Polycarp

Chapter 39: Picking Up the Pace

2012-01-20T18:12:00.001-08:00

The university experience is a blend of learning immense amounts of information, developing the critical faculty to ponder and analyze that information, and exposure to profound stupidity. To report more fully on my second year of college would include either boring stories about learning or repetitive stories about deep levels of stupidity. So let’s skip it. At the end of that year Cisco organized a shift from our four person suite in McTyeire to a six-person suite in Carmichael. We added Michael as Stoney’s roommate and Brian Wilmot from our freshman floor. It turns out he and Cisco were fraternity brothers and had remained friends. After the semester ended, Cisco drove me back to Chattanooga and I spent the summer with Mrs. W going over Einstein’s relativity theories from several different directions. What she’d explained to me the previous summer blossomed in many different vectors, but it wasn’t a problem-solving education, the way the previous summer had been. She’d give me things to read, then we’d talk about them. We didn’t have Clarence very often, but when we did, he was consistently annoying. He’d changed books from Carlos Castaneda to something equally idiotic called The Tao of Physics and wanted to talk to me about it as though he understood what he was talking about, which he didn’t. He clearly missed Stoney.Stoney and Michael dropped by several times during the summer, always on the way to somewhere else. They dropped by in June before driving north to Detroit so Stoney could introduce Michael to his family. If Mrs. W was at all surprised that Stoney was now gay, she didn’t show it. She had a kind of bemused look on her face as they clambered up to put their luggage in his bedroom. She liked Michael, and Michael liked her.Regarding my studies that summer in Chattanooga, my problem with Relativity was more a problem of sequence. By the time I came to understand Relativity pretty well I was already also reasonably far along in quantum mechanics. In quantum, I had subsumed the idea that the “what” and the “why” were unknowable and that the exquisitely perfect math of the wave-form was all we had. “Don’t worry about the physical reality—there may not be a physical reality. The equations work extremely well. Just use them!” one of my professors had said, and he seemed pretty smart in most other ways.Mrs. W didn’t like that. She was of a different generation. It’s called “physics” because it describes a physical reality. She never quoted the Einstein dice deal, but it was clear she didn’t like expressing physical realities in terms of probabilities. Everything was somewhere. That we couldn’t tell exactly where didn’t mean that it wasn’t somewhere. In July when Stoney and Michael were on their way to Martha’s Vineyard to do something with Michael’s family they stopped in and Clarence was there. He was so happy to see Stoney that it was almost pitiful. He was excited and bounding around like a dog who hasn’t seen its owner for six months. It would have been touching if Clarence weren’t such a pain in the ass. For the fall semester I showed up a little early to talk to Prof. Dannhausen, who was my advisor in my capacity as Physics major. He was pleased to see me. I understood Relativity and so wanted to leapfrog over to the graduate level courses. He quizzed me closely and called in a colleague before giving me permission, but he did. One more course I wouldn’t have to share with Toni and Rob. So that semester I took all Physics and Math, except for one Greek course. The only course I took that Toni and Robb could also take for was an advanced quantum mechanics course. That we only had one course together seemed to bitterly disappoint Toni. She denounced Rob for not paying better attention and the university for allowing me to take a graduate-level relativity course just because I was a man. Our rooming arrangements third year seemed straightforward at first but turned out to be workably baroque. We were in a dorm named Carmichael West, tall and Bauhaus-plain. There was another dorm that was also called Carmichael West, and I forget how we distinguished between them conversationally. A Carmichael West suite was occupied by six people of the same gender, at least theoretically. There were two doubles and two dingles, a kitchen/common area, and a spacious tiled bathroom. In our suite I had one single, Milton had the other. I was surprised, given his proclivities, that Cisco hadn’t wanted the other single, but he waved me off and said he had it all under control. Cisco brought Brian Wilmot, who’d been on our freshman dorm floor, in as his roommate. Stoney and Michael had the other double. Next door on our floor, in a stroke of luck that seemed impossibly broad, was a group of six women organized by Beatriz. I hadn’t realized this was going to happen until I hauled my steamer trunk of possessions up to the suite and she was standing there waiting for the down elevator. “Hello, Henry Baida! How good it is to see you again. I hope you will not mind the proximity,” she said. “What kind of proximity?” I asked. “Do you live near here?” “This is my suite,” she said, pointing right, “and this is yours,” she said, pointing left. We had adjacent suites on the same floor. “But proximity is likely to increase once Milton and Doris meet.” “Well, it’s good to see you again, Beatriz,” I said. I liked Beatriz. “How was your summer?” “Desparately loney and forlorn. Father Tom has left. Unforgivingly hot and humid. I think there were locusts. I could not find a job. Being back in college is much better.” “Good to see you.” The elevator rang and the doors opened. She waved shyly as the doors began to close, pressed a button, then as the doors began to close, she hopped off again. “Henry Baida, I am so happy to see you again,” she said. “I am happy to see you, Beatriz.” At this point the doors to the other elevator (there were two) opened to reveal Rob and Toni in mid-bicker. As they stepped off the elevator carrying boxes they froze mid-stride when they saw me standing there with Beatriz, my steamer trunk propped against my knee. “B.B., what is Henry doing here?” demanded Toni. “Hello, group-friend Toni,” said Beatriz. “This is your door,” she said, pointing to the right, “and that is Henry’s,” she said, pointing to the left. “Henry lives next door to us?” Toni demnded. “Yes,” Beatriz answered. “The chances against that are beyond astronomical,” said Toni. “Hello, Henry.” At this point Michael and Stoney showed up from our suite and pushed the down button. They both said hello to Toni. “Stoney, what are the odds that Henry and I would end up living next door to each other?” Toni asked, looking at Stoney, expecting him to know. “Oh, gosh. Henry actually knows statistics lots better than I do,” he said. “He won’t tell me,” she said. Actually I don’t know whether I would have or not. “So how many floors?” Michael asked. “Floors three through fourteen are occupied by students, but it doesn’t matter,” said Beatriz. “On both of the two east towers?” asked Michael, ignoring something I had heard. “Si.” “So eleven floors of six person suites in each tower?” asked Michael. “Twelve,” said Stoney. “Floors count funny.” Michael frowned, paused, and I could see him count on his fingers. “How strange,” Michael said. “So twelve times six times two for total residents?” “Yep,” said Stoney. “A gross.” “How many eligible students?” asked Michael. “4,500, assuming all eligible students are interested in rooming here, which they’re not,” said Beatriz. For the first time since I’d met her, Beatriz seemed impatient. “So assuming 4,500 students applying for 144 slots….” Michael began. “A flawed assumption in too many ways for me to politely fail to intrude,” said Beatriz, approaching exasperated. “Beatriz,” I interjected, “you said the numbers didn’t matter. Why was that?” “Thank you, Henry Baida. The numbers don’t matter in a way. Your wonderful friends Michael and Thomas were prepared to calculate the odds as though this were a random event, but it wasn’t random in any way. I wanted my friend Doris to live next door to Henry’s friend Milton, so I have made that happen. The odds against it are largee, although I would not characterize them as astronomical,” she said, glancing at Toni, “but as I understand probability, it applies to random events, and my actions took this out of the scope or randomness.” “Cool,” said Stoney. The bell rang and the elevator arrived so Stoney and Michael left. Michael gave us a thumbs up as the doors closed. “How did you arrange it?” asked Toni. “I have friends,” Beatriz answered. Toni shrugged. “See ya, Henry. See ya, B.B.” said Toni, and made of for her own suite. Beatriz smiled sweetly at me and pressed her hands together but didn’t say anything. She looked at me expectantly. “So you have a nickname?” I asked her. She frowned in concentration for a few seconds. “Why, yes, Henry Baida, I do. Why do you ask?” “Because Toni calls you ‘B.B.’” I said. “Ah, well. That is not my nickname. No one except Toni calls me that?” She looked up at me with her shy brown eyes. “Toni has her own rules?” she said. “So what is your nickname?” I asked. I was aware that we were spending a lot of time in the hall. I stood my trunk against the wall, as out of the way as it could be in front of the elevator doors. “Aunt Dora called me Little-Ship-Under-Full-Sail. It was Juliette Gordon Low’s great-graandmother’s nickname. She lived for four years among the Indians when she was a child and this was the name they gave her, Henry. Do you mind if I call you Henry?” “Of course not. We’re best friends.” At this she seemed to tear up. “You say the sweetest things, to me, Henry Baida.” “Henry,” I said. “Henry,” she said, and touched my arm. “So who is Juliette Low?” I asked. “She founded the Girl Scouts of America,” she answered. “And how did her great-grandmother come to be living with Indians for four years?” I asked. “This is an excellent question, Mr. Henry. I do not know the answer? But I would expect that her parents were mightily, exhaustively worried about her whereabouts the entire time. But on this point my book was completely silent. It did use the word ‘captured’ with respect to the Indian’s custody of Mrs. Low’s great-grandmother, so I imagine there were aspects of her interactions with Native Americans that were perhaps troublesome to her or her family. The book also mentioned that when Mrs. Low as a child went to visit her grandparents in Chicago that the Indians would meet on her grandparents’ front lawn. So apparently there were no hard feelings?” “When was this?” I asked. “Hard to say? She experienced the siege of Savannah, which would have been during Sherman’s March to the Sea at the end of the Civil War. So before the 1860’s?” she said. “And you’re saying that there were Indians in front yards in Chicago within a lifetime of the Civil War?” I asked. “Si.” “Okay,” I said. “Mrs. Low lived through the Siege of Savannah?” said Beatriz. “In the Revolutionary War?” I asked. “Can’tbe.” I took American History at City High. “No. In the Civil War?” “Beatriz, there was no siege of Savannah during the Civil War. Hardee set up for one but once Sherman’s troops took Ft. McAllister Hardee ran away. The South didn’t even put up a fight over Savannah.” There was a pause. “Mr. Henry, my Girl Scout Handbook relates these facts unambiguously.” “All right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to argue. There are just other versions of this story.” “This book, the Girl Scout Manual, is very important to me, Mr. Henry.” “Just Henry. No need for Mr. Henry,” I said. “Thank you. It seems very odd to address you without some expression of subservience or respect,” she said. “We’re friends Beatriz.” “Thank you so much … Henry… I don’t have much experience with friends.” “You’re friends with Toni.” “Group friends,” she said. “Our group therapist assigns us friends to work on the issues we reveal in group sessions. Toni and I have been assigned to each other. Toni has helped me in many ways. Dr. Rogers told her to encourage me to do things outside of what he refers to as my ‘comfort zone.’ And Toni has been very successful at this.” “What kinds of things are you doing?” I asked. “Going to football games,” she answered. “So you like football?” I asked. “No, not at all. But I have learned a lot about it, and going to the games gets me to be able to be around crowds. And gets me to go to different places. I don’t like to travel, and she makes me drive to Knoxville and Mississippi and Georgia. I am fretful as I do it, but her insistence has made me a more complete person. Plus she often finds me dates. One of them was … rewarding, although I can never see him again, and another was you. I am very glad I met you, Henry Baida, and I have Toni to thank for this.” “So are you supposed to be encouraging Toni to do something new?” I asked. “As a group friend, I mean.” “Yes, Mr. Henry, I am.” She sighed. “What are you encouraging her to do?” “Dr. Rogers wants me to encourage her to be more tolerant of other points of view.” “I see,” I said. There was a pause. Beatriz looked at the floor, then shrugged, then looked at me with an expression that mixed sadness and irritation. “I expect she’s not very cooperative about thaat,” I said. “Thank you, Henry Baida. Toni is exceedingly uncooperative. I feel that I am called upon to stretch myself as a group friend to do the things she insists that I do, and I feel that I am a better friend to her and a better person to myself for having done so. But I assumed that the friend gestalt, if I may call it that, would be in some ways reciprocal.” There was an awkward pause and Beatriz looked at me earnestly. “Yeah, well, Toni’s pretty focused on herself,” I said. Beatriz thought a minute. “I am not good at human interaction, Mr. Henry,” she said. I was about to say something but she continued. “Is this observation about Toni what people call understatement, which is you being wry, or you being honest, which is to say you’re admitting to me that you find Toni to be tiresome? Or another, simpler form of honesty in which you admit to being a person who observes but does not always understand what he is seeing and therefore occasionally creates narratives or theories about what he’s looking at but never pretends to know for sure and is always willing to change his mind and I’ll be darned I think I know you after all my dear, dear previously mysterious Henry Baida.” She was very happy as she said the last part. “You’re a fascinating woman, Beatriz,” I said. The elevator rang and Stoney and Michael reappeared with two men carrying a king-sized mattress that was hard for them to maneuver out of the elevator. Stoney smiled and Michael waved but no one said anything. The foursome disappeared into our suite with the mattress. “I am so glad you think so, my Henry. So do you have any comment on my description?” she asked. I had to think. “Well, I’m not particularly self-reflective. I just don’t think about myself all that much. I don’t think I’m as interesting as anybody else I know. To think about, I mean. But I think probably there are rules that govern the cosmos and our understanding of the rules will never be perfect. Even if we could figure them all out, though, I maybe the rules get disrupted from time to time or don’t apply uniformly in all parts of the universe. So you can never really understand what you’re looking at, and even if you do, it may change or break down as you’re looking at it, so you can never be sure and it’s hard to be confident that you have it all figured out, even when you have. I think you always have to be willing to look at new information, to tinker with your view of the world. To change your mind. No matter what you believe, no matter how sure you are, no matter what you’ve been taught or read, you may be completely wrong. Have you read Kuhn?” “Yes, of course. This is college, my Henry. Everybody’s read Kuhn.” “Well, I just read him a couple of months ago,” I said. “Oh, Henry Baida, I had no idea,” she began, appearing mortified, and her hand popped up to cover her mouth for the first time since she drove me home from Knoxville the preceding fall, “and certainly no intention of insulting you. Please, please forgive me.” “No forgiveness needed. If you want to be insulting you’ll just have to try harder.” The guys who had carried the king-sized bed into our suite returned to the elevator carrying most of the component parts of a university-issued dorm room single bed and pushed the down button. “You are very sweet to me, Henry Baida.” “I’m really not, we just get along,” I said. The two workmen looked at us speculatively. One of them lit a Kool with a wooden kitchen match he sparked off with his thumbnail. The elevator showed up and they got in, exchanging a glance. If Beatriz was aware they’d been there she didn’t show it. “Well, Mr. Henry, I have detained you long enough. I appreciate as always, the opportunity to interact with you.” She smiled sweetly and pushed the down button. When the elevator got there, she smiled again and waved as the doors closed. Sweet, as always, but crazy, as always.I dragged my steamer trunk into my dorm room, set it on the bed, and started unpacking. The workmen and Michael kept reappearing, bringing things and removing things until all of the university-issued furniture was gone and had been replaced. The room, designed as a double, had separate areas for each of its two intended occupants, not completely divided but somewhat separate. One of these areas had become a sleeping area, with a king-sized Ethan Allen sleigh bed and two nightstands with matching cut crystal lamps, and the other had been transformed into a sitting area, with two green leather couches, quarter-sawn mission-style coffee tables and end-tables, and bronze reading lamps. I returned to my own room and could hear something going on in the common room. I looked, and the workmen were removing the kitchen table and the couch. I ventured further back into the suite and found Brian and Cisco in the middle of a discussion. “Yo,” I said. “Yo,” they answered back. Cisco was lying on his bed in khakis, topsiders, and a green Alligator shirt, smoking a Marlboro. Brian was in green battle fatigues and black combat boots with a white sailor’s hat, which seemed a little out of place. “What are they doing?” I asked. “They think the furniture the school’s provided is shitty so they’re putting it all in storage and replacing it with this other stuff they’ve bought,” said Brian. “Hi, Henry.” “Hi, Brian. Long time no see. Have you seen the stuff they’ve bought as replacements?” I asked. “No, but the stuff in their room is pretty cool. So I think we’ll be good,” said Cisco. “This is odd,” I said. “Yeah Brian and I have been debating whether this is a gay thing or a money thing.” “And?” “Brian here comes from money and he’s come close to convincing me that this is a money, class and privilege deal,” said Stoney. “You went to Westminster,” I said. “Yeah, yeah. My dad’s a lawyer. We weren’t hungry. But Brian’s people own a sporting goods company up in New Jersey. And he says Stoney’s people own a big chunk of G.M. and Michael’s people own Manny Hanny, more or less.” “Manny Hanny?” I asked. “Manufacturer’s Hanover Bank,” Brian said. “Old money. Big money.” “Why aren’t they at Harvard?” I asked. “Both fathers are on the Board of Trust here,” said Brian. “As is Brian’s, by the way,” said Cisco. “That’s how he knows all this.” “And you’re in R.O.T.C.,” I said to Brian. “Call me a patriot,” he answered. “You’re a patriot. That’s not the right cover for fatigues,” I said. He took off his white sailor’s hat and looked at it. “Yeah, I know. But I don’t have a fatigue cap here. I can pick one up at the post, and carrying the crackerjack will let the C.O. know I didn’t just forget. Gotta run.” “Later, dude,” said Cisco. Brian left. Michael and Stoney’s redecoration efforts weren’t the only oddity of the semester’s rooming arrangements. As Beatriz had predicted, Milton was quickly smitten with her friend Doris. He followed her around as though she were magnetized and then shortly after classes began it was obvious that she had invited him into her bed. The impact of this development was immense, personality-wise. I don’t think I ever met her, but his descriptions of her were rhapsodic. In a matter of days he went from being tense and brooding to happy-go-lucky and light-hearted overnight and was genuinely enthralled with her. Then, one night Beatriz showed up in our suite, in Milton’s vacant room. She didn’t announce herself, but Cisco and I, arguing about whether Gerald Ford was or was not an idiot, simultaneously noticed that she was getting ready for bed in Milton’s room, wearing blue flannel pajamas and a white terrycloth bathrobe. Cisco looked first at her, then at me. “Hello, Beatriz,” I said. Cisco smiled at her and gave her a little hug. Girls all liked being hugged by Cisco. Cisco looked at me again. “So ….” I said. “Bunking here for the night?” I asked. She smiled sweetly and nodded. “I know this is unconventional, but please, my Henry, and Henry’s good and perhaps best friend Frank whom all the boys seem to call Cisco, Milton and Doris are very ‘into’ each other and have turned out the lights in our room? Doris and I are roommates? So when Milton and Doris are enjoying themselves, and I am glad they are, because in my opinion they are far better together than they are apart, but if you think about the actual way it works out you might come to understand that it is difficult for me, a shy person, to be in the same room where Doris and Milton are communicating intergenderally. And since Doris and Milton are … busy … next door in the room the university has assigned to Doris and me, I would prefer to … bunk…elsewhere tonight. And what with one thing and another, barring a fight that seems unlikely given the sounds coming from the room Doris and I are supposed to share, I am relatively confident that Milton’s room will remain unoccupied all night. So, unless anyone objects….” she said. “I can’t imagine anyone would,” said Cisco, smiling at her, looking into her eyes, and taking her hand. “Your company is always welcome. Our house is your house.” He smiled as though to communicate that he knew he was acting corny, then lightly bowed and kissed her hand, then stood and smiled. She seemed reluctant to let go of his hand, and blushed pretty floridly. “Mr. Cisco, I understand why the girls all refer to you as charming. Good night, Mr. Henry, and good night, Mr. Cisco.” She smiled and waved a fluttery wave at me but especially at Cisco and closed the door. I did not hear the bolt lock slide home. “How do you do that?” I asked. “No good answer. I can’t even take credit for it. They just like me.” He shrugged and lit a Marlboro. “Interesting to watch,” I said. “And it’s a lot of fun to be me. I’m lucky. Really, really lucky. You realize that Beatriz just moved in for good?” he asked. “Really?” “Think about Milton,” he said. “Okay.” “Perennial problem getting laid,” he said. “True.” “Now he has a blonde, blue-eyed Doris with big tits and no apparent limitations on pussy access.” “So you think Milt is apt to be next door most of the time?” “We might as well accept this now. I like Beatriz. She’ll need to tell us how bathroom rules will work.” And he was right. Beatriz moved into Milton’s room and became part of our happy family. Stoney and Michael loved her and had no trouble with having her around all the time. It also turned out that Mary Roberts, who’d always been interested in Brian, was also next door. Beatriz was very thorough. So the temptation of a pretty blue-eyed girl who wanted a full-time relationship proved to be very powerful and Brian disappeared as a suitemate, and Cisco had his double to himself.“You must have seen this coming,” Cisco said to me, when I realized he had a double-sized single. “No, no. And you did?” I aked.“Sometimes I can see a few moves into the future,” he said.“Do you play chess?” I asked.“Yes, but please don’t tell anyone. I also play duplicate bridge.” He thought to himself for a minute. “Because you won’t violate a confidence, I tell you things I should keep to myself,” he said. “Odd. Almost as though I had a need to confess. Which I don’t think I do. I’m Catholic, of course, but don’t see you as any kind of confessor.”“You know this conversation has gone off in a kind of strange direction,” I said.“Understood. You’re Catholic?” he asked.“No, no. Diffuse protestant. No clear path to denomination,” I answered.“Bud, you’re Catholic. I’ll take you to church on Sunday. Although that means I have to get up, which isn’t so cool. But dude. You’re the most Catholic guy I know.”“Odd, then, that I’m completely unaware of my Catholicism,” I said.“Look, Stoney didn’t know he was gay when I met him,” he answered.“I fail to see the connection.”“I’ll take you to church Sunday. Just go along,” he said. Okay, so our suite for that year was me in a single, Beatriz in the other single, Cisco in a double that turned out to be a single because Brian moved in with Mary Roberts, and Michael and Stoney were thoroughly involved.We were an unusual crowd, but we had a good time. There were good dinner parties, and Stoney was nice enough to invite me to all of them, and Beatriz was a wonderful roommate. Of course the university wouldn’t have been pleased had they known.

Chapter 37: Math Club, or Mutationem motus proportionalem esse vi motrici impressae, et fieri secundum lineam rectam qua vis illa imprimitur

2011-11-16T19:57:00.001-08:00

[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?”

Chapter 35: In which the checkers are returned to the checkerboard for college

2011-10-08T15:37:00.001-07:00

The next day Stoney and I went to the Math building to talk to Dr. Ladd about the courses we’d chosen. Neither of us had taken any of the prerequisites for anything we wanted to take.

Our suite was four bedrooms in a row with a bathroom in the middle. The four-room suite had been originally designed to be shared by two people who used the inner rooms as sitting room and the outer rooms as bedrooms, but not now. I had the outside room at one end, by agreement with Cisco, and Stoney had the outside room at the other, by luck of the draw.

I swung by Stoney’s room just after lunch and he still wasn’t awake. When I knocked and came in he woke up with his sunglasses on and even in his own room managed to convey a sense of confusion as to where he was. He lit a cigarette and mixed a Bloody Mary before he would let me talk. He had a larger refrigerator than most dorm residents and it had a large freezer compartment with a ten pound bag of ice inside.

“We’re supposed to meet with Ladd at two to get approval on our registration cards,” I said.

“Is there coffee?” he asked.

“No. Get cleaned up.”

“You’re so abrupt, Henry,” he said, but trudged off to the bathroom, drink and cigarette in hand. Because he was in the bathroom, I had to go back out into the hall and unlock the door to Cisco’s room to get back to my own. Stoney showed up at my room about twenty minutes later showered and shaved but clad in a red tee shirt with a Chinese character on the front and a portrait of Mao Tse Tung on the back, faded jeans held up by some kind of knotted macramé sash and rubber flip-flops like you buy at the beach.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“You need a haircut,” I said.

“I’m letting my freak flag fly. Let’s go.”

“No. Go put on a real shirt and some shoes and find a belt,” I said. “You’re not going to a hipster pride parade, we need permission.”

“God almighty what a fucking Nazi,” he said, but he returned to his room and returned wearing an Alligator shirt, a belt, and Weejuns. I’d never seen him wear penny loafers before.

