[For some reason the formatting here at blogger is all screwed up. It does not recognize paragraph separation markers, so this shows up as one long screed, as though in Biblical Greek. The Scribd post is much easier to read. Double click on this link to see it: http://www.scribd.com/doc/73074831/Chapter-37 Thanks for looking at it.]
At the beginning of the year Stoney had gotten the Math club back together and we’d had several meetings. At the first one Leah showed up with a friend of hers named Michael Stewart whom she introduced with “This is Michael. He’s better than me.” My impression was that Stoney was in charge of membership so I wasn’t sure this was appropriate. It’s not like we had rules or anything, but if we let in any Tom, Dick and Harry mathematician who walked down the sidewalk, what kind of club would we be? Michael was short, wore stylish spectacles and very snappy, colorful, clothes, and couldn’t be mistaken for a straight person at a hundred paces. He was the first openly, exuberantly homosexual person I’d ever met. He was also incredibly cheerful.
Stoney, as our leader, introduced Michael to the rest of us: “Michael, you know Leah, and this is Cecil, this is Raheem, and this is my gay friend Henry.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Michael. “Henry’s not gay.”
“He’s not?” Leah and Stoney asked, at the same time.
“I have the best gaydar in the world. Not a blip on Henry. I’ve heard about you, too,” he said to Stoney. “Did I guess right, that you took your nickname from the Stonewall riots?” Stoney kind of looked down, embarrassed, and damned if he didn’t blush.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” he said, after a pause. “My real name is Thomas Henry Jackson, just like the Confederate general.”
“Well, fiddle-dee-dee,” said Michael. Stoney blushed again. A man in his forties showed up with an order pad in his hand.
“What you folks want to drink?” asked the waiter.
“Where’s Robin?” Stoney asked.
“Oh, I had to let her go. Turned out she was underage,” he said.
“Underage, how?” Stoney asked.
“She told me she was eighteen, but then I come to find out that she was really just fifteen. Sophomore at Hillsboro High. The state is very strict that people serving alcohol have to be over eighteen, so I didn’t have any choice. She was a great waitress, though. I really, really liked her. But. Can’t risk my license.”
“Ah, fuck,” said Stoney.
“Let me guess,” I said.
“No please don’t” said Stoney.
“Beer?” said the owner.
“A pitcher of Heineken for me,” said Stoney.
“And a Pitcher of Schlitz for the rest of the table,” said Cecil.
“Can I get a Coke?” asked Leah.
“And a glass of ice water?” I asked. He nodded and left.
“So what’s going on at that end of the table?” asked Leah.
“Stoner done tapped him some jailbait,” said Raheem.
“I’d really rather not talk about this,” Stoney said. “She insisted she was eighteen.”
“Tom, I think this is an opportunity for you to reflect on the decisions you make regarding the objects of your affection,” I said, which provoked a few laughs.
“Oh, mistakes happen,” said Michael. Somebody else came back with our drinks.
Stoney had managed to immediately gulp down two glasses of beer and was pouring another.
“Goodness, how thirsty you are,” said Michael.
“Oh, Stoner jus’ gettin’ started,” said Raheem. After we ordered pizza we discussed what problem to work on next and Leah suggested the Navier-Stokes equations. Stoney and Cecil immediately complained that this was another attempt to push us out of pure math and into physics.
“I don’t think it’s even physics. I think of it as engineering,” said Leah. “That’s not the point. Mathematically, there’s no proof that, as three dimensional equations, the Navier-Stokes equations are smooth. Seems like nobody can demonstrate that there’s no singularity,” she said. There was a long pause around the table. To mathematicians, equations either work or they don’t. To physicists, they work until something that works better comes along.
“How long have they been around?” asked Cecil.
“Nineteenth Century,” said Michael. “There was a big engineering explosion in the 1920s, though, and that’s when they really moved into the mainstream.”
“So you’re a homo?” asked Cecil, out of the blue.
“Yes, I am,” said Michael. “Is this going to bother you?” Cecil thought.
“No, I guess not. I just was never around a homo before.”
“We’re okay, I promise. I won’t bite. Is it all right if I call you a Negro?” Michael asked. Cecil and Raheem both sat up at this.
“I prefer Black,” said Cecil.
“In exactly the same way, I prefer ‘gay’ to ‘homo,’” said Michael, then smiled. There was a pause while Cecil thought about this.
“Okay. Gay. Gotcha,” said Cecil. There was a moment, then Cecil picked the conversation back up. “Okay, so the Navier-Stokes equations, everybody uses them but nobody’s figured out if they work?”
