What It Was Like (19 page)

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Friday couldn't come soon enough. After a couple of days of various kinds of orientation activities and assemblies, I started actual classes. Nine o'clock in the morning, five days a week. I had heard that, in college, schedules were supposed to be easier. Guys could stay up all night and sleep until noon, or not have any classes on a Friday or a Monday or both. Unfortunately, that didn't apply at Columbia, at least not during freshman year.

Right from the start, I realized that I was going to have to work my butt off, studying here. There was a lot of reading, for every class, and a science requirement that included a full laboratory session every week. I chose geology – “Rocks for Jocks,” instead of say, “Mickey Mouse Math” or “Physics for Poets” – because it was the only science class that didn't meet on Friday afternoons. That way I would be sure to be able to get out of the City early, before the weekend rush hour began in earnest.

“You're not staying around?” asked Roommate A. “They're having a mixer with the freshman girls at Barnard.”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” said Roommate A. “More room for me.”

Our room was small, so anytime the other guy was gone, it doubled one's amount of living space. In one way, I was lucky. I won the coin toss when we moved in, and
he
had to sleep on the top of the bunk bed. I'm not kidding: the room was too small for two separate beds. At night, before going to sleep, the last thing I would see was the metal web of springs and sagging mattress above me, as Roommate A tossed and turned his fat body into dreamland. I'm just glad he didn't sleepwalk. I might have gotten crushed some night.

Friday afternoon, I was out of there like a shot. I stuffed my suitcase with enough clothes for the weekend, a pillowcase full of my dirty laundry for my mother to do as long as I was there, and a lot of books for my weekend's reading/homework. My Freshman Composition teacher (who testified at my trial and whom I will here re-name in order to protect his privacy: Professor Brilliant – he'll love that!) wanted a paper every Monday. This first one was only two pages – typed, double-spaced – but it still had to be written. But I had until Monday morning. Between then and now, I had plenty of time.

Going back to the Island, I had two choices. Either I could take the subway down to Penn Station and catch the Long Island RR out to my hometown's station, or I could take the subway all the way out to Jamaica in Queens and catch a bus out to the Island. The railroad way was more expensive and faster, except that there was a schedule and sometimes you had to wait. The subway-bus option was longer and cheaper, but it kept me moving and let me off just two short blocks from my house. If I took the railroad, I had to be either picked up from the station by car (which usually meant my Mom or Dad) or take a cab (too much money.) This time, I did the subway.

From years of riding in and out of Manhattan during high school, I had my New York subway-riding technique down pat. Find a corner seat, secure whatever package or piece of luggage I was carrying, get out a book, curl into a shell, and disappear into my reading. But to make sure that I wasn't bothered or hassled, I was also sure to protect my space with wide elbows and a surly look, too, like
I
might be the one with a butcher knife under
my
coat, so don't mess with me. This was unless there was a little old lady standing there. Then I would give her my seat. Fortunately, there was no little old lady when I got on the Broadway local at 116th Street.

Is there anything worse than commuting on public transportation? (I mean, besides sitting in a cell, going absolutely nowhere.) Is there anything more unpleasant than a long ride in a bumpy, smelly crowded subway? Yes, there is: a long ride in a bumpy, smelly crowded
bus
. But I learned to do it. Millions of people do it every day. I just never learned how
not
to complain about it.

So I carefully put my little suitcase on my lap, opened it a crack, and slipped out a book. I felt like a tourist, carrying a suitcase on the subway, but I had no choice. I put my hand in and drew out the first book on my list: Homer's
Odyssey
. Perfect for the long trip home. I opened it to the page I had marked and dove in.

I surfaced in time to change to the express train at Ninety-Sixth Street. Sometimes, I can concentrate so hard on things that I lose track of where I am, so I always have to be on guard from falling too deeply into my own thoughts. That can be dangerous, in the real world.