It was only a block or so to the building where the math profs had their offices. Once we got there we passed a door marked “Faculty Break Room” and without saying anything Stoney veered off, opened the door, strolled in to the faculty break room, waved blithely to the middle-aged men conversing inside, poured himself a large Styrofoam cup of coffee, gave the professors a Boy Scout salute, and left, closing the door behind him. He stopped in the hall to take a few sips of his coffee.

“Okay. Let’s do this,” he said, coffee in hand.

Ladd was expecting us.

“Gentlemen!” he said, smiling but without asking us to sit down. “So how did you spend your summer?” Stoney slurped his coffee.

“Mainly on differentiation and integration, but with lots of analytical methodology thrown in,” I said. “She said to tell you we’d covered everything in the Nehari book and went beyond it, although we didn’t go into all the engineering applications with fluids and fields.”

“In three dimensions or two?” he asked.

“Mainly in two, although sometimes that was a two-dimensional mapping of a three-dimensional problem,” I said.

“The what book?” Stoney asked.

“The Nehari book,” I said.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” asked Stoney. “We didn’t use any fucking books.”

Dr. Ladd pulled a green volume off of a shelf behind him and handed it to Stoney. Stoney put his coffee down on Ladd’s desk and took the book with a skeptical expression. “The Nehari book,” said Dr. Ladd, frowning at Stoney’s coffee. “It was quite popular in the sixties, when I was getting my undergraduate degree from Carnegie, where Dr. Nehari was a professor.” Stoney flipped through it, nodding equivocally. He took a sip of his coffee and put the cup back on the professor’s desk. Ladd frowned at it again, and again Stoney didn’t notice. “That book provided the material for a two-year course that I completed as a senior. It was considered quite rigorous. And you gentlemen claim to have learned all of it in one summer.”

“Yes, sir, but in fairness, you were taking lots of other courses, and we were studying just math. All day every day,” I answered.

“This is the right shit, man,” said Stoney. He took out his cigarettes absently and made like he was going to shake one out as he leafed through the book. I took the pack away from him and put it in my own pocket. He looked at me, surprised, then realized I was not letting him light up because it would be rude. He nodded and looked back at the book, taking another sip of coffee. “Remember this fucker?” he said to me, pointing. “Took all day. Oh, yeah. Here’s your old buddy Poisson. That’s us, man,” he said to Dr. Ladd and handed him back the book. Ladd flipped towards the back and stood as if to write something on the blackboard, then decided better of it and sat back down. He shook his head.

“What do you boys want to take?” he asked resignedly.

“Differential Geometry?” I asked. He nodded.

“That would be a logical next step.” He looked out the window and thought. “That’s a very hard course,” he said. “You will be the only underclassmen in it.”

“I’m a junior,” said Stoney.

“Even you, a junior, have not taken the prerequisites. It is all but impossible to do so at this university before your senior year. Some of your classmates will be graduate students.”

“I’m perfectly okay with that,” Stoney said.

“Mr. …” Ladd said, looking at Stoney.

“Jackson. But you can call me Stoney.”

“Mr. Jackson it is extremely important that you do well in this course. I know you have made good grades thus far, but if you fail to do so in this instance I will not approve any further prerequisite waivers for you. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Sure. Totally. That’s cool. Sir.”

“And you?” he said, looking at me.

“Yes, sir.”

“There are a lot of students who would like to skip prerequisites. I can justify it in your cases because you appear to be unusually good mathematicians and unusually well prepared. But if you fail to produce good marks in this course not only do your own academic records suffer, but I look bad for letting you leapfrog over other, arguably more qualified students. I don’t care if you look bad, but I care very much if I look bad. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Yeah. Sure. Cool,” said Stoney. “Sir.” Dr. Ladd held out his hand for our registration cards and filled them out with the course number and scribbled his initials in the “approval” column. He returned our registration cards and gave each of us one of his business cards.

“Good luck, and tell the registrar to call me if she has any questions.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“Yeah. Thanks, bud,” said Stoney, giving a smile and a kind of abbreviated ear-high Black Power closed fist salute that I’d never seen him use before. We turned to leave and Stoney opened the door.

“Oh, Mr. Baida,” he said. I turned. “You’re interested in physics, no?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Assistant Professor Wolffe, whom you gentlemen know, has gotten interested in knot theory, which no one’s studied in any depth for a several decades. He’s begun to speculate about a new approach to physics in which particles are analyzed as strings. He doesn’t have anyone to discuss it with. An iconoclast like you might understand what he’s talking about. None of us in the Math department can really follow it.”

“Like strings, you said?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s the damndest thing. He seems to tinker a lot with dimensions, too. I don’t really get it, but he’s all excited about it.

“Strings like strings of variables?” I asked.

“No, like thread, or yarn, or rope.”

“I’ll drop by his office and say hi,” I said.

“What do you think of the idea?” Ladd asked

“You know, hard to say at first blush. Doesn’t sound promising to me but I haven’t talked to him.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell him you’re coming,” said Ladd. “Good afternoon.” And with that we left. I gave Stoney his Winstons® back as soon as we closed the door behind us and he immediately fired one up. He also took a large gulp of his coffee, some of which dribbled down his chin.

“Well, that was relatively painless,” he said. “Memorial?”

“Let’s go.” We walked the few blocks to Memorial Gymnasium, where registration was taking place. “What are you taking?” I asked, on the way. He handed me his registration card. In addition to analytical geometry, Stoney was taking a matrix theory class that did not interest me in the least, advanced macroeconomics, a German literature course, and a very specific-sounding European history course. I was planning to take second year Greek, an introductory quantum mechanics course, nonlinear dynamics and an English course on Shakespeare.

“What’s your minor?” I asked.

“Economics, if they’ll let me not take any of the business administration bullshit, but so far the answer on that is no, otherwise German. You?”

“Don’t know. I’m a double major so far, but I think I still need a minor. Greek, maybe.” As we walked through the doors of the gym we were immediately greeted by Toni and Rob. Ah, shit.

“Henry. Finally. What are you taking?” demanded Toni. She was wearing a very small tank top, cutoff jeans, and lace-up tennis shoes. Her hair was tied back under a navy blue bandanna. She was getting lots of looks from male passers-by to which she was oblivious. Rob was in khakis, a button-down shirt and running shoes and could have been a frat boy.

“Why do you care what I’m taking?” I asked.

“Because Rob and I have to take the same courses,” she answered. Ah, shit.

“You can’t take second-year Greek or Analytic Geometry,” I said. “And since when are you interested in Shakespeare?”

“No, she means the physics courses,” Rob said.

“Maybe I’m not taking any physics courses,” I said. I really had no interest in another year of sitting between the two of them.

“Henry, even if you don’t tell me I’m going to find out and we’re going to transfer in. My aunt Angie works in the Provost’s office,” she said.

“Is her last name Cuneware, by any chance?” she asked.

“You know her?” asked Toni.

“We’ve met.” I sighed. No escape. Okay. “I’m taking quantum mechanics and nonlinear dynamics,” I said.

“Cool,” said Rob.

“We guessed the quantum mechanics but not nonlinear dynamics,” she said. “Thank you Henry.” She smiled and they walked off to stand in their appropriate enrollment lines. Stoney watched passively and finished his coffee.

“Who were they?” asked Stoney.

“Rob and Toni. What did you think?”

“Nice knockers,” said Stoney. We stood in our respective lines. When I got to the front of the line, I handed the assistant registrar my card and she made all of the appropriate marks on all of the appropriate pieces of paper. She filled out a schedule for me and handed it to me with a smile, expecting me to move along.

“Can I ask a question?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“So I’m taking the right number of courses, right?”

“Sure. You’re on course to graduate in four years for sure,” she said.

“But I could take more courses if I wanted to?”

“Sure! Nothing but your schedule limiting your courses,” she said.

“So if I wanted to take another course, there’s nothing to say I can’t?”

“No, not at all. You’re a full-time student. You pay your tuition, you can take as many courses as you can fit in!” she seemed happy to pass along this news.

“So will the course on advanced optics and electromagnetism schedule for me?” I asked.

“Sure! Let me check!” She flipped through her schedule cards and smiled, then frowned.

“Okay. So. It will schedule for you, but it’s limited to Physics majors,” she said with a frown.

“I’m a Physics major,” I said.

“Really? As s sophomore?” she asked, and flipped through some cards again. “So you are! You want to take that course?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Sounds great.”

“You know, you keep this up, you’re going to graduate early,” she said, filling out the papers to enroll me in the course.

“What?” I asked.

“Well, you’ll get your credit hours early. You know. Won’t get your four years of college,” she said, smiling.

“You can graduate early?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “You don’t have to go four years,” she said. “As soon as you have 120 hours and 120 points, you can graduate.”

“How do I get points?” I asked.

“Well, if you get a C average or better, the points kind of take care of themselves.”

“So if I double up on my courses I get out early?” I asked.

“Sure!” she said. “But then you don’t get to have your full four years of college. Do you really want to do that?”

“Is there any other Math course I can fit into my schedule?” I asked. She made a finny expression and looked at her catalogue of courses. She scowled for a few minutes, shook her head a few times, then looked at me speculatively.

“There’s this advanced statistics course,” she said. “Eight a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Any prerequisites?” I asked.

“No. But that may be an oversight. Have you taken some … basic statistics …deal?” she asked.

“Not really. But it’s just numbers,” I said.

“So you’re on some kind of … math trip?” she asked.

“Not really. I just get along with math really, really well,” I said.

“Sure. Okay. Like, I was a psych major because I really liked Oakley Ray’s Drugs and Human Behavior class and really got so much out of it but then I took Cal Izzard’s seminar on the expression of emotions and it was all this looking at Russian actors and stuff and I was so totally out of my depth so I dropped the course and still graduated on time,” she said.

“Sure,” I said.

“So what I’m getting at is that since you’re taking like this enormous … shitload of courses anyway if you get into this advanced stats deal and realize that just maybe you shoulda taken the basic sophomore level statistics course first then you drop it don’t worry ‘cause you’re still like making progress to your degree. And you can drop pretty late. Here’s my phone number. My work one, too,” she said. “I can help you drop it if you realize you’re in like over your head. And there’s like no shame in that because you’re really biting off a lot here. Are you really just a sophomore?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “You can see by my card.”

“Sure. But you seem so confident and grown up. I look at these kids all day.”

“Well, thanks. So I’m signed up for the statistics course and the optics one too?” I asked.

“Sure. Just call me at this number, or one of these numbers, if you want to drop one,” she said, and smiled.

“Thanks, Miss …” I started.

“Julie,” she said. “Miss Julie.” She smiled again and I left. Stoney was waiting by the door.

“What were you doing back there?” he asked, with a complaining tone. “That took forever.”

“I signed up for some extra courses,” I said.

“Cool,” he answered. We walked back to the dorm room.

“So who were those guys again?” he asked, halfway home.

“Which guys?” I asked.

“The physics people. The girl in the Converse low-tops.” I looked at him blankly. “The boy had a good haircut and was in all Brooks Brothers except for the Adidas shoes.”

“I need better clues,” I said.

“She had big tits.”

“Oh. Toni,” I said.

“And him?”

“He’s Rob. She’s crazy and he puts up with it because she’s a nymphomaniac.”

“I see. And you never noticed the way she looks?” Stoney asked.

“Yeah, well, she’s okay. She’s not Melissa pretty, but I can see where people find her attractive.”

“And that whole buxom, tiny tank top, high-cut shorts, long shiny hair, free spirit in a come-fuck-me way doesn’t appeal to you?”

“Stoney, she’s barking mad.”

“Since when did that get in the way of a red-blooded American boy’s sexual impulses?”

“How about mad as a hatter? Mad as a March hare?”

“You know nothing of March hares, Henry. And you’re ignoring the larger point to immerse yourself in details, as is your wont. As is sometimes your wont, I guess.”

“Crazy as a bedbug?”

“You know nothing of bedbugs, either. Think of Rob. Did he ever strike you as … queer?” Stoney asked.

“Queer funny? Queer strange?” I asked

“Queer gay,” he said.

“I don’t really think about that kind of thing a lot. What he thinks and does is his business and none of mine. Plus, I’m not good at thinking through that kind of speculation.”

“No one is. That’s why we all do it. Mother Nature made it fun to think about what other people are thinking. Otherwise we’d never do it and we’d have killed each other off back in the Rift Valley,” he said.

“Yeah well they both act like they’re pretty … engaged, sexually speaking. If’ Rob’s gay he’s doing a pretty good straight imitation to her and to us, isn’t he?” We’d reached the front of our dorm, almost the exact spot where Rachel had kissed me one night freshman year. Stoney paused, and we stopped walking for a minute and he looked at me speculatively.

“You never know what’s going on in another person’s head, Henry. He can look like he’s completely one thing and then he turns out to be something else completely. No matter what you think you know about somebody, you never really know what’s going on in his head. So you can never really be surprised if he does something … unexpected. At least I would never be surprised if … anybody … did something surprising.”

“Are we still talking about Toni and Rob?” I asked.

“Of course. You said it never occurred to you that Rob might be a sword-swallower?”

“No, not at all. He’s fucking Toni morning, noon and night,” I said.

“Even though he has that precious haircut and those precious Brooks Brothers shirts and slacks, so carefully ironed in his dorm room?” Stoney asked.

“How do you know where he ironed them?”

“Those were definitely not professionally laundered. So he had to have an ironing board and an iron in his dorm room,” Stoney said.

“So?”

“Where do you keep your ironing board, Henry?”

“I don’t have one,” I admitted.

“Neither does anybody else you know. Let’s go!” he walked into the dorm. He had his keys out as we approached our doors so we went in through his end of the suite. Milton was listening to rock music at high volume and smoke was thick in the air as though there had been a marijuana forest fire. “Come to papa,” said Stoney to Milton’s joint, and Milton handed it to him.

“Later,” I said, as Stoney took a deep toke.

“Dinner later?” he croaked. I nodded.

I got back to my own dorm room but didn’t have a lot to do. I wasn’t reading a novel, schoolwork was a few days off, I hadn’t bought my books, and I hadn’t bought a newspaper. I sat down at my desk. There was a sheet of graph paper sitting in front of me and I started to idly fill in a checkerboard.

There’s a thing about checkerboards. If you start at just one point and alternate black and white, or whatever colors you like, and radiate out from your one point, you get the familiar checkerboard pattern known to linoleum floors everywhere. If you start with not one point but two, and radiate out from both of them in the familiar checkerboard pattern, half the time they’ll mesh smoothly and unite into one even checkerboard and no one will be able to tell there were two points of origin. The other half of the time, though, the patterns won’t mesh, but collide. The two checkerboards will form two checker boards separated by an uneven wall of light or dark colored squares, depending on how you decide to color them in. If you start from four or five different points of origin, the whole thing becomes more chaotic. The boundaries between the different checkerboard patterns wander around like fracture lines. If you happen to have pens of three different colors, say blue, purple, and black, and you start several checkerboard origin points with each different color, your results are, well, interesting. But the most interesting thing is that the result is not at all chaotic or turbulent. It’s very ordered. It’s just a complicated kind of order. And when you realize you’ve made mistakes, you’ll need to find a red pen to isolate those. So while your friends are smoking dope and arguing about why a carrot is more orange than an orange, you end up with

which may not look like much, but its an interesting way to look at what happens at complex margins that result form consistent application of simple rules. If you’re thinking as you’re drawing, you begin to think that areas of irregularity tend to isolate themselves from each other, sealing themselves off.

There was a knock at the door. It was open, so Cisco walked in nonchalantly.

“Yo,” he said, in greeting. “What’s that?” he asked, looking over my shoulder at my graph paper.

“It may be a representation of what’s going on in small regions of the universe where the laws of physics don’t apply uniformly,” I said, cautiously. I don’t always get a good reaction when I talk about this stuff. “Or a randomly ordered checkerboard.”

“Cool. Dinner?” he asked.

“Sure.” I shrugged. I got up to follow him out. We cut through the bathroom to Milton and Stoney’s side of the suite. They were listening to “Journey to the Center of the Mind” by the Amboy Dukes at ear piercing volume.

“Dinner?” shouted Cisco.

“What?” they shouted back.

“Do. You. Want. Dinner?” he shouted.

“What?” Cisco bent over the turntable and lifted the tone arm from the vinyl.

“Hungry?” he asked in the silence.

“Whoah. Man. That was like, so, kind of, assertive,” said Stoney.

“Action-oriented. Awe-inspiring, like. Cool,” said Milton.

“Do you gentlemen want dinner?” Cisco asked.

“Oh, God, yes!” Milton said. “I’m fucking starving,” he said, as though making a discovery.

“Yeah. Wow. Yeah. Sure. Food,” said Stoney. I opened the door, Cisco turned off the turntable, and we left.

“And you’re saying he wasn’t high when he did that?” Milton asked, as we left.

“Yeah, yeah. He claims he doesn’t do drugs at all,” said Stoney.

“But the album cover has like pipes and things all over it. Hundreds of different pipes,” said Milton, bleary-eyed.

“Fuck! You’re right. Maybe it’s just extremely effective marketing. You know. To, like, make the album more attractive to guys like us.”

“Or maybe he’s a complete stoner who lied in the interview,” said Milton.

“I don’t know, man. You’re accusing a fellow longhair of being a liar. Doesn’t that break some tribal rule?’ Stoney asked.

“No, no. I’m a philosophy major,” said Milton.

“I’m still going with Ted,” said Stoney.

“Let’s put it to a vote,” said Milton. He looked at Cisco, who pitched the butt of his Marlboro.

“Gotta go with Milton on this one,” said Cisco. Milton looked at me,

“Looking at the odds, chances of a lead guitarist in a famous rock band who’s never smoked reefer have to be pretty small,” I said.

“So you’re going with Milton, too?” Stoney asked me.

“Aftraid so.”

“How could you do this to me? I thought you loved me,” Stoney said.

“I do. Deeply.”

“Yet you have betrayed me. How can I ever learn to trust you again?” Stoney asked. We’d reached the dining hall and Cisco held the door open for us. We crossed the hall to stand in the far line, which always seemed to be shorter. Maybe the freshmen didn’t know. We fell into line behind two slender girls wearing skirts (one madras, one denim) and cotton shirts. The skirts were tight through the bottom and Milton was captivated by the view.

“So your Dodgers are still in the hunt,” said Stoney, morosely.

“They’re looking good,” I said. “Pittsburgh’s tough, though.”

“You have a team?” he asked Cisco.

“Braves,” Cisco answered.

“You?” he looked at Milton.

“I tend not to identify with sports teams too much. It seems too totemic. I think.” Milton began. The girl in the madras skirt turned around when she heard Cisco’s voice.

“Frankie!” she said, excitedly. Cisco smiled.

“Hello, June,” he said. She kind of leapt towards him to give him a big hug.”

“Hello…” Milton began, extending his hand to June.

“Muffy! Look who it is,” June said to her denim-skirted companion, who interrupted her animated conversation with someone in front of her in line to turn around, then squealed with delight when she saw Cisco.

“Frankie!” she exclaimed, and gave him a hug. Each of madras skirt and denim skirt took one of his arms and they turned away from us, not intentionally, but to talk amongst old friends. Milton made as if to tap one of the girls on the shoulder.

“Uncool,” said Stoney, stopping him in his tracks. After we’d all selected our dinners and paid for them in the odd scrip that was meal points, the three of us sat at a table for four. Cisco and the two pretty girls had gone elsewhere.

“I am never going to get laid,” said Milton, morosely. We all ate our dinners in silence for several minutes. I had a piece of ground beef that was labeled chopped steak, a salad, and some green beans. “How does he do it?”

“Who, Cisco?” asked Stoney.

“Of course, Cisco. Who did you think I was talking about? Reggie Jackson?”

“Yeah. So despite your pontificating you’re an A’s fan?” Stoney asked.

“Sure.”

“They’re still in the hunt, too,” said Stoney.

“I know. Stay on point,” said Milton.

“What’s the point?” asked Stoney.

“Why girls are always circling around Cisco.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, like, there are, like, some differences between us and him that, like, girls might notice,” said Stoney.

“Anything important?” asked Milton.

“Yeah, like, well, he sorta shaves everyday. He’s got, like a haircut. And his clothes are clean. He wears khakis and shit.”

“Girls don’t care about that kind of stuff,” said Milton.

“What do they care about?” Stoney asked.

“Dick size. Henry, does Cisco have a big dick?” Milton asked.

“They tell me size doesn’t matter,” said Stoney.

“Henry?” Milton asked me.

“Couldn’t tell ya’” I said, a little worried about having this kind of discussion in the campus dining hall.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry,” said Milton.

“You know, Cisco and I don’t hang around much. And we don’t really hang out at all naked,” I said.

“I don’t know why you have to be so difficult about this,” said Milton.

Look. I’d like to say that college was sitting at the feet of masters absorbing knowledge, but really, most of college was like this. It occurred to me that the Milton checkerboard might be the one causing the discontinuities, but for that matter, the Henry checkerboard could be, too.

Chapter 34, in which Henry and Stoney hit the road, and encounter Ed along the way

2011-09-22T18:21:00.000-07:00

In what seemed like just a few days the summer was over. Nixon had resigned, tears in his eyes, and flown off to San Clemente. Gerald Ford, about whom most of us knew only that he had an interesting wife, a pretty daughter, and a hound of a son, became president. The summer’s mathematics, like its politics, had gotten less and less rooted in reality, but the math was a lot of fun. Then all of a sudden the summer was over and we were loading up Stoney’s car. Like everything else that feels like it should last forever, it didn’t.

Oddly, there was lots less stuff to put in the car on the way back than there had been on the way down. Partly this was because Stoney had given his piranha and both aquaria to Clarence, a gift that did not seem to please Clarence’s mother, and partly because, being sober, or at least not stoned, Stoney had managed to organize his clothes into two suitcases and a box. Why this should take up less space than the other configuration was not immediately obvious to me.

Clarence was watching glumly as we packed the car and Stoney was promising to visit and write letters.

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“What don’t you get, Henry?” asked Mrs. W.

“Why Stoney’s stuff takes up so much less space than it did three months ago.”

“Because it’s organized,” she said, lighting a Benson & Hedges.

“So?” I said. “It’s the same mass.”

“Yes, but it’s organized,” she said. “I made him wash it all, and because he’s got a pretty buttoned-down brain, he folded it all so it wouldn’t wrinkle and put it away. It’s all in neat stacks. A lesson you could pick up, a little,” she said.

“I keep my stuff clean and neat,” I said, surprised and a little defensive.

“Yes, you do but you don’t really own much stuff, so you don’t need to organize it particularly well to fit it in a suitcase. This is, well, partly, anyway, because your wardrobe may be just a little bit limited.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, you really don’t own much that you couldn’t wear to change the oil in your car. Eventually you’re going to need slacks and blazers and real shirts and ties and stuff, but you don’t really need it now because of the way you kids are dressing. Stoney has some of that kind of stuff, although he generally wears it in … non-traditional ways. He also folds his tee shirts and jeans in a … pleasingly ordered way.”

“Let’s get back to the other issue,” I said. She cocked an eyebrow at me but smiled. “Why is it that a mass that’s organized occupies less space than a mass that’s less organized? I’m not sure I even know what ‘organized’ means in this context.” In my defense, I was aware that, outside of Mrs. W’s presence, Stoney was an unpredictable if engaging hellion who might do anything at any moment and so I was having trouble with her characterization of his brain as “buttoned down,” but I still think I had a point.

“Okay,” she said. “Imagine the Sunday paper.”

“Got it,” I said.

“Will it fit into that box next to the car?” There was a smallish box next to the left rear wheel of Stoney’s car. It had an image of a moving van in orange and “book box” in black letters.

“Sure,” I said.

“How much of the volume of the box would you say would be occupied by the Sunday paper?”

“I dunno. Less than ten percent. Maybe less than five.”

“You’re imagining the paper flat, as it’s delivered, as you’d find it in the driveway if you were ever up early enough to go get it,” she said, taking a drag and tapping her cigarette ash into the azaleas.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, with a quizzical expression.

“Imagine yourself sitting in a chair with that box at your feet, taking every sheet of that Sunday paper, wadding it up into a ball and tossing it into that box. Would the entire paper fit into the box, my sweet brilliant chump?”

“No, ma’am, I guess not.”