“Nope,” said Leah, Michael, and Raheem, all at once.
“How the fuck do you do this?” said Cecil to Raheem.
“Do what bro? said Raheem.
“Whenever I don’t know about something, you do,” said Cecil.
“I had good teachers,” said Raheem.
“Look,” said Michael. “I’m an Electrical Engineering major. We’re not like physicists or math majors. Engineers tend to work off of experience more than theory. People were building bridges millenia before there were Civil Engineers. If something works, we stick with it. If a theory comes along later that explains why it works, that’s great, but as long as it works, we’ll use it even if nobody understands why it works. Leah told me about you guys working through the Maxwell equations, which was tres cool but that was just his way of reducing his observations to math, which is why they make no sense at first. He’d observed without an underlying theory of what he was seeing, and he never really made sense of it. Kind of like Tycho Brahe.”
“I love Tycho and Kepler,” said Stoney. Joseph smiled at him.
“Okay,” said Leah. “So I’ll drop everybody some introductory materials about the Navier-Stokes equations through campus mail, and everybody can play with them, and maybe another meeting in two weeks?”
“Scrumptious,” said Michael, looking at Stony.
A few days later I was on my way to the dining hall at lunchtime with no specific plan other than lunch when I ran into Cecil, who high-fived me then would have continued the greeting into further steps if I had understood my part in the handshake dialogue. Cecil said he needed to drop in on Raheem because they usually took meals together. This was fine by me and we cruised by his room. The door was ajar, so Cecil knocked it open. Raheem was on the phone. I could only hear his part of the conversation.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, then listened.
“No, ma’am. I’m not expecting any trouble on this exam. I’ve made mostly A’s on all the tests. Maybe I got a B on the one about Richard III, but the rest are all A’s and my papers are all A’s.” Pause.
“Yes, ma’am. How is Auntie Pearl doing?” Pause.
“Well, tell her I’m thinking of her and I’m glad it went well.” Pause.
“Is Dad ready for the campaign?” Pause.
“I hate to miss so much of it, but I really am pretty busy here.” Pause.
“Well, that’s sweet of him. I’ll do what I can.” Short pause.
“I love you too.” He hung up. “’S’up, dawg,” he said, standing, then he and Cecil did a fifteen-part handshake.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked.
“Wha’s what, Henry?” asked Raheem, as we left.
“You, speaking the king’s English, to make your high school teachers proud.”
“Yeah, well, my mama, she don’t allow no street talk.” The idea of a tough guy like Raheem being told what to do by his mother caught me by surprise a little.
“So which way of talking is more normal for you?” I asked.
“They both normal, Henry. I just ain’t like you. Le’s get some lunch.”
I had become used to thinking of Raheem as a particular kid of person, so it was be hard for me to think of him as anything else. Tough guy? Street man? Black Panther? Yes, yes, yes. Mama’s boy? Well… not before now.
After lunch Raheem and Cecil went off to do whatever they had next on their agendas and I went to Probability 201, a silly class that could just have easily been called “Statistics for Social Science Majors” and may well have been called that at one point. Gauss’ functions (think bell curve) are in no way complicated. All the course does is convince humanities majors that there must be a mathematical basis for the statistics that they spout but don’t understand. Psychologists propping up their theories with statistics is like linguists or sociologists supporting their theses with books from a different language: if you don’t understand what it says, how can you argue about what it means? They were all learning statistics the way that they’d learned their times tables. Almost none of them got the sense behind the math.
For the next Math Club meeting, Stoney told me he’d pick me up in front of the dorm at a quarter to seven. It was October, so it was dark. Usually up to this point I’d had to track him down or wake him up and then he’d drive me there, but this time he said he’d pick me up. Right about on time he pulled up and came to a stop. Michael hopped out of the front seat, said “Bonjour, Henri!” and folded down the front seat for me to take the back seat. I’d never been in the back of Stoney’s car before. It was small.
