Chapter 16 Redux: Dinner with guys from the floor, only this time we correct a few errors and explain the mysterious disappearance of Frankie Atwater

I’ve always been kind of a loner. I can’t explain why. Some people are left handed. Some people like ice cream. Some people like boiled okra, and I don’t understand how this can be so. Nevertheless, this kind of preference seems to me to be beyond analysis. An extremely attractive woman recently asked me if I wanted her to seduce me, and I said “No.” She asked “Why not?” and there wasn’t really an answer, I just didn’t. Which is a better analogy to why I’m a loner than boiled okra. Since boiled okra is vile and revolting, I will go out of my way to avoid it, as would any sensible person. But I’m not a loner because I dislike other people or their company, I’m just not motivated to seek out others in any companionable way. I’m not at all discombobulated by the company of others, and I often have a good time when I’m with other people. But if I’m alone in my room studying Greek or Physics, it just doesn’t occur to me to go look for other people so that I can have company. I just don’t get lonely. In the same way I don’t miss hanging out with others, I don’t miss pickled beets.

College was a slightly different experience for me than it was for lots of my classmates. Most of the guys on my dorm floor freshman year were free of parental supervision for the first time, although there were two guys who’d attended up East boarding schools and one guy from Marin County whose parents seemed to place no limits on their behavior whatsoever. This was not that different from the way I was raised, but I always thought I was a special case. My folks were military and largely absent, but I thought everyone else had parents who were looking in on them from time to time.

My interactions with others weren’t bad, but they were infrequent. I liked studying and went to class. People talked to me in class, and I got along with them. Then a few days into the semester I got a note in my college-approved and -required post office box from the office of the Provost saying they needed to talk to me. There was no indication of why they wanted a word with me. I didn’t have any other classes the day I got the note, so I walked on over. The Provost’s office, the address for which was helpfully provided in the note, was on the third floor of Kirkland Hall. It occupied what seemed to me to be cramped quarters. On entry, I asked to see the Provost, was asked why, showed the receptionist my note, and was informed that I wanted to talk not to the Provost, but to the Provost’s secretary.

Okay. The receptionist pointed her out and I strolled over.

The Provost’s secretary said the problem was that they didn’t have an address for my parents.

“Why do you need that?” I asked.

“To send the bills to,” she said.

“My parents aren’t paying for any of this,” I said.

“If it’s a trust fund, you can give me the name and address of the trustee,” she said, scratching her scalp with the pointy end of a pencil.

“No trustee. I just have enough money to pay for my own education.”

Um, look. I need the name and address of an adult to send the tuition bills to,” she said.

“Adult? I’m over eighteen and I’m paying my own bills,” I said. “I haven’t talked to my parents in several years, I don’t have a trustee, I’m just a guy who has enough money to pay for his own education.”

“Grandparents?” she asked.

“I actually don’t know if I have any. My father used to talk about his father every now and then, but I never met him. Look, why is this necessary? I have enough money to pay for my four years here. No problem.”

“I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult, she said, raising her voice slightly.

“I wouldn’t have thought I was the one being difficult here,” I said.

“You are the one who is refusing to provide your parents’ address,” she said.

There was a door behind her and a white-haired man with a mustache poked his head out. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Mr. Baida here won’t give us his parent’s address,” she said.

“Well, Mr. Baida, would you care to come into my office?” he asked.

I looked down at the note that had summoned me. Oddly, it did not give any indication of what the provost’s name might be. “Are you the provost?” I asked.

“Dr. David Seville, at your service,” he said to me. “Debbie, can you bring me this young man’s file?” he said to his secretary. She nodded sullenly, and I followed him in to his office. It was a decent size and had lots of fun knick-knacks and ornaments, but it had this weird red carpet that wasn’t flat, like maybe the carpet had been laid over other carpet several times.

“So what brings you here?” he asked.

“This.” I handed him my note.

“While Debbie looks up your records, let me ask you a few questions. How long have you been here?”

“This is my first semester,” I said.

“And how are you enjoying the college experience?” he asked.

“Okay. I like my classes. The math is a little more basic than I was expecting.”

Debbie walked in with a slender file folder and dropped it on Dr. Seville’s desk. She turned and left without looking at me. He picked it up and nosed through it for a minute. “So you’re in Math 150 and it seems basic to you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I had a really good math teacher in high school.”