“You’re going to run into this over and over again. Disorganized things take up more space than organized things, and make it harder to tell what’s going on. You can wad up paper to cushion your glassware when you move but it makes it harder to see what’s in the box. The same principle applies to Stoney’s tee shirts, to transport of crops and fuel by rail, to legal briefs, to politician’s speeches and to your money. Which is doing fine, buy the way. But somebody who doesn’t know what he thinks will take twice as long to express himself as someone who does. Free molecules bouncing around as a gas take up many orders of magnitude more volume than those same molecules bound into a liquid or a solid. The atoms in a diamond take up less volume than the same atoms lying around as soot.”

“Okay.”

“If you organize yourself, you will occupy much less time and space. You’ll waste less.”

“Okay,” I said. I had no idea what she meant, but she was almost always right.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” she asked. Stoney was handing Clarence a card with his college address and phone number written on it.

“No, ma’am.” She lit a new cigarette and watched Stoney take down Clarence’s address, on a dollar bill, which he folded and placed in his billfold somewhere other than the bill compartment.

“You find Clarence irritating,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. Doesn’t everyone?”

“No. Stoney doesn’t, at all. I do, but not like you do. What you’re reacting to is the fact that he just gloms on to the last thing he heard as the best thing the world has ever come up with.” I thought about that for a few seconds.

“Well, he does that, for sure,” I said.

“That’s the adolescent intellectual version of the Sunday paper fitting into the cardboard box,” she said. “All those ideas rattling around like that with no intellect sorting through them they take up so much space. But he’ll settle down. Stoney sees that and connects to it. You’re out there on your own.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this. “I’m sorry,” I began.

“Oh, heavens, nothing for you to apologize for, she said. “I was just trying to give you a frame of reference. I like you, so I guess I … I talk to you like I talk to myself. But did you notice that when Stoney organized Clarence’s thoughts for him, when he told Clarence he was playing with puzzles he was doing math at four to five years above grade level? And the last few crosswords were mostly in German.”

“I wondered what they were talking about,” I said.

“Stoney’s brain is organized like a mathematician’s but he still has … something big to work out, I think. But inside here—” she tapped her temple, “he’s sorted through a lot already.”

“And you don’t think I have?”

“I didn’t say that, exactly, but I think you changed from being a hustler to being a student in a very short period of time, and you’re trying to deal with school like it was a series of pool sharks—you’re sizing things up all the time. It works, but I don’t think you think much about what you feel. That’s where most people start in this day and age, and if it feels good they give themselves permission to go ahead. On the one hand, I find your resistance to the hedonism of the day refreshing, on the other hand, you may be missing something.” I was a little taken aback. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I just like you, so I worry about you.”

“Thanks,” I said. Stoney and Clarence returned to the front porch. From somewhere in Stoney’s possessions he’d produced two martial arts-style belts. Stoney was wearing a red one and Clarence was wearing a black one, both neatly tied.

“Well, chief, I think it’s time to hit the dusty trail, said Stoney, probably to me, but he was wearing his dark aviator shades and I couldn’t see where he was looking.

“You boys come back any time. Together or as unbonded ions,” said Mrs.W. Stoney gave her a hug. Both of them had cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, but somehow nothing caught fire. She held out her arms to hug me, something we’d never done before, but it would have been more awkward not to than to do so, so I hugged her back. I will admit I was worried about the cigarette close to my ear. Stoney and Clarence were involved in a lengthy, multi-step handshake.

“See ya, little buddy,” he said.

“Later, Clarence,” I said. He waved to us, but seemed too choked up to talk. We walked to the car without saying much. I had the keys. It looked like we were going to get to Nashville by lunchtime.

‘I’ll drive,” said Stoney.

“How much have you had to drink?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said Stoney, a little indignantly. I gave him a few seconds to think. “Well, I sweetened my coffee with a little brandy.”

“Each cup,” I said.

“Well, yeah, but that’s not much. And then I guess when I was packing there was so little Cuervo in the bottle it seemed dumb to pack it so I drained that and threw the bottle away. Just to save space.”

“And aren’t you going to want to have a drink on the way?” I asked. He looked at his wristwatch.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. He shrugged and got into the passenger seat. We waved and pulled out of the driveway. Mrs. W looked proud but sad, Clarence looked heartbroken.

“Clarence really likes you,” I said, as we pulled away.

“Yeah, well, he’s smart, but the other kids don’t like him and he hasn’t connected with his teachers. They think he’s a problem and he doesn’t get any of the gifted kid attention. He’ll settle down this year and get better grades in a few subjects and teachers will start to notice how smart he is.”

“In math?” I asked.

“Math may be kind of dull for him for a few years. He’s good with literature, too. He reads faster than you think. I told him how to game literature classes. His teachers are going to love it.”

“How do you ‘game’ a literature class?” I asked.

“You look for a symbolic subtext in everything you read, from the stupidest, which I would say is Shirley Jackson, based on my high school literature reading, to the most sophisticated, which is Shakespeare. If an author force-feeds the symbolism, like maybe T.S. Eliot, you just make like you think he’s a genius and not plodding and pedantic and over-wrought.”

“Gack.”

“Literature’s easy. You just have to know what the teacher’s looking for.” We were about to pull onto the freeway. There was a long acceleration ramp. There, about halfway up, was Ed Bork, with his right thumb out in the recognized gesture, a miniature American flag stapled to a quarter-inch dowel in his left hand, and a large aluminum-framed Boy Scout backpack at his feet. Of course I stopped. Stoney rolled down his window. “Howdy stranger,” he said. “Want a drink?” Ed smiled in a tolerantly Christian way.

“Hello, Stoney. Hello Henry,” he waved at me. “No, but if you’re heading north, I’d like a ride, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“We are. No trouble,” I called out to be heard over a truck passing us. “Hop in.” He picked up his backpack, which seemed to be heavy, Stoney opened his door and folded down his seat to let Ed in, and Ed wrestled his pack into place on the back seat then climbed in and sat next to it.

Stoney returned to his seat, closed his door, then scooted his seat up a few inches to give Ed more room. “Thanks guys, I really appreciate this,” Ed said.

“Where you headed?” asked Stoney. I presumed he was not asking me. He lit a Winston.

“Not sure. North, though,” said Ed. I merged onto I-24 and nobody said anything for a while.

“So are you on a sabbatical?” Stoney asked. There was a pause. I couldn’t quite see Ed in the rear view mirror.

“What’s a sabbatical, exactly?” Ed asked.

“A hiatus?” Stoney suggested.

“Sorry. Don’t know hiatus, either,” Ed said. He shifted slightly in his seat and I could see most of his face in the rear view mirror some of the time. He had a kind of glum expression. He hadn’t shaved for a week or so and had a kind of flamenco goatee growing in, with very sparse whiskering on the rest of his cheeks and jaw.

“A vacation?” asked Stoney, tapping his cigarette ash into the Volvo’s front seat ashtray.

“I’m sorry,” said Ed. “Are you asking me if I’m on vacation?” he asked Stoney. He was confused, not irritated.

“Well, sorta,” said Stoney. “You were all strong on the Vine Road Jesus Community last time I talked to you,” he said.

“Yeah, sure,” said Ed.

“And so are you still?” There was a really long pause. More than a minute.

“No, I’ve left the Vine Street Christian Community. For now.” I couldn’t see him in the rear view mirror. The seconds ticked by. “I don’t think I fit in there,” he said. Another long pause. We were well past Moccasin Bend before he said anything more. Stoney had turned sideways in the passenger seat so he could look at Ed, and was tapping his cigarette ashes into the Volvo’s ashtray. “I really liked all the positive energy. All the teamwork,” Ed said, eventually. There was another long pause. We were almost into Georgia. “I was raised by my grandmother. She’s Catholic. They were always telling me what to do. I didn’t like it. Gramma could get me to school and church and all, but I was a lot of trouble. I got into witchcraft mainly to piss her off, I think. It was mean. I shouldn’t have done it. But once you get into it, witchcraft actually makes a lot of sense. There aren’t many other witches in Chattanooga, so it’s not like we were going to start a revolution or something. Most of the people who’ll tell you they’re witches are big girls who like wearing capes. But Gramma made me go through parochial school and put me in Notre Dame High and I was going to church and all but then one of the nuns heard I was doing witchcraft and they threw me out. So I showed up at City High in the middle of junior year. Not a good way to start.”

“I wondered about that,” I said. “Jack and Joe showed up from Baylor, and some other guys from McCallie, and the rumor was they all got thrown out for drugs. Sorry, but I assumed that was your story too.”

“Oh no need for an apology. I did do a lot of drugs. Especially after Gramma died.”

“She died? Oh, jeez, that’s awful,” said Stoney. “What happened?”

“She pissed me off so I cast a spell on her,” said Ed.

“What?”

“She really was a pain in the as,” said Ed.

“Wait. So you killed her?” asked Stoney.

“Depends on who you believe,” Ed said. “I’ll confess, and have confessed to Jesus and anybody else who will listen that I cast a spell on her and meant to do her harm. I feel kind of bad about that now, but a man can only take so much nagging.”

“I can’t fucking believe you killed your grandmother!” said Stoney.

“So you believe in witchcraft?” asked Ed.

“No. Not at all,” said Stoney.

“All I did was cast a spell on her. She had a heart attack all by herself. I was off with a girl in Mentone at the time. But to believe I killed her you have to believe in witchcraft and you just said you didn’t.”

“I need drugs for this,” Stoney said. There was another long pause. Minutes.

“Why’d you leave Vine Street?” I asked.

“You know, when I first started talking to them they were all so full of good will and cheerfulness. They were all working so hard. They all had this message about how I needed to open myself to the Gospel. When I was growing up there was this deal where the church hierarchy told you what to believe and how to experience your religion through all these different rituals and things you were supposed to do. But here were these people who were telling me to interact directly with the Word of God. It was … exhilarating. Exciting. No barrier between me and God. A religion based on personal experience. My conversion. Personal revelation. If God is revealing Himself to each of us through His gospel, then I am partaking of God directly from God. What could be better than that?” he said.

“So you cast a spell asking demons to kill your grandmother?” asked Stoney.

“Something like that,” Ed answered. “But the idea of directly connecting to the living God was almost, like, intoxicating. You can’t imagine what it’s like to feel directly tapped into the omnipotent force at the center of the universe.”

“I feel that all the time,” said Stoney. “I’m usually pretty fucked up at the time, of course.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to quiz people about their religion?” Stoney asked. He’d reached around to rummage through a box in the back seat and returned with a quart bottle of Jack Daniels. “Any coffee?” he asked.

“There’s a Thermos® in the back seat,” I said. Ed handed it up. Stoney uncapped the Jack Daniel’s and was about to pour some straight into the Thermos.®

“Wait,” I said. “I want a cup.” Stoney shrugged and was about to pour me a cup into the cup-shaped plastic cap when Ed leaned forward with a larger yellow enameled cup.

“Wow,” said Stoney. “Where’d you find this?”

“It was on the seat,” Ed said.

“It was my great-grandmother’s,” Stoney said. “There’s some kind of pioneer story that goes with it. Not a Conestoga wagon but that same kind of shit. My mom was mad as hell when I lost it.” He peered at it like a pawnbroker looking at a gold-plated wedding band. “Looks pretty clean, Henry. Okay?” I handed him my handkerchief.

“Wipe it out for me if you don’t mind,” I said. He sighed deeply.

“Talk about a fussy asshole,” said Stoney, but he polished it up. “How do we know this handkerchief is any cleaner than my great-grandmother’s cup? That handkerchief has been riding around in those jeans right next to your ass for God knows how long.”

“I’m just gambling that it’s cleaner than the shoes of everyone who’s sat in the back seat of your car since you lost it,” I said. He poured me a cup of gratifyingly hot coffee and topped off the Thermos® with whiskey. He replaced the stopper briefly to shake the jug, then proceeded to sip straight from the jug.

“So where were we?” Stoney asked.

“I think you were telling Henry that it was impolite to ask me about my religion,” said Ed.

“Oh, right. What were you thinking?” Stoney said to me, crossly. “Were you raised in a barn? What did you ask, anyway?” asked Stoney after a pause.

“I have no idea,” I said. We were passing the exit where the Highway Patrol office was, where I got my first driver’s license. I took a sip of coffee. It was cooling fast in the metal cup.

“What did he ask?” Stoney asked Ed.

“I think the question was ‘So what happened?’ which I think was his way of asking me why I’d left the Vine Street Christian Community.”

“Oh, okay,” said Stoney, taking a slurp from his Thermos.® He thought for a minute. “Okay, so what happened?”

“I guess the problem is that I thought I was getting into this because of the personal revelation thing. If you think about it, what Jesus tells us to do is to buy into the whole Christian trip personally. We have to personally accept Jesus Christ as our lord and savior. I really like the personal revelation deal. I found the whole idea that God had chosen to reveal Himself to me personally very appealing.”

“Okay…” said Stoney.

“I know it seems funny, but when I was a little kid my mother sang this song to me” and here he sang:

“Jesus loves the little children
All the little children of the world
Red and yellow, black and white
They’re all equal in His sight
Jesus loves the little children of the world.” Stoney looked at me quizzically.

“People sang this song in your youth?” he asked me.

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“In Tennessee?”

“All over. Tennessee, Georgia, Mississippi, Florida. I don’t remember California well enough to say.”

“Sorry for interrupting,” said Stoney. “So as a kid you liked the idea that Jesus loved you.”

“Yes, very much. I also liked the idea that Jesus was nice.”

“Makes sense.”

“But what started to worry me abut Vine Street Christian Community was that they didn’t seem to want me to be personally experiencing Jesus at all. Usually when I did they told me I was going off in the wrong direction. It was like they wanted me to have this personal conversion experience, but they wanted me to have it in the way they wanted me to have it. It was weird. There was this thing we did like every week, or maybe it was every few days. It was hard to tell. I was working like eighty hours a week at the Yellow Deli and then when I was back at the house I wanted to sleep a lot, but generally we had a lot of Community stuff to do, and one of those was this thing called Critical Mass. They’d get us all in this room and we’d talk about how we thought the others in the group were performing. When they explained it to me they said the idea was to encourage each other to be good Christians, but really what they were talking about was whether you were a good member of their particular little group. Whether you were working hard enough at the deli, putting enough hours in. One girl got in trouble because she didn’t move all of her inheritance into the Community’s hands. It was weird, some of the time.”

“You didn’t like it that they were grasping?” Stoney asked.

“Grasping?” asked Ed.

“Trying to take away your possessions,” he said, taking a gulp from his Thermos.®

“Oh, no. I had nothing. What did I care? What I didn’t like was that I wasn’t supposed to be asking questions. I was just supposed to accept the Word of God as they delivered it to me. See, what I’d liked was that God was showing Himself to me, this whole one-on-one trip, but what they were telling me was that I shouldn’t rely on the personal part of it so much once I’d connected with them, that it was far more important that I do what they told me to do than to think for myself. Or even to point out problems. Once in Critical Mass they were explaining where the name had come from and they said they’d borrowed the term ‘mass’ from the Catholics, which they said was a ceremony where the participants did a soul-searching examination of themselves, or something like that. I raised my hand and said that’s not exactly what mass was and I didn’t even get to say why before I wash shushed and told that it was unseemly for me to be questioning Community teachings that way. So far as I can tell, they don’t have a lot of Catholics in the Community. I may have been the first. I seemed to be the only one around that day.”

“To be stifled that way must be very frustrating,” Stoney said.

“My grandmother was lots worse. But the deal was that they didn’t want me to think much. Which seemed to me to mess with the whole personal revelation thing. Once in one of those meetings somebody asked me why I was so worried about being taught, rather than just figuring it out for myself. They were saying that the Bible was all perfect and everything. And the only thing I could think of to say was that when I was in high school everybody’d told me Shakespeare was this genius good writer, and Mrs. McCrary and Mrs. Johnson made us memorize all these verses and stuff. But I bet if you sat down and you tried you could pick and choose lines from Julius Caesar and Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth and then stitch them together to tell a completely different story that didn’t have anything to do with any of those plays.”

“Sure,” said Stoney. “Add Othello, too.”

“What’s Othello?” asked Ed.

“The Moor of Venice,” said Stoney.

“What’s that?” asked Ed.

“Never mind. So you think you could put lines from Shakespeare together to make a different play?” asked Stoney.

“Sure. Anybody could, if he had some time. But the Community people didn’t like me saying that. They said that I didn’t have to worry about somebody stitching together Bible verses into a different story than Jesus meant because our leaders were so tight with Jesus that there was no way they’d make that kind of mistake. I had to trust them, to have faith that we were on the right path.” Ed didn’t say anything for the next few minutes. I finished my coffee and placed Stoney’s great-grandmother’s cup on the console between the two front seats. Stoney drank down some more of his coffee. Judging from the angle of the Thermos® as he drank, he was getting towards halfway through with the jug. “Isn’t that what everybody thinks?” asked Ed.

“What’s that?” asked Stoney.

“That you should trust their particular leaders, their particular interpretation of the scriptures. Don’t all religions think they’ve come up with the One True Way?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

“Maybe except for the Unitarians,” Stoney said. “They seem to think that even they are wrong.”

“Yeah, so, I was looking for personal revelation, and I got shoe-horned into being told what to do and what to think. It was my grandmother and her priest with no costume. I have to take my personal conversion experience the way some other guy tells me to. And he seems to be a guy that doesn’t show up for Critical Mass that much. I’m taking somebody else’s word for the fact that he really knows what he’s talking about and God has chosen him as His messenger. That’s the Pope. That wasn’t what I was going for. Once you’ve done nine hits of Purple Haze and fucked a majorette you’re looking for an intense kind of religious experience—going straight for the mind of God.”

“I understand completely. I think. Majorette?” asked Stoney.

“Being fed Jesus in spoonfuls and told to toe the line isn’t the kind of personal experience I was looking for, anyway,” said Ed. “I still want to find a group that lets me personally experience Jesus. That’s what Paul talked about.”

“Not in the pastoral letters,” I said. Stoney looked at me in frustration.

“Henry, what in the fuck are you talking about?”

“He’s right,” said Ed.

“What?” asked Stoney.

“St. Paul has a lot of letters that go in a different direction. It’s almost as though somebody else wrote Timothy. And Second Thessalonians. They just don’t tell the same story as most of the books,” Ed said.

“And what’s up with Hebrews?” I asked.

“Shut the fuck up, Henry. What were you saying, Ed? And don’t forget to explain about the majorette.”

“I was getting to what I liked about St. Paul was that he’d been one kind of person then he had this conversion experience on the road to … somewhere …”

“Damascus,” I said. Stoney frowned at me. I aimed the car at a mile marker and he made an apologetic gesture.

“Damascus, right. So what I wanted was to have the scales fall from my eyes and then have this intense personal relationship with Jesus. One on one. Personal conversion. But instead, I had this extreme born-again experience then all these people started telling me what to do. Not Jesus. All these other people. And if I read the Bible and had questions, they all told me to shut up and listen. Not what I was looking for.”

“What was the deal with the majorette?” asked Stoney.

“Jessica. Long blonde hair. She was very sweet,” Ed said.

“You’re saying you had sex with Jessica Chester?” I asked.

“On acid. Yeah. It was intense,” said Ed.

“Wow. So about the witchcraft deal,” said Stoney. “How’d that work?”

“It’s hard,” Ed said. “There aren’t many practitioners in Chattanooga. Or even in Tennessee, so far as I could tell. I bought some books, and there were some books on Magick in the library, but it was hard to put together. A lot of the popular books are pretty stupid, and Aleister Crowley is all about himself. One of the problems with Magick is that there’s not really a Bible. I’m not sure it really matters, though, because the Bible is all about Jesus and Paul, and in Magick there’s not really a Jesus or a Paul. There’s not a story about people that led to this strange ritual that we do every Sunday, like there is with Christianity. Anyway, the big weakness with Magick and witchcraft is that there’s all this elaborate ritual, but no real explanation of why it works.”

“Spirits?” asked Stoney.

“Yeah, maybe,” said Ed. “Nobody really talks about what a spirit might be, though, or why it is that a high school kid and some naked cheerleaders might be able to make it want to do something. Say I chant something in a language I don’t understand. Is there some reason that would make a spirit wake up and do what I wanted it to do? At the end of the day, it didn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Did you say naked cheerleaders?” asked Stoney.

“It’s not like you understand what you’re doing with witchcraft. Even if you find a really thorough book, all’s it tells you is what incantation to say and what you’re supposed to do in the ritual. It doesn’t explain why any of this stuff works. Crowley is big on adding sex to everything, and that’s always fun, but why should getting laid make your spell more likely to come true? He says it releases some kind of energy that you can learn to harness, but it doesn’t really make much sense.”

“So what kind of spells did you cast?” Stoney asked.

“Oh, all kinds of stuff. To pass my history test. To fix the radiator on Gramma’s car. I told you about Gramma’s heart attack. To have some money in time for my date wit Allison. To have Abbie fall in love with me. You know, just stuff.”

“Abbie who?” I asked. Stoney frowned at me but drained his Thermos.®

“Abbie Norman,” he said.

“Abbie Norman the cheerleader?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. She’s very sweet. Cheerleaders seemed to be very susceptible to the dark arts.”

“Christ on a crutch,” said Stoney.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, please,” said Ed.

“I don’t remember hearing anybody talk about you dating Abbie Norman,” I said.

“We had to hide it from her parents,” Ed said.

“Because you were a witch?” asked Stoney.

“No…” Ed answered.

“Because you killed your grandmother?” asked Stoney.

“No,” Ed said.

“Why, then?” asked Stoney.

“Because I was a Catholic,” Ed said.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Stoney.

“Did you cast a spell on Mrs. Wertheimer?” I asked.

“No. You know, I meant to, but before I got to it Abbie took me to a Campus Crusade for Christ meeting and I got saved. Besides, isn’t Mrs. Wertheimer still up and around?”

“Wait—why did you get saved? You were a witch,” I said. He thought for a minute before answering.

“Honestly?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Stoney.

“Abbie got saved first and told me she was going to cut me off if I didn’t accept Jesus as my personal savior. I was kind of going through the motions that first few days, then I met somebody from Vine Street. Once school ended I wasn’t sure where I was going to live. They sold Gramma’s house. The Vine Street guys took me in. And like I said, they just had this happy enthusiasm about the whole Jesus deal. Plus, Abbie got all worried about not repenting the lusts of the flesh, so I got cut off anyway.”

“Is it more comfortable being a Christian than a Satanist?” Stoney asked.

“I was never a Satanist. Anton LaVey is a gibbering idiot and incapable of telling the truth.” Stoney and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Besides, nobody would worship Satan. That’s just dumb. But what I like about Christianity, or what I thought I liked about it, seems a little harder to find than I thought.”

“But all that casting spells and incantations and stuff, you were okay with all of that black cat kind of stuff?” Stoney asked.

“I don’t know why people get so hung up on that. I would get together with some friends and cast a spell that would help a girl do good on her SATs. Or to make it rain the night of the Hi-Y Club’s outdoor party. Or to make it snow in April when I didn’t have my term paper ready. Catholics are always praying for specific things. If I’m not mistaken, the Vine Street guys were praying for something bad to happen to Pastor Ben Hayden because he was preaching against them. I don’t understand how it is that Christians praying for God to intervene in current events in some really, really specific way is any different than me asking some different kind of spirit to do the same thing after a different kind of ritual.”

“Did all that stuff happen?” Stoney asked me.

“I remember it snowed in April one year,” I said. “I don’t know about the rest of it. Why the Hi-Ys?” I asked.

“They were a bunch of jocks. All jerks. Plus Abbie used to date the president and he was mean to her.”

“Ed,” I said, “How do we know you’re not making this all up? Is there any way to objectively verify any of what you’re telling us?”

“Have I ever lied to you Henry?”

“How would I know?”

“It’s not nice to accuse someone of dishonesty, Henry. Especially when you have no reason to believe he’s not telling the truth.” I could see his face in the mirror again and he looked hurt.

“I mean no offense,” I said. “But some of this is pretty wild. Kids talk about who’s dating who all the time and I never heard anybody say you were going out with Abbie or Jessica.”