It occurred to me as we drove over to House of Pizza that Stoney hadn’t been around much over the last week or so. I don’t keep tabs on my roommates, but I hadn’t come home to Stoney and Milton stoned to their gills and listening to The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway at ear-bleeding levels for more than a week. Stoney hadn’t been a part of our dining hall forays for several days. It looked, though, like he and Michael had become good friends. Stoney was driving, and he and Michael were talking, Michael a little animatedly, Stoney somewhat less so, but they were both engaged in their conversation. Stoney also appeared to be even more sober than he’d been in Chattanooga. In Mrs. Wertheimer’s house he hadn’t had access to any of his counterculture pharmaceuticals but he’d been drinking pretty much all day every day. I couldn’t really see him from the back seat, but it was possible that he was stone cold sober. The notion was shocking to me. Something must be wrong. As soon as I was beginning to conclude that Stoney had turned a new leaf, though, he pulled a silver flask out of a coat pocket and took a long pull as he turned left off of West End. He handed the flask to Michael, who took a smaller swallow, and he offered the flask to me.
“Henry doesn’t drink,” said Stoney, to Michael.
“Well, bless your heart,” said Michael. “You were brought up this way?”
“No, no, it’s an occupational thing.” There was a long pause, and when I looked back at Michael he was still looking at me with an inquisitive look on his face. “I used to play pool for a living,” I said. “It kind of changes your views on the decisions people make when they’ve had a few drinks,” I said.
“Certainement, when people get drunk, they make foolish decisions,” he said, taking another sip of what smelled like Bourbon, then handing the flask back to Stoney. Stoney took a gulp that was less voluminous than the last, then Michael took it back and recapped it and screwed back on the silver shotglass overcap, which neither of them had used, and Stoney returned it to his jacket pocket.
“They don’t have to be drunk,” I said. “A guy who can play good pool with one beer in him is still a worse pool player than he was before he had that beer. Not by a lot, but if you’re the only guy in the room who hasn’t had a beer, it’s noticeable.” Michael and Stoney looked at each other and shrugged. We were getting near the House of Pizza, and conversation turned towards spotting parking places. When sharp-eyed Michael spotted one, he briefly placed his hand on Stoney’s knee and pointed. Stoney found a rare break in traffic and managed to negotiate the Volvo through a high speed U-turn to cruise gracefully into the empty spot.
When we got to the restaurant Leah and Cecil were already there. We all sat down and said our hellos. A new waitress came by to take our drink orders, and for the first time in my memory, Stoney did not order separately for himself. She asked if we were ready to order.
“I think we’re still waiting for one,” said Michael.
“No. Sorry, I should have said. Raheem’s not coming tonight,” said Cecil. Leah ordered a ‘Pizza With Everything Including Anchovies’ for both of us as usual then swapped seats with Cecil so we’d be sitting next to each other when our food came. Everybody else placed their food orders.
“So where’s Beanie?” asked Michael. Leah and Stoney both laughed, mid-swallow, and beer may have passed through Stoney’s nose.
“Who?” asked Cecil.
“Beanie.”
“Don’t know Beanie,” said Cecil.
“Your friend. Raheem.”
He thought for a few seconds. “Where you get ‘Beanie?’” Cecil asked. Leah and Stoney stared at the ceiling. I didn’t get it.
“Sorry. I always see the two of you together. So if you’re Cecil, he must be Beanie. ” Cecil got it then and laughed, then frowned.
“No, no. This is totally uncool,” he said. “Raheem’s really not going to be cool with this at all.”
‘Oh, it’s just a little joke, a nickname,” said Michael, pouring himself another beer.
“No, really. Raheem works really, really hard on his street cred. He really ain’t gonna like being tagged with a kid’s cartoon name.”
“We’ll keep it to ourselves,” said Leah.
“It’s not just that,” said Cecil. “Between him and me, he’s like the leader and I’m like the follower. Between us I’m like taking his lead and he’s like helping me through this all.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. You’re equals,” said Leah. “Students. Frat brothers. Math Club members.”
“Yeah, sure, but … I really don’t want to show him up in … any … way,” said Cecil.
“Oh, you’re not showing him up. He gets to be the big green dragon. You’re the little boy, said Leah.”
“I’m just not sure he’s going to see it this way,” Cecil said.
“So where is Beanie?” asked Stoney.
“He’s got a bad stomach flu, or something. He started puking at about three and went over to Student Health. That whack-job doctor from Viet Nam was on duty and when he asked Raheem his symptoms the first thing the doc axed was ‘Did you have he spaghetti at Rand for lunch today?’ and when Beanie said ‘yes,’ the doc just shook his head. Said he couldn’t do anything for him, he just needed to drink lots of water and tough it out.”
“Anybody taking care of him?” asked Leah.
“No. I’m sorry, but I just got tired of listening to that shit.” We all nodded our heads in agreement. It’s not like he was going to die.
“Anybody else eat the spaghetti at Rand today?” asked Cecil. We all shook our heads.