“Your school offered calculus?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It was called ‘pre-calculus,’ but we did all of the stuff we’re doing in Math 150.” I paused and thought about that for a second.

“Yes?” he asked, smiling a little too seraphically for a provost.

“I guess I’m not being entirely accurate, now that I think about it. She used to give me homework problems she didn’t give anyone else, and some of this stuff I probably picked up from my special assignments.”

He nodded and opened my folder, leaving it flat on his desk. He flipped through a few pages, nodding to himself from time to time, then his eyebrows shot up. He looked up at me after a second. “You learned calculus at Chattanooga City High?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Lots of people seem really surprised at that, but it seemed to me to be a pretty good school, and my math teacher was just great.”

“You understand that very few freshmen are allowed to take Math 150.”

“I got it, yeah,” I said.

“Who approved you for this?” he asked, flipping through the pages. I was about to answer when he said “Oh! It was Anton.”

“He told me his name was Dr. Ladd,” I said.

“Yes. Anton Ladd. He’s chairman of the department. If he thinks you’re ready for the course, you must be ready. And you’re also taking Physics202. Heavens, what demanding courses you take.”

“I’m enjoying them.”

“And how is the rest of your college experience. Do you like your dorm?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. It’s fine. It’s small, but it’s comfortable.” It beat the hell our of the Green Ghetto, that’s for sure.

“Making lots of friends?”

I shrugged. “I’m a little bit of a loner,” I said. “Plus I have all these demanding courses to study for.”

“Well, don’t miss the opportunity to make friends. The friends you make in college will remain your best friends for the rest of your life.” I nodded. “It looks like what brought you to Debbie’s attention is that we have no information a bout your parents.”

“Yes sir.”

“Is there some problem with providing it?”

“I don’t know where they are, and have no idea how to find out. We lost touch when I graduated from high school a few years ago. Mom left for Germany and dad left for Cambodia or some such place. They left me with a family friend who has subsequently moved away. I made some money over the last two years, enough to get me through college, so I’m not really sure why you need them, anyway.”

“We really don’t, under the circumstances, but we generally like to have someone to call if you are injured or arrested. And honestly, this is going to keep coming up as long as that blank isn’t filled in on Debbie’s form. She’s very persistent.”

“Well, for emergency contact, put down Mrs. Wertheimer,” I said.

“Who?”

“Good friend. Former teacher. And she actually may be a trustee, now that I think about it. In an emergency, she could also draw money from my accounts to do whatever needed to be done.” I gave her name and address.

“Thank you,” he said. I smiled and stood, we shook hands, and I left his office. As I passed Debbie’s desk she said “Why was that so hard?”

I got back to my dorm room and went back over the Greek alphabet a few times, then turned to Physics. The second chapter was about instantaneous acceleration and a few related topics, and it looked to me like they were going the long way around. Everything in the second chapter could have been deduced from the first, but they were treating it as though it were a different topic.

I’d been reading and doing the problems for a little over an hour when there was a knock at my door. First time.

“Come in” I called out from my bed.

The door opened and Brian from a few doors down, across the hall from the bathroom, opened the door. He was tall and had darkish brown hair longer than short but not long, combed funny. It was shiny and tight on his head like those toupees they put on mannequins, or did then. “Hey, man,” he said. “A bunch of us are going over to Rand for dinner and wondered if you wanted to come.” I could see a few other guys in the hall without recognizing them.

“Sure,” I said, mindful of Dr. Seville’s comment that I should make the most of my college experience. I stood up and put on my shoes, and noticed that Brian was wearing extremely well polished black lace-up boots like they wore in the military back then. I closed my door behind me. Four guys were in the hall, talking amongst themselves. The only one I recognized was Milton. He did not appear to be stoned. “Hi. I’m Henry,” I said. They all responded with some version of “Hey, man. Cool to meet you,” and we left for the dining hall. It took a minute to get to the ground floor and outside. Once out it was a hot day, but not oppressively so. The trees were still green and in full leaf in Nashville, it was still daylight, and I didn’t know anyone present.

“So,” said Milton. “Where’s everybody from?” We all looked at each other.

