate. The words on the page kept turning into ants that scurried around in confusing patterns, fleeing from my attempts to make meaning out of them. I read the same paragraph over and over, each time reaching the end without understanding a word of what I'd read. I checked the clock obsessively, thinking that surely hours had passed, but finding that it had been only two or three minutes since the last time I'd looked. Unable to sit still another second, I got up and grabbed my coat from the hook in the closet. Pulling it on, I left the room and the building, heading out into the cold night air to look for Jack. I had no idea where he might be. I had yet to even familiarize myself with the entire campus, so spread out was it that I'd mapped only a small portion. I stood for a moment in the harsh light of a street lamp, trying to make up my mind.
I decided to try the athletic fields. Growing up, Jack had often worked out his frustrations by running, saying that the physical exertion cleared his head. Maybe, I thought, he was resorting to tried-and-true methods of dealing with the anger he'd expressed toward me. Getting my bearings, I walked down the path to the track. It was some distance from the dorm, and by the time I got there, I was quite cold. It was only the 7th of October, but already I could feel frost in the air. I shoved my hands in my pockets and stood at the top of the stairs going down to the track from the crest of the rise on which I was perched. I scanned the area for Jack, but it was deserted. There was no figure moving through the oval of lights, circling around as he tried to run away from the heat inside of him. Disheartened, I turned and walked back the way I had come. As I retraced my steps, I thought about how I would apologize to Jack. I rehearsed the words, choosing them carefully. I played out the conversation in my head several times, until I was sure that it would bring about the desired result, which was the return of peace between Jack and me. I just wanted everything to be the way it had always been.
As I passed Pattee Library, it occurred to me to check inside. Perhaps, I thought, Jack had gone there looking for some quiet. It was unlike him, true, but not out of the realm of possibility. Besides, I told myself, maybe he'd been spurred into action by his poor test result. Maybe, while I'd been worrying and looking for him, he had been safely tucked into a carrel, catching up on his schoolwork. I pushed open the door to the library and went inside. Past the check-out desk, rows of tables set with softly-glowing lamps were positioned before the forests of stacks. Most of the chairs were filled with students hunched over their books, scribbling in notebooks. One or two were asleep, their heads resting on their crossed arms. Again I looked for Jack, but he wasn't there. Suspecting it was fruitless, I nonetheless walked through the stacks, thinking I might come upon him searching for a particular book. I was not surprised to come up empty-handed. Jack's going to a library for refuge was unlikely, but I had no other ideas for where he might have gone.
Unless it was to the most obvious place of all. Feeling ridiculous for not having checked there first, I left Pattee and hurried back to Pinchot Hall. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I took the stairs. As I climbed to the seventh floor, I again rehearsed what I would say. Probably Jack had told Andy at least something about our fight. If he had, Andy would be even more resentful of me for having avoided him. I wanted to defuse both situations at once, which I planned on doing by pretending nothing had happened. I would just walk in and pick up where we'd left off. I could deal with Jack later, when he'd worked through his initial anger.
In my haste to get to Jack I had hurried, and by the time I reached the seventh floor, I was panting heavily. I walked to Andy's room and paused there, catching my breath. From behind the door I heard the sound of the Zombies singing "Hung Up on a Dream." I also heard muted laughing, two voices, which made me sigh with relief. Andy was not alone, and it was likely Jack he was with.
I opened the door and walked in, a smile on my face and a cheery hello ready
on my lips. But I stopped in my tracks when I saw what was going on. Andy was on his back on the bed, naked. Sitting on top of him, her back to me, was a girl I'd never seen before. She had long red hair, which was bouncing against her back as she rode Andy vigorously.
"Hey," I said, unable to stop myself before it came out. Andy looked up, his eyes dreamy from smoking the joint he still held in his hand. When he saw me, he smiled as if having me show up while he was in the middle of making love was the best thing that had happened to him all day. The girl, too, turned around and looked at me. Her small breasts, the nipples red like her hair, jiggled softly as she continued what she was doing.
"Ned!" Andy said expansively. "Come on in. Tracy, this is Ned."