“The Red Death,” said Stoney. “I never touch it.” We all nodded.
“Yeah, well, tell Beanie we miss him,” said Leah as our pizza came. We all nodded. We all dug into our pizza, and Leah started talking about the equations.
“Anybody play with them?” she asked. Everybody nodded, and the subsequent discussion suggested that textbook problems about flowing streams or rivers or liquids moving through sewer pipes of different sizes at various angles were all fine and good but were a little like homework problems, not so much like fun stuff for Math Club whizzes. As we talked through the problems and what they suggested, Cecil and Stoney kept noting diversions that suggested there was a turbulence problem, but nobody knew what to do with it. In retrospect, I would wonder whether or not fluids subject to irregular forces, or under pressure in irregularly-shaped spaces, aren’t always subject to turbulence, and that the necessary turbulence this implies isn’t the singularity at the heart of the equations. We just don’t understand turbulence as yet.
It took us about three meetings to come to the conclusion that we were not going to get to the bottom of he Navier-Stokes singularity problem. Math didn’t get there when we were undergraduates and it might not have gotten there now, but I don’t think the problem is calculus singularities. I think the problem is the other way around. Turbulence isn’t insoluble, but we haven’t solved it yet. Until we do, I think it will insert itself into our solutions like the most rigid singularity, but that’s just me. Still and all, it was kind of hard for me to give up on those equations I was about to voice this when Stoney, dejected, opened up.
“Guys, this is just awful,” he said. Everybody looked up.
“Why?” asked Leah.
“I just don’t like giving up,” said Stoney.
“Nobody does,” said Cecil, “we just aren’t going to solve this one.”
“Oh, man, there’s no problem that’s actually insoluble,” said Stoney. “I’ve worked out Fermat’s last theorem twice.”
“And what was it?” asked Leah.
“Yeah, well, I don’t remember. I was pretty loaded. But the second time I dictated the whole deal to this good-looking dark-haired chick who was pretty friendly and taught me all about the Russell Saunders coupling theory.”
“The what?” asked Cecil.
“It’s a physics deal,” I said. “What are you telling us, Stoney?”
“I don’t want to give up!”
“I’m with you,” said Leah, “I can’t stand not solving a problem. But we don’t even agree on what the problem is. Henry thinks it’s turbulence, and he may be right. There are no ways to describe turbulence.”
“Not entirely true,” said Stoney. “Mrs. W says that there’s a new discipline emerging that’s organized around chaos. Finding relationships between things like turbulence and fractal geometry.”
“Yeah, well maybe she can come up and explain it to us, or we can all go down there sometime, but for now, I think we should pick a new problem.”
“Ah , shit,” said Stoney.
“Call to a vote?” said Leah.
“Oh, no need for that,” said Stoney. “It’s just that…” There was a pause. “If we’re going to do something … remarkable, we’re going to have to do it here. Back on campus they just want us to learn what they already know. Ah, shit. What’s next then?”
“There’s the Poincarré conjecture,” said Leah.
“Fuck that. No topology,” said Raheem.
“And an anti-torus prejudice rears its ugly head,” said Thomas, sipping his beer.
“Why no topology?” Leah asked.
“Ain’t got no numbers,” he said. He’d had his hair braided into corn-rows, which I’d never seen before, and I wanted to stare at it and figure out how it was done, so I couldn’t really look at him.
“Yang-Mills existence?” I asked.
“I don’t know what that is so I’m betting it’s another one of your physics deals,” said Stoney, and sipped his beer, but he didn’t drain it.
“How about the Hodge conjecture?” asked Thomas. Stoney sat up.
“Anybody good with number theory?” he asked. Leah, Raheem, and I raised our hands.
“You’re not good with number theory,” he said to me. “I know it better than you do.”
“No, you don’t,” I said.
“I was doing Diophantine geometry in high school,” said Stoney.
“I see your Diophantine and raise you an analytical object and a Riemann zeta function,” I said.
“Oh, don’t start with your Peano arithmetical bullshit,” he retorted.
“Ladies,” said Cecil, “Can we return to the task at hand?”
“Actually,” said Leah, “watching them bicker over arithmetic is pretty entertaining.” There was a pause.
“So. The Hodge conjecture?” said Thomas.
“Re-educate me,” said Cecil.
“For projective algebraic varieties, Hodge cycles are rational algebraic combinations of algebraic cycles,” said Leah.
“What is a Hodge cycle, anyway?” asked Cecil.
“Is this a homology deal?” asked Stoney.