“Well, Milton,” said a short fair guy wearing a sweater although the weather didn’t call for it. “As you know, I’m from White Plains.” He was overstressing his syllables as though doing something everyone knew was unnecessary. He had very large pale horn-rimmed glasses and ash blonde hair coiffed into a smooth helmet. Everybody looked around.

“I’m from Atlanta,” said a guy with a mustache, smoking a Marlboro.

“I’m from Chattanooga,” I volunteered. I was taking Mrs. Wertheimer’s word for this.

“Jersey,” said Brian.

“North or south?” said the guy with the helmet hair.

“South,” said Brian. “Cherry Hill.”

“Ever been to the Stone Pony?” asked helmet hair from White Plains. There was a pause while Brian thought for a minute.

“That dive up in Asbury Park?” asked Brian.

“Yeah, that’s it,” said helmet hair.

“No, that’s way to the north and down by the shore. I don’t get over there. Why?”

“No big deal. There was just this guy that played there and my cousins and I went down to see him and he was really Jersey.”

“What’s ‘really Jersey’ mean, White Plains?” asked Brian. He was a little taller than me, didn’t look happy, was wearing shiny combat boots. Of course, he hadn’t looked happy from the start.

“ No, no, no, no, no,” said helmet hair. “His songs were all about New Jersey.”

“Uh huh,” said Brian, without further comment.

A pretty woman in a khaki skirt and an Alligator shirt called in our direction, “Frankie! Frankie!” and came running over. The guy from Atlanta smiled at her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, as she came running over. She gave him a hug, and he looked at us over his shoulder with a kind of shrug and a smile.

“I was wondering when I would run into you! It’s been sooo long,” she said, no longer hugging him but paying no attention whatsoever to the rest of us.

“Gentlemen, meet Collie,” he said. “A friend from home. Collie, meet the guys.” She waved to us shyly and collectively. White Plains was opening his mouth to introduce himself separately and by name but her attention was back on Frankie, who took a last puff off of his cigarette, flicked the but away, then offered his arm and walked away with her. We all watched them walk away. Frankie didn’t say much, but Collie was talking animatedly.

“Who is he, anyway?” asked White Plains.

“Francis Atwater,” said Brian and Milton, at the same time.

“I met some of his friends the other night at a rush party,” said Milton. “High school friends. They all called him Cisco.”

“Why?” asked White Plains. He seemed to grow smaller, and his hair look sillier, each passing minute.

“Because he’s such a bandit,” Brian said.

We watched them walk away for a few more seconds, collectively sighed, and started walking towards the dining hall.

“Have anybody been following the pennant races?” said Milton after we’d walked a few minutes in silence. “Looks like the A’s are going to make it.” He looked at me.

“You follow baseball?” he asked me.

“A little bit. I did when I was a kid. I’ve been traveling a lot the last few years and it’s been hard to keep up.”

“What’s your team?” he asked.

“The Dodgers,” I said. Milton, Brian, and helmet hair all made guttural vocalizations that might be spelled “ugh.” I smiled.

“Well, they’re in the hunt,” said Milton. A discussion followed regarding the Dodgers’ infield, hitting, and pitching in far more detail than I could have provided, even though I was the only Dodgers fan in the group and everyone else present professed deep hatred for them. After a few minutes, I ventured to ask a question.

“One of the things that happened while I wasn’t paying attention was the designated hitter rule,” I said. “How’d that come to be?”

There was a pause. Helmet hair from White Plains spoke up. “Well, I think most of us are American league team fans. So we think it’s great. Milton roots for the A’s. and I root for the Yankees, and I’d bet Brian does too.”

“Who you callin’ a Yankees fan?” said Brian, a little loudly.

“You’re a Mets fan?” asked White Plains.

“Fuck. No,” said Brian. “What is it with you New Yorkers, man? The world does not fucking revolve around Manhattan.”

“So. Phillies fan?” I asked.

“Of course. These American league guys,” he said to me as though we were best friends.

“I haven’t looked at a paper in the last few days, but last I looked the Phils were still in the hunt.” I said.