I had prepped my parents, telling them that I was coming home Friday night, so they knew that I wanted use of one of the cars. If they wanted to go out to a movie – which happened once every five years or so – they could take the Chrysler and leave me the Ford. Everything was planned. I would pick up Rachel at 8:00, and we would be free . . . at least for a few hours. That goal –
being alone with Rachel for a few hours –
got me through the week and would get me through the rest of my trip back to the Island.

By the time I changed trains at Fifty-Ninth Street and again at Seventh Avenue to pick up the E Train out to Queens, I had steamed through the Homer selections and was onto Plato's
Republic
. Did I mention that Columbia is famous for force-feeding the classics to their freshmen? In high school, we got some of this stuff, but this was the real thing.

I had done this basic route, bus and subway, many, many times during high school, escaping from the Island into the City with my friends. I wasn't exactly an everyday dead-in-the-eyes drone commuter, but I knew the way and could just follow the crowd, out of the subway car, up the stairs, and out to the buses.

You know from Mooncliff how much I hate buses. Well, the city buses were even worse. The diesel was fumier, the grime grimier, and the roads simply sucked. But I knew what to do: I went to the second-to-last seat in the back, barricaded myself next to the window with my suitcase, and disappeared into Plato. And I did, for a few pages of tiny print, before other thoughts started leaking into
The Republic
. Like where would I take Rachel that night? Did I have enough cash to cover the weekend? What about Saturday? Could I also see her on Saturday? I reminded myself to clean out the backseat of whatever car I was taking – probably the Ford – and to throw a blanket in the back, just in case.

My mother gave me a big welcome when I walked in the door. I admit that I was tired. I was up early that morning because Roommate A woke me with his cough. He smoked unfiltered Gauloises, if you can believe it, a habit he picked up, he told me more than once, when he did a summer session at the Sorbonne.

“How would you like to do some laundry for me?” I asked her as I trudged up the stairs with my suitcase.

“Me?” she said. “I would
love
to do some laundry for you. I haven't done enough laundry this week, and I was really hoping for more.”

“Thank you, Mother,” I said.

“So what do you want for dinner?” my mother asked as I got to the top of the stairs.

“Whatever you want!” I said. And I meant it. I had more important things to do than think about food.

I spent the time before my 8:00 date with Rachel showering and shaving, wolfing down some take-out Chinese food while I finished off the Plato, and cleaning out the car (yes, I remembered the blanket). I left early, wearing nice jeans, a blue-striped Oxford shirt, and my blue blazer. Before Rachel, I never really gave much thought to what I wore or what I looked like, other than to be clean and presentable. Now I wanted to look at least
decent
for her. I couldn't let the contrast between our appearances be too noticeable. It was one thing when we both wore a lot of Mooncliff green-and-white; the real world was different. I didn't want to be the Beast to her Beauty, at least not so obviously. And, if I had another encounter with Eleanor and Herb – I really hoped that Rachel would just come right outside when I rang the doorbell and spare me – I would feel more adult, armed by my sports jacket with my lucky RFK pin in the pocket.

By then, I could get to her house in my sleep. In my dreams, both day- and night-dreams, I had already driven this way many times. All week I had been waiting to see Rachel, and the time had finally come. Through classes – some boring, some interesting – studying and not studying, sitting in my dorm room or someplace else, I would think about Rachel. I couldn't keep my mind on any subject more than a few minutes before thoughts of Rachel, fantasies of Rachel would intrude, transporting me back to The Zone. Nothing was better; nothing was as satisfying. And now we were about to be together. It was crazy, but my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.

I timed my arrival perfectly, turning into the Princes' cul-de-sac at five minutes to eight. It was a good, long walk up the flagstone path to the front door of the huge brick fortress and its big, shiny black-painted door. I heard the sound of my steps, slapping on the stone. I always knew that
this
moment would come: calling for her at her house. I didn't think things would look so big and unfriendly – all black shutters and curtained windows – but I refused to be intimidated. I rang her doorbell at exactly 8:00.