“I didn’t really date Jessie,” he said. “That was kind of a one-weekend fling.”

“But I never heard about any of this,” I said.

“Henry, you weren’t really the most socially connected guy,” he said. “Plus I found Jesus and everything. Renounced my sinful ways.”

“So?”

“Lying would be sinful. I’ve moved on from Vine Street, but that doesn’t mean I’m a sinner like you and Stoney.”

“Yeah, right. Still, I don’t have a lot of ways to connect any of what you’re saying with things I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

“Well, if you’re ever close to Abbie, she has a little birth mark in the small of her back shaped like a little mitten,” he said. He seemed to sigh wistfully.

“Ah, shit,” said Stoney. “Like Michigan?”

“No, the other way,” he answered. “Thumb on the left.”

We got off the freeway at the Nashville exit. We left Ed there to thumb further north. He strapped on his backpack and took out his little American flag. He waved and smiled. “Thanks again, guys,” he said, and walked for the light. No, I have no idea how much of what he said was true.

When Stoney got out of the car to let Ed out, I noticed that he was still wearing his red martial arts belt.

Chapter 32: Coffee, Trouble, More Trouble, Unexpected Visit, Leftover Pizza, a Reduction in Household Entropy Level

2011-07-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

The next morning I assumed I’d be last down as usual but no one was in the kitchen. There was no newspaper. Usually by the time I came down somebody had already brought in the paper, but since this had always happened before I got there I was unclear on the process. Maybe today I was first up. I started a pot of coffee in Mrs. W.’s ancient percolator then retrieved the paper from the driveway. As I was returning to the house I thought I heard a coyote but shook it off as a misperception. There were no coyotes in Tennessee in 1974.

When I got back to the kitchen, the coffee was perking and Clarence was pouring himself a bowl of cereal.

“Where’s Stoney?” I asked.

“In the garden,” he said.

“Why?” I asked. Stoney wasn’t much of an outdoorsman.

“Don Juan said a man must return to his plants,” said Clarence, somberly.

What kind of plants?” I asked.

“The Datura will become his friend,” said Clarence.

“Datura?”

“Yes. It will teach Stoney to fly,” he said, ladling maybe half a cup of sugar onto his Cheerios® and cracking open a Coke.®

“Fly? Like a bird?”

“Don Juan refused to answer this question.”

“Is this the guy from that Carlos Castaneda book you talk about all the time?” I asked.

“When a man has been enlightened he seeks others that share his path,” he said, between mouthfuls of highly sugared Cheerios®.

“‘Yes’ and ‘no’ are your options on answering that question,” I said.

“You Americans are so limited in your outlook,” he said, slurping back his Coke so fast that he coughed with his mouth closed and a lot of it sprayed out of his nose.

“Thank you for the insight, professor,” I said. He was looking at the mess he’d just made and thinking through whether he wanted to eat his Cheerios®, now bathed in Coca-Cola® and snot. He decided not, and moved his current breakfast to the sink, took out another bowl, and started afresh. Again he put at least half a cup of sugar on his Cheerios®. I looked out the window and Stoney appeared to be hopping around the garden like a frog. He tried to hop off after a squirrel but hit his head on a hardwood tree, which caught him up short. He looked at the tree in some confusion, as though it were not supposed to be there, then hopped off in the other direction.

“What have you done to Stoney?” I asked.

“Following the example of my own tutor, I have instructed Stonewall in the ways of the Datura.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A tool of enlightenment. A friend for Stoney,” he said. I had no patience for this.

“Okay, so what I’m going to do is I’m going to grab your ear and hold it really hard and tight so you can’t get away and then I’m going to beat the living daylights out of you until you tell me what’s going on with Stoney.”

“You’d never do that,” he said.

“Yes I would.” I asked. Stoney came back in from outside, holding his hands in front of him in a chipmunk-like way and sniffing at everything.

“Where is he?” Stoney asked.

“Who?” Clarence and I asked.

“The bearded dwarf in the wheelchair,” he said. “He was here just a few minutes ago. Before I went outside. He was singing ‘Free Bird.’”

“Would you like to sit down, Stoney?” I asked.

“Oh, fuck no. I need to fly.”

“Clarence said something about that,” I said. Stoney darted off and I could hear him gallop up the stairs. “Okay,” I said, grabbing Clarence’s ear. He stood. “So Stoney is non compos mentis but has no drug dealer here.” I had his ear pretty tight.

“So?” Clarence asked, worried.

“So you have introduced him to something weird,” I said.

“This is a journey for Stoney,” said Clarence. “None of your bee’s wax.”

“Also a journey for you,” I said.

“How so?” he asked. I pulled up on his ear a little bit.

“Ow!” he said.

I looked down and he was standing on his tiptoes. I pulled up the tiniest bit more. I wasn’t actually going to hit him, of course.

“The longest journey starts with a single step,” I said.

“Don Juan said something like that,” he said. I lifted his ear a fraction of an inch higher. His tippy-toes rose a bit. I wasn’t really hurting him, nor would I, but I’d had about enough of him.

“What did you give Stoney?” I asked.

“It’s just jimson weed!” he said. I let him go. “Don Juan gave it to Carlos Castaneda lots of times.”

“Where did you find it?”

“It’s growing in the back yard,” he answered, exasperated. Stoney, barefoot, came bounding down the stairs, hopping from a crouch, more kangaroo than frog now. Frogs land on their front legs, kangaroos don’t, and he was managing to hop around using only his legs despite the fact that he lacked a kangaroo’s tail for counterbalance and stability. He took the last six stairs in one hop and landed on a throw-rug that immediately slipped out from under him, causing him to fall flat on his back with an enormous crash. Clarence and I hurried over to see if he was okay.

“That was fucking amazing,” he said, to the ceiling.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I will never be the same again,” he said.

“Move your toes for me, handsome Stono,” I said. He did.

“I must have been flying for hours,” he said.

“No, you hopped down the stairs and fell on your ass. It lasted at most four seconds.” He looked up at me quizzically.

“Your reality is so …” he began.

“Reality-based?” I asked.

“Constipated,” he said. Still lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, he retrieved a crumpled pack of Winstons from a pocket and tried to shake one free. Three or four fell out but he only seemed to notice the one that made it to his mouth. He had difficulty with his lighter and never got it to flame but thought he’d actually lit the cigarette, taking long drags from it and making like he was blowing smoke rings.

“Wow—that one bounced of the ceiling,” he said. “I’ve never seen that.”

“It happens,” I said. After a few seconds of contemplating imaginary smoke rings he appeared to pluck something invisible out of the air and put it in his mouth.

“What was that?” I asked.

“One of them turned into a Life Saver®,” he said, then looked at me and smiled shyly. “I knew you thought I was handsome,” he said. I left him to his reverie and looked up the Poison Control hotline phone number in the Yellow Pages. Somebody picked up after two rings.

“Poison Control Hotline,” said a low voice. “Who’m I speakin’ to?” He had a very East Tennessee accent.

“Henry Baida,” I said.

“What can I do you for, Mr. Baida?” he asked, then made a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a burp.

“I have a friend who may have eaten some jimson weed,” I said.

“Ah, shit,” he said. “How much?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“It doesn’t really matter. It wouldn’ tell me much even if you knowed. So he’s been readin’ Carlos Castaneda?” asked Poison Control, then made that noise again.

“Well, he’s got a friend who put him up to it who’s always quoting that damned book.”

“What’s he doin’?” asked Poison Control.

“Hallucinating. Hopping around like a kangaroo. Seeing things that aren’t there,” I said.

“How long ago’d he take it?” asked Poison Control.

“Hang on,” I said. “Yo. Einstein,” I said to Clarence. “How long ago did Stoney eat that stuff?”

“Maybe two hours?” he answered.

“My sources say about two hours ago,” I said to Poison Control.

“Really, that doesn’t much matter, either,” he said. “If you was to catch it real early you might could get him to puke it back up, but by the time you starts seein’ pictures, there’s nothin’ to do but ride it out.”

“How long will that take?” I asked.

“Well, assumin’ it’s not fatal, four to eight hours, as a rule, but a guy once tol’ me he’d tripped for two whole days on that shit.” He hiccupped again.

“Is there an antidote?” I asked.

“Nope.” I could almost hear his sadly shaking his head.

“What are the effects like?” I asked. There was a pause while Poison Control considered his answer.

“Well, it reminds me of taking a bunch of Benadryl® and then drinking a bottle of codeine cough syrup, only wif’ shimson weed you get hallucinations kindly like that blue blotter acid that was around in 1970,” he said.

“I see.”

“If’n it don’t kill him, tell him that there’s some good acid out there that won’t fuck him up nearly as much as that Datura shit. It looks like a Anacin tablet with a pink dot on it, but it’s a king-hell acid and you don’t do crazy shit like you do on the Datura. It’s lots safer’n eatin’ shit outta the back yard. Plus, when you eat weeds off the ground, how d’ya know a dog didn’ just piss on it?” I heard the sound of something falling in the living room.

“Hang on,” I said. “I need to go check on something. Don’t hang up, I have some questions.” I put down the phone and ran over the living room to find Stoney, flushed and red, trying to balance a ladder-back chair on his chin. Clarence was looking on with something between concern and alarm. I took the chair from Stoney.

“Talk to him when he’s doing something stupid,” I said to Clarence.

“About what?”

“Anything except Carlos Castaneda. Try baseball.” I ran back to the phone.

“Okay, so how many people die from this?” I asked Poison Control.

“Oh, wow, man, not sure. Not lots, I don’ think. Some. What was he doing when you checked on him?” He hiccupped. “Scuse me,” he said.

“He was trying to balance a chair on his chin,” I said.

“Oh, that’s not gonna go well,” he said. “You’re real uncoordinated and clumsy when you’re on that shit. Drop stuff all the time. But you think you’re Superman and you don’t understand why you keep fuckin’ up.”

“Any tips on how to get him through this?”

“Not really. Jush gotta live through it. Don’t let him pick up anything expensive, ‘cause he’ll break it.”

“Okay,” I said, preparing to hang up.

“I can tell you what not to do,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, hesitantly.

“I got this friend Junior down in Wadley. You know Wadley?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, unsure where this was going.

“Well when Junior did jimson weed he got so crazy I decided to start feeding him tequila figuring it would calm him down a little and thinkin’ he might get so drunk he’d pass out and sleep it off. But after maybe a pint of tequila he decided to go for a motorcycle ride. We stopped him, but he’s a big guy and was pretty determined and I think he may have broke a couple of Earl’s fingers in the ensuin’ melee. And then we went back to the house to watch the Alabama/USC game and nobody was watching Junior and then not ten minutes later we seen him sailing off down the back yard in his colors and motorcycle helmet on his little sister’s teeny pink Barbie® bike and damned if he didn’t go straight into the fish pond helmet and all so we had to run down there and pull him out so we missed most of the second half. It was one of the Bear’s last games, too.”

“Okay. So no tequila,” I said.

“No liquor of any kind. Maybe some beer. Or white wine,” he said.

“But no red wine?”

“No, no, no. Red wine would be a big mistake,” said Poison Control.

“Why is red wine a mistake but white wine is okay?” I asked.

“Because red wine will stain the carpet.”

Okay, bud. Gotta go.” I hung up.

“Good luck.” I returned to the living room. Stoney was sitting on the couch, sunglasses on, with a cigarette that was actually lit. Clarence was looking at Stoney with rapt attention.

“Which brings us to doggie style,” said Stoney.

“What are you guys talking about?” I asked.

“Stoney’s explaining the birds and the bees,” said Clarence.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Clarence. I told you to talk about baseball.”

“But the Tigers lost. Haven’t been the same since Denny McClain flamed out,” said Stoney. “Don’t wanna talk about baseball.” The doorbell rang.

“Oh, Lord. What now?” I asked no one. “Stay here. Watch Stoney. Keep him occupied.”

“Okay, so you were saying doggie style?” Clarence asked, as I left the room.

“No. Stoney, talk about anything else in the world.” I walked the few feet to the front door and opened it. There on the front porch were Ginny and her mother.

“Hello, Mrs. McColl. Hello Ginny,” I said. “Come in!”

“We’re just returning from a tournament at the University of Georgia and thought we’d come by and collect Clarence,” said Mrs. McColl. “We’re going to be in town for a few days and I’m sure he’d like to see his friends on Lookout Mountain,” she said, smiling. “How have you all been getting along?” At this point Clarence wandered into the entrance hall. He did not look especially happy.

“Clarence and Stoney have become fast friends. Clarence can do the crossword in less than seven minutes,” I said.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, sullenly.

“So what do you say to spending a few days at your own house?” she asked, beaming and obviously happy to see him.

“I actually kind of like it here,” he said. “Stoney’s been teaching me stuff.”

“Who’s this Stoney?” she asked.

“My friend Thomas Jackson from college. Mrs. Wertheimer is teaching us higher math this summer,” I said.

“Like … tutoring?” asked Mrs. McColl.

“Sort of, I guess, yes ma’am.” At this point Stoney came into the hall. He was doubled over, arms wrapped around his shins and hands clasped to his ankles, face between his thighs, lit cigarette between his lips, walking backwards, so that both his ass and his upside-down face were advancing in the same direction. When he reached us in the hall, he kind of tilted over backwards so that he rolled over his shoulders and ended up standing, in a graceful, gymnastic motion, cigarette still between his lips. He bowed slightly and smiled.

“Hello Clarence’s mom,” he said, and politely shook her hand. “He looks just like you. Good kid. You should be proud.” He turned to Ginny. “Hello pretty Peabody girl from near Campus Grill. Nice to see you again.” He still had his sunglasses on and a Winston dangling from his lips, but was otherwise almost courtly. Then he turned suddenly and ran out the back door like a scalded cat.

“What a strange young man,” said Mrs. McColl.

“He’s pretty cool. He’s just having a Yaqui visionary experience,” said Clarence. Ginny reached over and smacked him on the back of the head with a frown.

“When’s Margaret going to be back?” Mrs. McColl asked.

“Yes, ma’am. She’s at a bridge tournament in Callaway Gardens,” I said.

“Oh, she told me. I just can’t remember when she’s supposed to be back,” said Mrs. McColl.

“Sunday or Monday, depending on when they play Sunday,” I said.

“Well, I think we’re in town until Tuesday, so thank her for me and tell her if she doesn’t mind I’ll bring him back then.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s really okay if you want to leave me here,” said Clarence. At this point there was the unmistakable sound of a coyote from the back yard.

“What was that?” asked Mrs. McColl.

“I’ve been hearing coyote sounds the last day or so,” I said, “which is odd, because I don’t think we have coyotes here.”

“Come along, Clarence,” said Mrs. McColl.

“Really, Mom. I’m fine here,” said Clarence.

“No, you should come home,” she said.

“All right,” he said, glumly. There were smiles all around except for Clarence as the McColls made their good-byes and left. In the back yard, Stoney was crouched like a dog and was yip-yip-yipping like a coyote. The back door was still open. It was oppressively hot outside, and Stoney was perspiring heavily. I crossed the yard to talk to him as he barked.

“Come inside, Stoney,” I said.

“But I’m hungry,” he said. “I need to catch the squirrel who lives in this tree.”

“What would you do with a squirrel?” I asked. He stood and pitched his cigarette butt contemplatively.

“Well, we could get a chicken and some beans and tomatoes and corn and make a Brunswick stew. Or add some pork to that and we could make Kentucky burgoo.

“Come back inside, Stoney.”

“But what will we eat?”

“Cold pizza,” I said.

“Oh man, that’s like, wow, like, so cool.” He flopped straight onto his back. I cigarette popped out of his pocket. He held it at arm’s length and contemplated it carefully before lighting it. He then carefully inserted the coal end into his mouth and blew through the cigarette backwards so that a column of blue smoke rose straight into the air before developing chaotic curlicues about six inches up.

“Jesus, Stoney, be careful!” He replaced his cigarette to his normal, yellowed smoking fingers, raised his sunglasses and winked, something I’d never seen him do.

“It’s cool,” he said, and knocked out a smoke ring that seemed to sail up at about seventy miles per hour. He smiled beatifically at it and seemed to contemplate the beauty of the universe. “So on a non-logarithmic scale of one to ten, how handsome do you think I am?”

“Stoney—”

“No, you’re right. I should go first. I think you’re…” he seemed to scan me up and down for a few seconds. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet and pitching his cigarette butt.

“What?”

“I forgot about the yogurt!” He squared his sunglasses resolutely and sprinted towards the back door. I followed at a walk. I found him in the kitchen, stirring a half-gallon sized plastic picture of what looked like buttermilk, only without the flecks of butter.

“You’re making yogurt?” I asked.

“Oh sure. You ever been to Greece?” he answered.

“No…”

“Well, they have this way cool, far-out, kick-ass, take-no-prisoners yogurt that’s parsecs better than the jelly-sweetened stuff they sell here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. It’s just fantastic.”

“Okay…” I said.

“By experimenting with buttermilk cultures, temperatures, and times, I found I could make it pretty well even though there was nothing like it in the store. But until it stiffens you need to keep it pretty well-stirred or it will clabber. Which is cool in one way because you can make some pretty good cheese out of it then, but you have to start over on the yogurt. He stirred patiently for several more seconds, then seemed to freeze up, staring at some odd place in the middle distance. “Holy shit!”

“What?”

“Stir this for four more minutes, gently, not the way I’ve seen you beat pancake batter, then replace it in the warming compartment of this fine old stove.” He handed me the spoon and left the kitchen towards the dining room.

Okay. I did as told, listening for strange noises or indications that he was going outside again, but didn’t hear anything. After stirring for the requisite time I put the yogurt in the stove’s warming compartment and went looking for Stoney. He wasn’t anywhere to be found, but there was a new diagram on one of the blackboards:

I wasn’t sure what he was up to. There were some formulas written underneath, but I didn’t stop to look at them because I was worried about where he might have gone. I found him lying on the living room floor, drooling on a beautiful Persian rug that Mrs. W. later told me was a silk rug from Qum. His arms were outstretched and his legs were spread, so he looked like that pentagram drawing of Man by DaVinci.

“You okay?” I asked. No response. “Is this due to the figure you just wrote on the blackboard?” He lit a new cigarette off the old one even though the old one was only half gone. I brought him an ashtray from one of the end tables. He didn’t ditch the old cigarette, but held one in each hand, puffing quietly, alternating between them for his drags, but taking two drags from the long one for every one drag on the short one. Whether this was intentional only Stoney could say. I watched him in silence for a few minutes.

“You are one perceptive rectangular asshole,” he said, after a while, without looking at me.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, yes, of course that figure reminded me of Leonardo, so I had to come outside and try it. I’m glad I did.” He took a drag off his left cigarette.

“You’re in the living room, Stoney,” I said. He ignored me.

“And the oddest part of the trip is … my clean, warm, soulful recognition that no one else in the world would have noticed that resemblance. Plus, I think you’re handsome, too, in a wiry, medium-sized kind of way.”

“Stoney—” I began.

He waved me off with his right cigarette. “I know. It embarrasses you to talk about your feelings, especially about The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name. I understand.”

“That isn’t what I was going to say,” I answered.

“What were you going to say, mon petit chou?”

“Did you just call me a Brussels sprout?” I asked.

“Mon lapin, then,” he answered.

“I’m a rabbit?”

“Of course. A cute, medium-sized bunny rabbit who has an amazing predilection for math and recognizing patterns.”

“I had no idea you knew French,” I said.

“Naturellement je sais le Français, ” he answered. “In der Tat spreche ich Deutsch, auch. ”

“That sounded like German,” I said.

“Ja, Schatzi.”

“I don’t know any German,” I said.

“Sie don’t sprechen spanisch, irgendein, das ungerade ist. Aber Sie kennen Latein und Griechen, den ich nicht tue. Ich weiß, dass Sie, mein Schatz intelligent sind,” he answered.

“Not following you,” I said.

“Oh, never mind all that, Schatzi,” he said. “You were about to explain your feelings for me, but you were being … reticent.”

“No I wasn’t,” I said. He took a long drag off of his left cigarette.

“If this datura shit Clarence made me eat wasn’t so gonzo over-the-top mind-blowing I might be just as reticent as you. But fuck a frog on the Fourth of July, this stuff is insane. So what were you saying?”

“Let’s eat lunch. We still have pizza.” He propped himself up on his elbows.

“There’s pizza?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. Remember? We went to Pizza Hut Last night?”

“Is there beer?” he asked. I think if he hadn’t been wearing Ray-Ban Aviators his expression could have been recognized as intense.

“There’s a six-pack in the pantry, but it’s not cold. I caught Clarence trying to filch one last night.” Stoney leapt to his feet and pitched both buts with a simultaneous flick of the index fingers of both hands as though he were outdoors. I scrambled to retrieve them. Luckily they landed on the hardwood floor and I got them to the ashtray before they did any harm.

“Lead on Macduff. But I’ll hear naught of this eating cold pizza. The only logical way to deal with pizza leftovers is to manfully re-heat them in an oven, my gay friend Henry. Let’s get to it. Portez-moi à cette pizza que vous parlez de et je traiterai elle immédiatement. ” He marched off towards the kitchen and I followed.

He got progressively calmer as the day went on, although after lunch he claimed to be a bloodhound named Amos Moses and went sniffing through the closets upstairs. I settled in in the dining room to work through the problems Mrs. W. had left us. They were all multi-variable problems and they were tough, but there’s something inestimably appealing about working out the details of an infinite series. It’s always interesting to think about infinity. The problems all seemed similar until I realized that some of the series had sums and some did not, which was of course her clever way of teaching us to recognize the difference. After about an hour Stoney, still claiming to be named Amos Moses but now walking upright came downstairs with a box labeled “2000 piece puzzle” and a picture of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” on the front. He smiled at me and dumped the contents onto one of the tables and busied himself with turning them all right-side up and smoothing them out. After that was done he got himself a beer. I worked through the first three of the six problems Mrs. W. had left, and he steadily built the perimeter of his jigsaw puzzle. Neither of us said a word. By around midnight I’d solved all of Mrs. W’s problems and Stoney appeared to have solved about a third of his jigsaw puzzle. He had the rectangular outline al the way around, six or seven sun-like yellow objects, and a broad wavy stripe of yellow put together, but it was unclear how they’d fit together even though I’d seen the picture on the box just a few hours before.

“Stoney—” I began, in a conversational tone of voice. He jumped, startled, as if the creature from Alien had suddenly leapt out of its egg and through his visor.

“Fuck!” he shouted.

“Sorry. You’ve seemed pretty calm for the last few hours.”

“I have been! But that’s because I haven’t had fuckers yelling at me every few seconds!”

“So you’re still not okay?” I asked. He pondered his answer for a few seconds.

“Your question reveals a deep prejudice, nay hostility, against those who use drugs. You will never understand what it is like to be an oppressed minority in a non-drug-using society.”

“Ah, shit,” I said.

“What, my little cabbage?” he asked, returning his attention to his puzzle.

“I’m tired and want to go to bed.”

“Then bring me a bourbon and soda and go,” he said.

“You’re still fucked up,” I said.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I was tres clumsy when I was on the datura, and I don’t seem to be having any trouble handling these little puzzle pieces. My perceptions are a little off but I don’t seem to be having any trouble lining up the lines and colors on them. The yellows are a little intense but my reasoning appears to have returned to non-datura levels.” He fitted a small blue and white piece into a larger group of similar pieces that appeared to be one of the swirls in Van Gogh’s night sky, then suddenly wheeled back to me. “Where did that dwarf come from?” he asked.

“What dwarf?”

“The bearded dwarf in the wheelchair.”

“You said something about that, but I assumed it was the drugs,” I said. He thought about that with a semi-dubious look on his face.

“No little person of any sort in a wheelchair?” he asked.

“None.” He frowned and thought a minute more.

“Did anyone small, or with a beard, come over to sing ‘Free Bird?’” he asked.

“No. It was just you, me and Clarence until about eleven, then his mother and Ginny came by to pick him up…” I started.

“Fuck! That’s right! Clarence is missing! I never even noticed! Gack, what a terrible parent I’d be!”