“On paper, yes, really, no way. Six or eight games back. Pirates and Cards both have to fall to pieces and both infields lose their nuts and Willie Stargell and Lou Brock have to both get struck by lightning and even still we’d get clobbered by either the Dodgers or the Reds in the playoffs. So, yeah. Not mathematically eliminated, but spiritually eliminated” White Plains and Milton looked at each other with a shared look of “how can anyone be so interested in the National League?”

“So who decided to allow the Designated Hitter Rule?” I asked Brian. By now we were in line at the dining hall.

“Oh, don’t get me started,” said Brian. “The American League is just fucked up, man.” White Plains and Milton looked at each other in silent irritation but said nothing.

“We should have gone to the cafeteria over at the freshman women’s quad,” said Milton.

“Is the food better over there?” I asked him.

“No, no. Same crap as here.”

“Why go over there, then?” I asked.

“Because the freshman women’s quad is filled with freshman women,” he said. Everyone else nodded.

We didn’t know each other, so conversation fell silent as we went through the line. I got something misleadingly called a veal cutlet, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, salad, and cornbread. We paid for our meals individually in a scrip called Meal Points, and found a table near the center of the cavernous dining hall. We began eating in silence.

“What’s that green stuff?” Brian asked. I looked around to see what he was referring to and realized he was looking at my tray.

“What green stuff?” I asked.

“The green stuff with little white cubes in it,” he said.

“Turnip greens,” I answered. Everybody looked at my dish with interest.

“Never seen it before,” he said. “That’s one of those Southern things, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” I answered. “I like them.”

“How does it compare to spinach?” asked Milton.

“Hard to describe. More like mustard greens,” I said. They all looked at me blankly. “Collard greens?” I said. Blank stares. “Rapini?” I asked. White Plains and Brian both nodded. Milton looked baffled.

“What’s rapini?” asked Milton.

“It’s a bitter kind of herb from Southern Italy that’s eaten braised or boiled. “I love it, but some people don’t.”

“Yeah, I’m okay with it but don’t go looking for it,” said Brian.

“Yeah, well the flavor’s not as strong, and turnip greens are generally chopped pretty fine and boiled a long time so the texture’s different, but I think there’s more of a similarity between them than between turnip greens and spinach,” I said.

“What are the white things?” asked White Plains.

“Cubed turnips,” I said.

“Oh, wow. Kind of a cosmic reconnection with the rest of the plant right in your dish,” said Milton.

“What’s that meat deal you got?” Brian asked me.

“It was called ‘veal cutlet,’” I said.

“Doesn’t look much like veal,” said White Plains.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” I said.

“Why’d you get it?” asked Brian.

“I asked the server what kind of meat was used in the meatloaf and her answer was ‘it’s just meat.’ I asked whether it was beef or pork or a mixture and she said ‘They done told me if anybody axed what kind of meat in the meatloaf to say “It’s just meat” so that’s what I’m sayin’.” Brian, who had finished his meatloaf, looked at his plate with a frown.

“Well, so how did it taste, Brian?” asked White Plains.

“Not like beef.”

“Well, like what?” he persisted.

“I’m really not trying to think about what that might have tasted like, man,” said Brian.

“Did the veal cutlet taste like veal?” Milton asked me.

“Not at all,” I asked.

“What did it taste like?”

“Soybeans,” I said.

“Hey, look, I don’t know what any of this stuff is called, man, but I want to sample the local cuisine. And in the cafeteria they don’t label stuff. Bit I’d like to try some of the local cuisine. Get the full on Nashville experience.” This was Milton from Marin County, and he wasn’t stoned, wanting to experience Southern cuisine in a college cafeteria.

“Like what?” I asked.

“I’d like to see what an okra tastes like. Maybe a catfish. Get some of that collard green you were talking about. A chicken pot pie. Crab cakes and jambalaya and filet gumbo.”

“Any chance we can talk about something other than food?” asked Brian.

“Okay. Who likes our chances against Georgia on Saturday?” asked Milton. Nobody said anything. We had a terrible football team.

“If you’re expecting a show of hands,” said White Plains, “note that I am not raising mine.”

“Me neither,” said Brian.

“Oh, come on,” said Milton. “We beat them last year 18-14.”

“The way I hear it, we also lost to Tulane 24-3. That’s pretty pitiful.”

“You know, I think it’s time to put some distance between me and this dining hall,” said Brian.

And with that, we got up and left.