I waited longer than I expected to – why wasn't she right at the door? – and was on the verge of pushing the button a second time when I heard footsteps inside, approaching. The door opened. As soon as I saw Rachel, I could tell that she had been crying. She couldn't even look me straight in the eye, but I could see.

“Come on in,” she said softly, forcing a smile. “They want to see you.”

“
They
?” I said, probably louder than I should have. As I walked in the doorway, I moved to kiss her.

“No,” she said, putting out her hand. “Not here.”

She took my hand and led me into the house. It didn't take more than a few moments, walking through the Princes' foyer and living room – with the big, fancy staircase leading to a balcony overlooking the downstairs and a gold-and-crystal, flower-encrusted chandelier hanging from the silver ceiling – for me to feel that there was something unnatural about the house. Everything – all the furniture, the lamps that glowed dimly, the velvet drapes that hung over the windows like vultures, the huge fireplace in the living room with a gleaming set of brass fireplace tools in a stand – everything was thick and heavy and rich-looking, all satin and silk. But as fancy and rich as everything was, there seemed to be no fresh air in the house.

“How're you doin'?” I whispered as we passed through a dark dining room that had against one wall a big breakfront with glass doors that held plates edged with gold and lots of little painted china statues of dogs in different little outfits.

She squeezed my hand and said, “Wait till we get out of here.”

I squeezed back, in support. But just before we entered a big back room, she dropped my hand and pushed it away.

The dining room opened onto an enormous back room with big windows, a high ceiling, flowery, tropical wallpaper, and French doors at the end that opened to the outside patio. There was a large bar with four black barstools and another fireplace – even bigger than the one in the living room – made of rough flagstone with another set of brass fireplace tools that had horses' heads for the handles, and over the mantel a big, modern clock with spiky hands and dots for numbers hung on the wall. Set against the other wall was an enormous color TV, the biggest I'd ever seen. And at the back of the room, right in front of us, on either side of the French doors, were Eleanor and Herb, enthroned in big black leather Barcaloungers. They both held highball glasses filled with an orange liquid in one hand and something to smoke in the other – she had a cigarette, him a cigar.

“Well, hello there!” Eleanor called out as we entered. I don't think I visibly cringed, but I cringed inside.

“Hello,” I said, trying to sound normal and relaxed. “Happy Friday!”

I gave them a nice smile and stood there in the doorway with Rachel. This was the last thing I wanted – Round Two with Eleanor and Herb – but I was ready to endure whatever they had in mind for me.

“Working ya hard, freshman?” cracked Herb, swirling the ice cubes in his glass.

“Yes, sir,” I said honestly. “They are.”

“Good!” he barked and took a sip of his drink. “Hard work is good for ya. Toughens ya up.”

“You're right,” I said. “It's good to be tough.” I knew that my automatic agreement with him was just on the edge of insolence.

“Beats lying face down in a rice paddy!” he said with a sharper tone.

“Herb!” barked Eleanor. “Come on! Nothing about the war!” She turned to me and said, “We were just watching Walter Cronkite and he said –”

“Hey, kid,” rasped Herb. “Get a load o' this!
Remote control
 . . . Zenith Space Commander.”

He held up this metal device and pressed a button with his thumb, which changed the channel on the big TV from across the room.

“Nice!” I said. It
was
cool, and it was the polite thing to say.

“You press your finger,” said Herb smugly. “You don't even have to move. It even has a button to mute the sound. Something every woman should come with.”

“Herb!” cautioned Eleanor.

“Only kidding! Only kidding . . .” Herb answered. “By the way, El', great whiskey sour.”

Rachel rescued us, interrupting with “We have to go, Mother.” She took my hand and started to back us out of the room.

“Did you feed Max?” Eleanor called as we were going.

“Yes!”

“Don't be late! You remember what we discussed.”

“I won't be! And yes, I remember. Every word.”

“Don't be such a brat, and say goodnight to Herb!” Eleanor ordered, but Rachel said nothing, turned us around, and sped us out of the room.