“Did you just say ‘gack’?” I asked.

“You and Mrs. W. use it all the time,” he said, a little defensively. “Is it some kind of personal code?” he asked.

“No, no. You used it perfectly appropriately. I’ve just never heard anyone but Mrs. W. use that word.”

“You use it all the time.”

“Really? Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive.”

“Okay. So you’re not going to go galloping out into the night to chase squirrels?” I asked.

“No.” He smiled and returned his attention to his puzzle. “I am unaware of any species of nocturnal squirrels.” He matched two puzzle pieces and looked back up. “And there was nobody over here in a wheelchair, or with a beard?”

“No.”

“Weird,” he said, looking back down.

“Why?”

“Because it seems like the experience was all drug. Usually drug experiences are part drug, part reality. Each informing the other.”

“(A), from my experience of you over the last ten months, I get a keen sense that drugs influence your reality experience, but no sense at all that reality influences your drug intake, and…” I began.

“Harsh,” Stoney interjected.

“(B), the guy on the Poison Control hotline indicated that people die every year from this stuff,” I sad.

“Who called Poison Control?”

“I did,” I answered.

“What’s the lethal dose?” he asked.

“No way to know. Apparently all parts of the plant are toxic. Impossible to determine what amount will kill you. Next time you take a tiny nibble and I could be singing hymns at your funeral.”

“What will you sing?” he asked.

“Whatever’s in the service.” He nodded.

“Oh, well. Go on to bed. And don’t worry, I won’t run off and do anything fucked up. It was … an interesting trip, but as I’m coming down I’m remembering it wasn’t much fun. Did I at any point climb up a tree thinking I was a cat?”

“Not that I could see.”

“So it goes without saying that I didn’t turn into a coyote.”

“No, but you really, really sounded like one,” I said.

“That’s reassuring. Go on to bed, but not before you bring me a bourbon and soda,” he said.

“Why does your drug experience lead to me serving you bourbon and soda?” I asked.

“Oh, it doesn’t, not at all,” he said.

“So why do I need to do it?” I asked, confused.

“Because I want a drink, I’m lazy, and I’m interested in this puzzle,” he said. “Particularly the pieces with yellow.” I got him a drink and went to bed.

The next morning when I came down the whole house smelled like biscuits and coffee. Still-warm bacon was draining its excess grease onto newsprint on the counter next to the stove, and Stoney was reading the Sunday Chattanooga Times sports section, resplendent in his sunglasses, jeans, a tee-shirt, and his purple bathrobe.

“Hi, bud,” he said. “Bacon biscuits and coffee comin’ up. Actually, coffee’s done. Help yourself.”

We had bacon and biscuits for breakfast. He’d made two-inch wide biscuits, which we split and buttered and turned into bacon sandwiches. Really good stuff. At the end I cleaned up, then wandered into the dining room. Stoney was sitting there staring at the blackboard where Mrs. W. had set out our six homework problems. The Starry Night puzzle was complete.

“These fuckers are hard,” he said.

“They look hard, but it’s just new limits, and then dealing with convergences and limits that increase or decrease. It kind of builds from there. So if…” and I began talking him through my solution to the first problem. He stood at a blackboard and reasoned out each step without any help from me as to the calculations, although I suggested the process at each step. It took about three hours to work through the problems this way, although it had taken me two days to work through them by myself. It felt odd. I was almost Stoney’s teacher, and I’d always been his collaborator before. He didn’t seem to notice. We were done by about one p.m. and Stoney made us bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches with some of the breakfast About five I heard the front door open and came downstairs. I found Mrs. W in the dining room staring at the blackboards.

“Hello, Henry,” she said, without looking at me. She was looking at the figure Stoney had drawn on the blackboard when he had been at his craziest the day before:

Underneath was written a formula: Area ACDA = (sorry, but blogger doesn't allow for math notation) in Stoney’s distinctive handwriting.

“Damn, he’s good,” she said.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“Stoney’s given us an elegant new solution to the volume of a cylinder problem we started with at the beginning of the summer. He’s turned it upside down, for some reason, but the math is easy enough to apply to the other part of the circle.” She then turned to the blackboards on which Stoney had worked out all of the homework problems. She looked back at me with a frown. “What happened? Did you have something else to do?”

“No, ma’am,” I said.

“Honey, this is strange. It’s not like you to let somebody else do all the work. What happened? Have you reached the end of your string?” she asked, looking at me, worried.

“Hey, Mrs. W.,” said Stoney, walking into the room with some kind of drink in hand, which he immediately handed to Mrs. W. “I think I heard most of that. Henry figured all of that out while I was messing around with Clarence, then he walked me through it yesterday. It looks like my handwriting, but it’s really all Henry. Another drink? I’ve made a decent gazpacho and really, I think if we have some cheese and bread with that, we’ll be good. Wine?”

“Where is Clarence?” she asked.

“His mother and Ginny came to puck him up yesterday. She said they would bring him back here Tuesday, if that’s okay.” She nodded.

We had a fun night, but about a week later Mrs. W pulled me aside and said “Henry, all of the upstairs closets have been re-organized. All of the fragrant objects in each closet have been gathered together. What happened? My sister said you and Stoney were acting really oddly when she came to pick up Clarence.”

“I’m sorry, but this makes no sense to me. Fragrant objects? Like what?”

“Cedar blocks, lavender wands. An old box of Constant Comment tea. All kinds of stuff. But the closets have been tidied and everything aromatic gathered in one corner.” I suspected this had to do with Stoney’s canine impulses while he was on the Datura, but couldn’t make sense of it. I tried to think it through but got nowhere. “While I was at the bridge tournament, were the rules of the house violated?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “Not as I understand them. Nothing illegal took place.” I was thinking this through.

“Henry?”

“No, ma’am, not at all, but next time we do this I’ll suggest a refinement to the rules.” She thought, then she smiled.

“Fair enough.”

Capitolo 31: In in quali Clarence, Stoney ed io dimostro che la quantità di entropia in un sistema chiuso aumenta col passare del tempo

2011-05-17T07:52:00.000-07:00

Capitolo 31: In in quali Clarence, Stoney ed io dimostro che la quantità di entropia in un sistema chiuso aumenta col passare del tempo La seguente sig.ra W. ed alcuni di settimana dei suoi amici aveva firmato in su per giocare in un torneo duplicato del ponticello ai giardini di Callaway giù nella Georgia e la mamma del Clarence ancora non aveva rinviato alla città in modo da Stoney ed io slated per prendergli la cura per il fine settimana. La sig.ra W. era poco preoccupato che facessimo qualche cosa di stupido mentre è stata andata ma ha avuta una difficoltà articolare che cosa quello potrebbe essere. Non lo ammetterebbe ma a volte è sembrato come se harbored i sospetti che tutti gli uomini erano capaci di trasformarsi gli idioti sulle brevi informazioni in modo da di lasciare Stoney e me incaricato di Clarence potrei condurre per disturbarmi. Ha andato a circa due che pomeriggio, venerdì. Ha lasciato alcuni problemi per noi sulla lavagna ed esaminandoli a destra prima che andasse ho calcolato che avremmo dovuto collaborare estesamente per lavorare con loro. Ha detto i suoi addii con uno sguardo vago di preoccupazione e gli ha avuta appena piuttosto titubante chiuso le entrate principali, ma d'altra parte appena alcuni secondi più successivamente le ha riaperte ed ha osservato indietro dentro. “Stoney. Ho dimenticato di dirlo che,„ ha detto. “Ho funzionato lungamente ieri nel mio Weezie contiguo. Stavo ottenendo la posta mentre stava camminando il suo cane roccioso. Ha detto che quelle ragazze vi siete incontrato hanno andato indietro a Colquitt.„ “Nadia e Kiki che?„ ha chiesto. “Quel esso. Ha detto la settimana prossima le girate sedici di Nadia ed ha voluto essere domestica prendere la sua prova dell'autorizzazione del driver sul suo compleanno. Pensato lo lascerei sapere. Arrivederci!„ ha fluttuato. “Bummer,„ Stoney ha detto, dopo una pausa. “Sedici,„ ho detto. “Ho sentito. Preferisco crederlo che ci sia stato un certo genere di errore,„ ho detto. “Ci è stato,„ ho detto. “Significo un certo altro genere di errore,„ ha detto. “Che l'altro genere di errore?„ Ho chiesto. “Qualunque altro genere di errore,„ ha detto. “Che cosa l'altro genere di errore potrebbe là essere?„ Ho chiesto. “Possiamo cambiamo l'oggetto?„ ha chiesto. “Un certo genere di errore non-criminale?„ Ho chiesto. “Così Clarence, che cosa lo volete cucinare per il pranzo? La vostra chiamata,„ ha detto. “Perché dobbiamo sempre cucinare?„ Clarence chiesto. “Poiché cucinare fa parte di vita,„ ha detto Stoney. Clarence lo ha esaminato. “Stoney gradice cucinare e gradiciamo mangiare. Chiedagli che cosa i mezzi dello statutory del `di parola,„ io hanno detto. “Possiamo andare a McDonald's?„ Clarence chiesto “No,„ ha detto Stoney. “Perché non?„ Clarence chiesto. “Ci sono solitamente lotti delle ragazze fatte senza aver l'età là, Stoney,„ ho detto. “Il vostro genere di scena.„ “Poiché McDonald's è diabolico,„ Stoney ha detto, ignorandolo. “Malvagità come?„ Clarence chiesto. “Come le yankee sia diabolico,„ Stoney ha detto. “Solo perché qualcosa disegna le grandi folle ed ognuno sa che i loro nomi non diminuisce il loro evilness.„ “Possiamo andare prendiamo una pizza da portar via? 'ha chiesto Clarence. “Impossibile,„ ha detto Stoney. “Perché?„ Ho chiesto. “Poiché non abbiamo birra,„ ha detto, realistico. “Potremmo andare al deposito ottenere una certa birra,„ Clarence suggerito. “Wow,„ ha detto Stoney, schiaffeggiante la sua fronte. “L'eleganza semplice della vostra logica lo ha vinto sopra. Lascilo aumentare la vostra idea di paradigma-spostamento con un altro: poiché stiamo uscendo ottenere comunque Lowenbrau e Henry insisterà sull'azionamento anche se sono completamente sobrio, potremmo anche prendere la salsa di pomodori e merguez e funghi ed acciughe e produrre la nostra propria pizza. Una buona abilità facente fronte per un giovane alla soglia di vita.„ “Non possiamo andare appena selezionamento esso in su a Pizza Hut?„ ha chiesto. “Le ragazze amano un uomo che può cucinare,„ Stoney hanno detto. “Se stiamo andando a Pizza Hut, lascili lo mangiano là,„ ho detto. “Se lo trasportiamo domestico da quello su Hixson Pike sarà freddo per il momento in cui otteniamo indietro. Inoltre, ci potrebbe essere una matricola della High School che blocca il vostro interesse. Le ragazze della High School amano quel posto.„ “Giusto. I suoni di Pizza Hut buoni,„ Stoney hanno detto. “Piccolo compagno, ora abbiamo un programma per il pranzo in modo da il mio cuore è a riposo ma è troppo in anticipo per mangiare così perché mi non mostrate le piante che conosciate nel giardino della vostra zia?„ Ciò lo ha sorpreso. Avevo presupposto che Stoney ed io stavano circa per cominciare lavorare ai problemi la sig.ra W. aveva lasciato sulla lavagna. È stata andata, ma era ancora un giorno di scuola. “Fa caldo come inferno fuori là,„ ho detto. “Da quando siete interessato alla botanica?„ “Il mio compagno qui ha notato una pianta dispari o due nel giardino,„ ha detto. “Gli ho chiesto appena di mostrarlo me.„ “Vestito voi stessi,„ ho detto. Hanno andato. Ho cominciato osservare sopra il primo dei problemi che la sig.ra W. li aveva lasciati. Esso e gli altri, erano tutto affari più a più variabili. Ho cominciato a radunare un metodo a quello primo, quindi il secondo ed il fatto che potrei agire in tal modo da me feltro un piccolo dispari. Alcune settimane fa Stoney mi aveva conosciuto il per la matematica più puro dei lotti ma da questo punto potrei prendere. Forse. Ma ero stato usato a fa parte di una squadra per la risoluzione di problemi ed era stranamente tonificante pensare con qualcosa sui miei propri. Era come mini-rinvia ai miei giorni di fretta dello stagno. Allora era appena me e l'indicazione contro l'universo. Ora era appena me e la matita contro per la matematica. Ho ottenuto la maggior parte delle zone tracciate fuori in mia testa su quella prima e la prima parecchi problemi era così simile che tracciare uno era calcolare fuori come tracciarle tutte, ma d'altra parte ho ottenuto a scribacchiare giù i valori così veloce ho rotto il punto sulla mia matita. Ho osservato intorno ma non ci erano altre matite in modo da mi sono alzato per affilare miei all'affilatrice nell'armadio di corridoio. Sul senso ho passato una finestra con una vista del giardino e sono stato sorpreso vedere Stoney, a piedi nudi, placcato in Levis bell-bottomed bianco, le sue tonalità dell'aviatore e una camicia rossa di I-Zod e Clarence, placcato in brevi tagli, camicia di T a strisce e sua protezione del Braves, entrambi che saltano su e giù, o forse ballanti, dipendendo quanto flessibile la vostra definizione “del dancing„ è, non abbastanza ritmico ma non a caso. Hanno fatto le espressioni vocali difettose occasionale che non hanno trasferito informazioni qualunque. Forse stavano ballando in un cerchio nel giardino. Forse non. Ci era una pianta bassa con i fiori bianchi a che cosa è sembrato essere il punto concentrare del loro cerchio. Dopo circa un minuto di semi-saltare, Stoney ha fatto una pausa nel suo saltare, o nel ballare, quale era, ansimando ed ha illuminato una sigaretta. Clarence si è arrestato allo stesso tempo. Se lo sono esaminato come se non fossero sicuri che cosa è stato supposto per accadere dopo, quindi scrollato le spalle ed ha cominciato a saltare, o ballando, ancora. Questa volta sono sembrato afferrare l'assurdità di che cosa stavano facendolo e goduto ed in modo da stavano saltando più velocemente e stavano saltando più superiore a stavano facendo prima, che soltanto hanno reso loro lo stupider di sguardo. Dopo che alcuni minuti si sono esauriti e sono sprofondato sull'erba, su Stoney ansimanti vigoroso e sudanti molto e su Clarence del giardino forse un piccolo dall'alito. Gioventù. Stoney ha preso una resistenza fuori dalla sua sigaretta, che ha provocato una misura di tosse, ma questa non lo ha incitato a lanciare l'estremità. Lui e Clarence hanno sorriso a vicenda mentre Stoney ha cominciato ad interferire il suo alito. Dopo che alcuni minuti ancora stavano sedendo nel caldo esponga al sole e non facendo niente. Ho ottenuto annoiato, così affilato la mia matita nell'armadio e rinviato ai problemi di calcolo nella sala da pranzo. Forse dieci minuti più successivamente Stoney e Clarence ha rinviato alla casa. Ho sentito che loro aprire il portello posteriore quindi vanno alla cucina e che ho messo il ghiaccio in vetri. Alcuni secondi dopo che sono venuto cercandolo nella sala da pranzo, stanco ma sorridendo. Clarence stava trasportando un vetro di ghiaccio e di una latta di coke. Stoney ha avuto un vetro di ghiaccio, di una latta di coke e di un quinto del rum di Ron Rico. Era marrone, come whisky, che non avevo veduto mai prima. “Che cosa erano voi tipi che fanno fuori nel giardino?„ Ho chiesto. “Ha assomigliato ai tipi bianchi che imitano il treno di anima senza la musica.„ Sia hanno riso un piccolo che incrinato apra le loro latte di soda, cadenti le loro schioccare-parti superiori nel portacenere. “Niente,„ ha detto Stoney. “Preparazione rituale per la datura,„ ha detto Clarence, riempiente il suo vetro di Coca-Cola. “Scusilo?„ Ho chiesto. “Appena scaricando il vapore,„ Stoney ha detto. Stoney ha riempito il suo vetro principalmente in pieno di rum brunastro quindi lo ha superato fuori con un poco coke. “È una cosa di Yaqui,„ ha detto Clarence. “Come mai la vostra sorella smacks voi ogni volta che dite quello?„ Ho chiesto Clarence. “Sembra scoprire che Carlos Castaneda irrita,„ ha detto. “Non sono sicuro perché. Forse perché, come tante pupille, ma diverso del cane del Don Juan, non ha trovato il suo posto.„ “Non voglio andare mi siedo sul portico anteriore, il piccolo compagno,„ ha detto Stoney. “Troppo caldo.„ “Forse il vostro posto è a questa tabella, risolvente i problemi con Henry,„ ha detto Clarence. “Con un grandi grandi rum e coke del ol,„ ha detto Stoney, annuente col capo. Ho mostrato a Stoney che cosa avevo fatto con il primo problema ed allora ha passato a Clarence il cruciverba, il Cryptoquote ed il miscuglio a partire dai tempi di Chattanooga. “Gli originali? La distorsione di velocità,„ ha detto Clarence. Si è comportato come era stato dato un certo privilegio speciale. Ho esaminato Stoney nel puzzlement. “Penso che siate pronto, compagno,„ ha detto a Clarence. “Cambio solitamente il em del `intorno ad un piccolo prima che dia il em del `a Clarence,„ che lui ha detto a me. Clarence ha tirato un cronometro dalla sua camicia. Stava appendendo intorno al suo collo da una parte di cuoio sottile lunga che può originale essere un laccio per scarpe. “Denomini il em del `fuori, il germoglio,„ Stoney ha detto. Clarence ha annuito col capo, perforato il cronometro ed ha ottenuto di funzionare. Ho notato che stava lavorando in inchiostro. Ho esaminato Stoney con un sopracciglio alzato. “Sta andando dirmi che i suoi tempi mentre completa ciascuno,„ Stoney hanno detto. “Dove ha ottenuto un cronometro?„ Ho chiesto. “Lo ho dato lui,„ ha detto. “Dove avete ottenuto un cronometro?„ Gli ho chiesto. “Ho fatto funzionare la pista in High School,„ ha detto. “Avete fatto funzionare la pista?„

Chapter 31: In Which Clarence, Stoney and I Demonstrate that the Amount of Entropy in a Closed System Increases Over Time

2011-05-12T12:02:00.000-07:00

The following week Mrs. W. and some of her friends had signed up to play in a duplicate bridge tournament at Callaway Gardens down in Georgia and Clarence’s mom still hadn’t returned to town so Stoney and I were slated to take care of him for the weekend. Mrs. W. was a little worried that we’d do something stupid while she was gone but she had a hard time articulating what that might be. She wouldn’t admit it but it sometimes seemed as though she harbored suspicions that all men were capable of turning into idiots on short notice so leaving Stoney and me in charge of Clarence might lead to trouble.

She left at about two that afternoon, a Friday. She left some problems for us on the blackboard, and looking at them right before she left I figured we’d need to collaborate extensively to work through them. She said her farewells with a vague look of concern and had just somewhat hesitantly closed the front door behind her, but then just a few seconds later she re-opened it and looked back in.

“Stoney. I forgot to tell you,” she said. “I ran into my neighbor Weezie Long yesterday. I was getting the mail while she was walking her dog Rocky. She said those girls you met have gone back to Colquitt.”

“Nadia and Kiki?” he asked.

“That’s it. She said Nadia turns sixteen next week and wanted to be home to take her driver’s license test on her birthday. Thought I’d let you know. Bye!” she waved.

“Bummer,” Stoney said, after a pause.

“Sixteen,” I said.

“I heard. I prefer to believe that there’s been some kind of mistake,” he said.

“There has been,” I said.

“I mean some other kind of mistake,” he said.

“Which other kind of mistake?” I asked.

“Any other kind of mistake,” he said.

“What other kind of mistake could there be?” I asked.

“Can we change the subject?” he asked.

“Some kind of non-criminal mistake?” I asked.

“So Clarence, what do you want me to cook for dinner? Your call,” he said.

“Why do we always have to cook?” asked Clarence.

“Because cooking is part of life,” said Stoney. Clarence looked at me.

“Stoney likes to cook and we like to eat. Ask him what the word ‘statutory’ means,” I said.

“Can we go to McDonald’s?” asked Clarence

“No,” said Stoney.

“Why not?” asked Clarence.

“There are usually lots of underage girls there, Stoney,” I said. “Your kind of scene.”

“Because McDonald’s is evil,” Stoney said, ignoring me.

“Evil how?” asked Clarence.

“Like the Yankees are evil,” Stoney said. “Just because something draws large crowds and everybody knows their names doesn’t diminish their evilness.”

“Can we go pick up a take-out pizza?’ asked Clarence.

“Impossible,” said Stoney.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because we have no beer,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“We could go to the store to get some beer,” suggested Clarence.

“Wow,” said Stoney, slapping his forehead. “The simple elegance of your logic has won me over. Let me enhance your paradigm-shifting idea with another: since we’re going out to get Lowenbrau anyway, and Henry will insist on driving even though I’m completely sober, we could also pick up tomato sauce and pepperoni and mushrooms and anchovies and make our own pizza. A good coping skill for a young man on the threshold of life.”

“Can’t we just go pick it up at Pizza Hut?” he asked.

“Girls love a man who can cook,” Stoney said.

“If we’re going to Pizza Hut, let’s eat it there,” I said. “If we carry it home from the one on Hixson Pike it’ll be cold by the time we get back. Besides, there might be a high school freshman who captures your interest. High school girls love that place.”

“Okay. Pizza Hut sounds good,” Stoney said. “Little buddy, we now have a plan for dinner so my heart is at rest but it’s too early to eat so why don’t you show me the plants you know in your aunt’s garden?” This surprised me. I’d assumed Stoney and I were about to start working on the problems Mrs. W. had left on the blackboard. She was gone, but it was still a school day.

“It’s hot as Hell out there,” I said. “Since when are you interested in botany?”

“My buddy here noticed an odd plant or two in the garden,” he said. “I just asked him to show them to me.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. They left. I started looking over the first of the problems Mrs. W. had left us. It, and the others, were all more multi-variable deals. I began to piece together an approach to the first one, then the second, and the fact that I could do so by myself felt a little odd. A few weeks ago Stoney had known lots more pure math than me but by this point I might have caught up. Maybe. But I’d been used to being part of a problem-solving team, and it was oddly exhilarating to be thinking through something on my own. It was like a mini-return to my pool hustling days. Then it was just me and the cue against the cosmos. Now it was just me and the pencil against Math. I got most of the areas mapped out in my head on the first one, and the first several problems were so similar that mapping one was figuring out how to map them all, but then I got to scribbling down the values so fast I broke the point on my pencil. I looked around but there were no other pencils so I got up to sharpen mine at the sharpener in the hall closet. On the way I passed a window with a view of the garden and was surprised to see Stoney, barefooted, clad in white bell-bottomed Levis, his aviator shades, and a red I-Zod shirt, and Clarence, clad in short cut-offs, a striped tee shirt and his Braves cap, both jumping up and down, or maybe dancing, depending how flexible your definition of “dancing” is, not quite rhythmically but not randomly. They made occasional erratic vocal expressions that conveyed no information whatsoever.

Maybe they were dancing in a circle in the garden. Maybe not. There was a low plant with white flowers at what appeared to be the center point of their circle. After about a minute of semi-leaping, Stoney paused in his leaping, or dancing, whichever it was, panting, and lit a cigarette. Clarence stopped at the same time. They looked at each other as though they weren’t sure what was supposed to happen next, then shrugged and began leaping, or dancing, again. This time they seemed to grasp the absurdity of what they were doing and enjoyed it and so were skipping faster and jumping higher than they’d been doing before, which only made them look stupider. After a few minutes they exhausted themselves and collapsed on the garden grass, Stoney panting mightily and perspiring heavily and Clarence maybe a little out of breath. Youth. Stoney took a drag off his cigarette, which set off a coughing fit, but this did not induce him to pitch the butt. He and Clarence smiled at each other as Stoney began to catch his breath. After a few minutes they were still sitting in the hot sun and doing nothing. I got bored, so sharpened my pencil in the closet and returned to the calculus problems in the dining room. Maybe ten minutes later Stoney and Clarence returned to the house. I heard them open the back door then go to the kitchen and put ice in glasses. A few seconds after that they came looking for me in the dining room, tired but smiling. Clarence was carrying a glass of ice and a can of Coke. Stoney had a glass of ice, a can of coke, and a fifth of Ron Rico rum. It was brown, like whiskey, which I’d never seen before.