"Hi," Tracy said breathlessly, giving a little wave of her fingers. I could see Andy's balls between his spread legs, and every time Tracy raised herself up, several inches of his shaft slid out of her. "I'm sorry," I said, trying not to look at Tracy's breasts. "I was looking for Jack. I thought he might be here."
"No," Andy said. "I haven't seen him. But, hey, why don't you stay? I bet Tracy wouldn't mind." Tracy giggled and winked at me coyly. "I wouldn't mind," she confirmed. Andy pumped himself up into her, making her cry out and giggle again. "She's a wild one," he said slapping one of her ass cheeks with his free hand. "Want a ride?" "Thanks," I said. "But I've got to find Jack. Sorry to interrupt."
I retreated from the room, shutting the door before I could see anything else. Inside, Andy slapped Tracy's ass again, the sharp smack followed by more laughing. I walked away quickly, before I heard anything further, and descended the stairs to the third floor as if I were running away from the scene of a crime.
When I got back to my room, Jack was there. Like Andy, he was stretched out on his bed, but instead of Tracy and her breasts, he had a book open on his chest. "Where have you been?" he asked, looking at the clock. "It's almost eleven."
"I was looking for you," I said. "Where'd you go?"
"Just for a walk," he answered. "You know I like to get some exercise when I'm hot." I nodded. "I went to the track," I said.
He laughed. "I should have guessed," he said. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier. I was just mad about the test. I didn't mean anything."
"I know," I told him.
"And I guess I should stop spending so much time with Andy, too. It hasn't exactly been helping my grades."
"I think Andy's found someone else to spend time with," I said as I took off my shoes and sat down. Then I told Jack about walking in on Andy and Tracy. "You're kidding," Jack said. "She just kept right on riding him?"
"Like a merry-go-round horse," I said. "Up and down and up and down and…"
"I get the picture," said Jack. "That guy is just crazy. He's fun, but crazy. I guess I let myself get kind of carried away by him." I didn't say anything. Jack was apologizing, and I was happy that we were on good terms again. But I knew that I had something to apologize for, too, and I wasn't doing it. I couldn't. I could never tell him that for a brief moment I'd actually considered joining Tracy and Andy on the bed, and not because I wanted to get my hands on Tracy. For the second time, I felt as if I'd chosen someone else over Jack, and for the second time that person was Andy.
I picked up my business class text and turned to the chapter we would be discussing in class the next day. Of all my courses, this was the most difficult for me to have any interest in. The material was dull, and the instructor even duller. I couldn't believe some of my classmates actually found the discussions of profit and loss, earning statements, and inventory control interesting. Worse, I couldn't believe my father had devoted his entire life to work that centered around these things. When I looked ahead and imagined myself at a desk, computing the week's accounts, I wanted to slam the book shut and never open it again. I'd already promised myself I would never take such a job, for any reason. Over on his bed, Jack groaned and flipped the pages of his textbook in irritation. "Why can't this guy write in English ?" he complained.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
"Chaucer," he said. "It's supposed to be a poem."
"Chaucer?" I repeated. "Chaucer does write in English."
"Well, it doesn't look like it to me," said Jack. "I don't get any of it."
I closed my business book and took Jack's from him. "It's Middle English," I explained. "It just sounds funny. Here, I'll read it to you." For the next hour we went line by line through the first part of the prologue to Canterbury Tales . Having already covered it in my class the week before, I was able to help Jack cut through the arcane language. It was tedious work, especially as Jack kept insisting that Chaucer was making up words that didn't exist. But I kept on, feeling that it was my penance. I told myself that I owed it to Jack for what I'd been thinking of late. I'd let him down, and helping him with his translation seemed the least I could do. When we reached the part where Chaucer begins to name the pilgrims, I stopped. "That's enough for one night," I told Jack, who gratefully took the book and set it on his desk.
"Is it all like that?" he asked.
I nodded. "Pretty much."