“Yes,” said Leah and Thomas at the same time.
“Okay, we can do this,” Stoney said to me. “Okay, so think Hk(V, C) = H where V is a non-singular complex algebraic variety or Kähler manifold.”
“Don’t know Kähler,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “Then think manifold with unitary structure keepin’ an integrability condition. A Riemannian manifold, a complex manifold, and a symplectic manifold, with all three structures mutually compatible.”
“Fuck!” I said “Slow down! Riemannian manifold?”
“You remember Riemennian geometry?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“So a Riemannian manifold is a real differentiable manifold “M” in which each tangent space is equipped with an inner product “g,” a metric, which seems to vary smoothly from point to point.”
“Wait, wait. This is stacking up too fast.” I had to think. “I think I get where you’re going, but I’ll need to work this through.”
“So there’s a problem here that we can chew on?” asked Leah.
“Oh, yeah, there’s a problem,” I said. “I guess the problem, or one of them, will be making sure we all understand what we’re working on. Once we figure that out, we’ll have to think about whether it’s soluble.”
“Oh, it is. Everything is,” said Stoney.
“Okay, it may be that I’m the member of this illustrious group who’s the most familiar with Hodge, so I’ll pull together some introductory materials, then I’ll hand them over to Miss Leah, who is so efficient at distributing info, and we’ll have another visit in two weeks?” said Thomas. We all agreed.
A few nights later, Milton and Cisco and I went over to Rand at about dinner time. We took our place at the end of the shorter of the two lines, but for some reason the lines were both really long and didn’t seem to be moving very quickly.
“Fuck this. Let’s go somewhere else,” said Cisco.
“No, let’s stay here,” said Milton.
“Why?” asked Cisco. It’s going to take thirty minutes to get through the line.”
“And the tables are all taken, too,” I said. “After we get our food, we’ll be looking for a place to sit and our food will get cold.” People were wandering around with full trays, waiting for a group to get up to leave so they’d have a place to sit.
“And you think cold Rand food is worse than warm Rand food?” asked Milton. “Besides,” he said, under his breath, “did you get a look at the tits on that girl right in front of us?” Cisco, who had been smoking a Marlboro, took one last drag and dropped it to the floor and put it out with the toe of his Topsider. He looked at the girl ahead of us in line. He cocked an eyebrow and studied her from behind for a minute.
“Mandy?” he asked. She turned around, somehow understanding that he was talking to her.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry,” he said. “From that angle you looked exactly like my friend Mandy. I haven’t seen her since I graduated from high school. Really, I apologize,” he said, and smiled at her, looking into her eyes.
“From that angle?” she asked, smiling wisely at him.
“I’m sorry, I’m Frank Atwater,” he said, taking her hand as if to shake, but not shaking, just holding it. He still seemed to be staring at her, and smiling, as though captivated.
“I’m Jessie Wilcox,” she said, smiling back, a bit reluctant, but not discouraging him.
“Well, Jessie, until I met you my friends and I were about to give up on this line and walk over to the D-School to see if the line isn’t shorter. Would you care to join us?”
“D-School?” she asked. That she did not know what this meant suggested freshmanhood.
“The Divinity School,” he said. “Next to the library. They have a smaller cafeteria there, but the line is always shorter because they don’t allow underclassmen.”
“I’m a freshman,” she said.
“I’m a sophomore,” he said. “They don’t card. Let’s go.” She grabbed her friend, who also got Milton’s attention, and we left for the D-School. Milton was as alert as a dog expecting a Milk-Bone for the first few steps out of Rand, expecting that there would be at least one girl to spare for him, but they both clustered around Cisco, one left, one right.
“I am never gonna get laid,” he said, morosely, and lit a cigarette. The D-School cafeteria was much smaller than the others on campus. It had one much shorter line, with fewer selections at the exact same price. You could glimpse into the dining room from the end of the line, and there, at a small square table, dinner complete, Stoney and Thomas were holding hands over their dinner trays.
“Henry?” Cisco asked, shooting me a look.
“Yeah, that’s my take, too,” I said. Cisco looked at Milton but he was too mesmerized by Jessie’s friend’s behind to have noticed anything else, and the line quickly moved forward to a point where we couldn’t see Stoney and Thomas.
“Milton?” asked Cisco.
“Introduce me to her friend,” said Milton. “You don’t need both of them.”
“Okay, let’s ease up on the stupid a little bit,” said Cisco. “Has Stoney been acting weird recently?”