“What were you guys doing out in the garden?” I asked. “It looked like white guys imitating Soul Train with no music.” They both laughed a little and cracked open their soda cans, dropping their pop-tops into the ashtray.

“Nothing,” said Stoney.

“Ritual preparation for the Datura,” said Clarence, filling his glass with Coca-Cola.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Just blowing off steam,” Stoney said. Stoney filled his glass mostly full of brownish rum then topped it off with a little Coke.

“It’s a Yaqui thing,” said Clarence.

“How come your sister smacks you every time you say that?” I asked Clarence.

“She seems to find Carlos Castaneda irritating,” he said. “I’m not sure why. Maybe because, like so many pupils, but unlike Don Juan’s dog, she has not found her place.”

“I don’t want to go sit on the front porch, little buddy,” said Stoney. “Too hot.”

“Perhaps your place is at this table, solving problems with Henry,” said Clarence.

“With a great big ol’ rum and Coke,” said Stoney, nodding.

I showed Stoney what I’d done with the first problem, and then he handed Clarence the crossword puzzle, the Cryptoquote, and the Jumble from the Chattanooga Times.

“The originals? Wow,” said Clarence. He acted like he’d been given some special privilege. I looked at Stoney in puzzlement.

“I think you’re ready, buddy,” he said to Clarence. “Usually I change ‘em around a little before I give ‘em to Clarence,” he said to me. Clarence pulled a stopwatch out of his shirt. It was hanging around his neck by a long thin piece of leather that may have originally been a bootlace. “Call ‘em out, bud,” Stoney said. Clarence nodded, punched the stopwatch, and got to work. I noticed he was working in ink. I looked at Stoney with a cocked eyebrow.

“He’s gonna tell me his times as he completes each one,” Stoney said.

“Where did he get a stopwatch?” I asked.

“I gave it to him,” he said.

“Where did you get a stopwatch?” I asked him.

“I ran track in high school,” he said.

“You ran track?” I asked, surprised.

“Sure. I believe I still hold the Lawrenceville record for best time on the 440 . I was also the anchor leg of our mile relay team.”

“When did you start smoking?” I asked.

“At thirteen. And you’re right, that’s why I wasn’t a miler in high school.”

“Cross-country?” I asked.

“Oh, Christ, no,” said Stoney.

“Fifty-two!” sang out Clarence.

“That’s great, buddy!” Stoney said. I looked at Stoney in puzzlement. “He just did the Jumble in 52 seconds. That’s great. Anything better than a minute is pretty commendable.” My own best time on the Chattanooga Times Jumble puzzle was 45 seconds. I looked at Stoney with an inquisitive expression.

“Cryptoquote next?” I asked.

“Of course .”

“What time are we looking for on the Cryptoquote?” I asked.

“He usually does it in less than eleven minutes,” Stoney answered. He looked at what I’d done on the multi-variable non-planar problem and didn’t say anything. He nodded a few times and circled a few things he wanted to ask about, then looked up. My own best time on the Cryptoquote was a few seconds over two minutes, and I generally did it in about six minutes, so I felt good about myself. Stoney finished looking over my calculations and looked up. “Actually, Clarence always does better than eleven minutes. Eleven is his outside. I’d take the under on that bet. He’s usually in the six to eight range.”

“Damn! That’s good. What’s your time like?” I asked. Stoney remembered he had a drink and drained it, then poured in, again, a massive amount of rum and a little Coke.

“I don’t know,” Stoney said. “I never saw a Cryptoquote before I came here, and I do them while I’m cooking breakfast, so I don’t really time them, and if I did, the times wouldn’t be, like, accurate, because I’m looking at breakfast most of the time. I’ve been trying to get to where I can solve them in my head. You know, like those guys do who play chess without a board? I’ve always thought that was so cool. So today I could do the Jumble and the Cryptoquote in my head, and a lot of the crossword, but I couldn’t do the whole crossword in my head. So I don’t know.” He asked me a few questions about steps I’d taken on Mrs. W.’s problem and nodded as I explained what I had done. He stared at one step, then exclaimed “Fuckadoodledoo!” and began scribbling furiously on his pad. “I got this!”

“Six minutes and 23 seconds!” Clarence called out.

“Good time, buddy,” said Stoney. It was a good time. I generally did better than that, but damn. “What’s got you so excited on the multi-variable?” I asked Stoney.

“Hang on,” he said, and returned to scribbling. “Ah, shit,” he said, after a few minutes, disappointed.

“What?” I asked. Clarence, focused on his crossword puzzle, paid us no mind.

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d found this great insight into this fucking equation and so I tore off into this magnificent, elegant solution that took fifteen steps and basically just proves your step four. So I agree with you. Fuck. It’s possible that you may have noticed that I like to be the clever one but all I’ve done this time is prove you right. A bitter tear to swallow. Perhaps some more Ron Rico will ease my troubled soul.”

“Don’t you mean a bitter pill?” I asked.

“What kind of pill are you suggesting I take?”

“I’m not.”

“Hmm. What kind do you have?” he asked.

“None,” I said.

“Then why did you divert conversation, teasingly and unsatisfyingly, into the topic of pills? Surely you know how cruel it is to get a man’s hopes up like that.”

“Five thirty-two!” said Clarence.

“Excellent, little buddy!” said Stoney.

“On the crossword?” I asked.

“Yep!” he said, proudly. Good time. I tried to beat six minutes every day, which he’d done. And he was an obnoxious ten year-old. So how smart was I?

“Well, in Dr. W’s absence we still need to watch the news,” Stoney said. We all agreed, so they grabbed their beverages and we all dutifully filed into the living room to watch the news. We went with Peter Jennings, and in Mrs. W.'s absence our commentary on the current administration’s activities were perhaps a little more raucous and crude than usual. None of us could have been entirely sure what Mrs. W’s politics were, though. She usually seemed to approve of Dems and disapprove of Repubs, but it was hard to tell. Stoney and Clarence were clearly Democrats and assumed Mrs. W. was as well, but she was critical of Dems as often as she was of Repubs. I’d never thought much about politics until that summer, but at that time particular point in time the main difference between Democrats and Republicans was that more Republicans were either in jail or on their way to jail than Democrats. But back then I really didn’t understand politics.

“Which one is Stans again?” Stoney asked. The level of the rum bottle was dropping pretty fast, and he was still on his first Coke.

He looked at me for an answer to the Stans question and I shrugged. Couldn’t tell you. Without Mrs. W., we were rudderless. He looked at Clarence.

“He’s an accountant. He was secretary of something. Maybe Secretary of Commercials. Resigned to become some big deal. Put money in a flush fund. Or was it a slush fund?”

“Slush. Under indictment?” asked Stoney.

“Yeah, sure. Perjury and obstruction of justice,” Clarence answered. Stoney nodded as the news came back on. Clarence understood most of it, and Stoney had a general idea of what was going on, but it didn’t make much sense to me. Something was up with New York’s budget. Wholesale costs were up. Stoney made yet another rum and Coke. There was more trouble with tapes in the Watergate deal. Same old daily news routine, but it wasn’t the same without Mrs. W.

After the news we went to Pizza Hut. It was the same as the last time I’d been there. Anchovies still weren’t on the menu. Stoney ordered a pitcher of Schlitz. The waitress, a pretty teenager who did not look old enough to work in a bar, assumed our beverage order was complete and left immediately, returning a few minutes later with the pitcher and three glasses, one for each of us. I asked for water, and she left immediately again. After she left Clarence redirected his earnest, intense stare from her tight, low-cut pink tank top to stare, not quite as intensely, at the pitcher. He nonchalantly took one of the three glasses and placed it close to himself, as though no one would notice. The waitress returned a few seconds later with my water and Clarence returned his appreciative gaze to her tank top, although he was not so captivated with her breasts that he didn’t try to nonchalantly reach for the pitcher as Stoney put it down. I batted his hand away, and he looked deflated but not surprised. “Could you bring him a Sprite, please?” I asked.

“Sprite? Why do I have to drink Sprite?” he demanded.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Coke, please,” he said to the waitress’ breasts.

“Caffeine is bad for you,” I said.

“What?” said Clarence, Stoney and the waitress, all at once.

“It will stunt your growth,” I said to Clarence. Clarence looked at me as he might look at someone who was providing how-to advice from the Dark Ages.

“Coke, please,” he said to the waitress’ breasts again, whereupon she smiled and disappeared.

She returned within a few seconds with his Coke, and we ordered. We each ordered an entire pizza for ourselves, roughly twice as much food as we needed. I ordered pepperoni, black olives, mushrooms, and sausage. Stoney’s was some similar combination of standard pizza ingredients, but then Clarence asked for ham and pineapple on his, neither of which belonged on a pizza. I looked at the waitress in horror.

“That’s allowed?” I asked.

“Called a Hawaiian,” she said, nodding.

“What’s next, broccoli pizza?” I said.

“We can do that!” she said. “It’s not on the menu, but they have broccoli back there for some kind of salad nobody ever orders so they can put it on a pizza if you want.”

“No!” I said.

“Yeah, we can,” she said. “My friend Margo comes in Saturdays after she gets off at Penny’s and orders a white pizza with anchovies and broccoli.” Stoney and I both picked up our menus.

“That actually sounds pretty good,” Stoney said.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Stoney!” I said. “Broccoli on pizza?”

“You said the same thing about Clarence’s Hawaiian deal,” said Stoney. “I’ve had it and it’s not so awful. Query whether heavy tomato sauce and/or olive oil work with pineapple under any circumstances, but I didn’t gag. Now that I think about it, mine was prosciutto, not American ham, and I don’t mean to be elitist but that may matter. I still don’t see anchovies on the menu,” he said.

“They’re not, because people, like, think they’re gross, and they make, like, these waaaay inappropriate references to what they taste like, but they have some back there, if you want them. Sardines, too,” she said.

“No, no, no. Sardines is just wrong,” said Stoney. “But I’m changing my order to a white pizza with broccoli and anchovies. How could I resist? Heavy on both.”

“You worry me, man,” I said.

“Do you want to change your order?” she asked me.

“I want to add anchovies as a fourth ingredient,” I said.

“Fifth,” she said. “You already have pepperoni, sausage, black olives, and mushrooms. Do you want to take one off?”

“No, no,” I said. “I’ll have a five topping pizza.” She smiled, flipped her order pad shut, and left. Stoney refilled his beer glass for maybe the third or fourth time since she’d brought the pitcher and drank off about a third of it in one gulp.

“She’s pretty cute,” said Clarence.

“Stoney, tell him to stop ogling girls,” I said. Stoney looked confused.

“Why?” he asked.

“Mrs. W. thinks his way of staring at girls is too obvious,” I said. “I told her I’d explain it to you and that you’d explain it to him,” I said.

“This approach seems indirect,” he said. Clarence, oblivious, was staring at some high school girls at a nearby table.

“He ignores me and he listens to you,” I said.

“That’s prob’ly true,” Stoney admitted. “Okay, little buddy, lets talk about girls,” he said.

“Cool,” said Clarence.

“Okay, so girls all want you to think you’re interested in them,” said Stoney.

“And I am!” said Clarence. “Particularly girls with big hooters!”

“They want you to be interested in what they think,” said Stoney.

“What?” asked Clarence, confused.

“Girls all want you to be interested in what they’re thinking about,” he said.

“Can’t be,” he said.

“Is,” said Stoney.

“No, really. They’re always talking about David Cassidy and Donnie Osmond. David Carradine. Hair and fingernails. What kind of shoes Belinda is wearing. Nobody could be interested in that kind of stuff. If they wanted people to be interested in what they were thinking they’d talk about Viet Nam and Watergate and say they voted for McGovern.” There was a pause while Stoney lit a cigarette.

“David Cassidy? Donnie Osmond? Don’t know those guys,” said Stoney, and then he paused again. “Singers?” he guessed.

“Donnie Osmond is the little brother of those twerps who used to be on The Andy Williams Show,” I said. Stoney frowned.

“Don’t remember them. What did they do?” he asked.

“Sang. Smiled. Climbed ladders. Wore sweaters.” He shook his head dismissively.

“David Carradine?” Stoney asked.

“He’s this Kung Fu guy who wanders around the Old West. He’s actually pretty cool,” said Clarence. “I just think it’s weird that these girls in my school are all crazy about a guy who’s two or maybe three times their age.” There was a pause in which Clarence looked back and forth between Stoney and me.

“How old?” Stoney asked.

“He’s at least in his twenties,” said Clarence.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He said ‘Old West,” Stoney said. “How old?”

“I’d guess Civil War era,” I said. Clarence nodded.

“And the actor playing him is named Carradine?” Stoney asked.

“Yep,” Clarence and I both said.

“So there was a round-eye who knew Kung Fu in the 1860s?” he asked. There was a pause while Clarence and I thought about this

“Well, they play him as Chinese,” I said.

“Totally,” said Clarence.

“They cast somebody named Carradine as a Chinese guy?” asked Stoney. Clarence and I thought.

“Well, yeah,” we said.

“And you guys watch this?” Stoney asked.

“It’s not quite as stupid as it sounds,” I said.

“It’s totally cool,” said Clarence. Stoney seemed mystified.

“But he’s a round-eye?” Stoney asked.

“What?” asked Clarence.

“‘Round-eye’ is Asian slang for ‘Westerner,’” I said. Clarence still looked confused. “It means non-Asian. Stoney’s not sure an American was a convincing cast as an Asian martial artist.” Clarence shook his head. This had never occurred to him before.

Our pizza came and we all partook. Conversation immediately turned to baseball, but then I realized I hadn’t finished one of Mrs. W.’s assignments.

“We never finished explaining to Clarence why he can’t stare at breasts,” I said, in the middle of my second slice. “She generally asks me about homework problems.”

“Oh right, said Stoney, wolfing down his third slice of white and green pizza and washing it down with a large swallow of beer. “Ok, so buddy, there are some things you need to know about girls.”

“Okay,” said Clarence who, hoping no one would notice, had nonchalantly taken a beer glass and was reaching for Stoney’s pitcher. Stoney didn’t react, so I smacked him on the back of the head. “Ow!” said Clarence.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded, glaring.

“Keeping you away from the beer,” I said. “Your Aunt Margaret wouldn’t approve.”

“No, I mean smacking me in the head like that!” he said, unhappily.

“Your sister does that all the time,” I said.

“Not that hard,” he complained.

Stoney refilled his beer and looked contemplative. “So we,” he began, then paused, “by which I mean us men, are not supposed to look directly at women’s breasts even though those particular body parts are of exceedingly keen interest to almost all of us. Men, I mean . But even though we’re are all really, really interested in breasts, and women all know we’re all really, really interested in their breasts, we’re not supposed to let on. I honestly don’t know why this is, but assure you it is so. We’re not supposed to ever let them catch us looking at them, even though hey know we do whenever we can. Often times they want us to do so. It’s weird. Inexplicable, even. But that’s how it goes.”

Clarence scowled.

“What is it, little buddy?” asked Stoney. Clarence pondered for a minute.

“It’s just weird,” said Clarence.

“I agree. But what exactly do you have in mind, little buddy?” Stoney asked.

“It just seems that they’re proud of them,” said Clarence.

“Of what?” asked Stoney.

“Of their hooters,” said Clarence.

“Yes, of course they are,” said Stoney.

“So if they’re proud they have them, and they know we like them, why am I not supposed to look at them?” asked Clarence. “I’m just liking something they’re proud of already.”

“They jus don’t like it when you stare at them,” answered Stoney.

“This is weird,” said Clarence.

“No, no,” said Stoney. “If you want to touch one you can’t be caught drooling over it,” he said. “I think that’s the only rule. Simple.”

“You know, your Aunt Margaret would have a different take on this,” I said.

“How so?” both Stoney and Clarence asked.

“She might say that staring at a woman’s breasts is rude because it will make her feel uncomfortable, and manners requires that we do what we can to avoid making those around us feel ill at ease,” I said. “She also might mention that reducing a woman to an object of sexual interest demeans her in a way you do not understand.”

Stoney and Clarence looked at each other and shook their heads.

“That’s not the way the issue presents itself,” said Stoney. Clarence nodded in agreement.

“How so?” I asked.

“Okay, man,” said Stoney. “So hypothetically, say this really attractive waitress with really nice knockers who’s wearing a tiny, thin pink tank top happens to be serving Clarence his pizza. Her hooters are pretty much on display. He can’t glance at them? I think that’s the point Clarence ha trouble with.” Stoney managed to consume another slice of broccoli anchovy pizza in three bites.

“Not when she can tell,” I said. “It would be bad manners.”

“If she’s putting them out there where I can see, why can’t I look?” Clarence asked.

“She’s probably not much interested in you, Clarence. Even if she’s advertising, she’s advertising for somebody, she’s not advertising for everybody.” Stoney and Clarence frowned at me but neither said anything. “Okay,” I said. “Just imagine for a minute that you’re a really pretty girl.”

“Cool. I love this kind of deal,” said Stoney. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Clarence tried to imitate him but was opening his right eye every few seconds to see what Stoney was doing. I really hadn’t anticipated this response. I was just trying to make a point. “So I’m a really pretty girl,” said Stoney. “Do I have really nice hooters?”

“Stoney,” I said.

“No, really, Stoney said, “what about my hooters?”

“They’re fine,” I said.

“Large and firm?” he asked.

“Stoney, this angle really wasn’t my point.”

“But I’m wearing a tight pink tank top?”

“Look, the idea of all manners is that you don’t want to make anyone else feel uncomfortable,” I said to Clarence.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” I answered. Stoney gave up his reverie and refilled his glass. Clarence nonchalantly pushed his glass forward as if to be refilled, too. Stoney moved as if to refill it and I waved him off. Clarence sighed.

“It’s just not right,” Clarence said.

“How so?” I asked.

“With my real friends, the most fun thing in the world is to make them as uncomfortable as possible,” said Clarence.

“How so?” I asked.

“You know. Standard kid stuff. Kick them in the nuts. Blow snot on their book reports. Fart in their faces. Put dog shit in their lunch bags. You know, just stuff.”

“And?” I asked.

“And there’s this whole other deal I have to do for girls?”

“Yep,” I said. “It’s not just for girls, though. There’s this whole manners deal that applies to everyone who’s not a ten year-old boy. Grownups. Teachers and parents especially.”

“You agree with this?” Clarence asked Stoney. Stoney was re-filling his beer glass for the umpteenth time and Clarence tipped his glass forward expectantly. This time Stoney either didn’t see or ignored him.

“Sort of,” he said. “Um, I may not be the best guy to ask, because I grew up in all-male prep schools. And I’m not sure about some of what Henry just said. I mean, it made sense when he was saying it, but if we have the same standard of behavior for parents and teachers that we do for girls, I think the world will be a dreary place in which to live. So I can’t explain with any rationality why I think Henry’s wrong, I certainly hope he is.” Stoney poured the last of the Schlitz into his glass forlornly

“Nah, he’s not right. Nadia was nothing like my mother,” said Clarence.

“Who’d want a girlfriend like a mother, anyway?” Stoney asked. They clinked their glasses together and looked at me as though they’d just won a point.

Stoney paid for dinner, which was nice. We had ordered way too much pizza, so each of us went home with a box.

Chapter 30: Civic Affairs, an Unexplained Absence, and Armed Drunkards at the Brass Register, or June 1, 1974

2011-04-22T13:49:00.000-07:00

Things returned to normal, or as normal as they could be while Clarence was around, the next day. A few days later I came down for breakfast, last as usual, as Stoney was preparing waffles with Mrs. W.’s World War II-era waffle iron. Mrs. W. was sipping coffee and looking at the first section of the paper. Clarence had a glass of orange juice, apparently untouched, and was puzzling over something on a sheet of quadrille paper.

“Hey, Henry,” said Mrs. W., without looking up. “Stuff to talk about in morning civics class so read up.” Stoney sort of waved at me. Neither Mrs. W. nor Stoney was smoking, which was odd. Stoney placed two small pitchers in front of Mrs. W., one white like cream and the other looked like his reduced maple syrup, then put a glass of whole milk next to her coffee. She looked up and smiled and handed me the first section of the newspaper. She turned her attention to sports. A few seconds later Stoney plopped a perfectly-formed round waffle in front of her, liberally smeared with butter, now melted and drooling towards the edge of the waffle.

“Okay, this is a pretty standard American waffle, which is what I can make with this waffle iron. It’ll be a little chewier, little crisper, a little eggier than a Belgian one, I hope in a good way. You have your choice of reduced maple syrup or this highly experimental yogurt-cream-vanilla sauce I kind of made up this morning because I thought it might be good on waffles, because I made some pretty good yogurt, although I tasted it and it might be better on desert crepes. Oh, and there are these.” He placed a bowl of sliced, sugared strawberries on the table, with a serving spoon. Mrs. W smiled warmly at her plate. She divided the waffle into two halves, drizzled yogurt-vanilla sauce over the right half, and sprinkled sugared strawberry slices on top of that. With her first bite she smiled and rolled her eyes like a six year-old tasting her first ice cream cone.

“Wonderful,” she said, and cut off another bite.

“Usually I’d want some kind of protein with breakfast but I couldn’t figure out what kind of meat or egg deal would go with this. Once I got fixed on the sauce, I mean.” He watched the indicator light on the waffle iron and sipped his coffee intermittently. “You’re next, little buddy,” he said, to Clarence. I looked at my paper, Mrs. W. enjoyed her waffle, and Clarence looked at his graph paper. According to the paper President Nixon was in Cairo, where President Sadat had welcomed him as an important world leader without whom the problems of the Middle East could never be resolved. After these solemn pronouncements were complete, President Sadat feted President Nixon with a performance by a belly dancer.

After a few minutes the light on Mrs. W.’s ancient waffle iron turned red and Stoney turned out another perfect waffle. He plated it in front of Clarence, after which he gave Clarence a glass of milk and a bottle of Log Cabin syrup. “Bud, you’re welcome to yogurt vanilla sauce or reduced maple syrup if you like, but you’re welcome to Log Cabin if you prefer.”

“Cool!” said Clarence, and poured at least six fluid ounces of Log Cabin syrup on his waffle.

“Hungry?” Stoney asked me.

“I don’t usually eat breakfast,” I said.

“I’ll split one with you,” he said. Mrs. W. had finished her fist waffle half and had cut the other half into two quarters. She covered the one nearest to her in yogurt-vanilla sauce and strawberries. She ate a few bites.

“You know, this would be good with blueberries, too,” she said.

“Good call, Dr. W.,” said Stoney. “We’ll have to try that. But sugared strawberry slices bleed a lot of juice out, and that helps the flavor of the sauce. Thins it a little, too.” A final waffle was ready. He split it between us on two plates. He poured a generous dollop of yogurt-vanilla sauce on his then sprinkled it with strawberry slices. I followed suit. Clarence finished his waffle. Mrs. W. still had a quarter of hers left, which she drizzled with still-warm reduced maple syrup and consumed with an emotional cast to her expression. While Stoney and I were eating our s Clarence unceremoniously dumped the remaining strawberry slices onto his plate and then spooned lots of yogurt-vanilla sauce over them. He had unsatisfactory results consuming this mixture with his fork, so adopted the strawberry serving spoon as his own. I expected Mrs. W. to object, but she didn’t notice.

“Another triumph, Stoney,” she said. It was pretty tasty. Clarence had cleaned his plate as thoroughly as he was able without licking it, which he would have gladly done had no one been looking, then turned his attention back to his quadrille paper, which seemed to have sparked an unusually studious streak in Clarence.

“What are you working on?” I asked Clarence. Mrs. W. lit a cigarette and waited on his response.

“It’s some games Stoney made up for me,” he said.