Jack groaned as if in pain, then took his toothbrush and toothpaste from its place on the closet shelf. "I'll be right back," he said. "I'm just going to the bathroom." I undressed and got into bed, waiting for Jack to come back and thinking about what we'd just read. Like Chaucer's pilgrims, we were on a journey together. There was Jack, the handsome Knight, fair of face and beloved by all. Myself I cast as the Yeoman, faithful servant to the Knight, always by his side ready to do his bidding. Andy, too, was along for the ride, as bawdy and uninhibited as the Wife of Bath. We made for strange companions, the three of us, yet it seemed that, for better or for worse, we had cast our lots together.
What, I wondered, would our tales be when we were finished?
CHAPTER 13
Jack's renewed dedication to his studies lasted about a week, during which he managed a C+ on a speech about the origins of the Peace Corps and a 72 on an art history test in which he mistook Turner's painting of Norham Castle at sunrise for Monet's landscape portrait of Paris' Parc Manceau. As his enthusiasm for his classes waned, he returned to Andy's room more and more often. Apart from our shared classes, I had not seen much of Andy since interrupting his tryst with Tracy, but he continued to be friendly to me and in no way seemed offended by my decreased presence in his room. I, however, was miserable because of him. To my annoyance, I'd discovered that I was fantasizing about him often. Even when I was with Jack, I would sometimes see Andy's face, or recall the glimpses I'd had of his dick. He became a distraction to my studying, an ever-present figure in my thoughts who demanded attention at inconvenient times. I resented him for it, and I hated myself for allowing it. I should, I believed, be able to control my thoughts and feelings. Objectively, I understand that my growing infatuation with Andy makes little sense. Love seldom does. Its unreasonableness is what makes it so dangerous. It's what allows so many of us to make terrible decisions, decisions that can lay waste to lives (especially our own) and end with us sitting wounded and bleeding in the midst of ruin, wondering what happened. It also sometimes results in unimagined joy, although I suspect that's more true of movies and novels than it is of real life. I can't, even now, fully explain what it was about Andy Kowalski that allowed the hooks of love to plant themselves in my heart. Partly it was his wildness, which I both admired and was jealous of. Partly it was his beauty, which was undeniable. And partly it was because he wasn't Jack. I can see that all these years later, although at the time I didn't allow the admission to enter my conscious thoughts. Jack had been my best friend for nineteen years, my lover for four. Having taken place in secret, our relationship had therefore also been untested. Until our arrival at Penn, there had been no other possibilities for my romantic interest. Now, though, I was discovering that my feelings for Jack might not be exclusive to him, and that frightened me. Like so many people, I'd come to believe that love flowed only in one direction, its course as fixed as
that of the Mississippi or any great river. That this river could have tributaries, that it could flood and overflow its banks, was a shock. It was made worse by the knowledge that Andy was unavailable to me. His hunger for women had been made clear, and despite his invitation to join with him and Tracy, I could not imagine that he would have any interest in me as a solitary object of desire. This made my feelings for him all the more ridiculous, and deepened my misery. I retreated more and more into myself as a way to dampen my feelings, although admittedly it did little to stop me from weaving daydreams about being in Andy's bed. Jack didn't notice. One of the advantages to self-absorption is that you're able to completely ignore any cracks in the foundations of your relationships. Being on top of the pedestal precludes having to view the base, so that by the time the marble has started to crumble, it's usually too late. Again, I'm being a bit harsh on Jack. He had no more experience of relationships or love than I did. Also, he had the disadvantage of never having lost. He had not learned to recognize the signs of impending trouble. Even if he had, he would expect someone else to divert the danger, leaving him safe. He had no reason to think that our relationship was beginning to shift in a perilous direction. Halloween of 1969 fell, conveniently for those interested in celebrating it without the worry of having to attend class the following day, on a Friday. The campus was the scene of multiple parties, all of which began as soon as classes were out in the afternoon. I remember walking back to the dorm following my history class and passing through a crowd of ghosts and ghoulies, all of them in a festive mood. In particular, I recall a girl dressed all in green, with sequins sewn to her clothes like scales. A long tail extended from her backside, and she'd painted her face to match her costume. As I walked by, she exhaled a cloud of marijuana smoke into my face, exclaiming, "Happy Halloween from Puff, the magic dragon!"