“Oh, yeah. He really hasn’t been around much the last few weeks but last week he was in his room studying one afternoon and I asked him if he could tell me where to score some weed and he said there was more to life than weed.”
“Stoney said that?” I asked.
“And he was studying?” asked Cisco.
“Yeah. Sure. I found the whole exchange unfathomable,” said Milton. “Introduce me to her.” Cisco kind of put one hand on her shoulder and the other at her waist on the opposite side in a way that would have gotten me arrested but she looked up at him with a surprised smile.
“Wendy,” said Cisco, “I’d like to introduce my friends Henry Baida and Jimmy Milton.”
“So you’re the philosophy major Frankie was telling us about?” asked Wendy speculatively.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Milton said, bowing slightly.
“I think I’m going to major in philosophy, too,” she said. “I am absolutely fascinated by the Existentialists.” She looked him over. “Didn’t I see you smoking a cigarette on the way over here?”
“Possibly,” he said.
“I hate cigarettes,” she said. “My parents and my brothers all smoke. It makes me gag.”
“I’ve just been trying it for the last few days because Sartre and Camus both seemed to enjoy it. I don’t think I really like it.” She nodded and shrugged. He followed her into the line, saying Simone de Beauvoir was his favorite, which struck me as a pretty good stab at a pickup line based on the available information.
Jessie led Cisco into the cafeteria’s tray rails, and I brought up the rear.
“How did you do that with Wendy?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Get her to take an interest in Milton.”
“Oh, I just talked him up a little,” Cisco said.
“Well, that was nice of you,” I said.
“Not really. Only way to shut him up. Otherwise he’d be tripping over his dick trying to talk to Jessie and Wendy both. And I kind of like Jessie.” I nodded.
“He’ll fuck it up anyway,” I said.
“No, I think he’s in,” he said as he got roast beef. “She’s naïve and he can talk philosophy well enough that a small-town freshman won’t know he’s full of shit.”
“Harsh,” I said. I got the chicken-fried steak.
“Money talks,” he said.
“Twenty says no within the next two weeks.”
“I say she lets him in, and double if he hits it within a week,” said Cisco. He got spinach and mashed potatoes.
“Done. How are we going to know?” I asked. “We sure can’t trust him to be honest.” I got turnip greens and pinto beans.
“Jessie will tell me when it happens,” he said.
“You do have big plans,” I said. I got a corn muffin. I have to say, they made really, really good corn muffins at the campus eateries.
“Deal?” he asked.
“Deal.” He got pecan pie and when they got to the cashier he held up two fingers to indicate he was picking up Jessie’s dinner as well, and she was utterly charmed. I paid for mine, and when I got into the dining room, the table where Stoney and Michael had been was empty.
“I have to say, your man Stoney continues to impress with is ability to surprise,” said Cisco.
“What are you surprised by?” asked Wendy.
“We think we’ve just discovered that one of our roomies is queer,” said Cisco.
“Really?” she asked. “We didn’t have any queers in Dadeville. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one.
“Oh, I bet you have,” said Cisco. “They just might be a little reluctant to raise their hands. But when we came in our roomie Stoney was holding hands with some guy.”
“His name is Michael. He’s in Stoney’s math club,” I said. “He prefers to be called ‘gay.’”
“I can deal. And?” Cisco asked.
“He’s bright. Well-educated. Went to one of those up-east prep schools. Andover, maybe? Or Tabor?”
“Stoney went to Lawrenceville?”
“Yep. Did you say Dadeville?” I asked, turning to Jessie.
“Why yes. I did.”
“Dadeville, Alabama?” I asked.
“Why, yes. You know of it?” she asked.
“I do. Do you by any chance know a girl named Beatriz Fonesca?”
“Sure. We were at Wadley High together. Dark-skinned Brazilian girl.” There was a pause. “Kind of … different. And I know she’s here, but I haven’t run into her.” Neither, it appeared, had she made any effort to look Beatriz up, since they both lived in the Branscomb quad.
I alternated between listening to Milton blather to Wendy about Existentialism and Cisco charm Jessie. I didn’t think I was going to be friends with either.
And Cisco was right about Wendy and Milton. He got there, but it took ten days, so I owed Cisco twenty, but not forty. If you win them all, you’re not betting enough. Cisco broke up with Jessie immediately after he got the news about Milton and Wendy. I can’t remember the pretext he used but he said she was a tremendous bigot, and he was surprised to find he didn’t like having sex with a bigot.
“Great in the sack, of course, but it turns out I’m a liberal,” he said. “Who knew?”
Posts