“Yeah, I figured he’s probably bored with pretty much everything around him, so for the past week or so I’ve been setting up some puzzles for him,” said Stoney. “He should have something interesting to do, too.”

“So?” Mrs. W. asked Clarence.

“I like the crosswords and the Cryptoquotes best. Jumbles are too easy,” said Clarence. Mrs. W. looked at Stoney.

“Honestly, that’s been pretty closely based on what’s available in the Chattanooga Times,” he said. “But Clarence has done the Cryptoquote in less than five minutes twice.”

“So word puzzles?” Mrs. W. asked Clarence.

“The math ones are harder, but kind of more fun,” he answered.

“What kind of math problems?” she asked.

“At first it was like addition and that kind of stuff. How you’d graph that. Here,” he said, shuffling his papers, and handed up a list of about six graphs of linear equations. “I gotta say, that was pretty boring. But this week he added little numbers and the puzzles are a lot more … interesting,” he said.

“Little numbers?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Like…”

“Okay, well, we started with . Stoney writes the power numbers as little numbers above their variers.”

“And?”

“They’re fun.” He shrugged. “Stoney showed me how that’s the same as x plus y times x plus y, and it’s like multiplication only with letters. Kind of like the Cryptoquote substitutes one letter for another, he thinks up these puzzles where he has letters instead of numbers, and you have to figure out what the letters could be. Then to get the curves all you have to do is plug real numbers into the key. It’s keener and cooler than the word puzzles, but I think the word ones are more fun, somehow. More Yaqui.” Mrs. W. turned to Stoney.

“Mr. Jackson!” she said to Stoney.

“Yes ma’am?” Stoney asked, hesitantly.

“You’re a teacher!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” he said, after a pause. “I just thought if he was stuck with us he might as well have something to do.”

“What made you think of this?” she asked.

“Well, that first night we forgot to get him a Sports Illustrated and I felt so bad I wanted to make it up to him so I made him a game sheet of stuff he could play with while you were talking to us.”

“And you’ve got him to quadratics already?” she asked.

“He’s pretty fast.”

“Well. Clarence, I’m going to leave you to Stoney’s tutelage, and you boys let me know if I can help.” She paused and thought and lit a cigarette. She looked at Stoney, contemplatively. “Sometimes you connect with a single person, and that’s great. Happens a lot with parents, as it should. Sometimes you connect with a larger group, but not with everybody. Ministers, Rabbis, Boy Scout leaders, singer/songwriters. Sometimes you connect with almost everybody in the room. Those people all need to be teachers, because nobody else can do the job as well.”

“Clarence and I are just buds,” said Stoney.

“So do you think you’re learning a lot, Clarence?” she asked.

“Oh, sure! Stoney’s like Don Juan,” he said.

“Who?”

“A character in Clarence’s favorite book,” Stoney said.

“What have you learned?” she asked.

“Well, a needle case is called an etui. The Hawaiian word for goose is nene. There’s a college in North Carolina called Elon. The easiest place to start with a Cryptoquote is to look for patterns, like ‘there’ or ‘that.’ All kinds of stuff.”

“How are ‘there’ and ‘that’ patterns?” Mrs. W. asled.

“If you have a five-letter word where the third and last letters are the same and nothing else matches, that’s almost always ‘there,’” he said. “If you look around and the first three letters match up somewhere else, you’re sure, because that’s ‘the’. And if the first and last letters of a four-letter word are the same, that’s usually ‘that,’” he said.

“Could also be ‘else,’” said Stoney. “Be careful.”

“Sons, twit, hath, barb, kink, dead, fief, gang, maim, pimp, rear, roar, sips,” I said. “Shall I continue?”

“No need,” said Stoney.

“What’s he saying?” asked Clarence.

“He’s giving you examples of other four-letter words that fit the pattern. But for the purpose of doing a Cryptoquote, ignore him. If you have a four letter word that begins and ends with the same letter, it’s almost always ‘that.’ And if it’s not, it’s usually ‘else.’ And after that, all of those words Henry said are equally likely.”

“What’s a tutelage?” asked Clarence.

“It means Dr. W. thinks I’m teaching you stuff,” said Stoney. “His fastest time on the Jumble is less than two minutes.”

“But what about factoring quadratics?” she asked Clarence. He immediately drew his face into a quizzical frown.

“What?” Charence asked, confused. Behind Clarence, Stoney waved his hands back and forth, like an unpire signalling “safe,” to wave her off from telling Clarence he was doing ninth grade math. Know your pupil.

“That’s what your Aunt Margaret calls that kind of number puzzle,” Stoney said.

“Oh,” he nodded. “They’re just puzzles,” he said to Mrs. W. “They’re fun, but once Stoney shows you the trick they’re lots easier than the word ones. I don’t think I’m really, like, learning anything from the number puzzles. They’re just fun.” He shrugged.

“Okay,” she said, smiling. “So what’s in the news?”

“Dodgers lost to the Cards 6-3 with Sutton on the mound,” I said.

“You think he’s going to last?” asked Stoney.

“Seems solid. Torre hit a homer for St. Louis and the good guys just never caught up. Brock hit a triple to seal the deal.”

“We never should have traded Torre,” said Clarence. “He was my favorite player ever. What was the Braves score?”

“They beat the Mets one zip. Both pitchers must have done well but I didn’t recognize either name.”

“Aaron homer? RBI?” asked Clarence.

“Nah, Davey Johnson singled in somebody from third,” said Mrs. W.

“Nobody’s asked about my Tigers,” said Stoney.

“They didn’t play,” said Mrs. W., Clarence, and I in unison.

“Tough room,” said Stoney.

“All right, so anybody noticed what’s going on in the world?” she asked. Stoney lit a cigarette. Clarence concentrated on some puzzle on Stoney’s sheet. She looked straight at me.

“Well, Nixon’s in Egypt,” I said.

“Good. Why is he there?”

I paused to think before answering. “Because there are fewer American reporters there?” I hazarded.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Henry,” she said. “This is a state visit. What is the purpose of the visit?” There was a pause.

“Mrs. W., I’m going to have to have to side with Henry here,” said Stoney. “Yesterday—or maybe sometime in the last day or so—one of our coffee chats was about how Henry Kissinger was going to resign if people didn’t stop pestering him about all the criminal investigations going on about White House stuff.”

“But that’s not the purpose of a state visit,” she said. We both looked at her quizzically. Clarence had lost interest. She rapped her knuckles on the table. “Clarence?” He looked up.

“Yeah? ” he answered.

“Why is President Nixon in Egypt?” she asked. He put on his game face, as though he were answering a question in class.

“To achieve peace in the middle east?” he answered, after thinking.

“Yes!” she said, happily.

“Well, so how long has this middle east deal been going on?” asked Stoney.

“Several thousand years,” she answered. Shaking her head and lighting a cigarette.

“And you think Nixon is going to work it out?” he asked.

“Well, no, but he’s trying.”

“It says here that there was a parade in which Nixon was cheered by throngs,” Stoney said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“This was in Egypt. Is there any place he might get a similar response in the US?” There was a pause. Clarence frowned and looked back down at his puzzle sheet.

“Maybe Wadley,” I said.

“Wadley?” Stoney asked.

“A little town in Alabama. They like their president. A lot,” I said.

“I do get your point, Stoney,” she said. “Peace in the Middle East is important, though, and I’m glad they’re thinking about it. What else is going on?”

“Ehrlichman can be tried with the rest of the plumbers,” said Clarence, without looking up from his puzzle sheet.

“That he can,” said Mrs. W., smiling at him. “That he can. All right, lets get to work.” We moved into the dining room and she took us through a pretty intricate double integral that had integrations over some regions that were more general than polar rectangles. It branched out a lot, and we drew some diagrams on the blackboards to reason through it. Mrs. W. observed that the notation had changed a little from when she was in grad school, but it all meant the same thing.

For lunch we had gazpacho and tuna salad sandwiches, but that makes it sound a little more generic than it was. Stoney made a special olive oil mayonnaise to bind the tuna salad, although he used his standard Wesson oil mayo on the bread, which he had baked the day before . I think we had a cool meal because Stoney didn’t like to heat up the kitchen too much in the middle of the day when it was hot outside. After lunch we were still working on the double integral problem—well, Stoney and I were, and Clarence was working on a second problem sheet Stoney had whipped out right after lunch—when the phone rang. It didn’t usually ring. We all looked at each other, then Mrs. W. got up to answer it. She returned after a few seconds. “It’s Nadia,” she said, “Asking for Stono.”

“Ah,” Stoney said, and got up to take the call. Mrs. W. took a contemplative drag from her cigarette and looked at the beautifully framed unsolved problem on the blackboard.

“This is the girl who came over for lunch wearing ... a tee shirt?” she asked.

“Yes, maa’am,” I said.

“She was awesome!” said Clarence.

“And he thinks this girl is a college student?” Mrs. W. asked, to no one in particular.

“She says she’s enrolled at a Junior College in Colquitt,” I said.

“She’s absolutely gorgeous,” said Clarence.

“Okay, Clarence, I’m going to tell you something about men,” she said. “I want you to remember this ten years from now.” Clarence looked up with a quizzical scowl. “Men are mysteriously unable to detect or deduce the ages of females they find attractive. I’m telling you, remember this. The fact that you find her attractive doesn’t mean she’s eighteen. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. He was trying to appear earnest, but Mrs. W. saw through it and shook her head in annoyance with men in general. Stoney returned.

“Mrs. W., if it’s okay with you, I’m gonna go pay a visit to Nadia,” he said. “Won’t be long,” he said.

“Have fun,” she said. He smiled and lit a Winston. “You know she’s underage, so be careful.”

“Oh, no ma’am. She’s enrolled in Colquitt Junior College. Twenty years old,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” said Mrs. W., without looking away from the blackboard.

“Okay, see you again in a few minutes” he said, and left. I could hear the door close behind him after a few seconds.

“Well, what to you gentlemen want to do?” she asked Clarence and me.

“I got my puzzle sheet,” said Clarence, and shrugged.

“We could take a walk,” I said. Mrs. W. frowned and smoked for a minute.

“I know,” she said. “Henry, how much Relativity do you have?”

“Philosophical principles mainly. He showed us some of the math but we weren’t tested on it.”

“I looked at your book over Christmas. The way they presented it is not the same way Albert did it. Let me show you Albert’s original thinking. It’ll make a lot more sense.” She flipped over a blackboard. “Didn’t you tell me you knew the Lorentz transformation?”

“I think so, yes ma’am. We did it in Stoney’s math club. On your recommendation, I might add.”

“Okay. So here we go. Place a rod one meter long in the x’ axis of K’ in such a way that the beginning end coincides with the point x’=0, while the other end coincides with x’=1. What is the length of the rod relative to the K system?” And with that she was off, scudding across principles vast and small, demonstrating on the blackboard from time to time. It was though she’d been hungry to talk Physics, as though dealing with geometry and pure math for so many years had starved her for something. She galloped. I could follow, but not really absorb. It was exhilarating, but frightening, in a way. I am by nature skeptical, and to inhale so much so fast didn’t brook much analysis. But it all came in so right. She went on for about three hours. By the end, general and special relativity had been planted in my brain, but I couldn’t have said I grasped it. I understood it, in a way, but I hadn’t been able to think it through.

“What do you think?” she asked. Clarence had wandered off.

“I’m kind of stunned,” I said after a pause. “It makes sense, but Jesus. I knew that mass and energy were supposed to be related. But damn.”

“Where are you on gravity?” she asked.

“Thinking it through. Everything you said makes sense, philosophically.”

“And the math?” she asked.

“Not sure yet. I need to think all this through. I understood it when you said it, but it wasn’t all math.”

“Fair enough.” The doorbell rang.

“What the hell?” she asked.

“It’s Stoney,” I said.

“Why would he ring the bell?” she asked.

“He’s a guest.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, rising to answer the door. When she came back, the had Stoney in tow and was explaining that he was part of the household now, like it or not, and did not need to ring the bell to come inside.

“Well, thank you, Dr. W. That’s so sweet of you.” He looked exhausted, in a way that doesn’t care that it’s exhausted. He sat and lit a cigarette. “I know I planned to cook something tonight, but I can’t remember what it was,” he said.

“You said red beans and rice,” said Clarence, wandering in.

“Oh, Jesus! You’re right! I’ve got nothing like the time to cook red beans and rice! What was I thinking? Well, I guess we know what I was thinking about. But still, I’ve let down the team.” He lit a Winston in exhausted despair. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said. “What do we think? Omelet? Quiche?”

“Oh, Stoney, don’t worry about it. It’s time for me to repay the favor. Let’s go to the Brass Register. I’m buying,” she said.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“A bar downtown, on Fountain Square. Good burgers and omelets. Dark, with drinks and beer. You’ve been, Henry?”

“A couple of times. My friend Dennis Plumlee used to hang out there,” I said, “but he was pretty much everywhere.”

“You didn’t like it?” she asked.

“Good burgers, but no pool table,” I said.

“Will Nadia be there?” Clarence asked.

“No,” said Stoney. “The Baptists are all back, I think.”

“Damn,” said Clarence.

“Language, Clarence,” said Mrs. W.

“Sorry,” said Clarence. “Stoney, what does this mean?” he asked, pointing at something on his quadrille sheet.

“Oh, that’s something we’ll get to in a week or two. A different kind of puzzle. For now, just treat it like it’s x or y or a or b,” he said.

“But how do I say it?” he asked. “Sin?”

“It’s an abbreviation,” said Stoney. “Sine.”

“Sign,” said Clarence.

“You got it, buddy,” said Stoney. “So maybe a drink before Brass Registering?” He made Mrs. W. a massive martini, himself a gin and tonic, and brought Clarence a Coke. We retired to the living room to watch the news. Nixon and Sadat had looked at the pyramids. Things could be better in Viet Nam. Prince Charles had invited Laura Jo Watkins, the daughter of an American admiral, to hear him address the House of Lords.

“That’s just not right,” said Clarence. It was odd for him to volunteer anything. We all looked at him, surprised.

“How so?” asked Mrs. W., taking a sip of her martini.

“For that prince to go siphoning off American girls. He should stick to Brits.”

“Why so?” she asked.

“That’s a really pretty girl. What’s she going to do? Say ‘No, I’ll take a pass on being maybe the queen of England?’ It’s not fair.”

“Well, maybe he likes her,” said Mrs. W. There was a pause.

“Mutch as I love you, Dr. W., I’m going to weigh in with my little buddy on this one,” said Stoney. “Isn’t the Prince of Wales required to marry an English citizen?”

“No, no. Under the Royal Marriage Act as long as the reigning monarch approves, he can do what he likes.”

“How about under the Settlement Act?” Clarence asked. All of us looked at him in surprise again. Well?” he asked, when none of us answered.

“That just says that no monarch of England can be Catholic or be married to a Catholic,” Mrs. W. said. “Where did you pick that up?”

“I go to school,” Clarence answered, sullenly. Stoney gave him a thumbs up and Clarence brightened in response. The news came back. The world monetary fund had agreed on some changes. Nixon said Sadat would be coming to Washington in a few months. It was inextricably dull. Stoney refreshed his and Mrs. W.’s drinks halfway through.

“All right, let’s go,” said Mrs. W. after the news was done and we all piled out towards her car. She handed me her car keys without comment. It was maybe 6:00 or 6:30 and it was still light. I hadn’t spent much time in the Brass Register before, although I’d been. My high school classmates had all spoken of it as a destination of some importance, but it didn’t have a pool table and I don’t drink. It was clean and neat, though, and the hostess, who may have been behind me a year or two at City High, showed us to a nice table near the windows up front. Clarence was checking out the new and interesting environment, focusing intently on whatever pretty girl walked by. We all ordered various kinds of cheeseburgers and different drinks.

The front door opened and Rex walked in, alone, looking for someone.. He scanned the bar several times before he noticed me, then waved and came over. Something about his bearing suggested he had been drinking for some time.

“Yo, Henry,” he said. “Hello, Mrs. Wertheimer. Henry have you seen Buster in here tonight?”

“Buster Wilhoite?” I asled. Rex paused for a few seconds to think about this.

“Is there another Buster?” Rex asked, confused. He was a little unsteady and he was moving his lips in this odd way that made his handlebar moustache look like it was moving across his face like a caterpillar.

“Haven’t seen him. Why?” I asked.

“Buster has a skeet machine for sale and I was going to look at it tonight.”

“If I see him I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Cool.” Rex wandered off, more towards the bar than in search of Buster.

“Did he say Buster Wilhoite?” Mrs. W. asked.

“You remember Buster,” I said. “He went to City.”

“Buster didn’t take much math,” she said. Stoney was waving at the waitress, who showed up with a smile.

“Hey freak,” she said, to Stoney.

“Hi, Janie,” said Clarence.

“Oh, hey, little fella’. How’s your Coke holding out?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” he said. He stared at her in a way that manners would have forbidden if he had any.

“Okay. So this was a gin and tonic,” Stoney said, pointing at his now empty drink. “So what I’d like is another gin and tonic, only this one with like three or four shots of gin in it. Make it four. And so for there to be any room for tonic water, you need to do this in a Collins glass.”

“Lime?” she asked.

“Yes, but just one wedge,” Stoney said.

“Got it!” she said, smiling, and walked off. Clarence watched her leave longingly.

“Knock it off, Clarence. You boys have to talk to him about the way he looks at girls,” Mrs. W. said.

“What?” asked Clarence, confused.

“What’s he doing?” Stoney asked, oblivious.

“I’ll explain it to Stoney and Stoney will explain it to Clarence,” I said.

“You’ll do what?” Stoney asked.

“I’ll explain later.”

“Yo-ho-ho!” said a loud voice to my right. “How in the hell are you, my badass dog Henry?” It was Buster, bellowing.

“Hey, Buster. Rex is looking for you,” I said.

“Fuck Rex!” he yelled.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“What in the fuck have you been up to, Henry Beta?” he demanded.

“I’m in college,” I said.

“No shit?” he asked, obviously uninterested. “Where’s Rexie? I got a machine I gotta unload.”

“He was headed for the bar a few minutes ago,” I said.

“Cool.” Buster headed towards the bar and I lost track of him. He, too, looked as though he might have been drinking. A lot. Janie brought Stoney’s second drink as Mrs. W. sipped on her first. After a few minutes our burgers came, and we all enjoyed that first few minutes you get with hot cheeseburgers and hot, salty fries. As we were doing so, Rex and Buster, who certainly did not seem less intoxicated than when I first spoke to them, left the bar together.

“They’re looking at a skeet machine?” Mrs. W. asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Oh, dear,” she said. We continued working on our burgers. Mine, with bacon and cheddar cheese, was good, but then how could a hamburger with bacon and cheddar cheese not be good? Mrs. W. had a worried look on her face. Stoney drained his gin and tonic and ordered a pint of draft Lowenbrau.

“So what—” Clarence began but was interrupted by the booming sound of a shotgun blast coming from the street. Clarence jumped, terrified, and Stoney appeared to be considering taking refuge under the table.

“It’s okay, boys,” Mrs. W. said to Clarence and Stoney. “They said skeet machine, after all.” She looked at me and shook her head.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll go see what’s up.” I took another big bite of my bacon cheeseburger and went outside, still chewing. It was about 7:30. The sky was a little dark, but you could still see. Buster had parked his pickup next to the fountain for which Fountain Square was named. The skeet trap machine was in the bed of his pickup, and Buster had flipped down the gate so the clay pigeons wouldn’t graze it on their way out. There was a 100 foot orange extension cord running from the skeet machine to an outlet in front of the Brass Register. Both Buster and Rex were armed with shotguns. I observed all of this from about twenty yards away and was not interested in getting any closer. Jimmy Pelfry, Buster’s running buddy, was standing near Rex and Buster but did not seem to be otherwise participating in the evening’s events.

“Pull!” yelled Rex. Buster yanked something and a clay pigeon sailed off into the darkening sky off towards the Hamilton County sheriff’s office. Rex shot and reduced it to dust.

“Pull!” yelled Rex again. As the clay pigeon sailed through the courthouse lights Rex fired and missed, so Buster quickly sighted and shot the bird right before it got tangled in the large oak trees in front of the courthouse.

“Hey, Jimmy!” I called out. He looked over his shoulder at me and waved, and then as Rex and Buster shot off another clay pigeon and commenced shooting at it, he left them to come talk to me.

“Hey, Henry,” he said, approaching me and shaking my hand. “How’s it going?”

“It’s okay,” I said. The skeet machine hurled out another clay pigeon, which Rex rendered into dust with another shotgun blast. “So what’s going on here?” I asked.

“They’re both drunk,” Rob said.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” I said. Another clay pigeon went flying, both Rex and Buster shot at it at about the same time, and then began to argue about who had hit it.

“They’re shooting pretty good for bein’ as drunk as they are,” he said, watching them. Another clay pigeon. Rex missed, Buster got it. It was far enough downrange that he shot some leaves off of one of the stately oak trees in front of the courthouse.

“Okay. But doesn’t the idea of shooting skeet with 12 gauge shotguns on a city street in the dark seem like a bad idea in many ways?”

“Oh, sure. It’s a terrible idea. And you left out the fact that the sheriff’s department is right over there,” he said, pointing. “Any minute cops are going to show up and arrest them both.”

“Aren’t you and Buster friends?” I asked. Buster and Rex were arguing about something. Rex took a clay bird from the machine and threw it into the air, and they both shot at it. You could hear the bird shot raining down around us a few seconds later.

“Oh, yeah. Been pals since junior high. We were in Little League together. We roomed together when we were in college.”

“And you’re not trying to stop this?” I asked. There was a pause while to watched them shoot at another clay pigeon. Neither hit it this time.

“Buster’s practical joking has got to stop,” Jimmy said, eventually.

“What?”

“Buster’s always been bad about practical jokes,” he said, as they reloaded.

“There’s a connection between practical jokes and this skeet tournament?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “In high school and college if he put Dinty Moore Beef Stew® in the pockets of my tux or hid all my underwear before we went to play a road game. I’d just beat the snot out of him and he’d stop it for a few months.”

“And you no longer feel comfortable beating the snot out of him?”

“Oh, hell. I can still beat the snot out of him and am willing to do so at the drop of a hat. It’s just gotten out of hand, though, so I suggested he bring his shotguns. I brought an extension cord so they could test that skeet machine Buster stole. Made sure Buster got good and drunk. He’s pretty stupid when he’s drunk. And of course Rex is an idiot.”

“And?”

“Well, you can see,” he said. “I also told them I wasn’t aware of any law against firing shotguns inside city limits. I’m surprised the police are taking so long,” he said, glancing at his watch.

“May I ask about the nature of the practical joke?”

“Buster picked up a case of the crabs from this Russian girl he met at that bar he goes to down by the river. Before he used the de-lousing shampoo pulled some of them off and put them in a jar and then put them in my bed,” said Jimmy.

“I take it you did not see the humor in this,” I said, as a police car pulled up, lights on but no sirens. Buster was now showing Rex how to operate the machine.

“Pull!” Buster called out. Rex yanked the cord and a clay bird sailed out into the indigo sky. Buster shot just as two uniformed police officers emerged from their car, one with a shotgun aimed at Buster and the other with a pistol aimed at Rex.

“No, I found no humor in it,” said Jimmy. “But what I failed to get Buster to grasp was that Carrie found no humor in it, either.” Buster was trying to explain that it was all okay, that they were just shooting skeet, as it was their right to do. He cited the Second Amendment. The police did not seem to see it that way, and were instructing Rex and Buster to lay down their weapons. Rex, the more experienced criminal defendant of the two, was complying, but Buster was refusing on the grounds that this was his good shotgun and he didn’t want to scratch it.

“And Carrie is a girlfriend?”

“She was at the time, yes. Unfortunately, she and her mother share clothes from time to time, and her parents are happily married, so it was only a matter of days before the entire Kershaw household, Carrie, her mom, and her dad, were all crawling with crabs.”

“Unfortunate.” I said. Rex was now lying on the street face down with his hands cuffed behind his back. Buster was clutching his shotgun like a five year old girl clutches her favorite doll, pointing at Jimmy, apparently trying to explain that Jimmy had told him that it was okay for him to fire his shotgun downtown on a June evening. Jimmy waved.

“Really, really, unfortunate. Given the nature of the crab louse and how it spreads, Carrie’s parents eventually came to question her on the specifics of her pledge to stay a virgin until marriage.” Another police car pulled up. Buster was pleading for permission to return his favorite shotgun to the gun rack. The police advised him not to move. He began stroking the shotgun, a two-barrel with an elaborately carved stock, the way drunks and stoners do with objects they decide they like. A third police car pulled up as an officer emerged from the second one, shotgun aimed at Buster. Rex tried to say something but the officer accompanying him placed his shoe on the back of Rex’ neck to encourage him to exercise his right to remain silent and refrain from exercising any others.

“Alas,” I said.

“Yes. A great girl. Pretty as a picture. Sweet-natured. Took the Pill. She was even a Baptist. My folks loved her. Now my chances of seeing her naked again are as good as my chances of becoming pope.” Buster had negotiated some kind of deal with the policeman that had been talking to him. He broke the double-barrel, which shucked both shells, at which point officers seemed to converge on him from all over, tossing his shotgun aside and forcing him to the street, cuffing him.

In not too many seconds, he was in the back seat of one police cruiser and Rex was in the back seat of another, but on the way, Buster called out to Jimmy “Bail me out!” to which Jimmy called out

“No!” Buster looked confused and hurt.

“Why?” Buster demanded.

“Crab lice!” Jimmy called back. Buster shook his head as they handed him into the back seat.

“He’ll have to call his father for bail,” said Jimmy, “so he’ll remember this one.” Jimmy unplugged the extension cord from the outlet and began coiling it up.

“This isn’t going to go well for Rex, either,” I said. Jimmy shrugged.

“Rex is an asshole,” he said.

“Good catching up with you, Jimmy,” I said.

“Same here, Henry,” he said. “I loaned him this extension cord and don’t want to lose it.” All of the police cruisers seemed to turn off their flashing lights at once and silently roll off into darkness.

“About the girl Buster got the crabs from,” I said. “Any chance she was Bulgarian rather than Russian?”

“You think Buster would know the difference?”

“Good point. See you later,” I said, and returned to the Brass Register. A crowd had apparently been watching at the window and looked at me nervously as I came back inside. I rejoined our table. Mine was the only plate left on the table. Mrs W. and Stoney both had cigarettes lit and brandy snifters filled with brown liquids, and Clarence had another Coke. I still had a third of my burger and half of my fries.

“Anything odd?” Mrs. W. asked.

“It was more elaborate than it looked but just as stupid.” She nodded. I took a bite of my not-entirely-cold burger and followed it with a few entirely cold fries. I poured ketchup on the fries.

“So do people, like, fire shotguns into the air all the time around here?” asked Stoney.

“It’s rare,” said Mrs. W.

“Not in a town as big as Chattanooga,” I said.

“Sometimes,” said Clarence.

“’Cause in Detroit we only do that sh— … that stuff on New Years.” We all looked at him curiously.

“Shouldn’t there be some limitations?” he asked.

“Why’s New Years’ a good time?” Clarence asked. Mrs. W. looked at him by way of acknowledging that he’d asked a good question without giving much else away.

“Better than June,” Stoney answered, draining his snifter and waving to the waitress for another.

“Why?” Mrs. W. and Clarence asked, simultaneously.

“In Detroit in January it’s like zero degrees outside,” said Stoney.

“So?”

“So everybody’s inside. Fewer targets.” We all nodded.

Chapter 29: Nadia and Clarence Interfere with Stoney’s Hangover

2011-04-10T21:10:00.000-07:00

[Editor's note: Sorry about the choppiness of how the chapter reads without footnotes or mathematical symbols. The complete test is available at the Scribd site, here:http://www.scribd.com/doc/52770485/Chapter-29 ]

The next day when I woke up I could see through the window that it was overcast but not raining, although it looked like it might. I did my morning ablutions then went to the kitchen, where Mrs. W was having a cigarette and a cup of coffee and reading the Chattanooga Times. It was a little after seven. I’m not an early bird.

“Morning, Henry. Where’s your running mate? He usually beats you down,” she asked, taking a drag from her Benson & Hedges. If Stoney wasn’t up yet, I had a chance to do the Times crossword.

“He may be a little late today. He had a few drinks last night.”

“I’ve seen him have a few before lunch,” she said.

“There were these girls,” said.

“Stoney likes girls?” she asked, as though this were something of a surprise. “I had assumed that Stoney was interested in …” she took a drag off of her cigarette, then took a sip of her coffee. “Well, never mind. So you boys found some girls you like? Where was this?”

“At that bar over on Frazier down from the Odd Fellows Hall.” She thought.

“Down near the Little Theater?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can’t remember what that place is called. Anyhow, who were the girls?”

“Nadia and Kiki, and no, we won’t be double-dating. Stoney is very taken with Nadia, a Bulgarian émigré and former gymnast who now resides in Colquitt. Kiki, her foster sister, is very, very focused on her church.”

“Which flavor?” she asked.

“Baptist.” I filled a coffee cup for myself and topped off Mrs. W.’s.

“Big church or hard shell?” she asked.

“I’d guess big church.”

“Since Stoney’s running late, why don’t you make breakfast this morning?” said Mrs. W. “My civics class is getting off to a slow start anyway. Not much world news today.”

“I have no idea how to cook,” I said. “Kind of like I hear that dirt and seeds and rain turn into beans, somehow stuff in a kitchen turns into food. Farmers and cooks amaze me.”

“Your ignorance is highly descriptive, Henry. Take a Biology course and all that would be answered. But you don’t have to know how to cook to make oatmeal.”

“I really have no idea how to make oatmeal, Mrs. W.,” I said.

“Henry, you poor pitiful foundling, the instructions are on the box. Look for something with a picture of a Quaker on it.”

“Where?” I asked.

“In such a place as food may be found,” she said, without looking up. “You’re in a kitchen, which is generally a good place to start.”

Okay. I looked through her cupboards, got a sense of how they were organized, and finallhy found a cylindrical cardboard container of Quaker Oats. The instructions were, indeed, on the box, if “box” is the right word for a cardboard cylinder. The instructions suggested that I would need a device for measuring the volume of water and a cooking vessel. I kept looking and found a measuring cup and a pot.

“Make enough to feed six,” she said. “You boys eat a lot.” I multiplied out the number of cups of water from the portions given on the label and poured that number of cups of water into the pot, which almost filled it. I turned on the heat. After a few minutes the water started to boil and I added the appropriate volume of rolled oats. The results of the experiment deteriorated from this point onward. As soon as I stirred in the oats, carefully following the instructions, the pot foamed up and boiled over. This aspect of cooking oatmeal was not mentioned in the instructions at all. Mrs. W was focused on her paper. I kept turning down the heat and stirring and it kept boiling over. Mrs. Wertheimer didn’t look up. After a more than a few minutes of stirring and turning the heat down, eventually as low as it would go, the oatmeal began to thicken. At this point Stoney showed up, wearing a purple silk bathrobe and his Ray-Bans, a cigarette dangling from his lip. He poured himself a cup of coffee and trudged into the kitchen, in apparent pain, to look at what I was doing. He shook his head.

“Use a bigger pot next time,” he said. “Oatmeal boils up. When it looks almost done, stir some milk and butter in and let it reduce. Did you add any salt to the water?”

“No.”

“It needs just a pinch.” He sat down and smiled blearily at Mrs. W. She looked up at him, then without saying anything, she got up and disappeared for a few seconds, then returned with two packets of BC powder. Stoney got up and poured himself a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator and returned to the kitchen table, then emptied the two BC Powders® into his orange juice, stirring the mix with his index finger. He then drained the glass in a few continuous swallows. Mrs. W took no notice.

“You’re a godsend, Dr. W.”

“Stoney you’re lucky the news is light today,” she said, after a few seconds. Stoney was straining, extending his tongue to its limit, to lick the BC residue from the bottom of his juice glass. After a minute of watching this spectacle I felt compelled to comment.

“Your tongue is like a prehensile tail,” I said.

“Impressive, no?” he asked.

“It’s grotesque,” I answered.

“Tigers?” he asked Mrs. W., putting his orange juice glass aside and taking a sip of his coffee.

“They lost to the A’s, I’m afraid. They only had three hits, and Oakland had four. The Giants beat the Cards and Gibson was pitching, and if they can hit Gibson that’s a good sign. Henry, your Dodgers clobbered the Pirates,” she said, disaprovingly.

“Pirates will bounce back,” Stoney said, lighting a cigarette. “They look bad now, but with Stargell and Parker they’re going to get some hits, even though their pitching is pretty lame. Who was pitching?” he asked, taking a drag.

“For whom?” Mrs. W. asked.

“Motown, ” Stoney answered.

“Mickey Lolich,” she answered. “Don’t know him.”

“You National League people. He’s been around forever. Past his prime, like most of the Tigers’ rotation.” The oatmeal looked done, to me, so I found an appropriately-sized spoon and dipped out a bowl for Mrs. W. and put it in front of her. Stoney looked at it and took off his sunglasses, making a noncommittal back and forth wag of his head.

“She needs butter, milk, sugar, salt, a spoon, and a napkin,” said Stoney. I collected those things, thinking ahead and getting him a glass of milk, spoon, and napkin, too. When I put a steaming bowl of very pretty oatmeal in front of him, he thought about it and asked for some of the reduced maple syrup and if there were any blueberries left. I found some, rinsed them again, and gave them to him in a small Pyrex ramekin. He mixed them all together and it looked so good I followed suit, as did Mrs. W. A good breakfast.

When we were done I cleaned up while they smoked and drank coffee and passed the paper back and forth.

“So who is Nadia?” Mrs. W asked him.

“The most beautiful woman in the word,” he answered, earnestly, but without looking up from the sports pages.

“Where’s she from?” she asked.

“You’d have to ask Henry,” he said. “Someplace swampy in south Georgia.”

“Colquitt,” I said.

“Where’s that?” she asked.

“Nearest big town is Albany. It’s in Georgia. Near Florida and Alabama both,” I said.

“Is there a pool hall there, or something?” she asked me.

“No, ma’am. Closest pool hall I know is in Donaldsonville. They’re good farm people in Colquitt. They have a nice-looking high school. But town-wise, not much more than a post office.”

“And you met a teenaged girl from there?” she asked Stoney.

“No, ma’am. A hard-drinking, hard-partying grown-up of a woman from the People’s Republic of Bulgaria.” Mrs. W. frowned slightly and returned her attention to the newspaper. Stoney finished with the sports section and finished his oatmeal. As each of them finished with a dish I took it away and put it in the sink. It seemed more efficient to wash them all at once, so I was waiting. Stoney suddenly looked up at me with a cross expression.

“Hey. Last night. What were you thinking?” he asked, indignantly.

“About what?” I asked, refilling his coffee cup. All of us took our coffee black.

“Making me drink all that vodka,” he said.

“Nadia drank the vodka. You were drinking Jack green,” I answered. He thought about this for a few seconds.

“Well why did you let me drink so much Jack Daniels, then? Where were your manners?” he demanded.

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” I asked, and immediately regretted it.

“Your friend Ed Bork would say yes, I’m guessing,” he said. Mrs. W cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Ed was there, yes, ma’am,” I said. She took a long drag from her cigarette.

“And?” she asked.

“Ed’s found Jesus,” I said. “Pretty thoroughly.” She nodded and smiled to herself.

“I’ll be damned,” she said. “Good for him.”

“I was surprised,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because he tried to hex you into a heart attack,” I said.

“Yeah, sure. So praising Jesus is going to be less obnoxious than that. And lots of the people who focus on Jesus do some good in the world. I know a woman, Gini, who runs a camp for kids who might not be able to go to camp if she wasn’t there. And a man, Paul, who’s the chairman of the board of this abused women’s shelter. He also works with special needs kids. He’s an asshole, and I can’t tell that he actually believes in God, but he’s a good Christian who’s doing his best to work out the Jesus deal.”

“Any more coffee?” asked Stoney. He had folded the paper over to the crossword puzzle. I refilled his coffee cup. “And I’m feeling better after the oatmeal, but how about a gallon of ice water?” he asked. I found the largest glass and filled it with ice and water. The front doorbell rang. Stoney and I looked at Mrs. W in confusion. This had never happened before.

“You boys stay here,” she said. “That’s my sister dropping off Clarence. I’ll be back in a second.” She got up. Stoney looked at me. It appeared he had the crossword puzzle in hand.

“Mrs. W. has a nephew named Clarence,” I said. “Twelve, maybe? Thirteen?”

“And?” he asked.

“Weird kid with eccentric interests and keenly in search of a friend. Projects himself into others a lot. Fixated on Carlos Castaneda. After the cool kids shun him in high school he may develop into an asshole.” Stoney nodded contemplatively, sipped his coffee, and looked down at the crossword. Damn. It took him maybe three minutes.

“Boys, this is my nephew, Clarence McColl,” said Mrs. W, entering with an obnoxious-looking and obviously unhappy pre-adolescent. She was happier and prouder of him than the appearances warranted. Clarence looked at Stoney and me seriously. Stoney extended his hand and Clarence shook it morosely. He turned to me and looked at me sternly.

“Has your Datura root seeded?” he asked, peering into my eyes intently.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Please tell me you have not abandoned the Yaqui way of knowledge,” he said.

“You’re into Carlos Castaneda?” Stoney asked me.

“No,” I answered.

“Who?” Mrs. W. asked.

“Later,” Stoney answered.

“You?” Stoney asked Clarence.

“Yes, I pursue the Yaqui way of knowledge,” said Clarence.

“And you’ve found mushrooms?” asked Stoney.

“Henry, what’s he talking about?” Mrs. W. asked.

“Stoney, knock it off. He’s like eleven,” I said.

“Thirteen. No mushrooms here,” said Clarence. “The Datura, though, is plentiful, if you know where to look.”

“Little buddy, you may have just solved a problem for me, so let’s talk later.”

“You are on the Yaqui path of knowledge?” Clarence asked.

“No, but I’m willing to learn. Tell you what. I’ll give Henry my Kuhn and you give me your Carlos Castaneda, and what will we give you?”

“Sports Illustrated?” asked Clarence.

“Can do,” said Stoney. “Who’s your team?”

“Braves, of course,” said Clarence, as though this point, at least should be obvious.

“Sorry, little buddy,” said Stoney. “I’m from Michigan and not yet accustomed to the local customs. Of course you’re a Braves fan. We’ll get you an SI next time we go out.”

“Okay. I’m going to assume some generational communication deal is going on here that I don’t understand so I’m going to go look at the blackboard, boys,” said Mrs. W. She got up and moved towards the dining room. I gathered my coffee cup and followed, feeling slightly guilty because I still hadn’t finished washing the dishes, which Stoney would have done by this time. Stoney refreshed his coffee and shepherded Clarence into the dining room, where Clarence looked around at the different blackboards in disapproving bewilderment. Stoney, apparently refreshed by breakfast and BC, explained to Mrs. W. how we’d formulated the problem we’d abandoned the previous day. She nodded, Clarence frowned.

“Hey, little buddy, later today, I’ll explain some things about this to you. What we’re doing is called calculus, which is a slightly more complicated form of something called algebra. You’ll learn all about it in high school. This symbol here just means ‘change,’ and this symbol here just means ‘function,’ and all ‘function’ means is ‘were gonna treat all of the numbers over here in this same particular way.’” Mrs. W. smiled one of her broadest smiles at this, but Clarence frowned and Stoney didn’t see it.

So now we all looked at the problem Stoney and I had written on the blackboard before we’d abandoned it to go to the bar the preceding evening. We’d been able to express it, but had no idea how to solve it. After looking at the way we’d formulated it for a few minutes, Mrs W. lit a cigarette and looked at us, frowning. I got the feeling that she wasn’t keen on the way we’d expressed it, but even still she explained how to deal with this particular kind of multi-variable equation, covering most of one blackboard. At one point Stoney jumped up and took the chalk and worked out the solution himself. Stoney really liked performing calculations. Working through the problem, she decided we needed more work on the existence and uniqueness of the solutions to n-th order equations. After she showed us how to solve it, she flipped one of the blackboards over and cleared what little was written on it.

“Stoney, I know you’re not as keen on physics as Henry is, but let’s look at our friend , which you’ve worked with many times, where f is some continuous function, and it’s hard to find an exact answer, and Henry noted the special case of where g and h are continuous on some interval. Remember this?”

“[Insert difficult equation]” I said.

“Exactly!” she looked at Stoney, and he nodded, lighting a cigarette. He and Clarence were playing Thumb War. “So jump forward, and assume there are some theorems for this that I could provide that prove it’s true, so that you have a system of these equations such that [Equation]and [Equation] and so on.”

“Fuckadoodledoo,” said Stoney, at which Clarence’s face lit up in delight.

“Language, Stoney,” she said. “You know Newton’s second law?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Say it,” she said.

“Verbally or in math?” he asked.

“We’re doing math, here, Stoney,” she said, perhaps a touch exasperated.

Stoney thought a minute, then said “ [Equation], then [Equation] where, oh, something about r. Maybe [Equation] . And I guess [Equation] is the force on the mass.” I’d just finished a course called “Physics for Physics Majors,” and I’m not sure I could have dialed that up. Stoney was calling it in from high school.

“Right!” said Mrs. W. After reminding us about ellipses and their relation to the other conic functions she eventually got to .
“I’ll be damned,” said Stoney, taking a drag from his Winston. Then he smacked me across the backside of my head, not hard, but it was still startling.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“Remember how I tried to talk the Math Club into analyzing Tycho Brahe’s observations?”

“Sure. Mrs. W told me it would be boring,” I said.

“Doing it the way Kepler did it would be boring,” he answered. “But Mrs. W has just shown us the music of the spheres.” The doorbell rang. Mrs. W., Stoney, and I all looked at each other in confusion. The doorbell had never before rung in the morning and here it was ringing a second time before lunch. Mrs. W got up to answer the bell, and while she was gone, Stoney explained, bewilderingly quickly, how what she’d just taught us overlapped with planetary mechanics. I tried to follow but he was moving too fast for me to follow.

Mrs. W. appeared a few seconds later with Nadia in tow. “She says she met someone who lives here named Stono in a bar and that he was generous enough to buy her lots of vodka,” said Mrs. W., with a slight frown. Nadia was wearing a semi-translucent tee shirt and not much else. It was possible that she was wearing the bottom part of a two-piece bathing suit under her tee shirt but it was clear to all present that she was not wearing the top. Far too much of her was available for view for a bra of any sort to have been involved. Clarence sat up alertly, smiling, eyes the size of cue-balls, like Christmas at the orphanage.

“Hello, Nadia,” said Stoney, smiling and taking a drag from his cigarette. Clarence and I stood, and when Stoney didn’t, I grabbed the back of his collar and pulled it up, encouraging him to stand. He did, but looked at me in some irritation as soon as he did so. “What the fuck?” he asked me, in a stage whisper.

“Local custom,” I said.

“Miss Nadia, I think the only gentleman present you don’t know is Clarence,” said Mrs. W. Clarence, delighted, extended his hand.

“Wow,” he said, shaking her hand. She smiled sweetly. She seemed slightly bashful, or at least as bashful as a woman whose nipples are plainly discernable can seem.

“We were just going over the rules of orbital mechanics,” said Mrs. W. “How’s you’r math?” I looked over at Stoney, who seemed surprisingly nonchalant, with his Winston 100, and Clarance, whose eyes had not left Nadia’s breasts since she entered the room. “Wow,” he said, every thirty seconds or so.

“No Sanka,” she said. “Simple drooped by to say hello to handsome Stono.” Mrs. W. cocked an eyebrow at Stoney, who paid no attention.

“My might own cigarette?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Stoney, shaking her out a Winston.

“Gracisas,” she said. Stoney gave her a light from a paper book of matches with the logo of the Black Angus, something of a mystery since we hadn’t been there since we’d been in town. Mrs. W. frowned. Perhaps she disapproved of high school students smoking. Nadia took a deep drag from of her cigarette the way people do when they haven’t had one for what they think is a long time. “Отлично. Спасибо, ” she said. She smiled shyly at Stoney. Clarence continued his study of her breasts.

“Meet Stono and гей Хенри at tinny bar at river,” she said. “Much fun.”

What time is it?” Stoney asked. I’d never noticed before, but he didn’t wear a watch.

“A quarter to noon,” said Mrs. W. “Nadia, would you like to have lunch with us?”

“Oh, Да,” she said, smiling and nodding vigorously in a way that caused abundant movement inside her tee shirt. Clarence looked as though he might faint. “Wouldst be much nice,” said Nadia.

“What are we having?” Mrs. W. asked Stoney.

“I was thinking B.L.T.s and the rest of the vichyssoise,” said Stoney. “There’s not a lot of the soup, but we can make plenty of sandwiches.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Mrs. Wertheimer, looking at Clarence. He nodded at Nadia’s tee shirt, captivated.

“I think Nadia and I can take care of this,” said Stoney, and led Nadia into the kitchen as though he were leading a debutante to her presentation. Mrs. W. cocked an eyebrow at me as she lit a Benson & Hedges.

“She’s awesome!” said Clarence.

“He insists she’s enrolled in a junior college down in Georgia,” I said.

“Henry,” she said, after a pause, taking a drag off of her cigarette, “you know what the worst thing about being a teacher is?”

“No, ma’am,” I answered.

“So often you have to wait on students to think for themselves. They have to get hit over the head with a club of some kind and before the light goes on.”

“I told him not to believe everything he hears in bars,” I said, after thinking a few seconds. She shook her head and took another drag. The smell of bacon started to overpower the smell of cigarette smoke.

“So you two met her last night at a bar?” asked Clarence.

“Yep,” I answered.

“Can you guys take me to that bar sometime?” he asked.

“No,” said Mrs. W. and I simultaneously.

“He’s a smart young man,” said Mrs. W.

“Yes,” ma’am.”

“He’s awesome,” said Clarence.

“Well, he’s a good cook,” said Mrs. W.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Well, so far as I know, he’s observing the rules of the house,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, he is. I understand we are privileged to be guests here, and have stressed this to him. He understands.” She nodded, then looked at one of the blackboards. After a few minutes she got up and changed a symbol that she didn’t think was right.

“How much Relativaty do you have?” she asked, without looking at me.

Clarence, bored, looked up, with a frowning, snarky expression. “Eight pounds,” he said.

“Clarence, go figure out how to convert eight pounds into kilograms,” said Mrs. W., without looking at him.

“How?” he asked, with a scowl.

“There are lots of books in this house. You’re smart. Henry?”

“Not much Relativity, no ma’am. General principles, but no math,” I said.

“Well, I want you to have more than that when you go back.”

Lunch was good. Stoney’s vichyssoise was wonderful. Clarence didn’t want his, so I ate it, and the B.L.T.s were excellent. The tomatoes were not quite as sweet and ripe as they’d be in the hottest part of the summer, but they were tasty, and Stoney had used his home-made mayo. Excellent sandwiches. At the end of the meal, I grabbed Stoney’s collar again and pulled him over. “Mrs. W. will expect you to walk Nadia home,” I said.

“No shit?” he looked at me, surprised.

“None.”

“Okey-doke. Nadia, can I walk you home?” he asked.

“That was be much happy make,” she said, smiling shyly. She stood and turned, and he tee shirt bunched at her back a bit, so that it almost, but not quite, covered her bottom. They left, Clarence staring intently. Mrs. W. lit another cigarette and looked at me disapprovingly, as though this were my fault.

“God Almighty,” said Clarence.

“Knock it off, Clarence. You boys clean up,” she said. We got to work. Apparently cleaning up was a new chore for Clarence. He didn’t mind, but he didn’t know what he was doing.

Chapter 28: Nadia and Kiki

2011-03-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

A few days later we were in the middle of an afternoon of integration of analytic functions and Mrs. W was explaining the nature of simply-connected domains when she looked at her watch in alarm in the middle of a sentence.

“Ah, shit,” she said. “Stoney, what’s planned for dinner tonight?”

“The veal didn’t look good so I fell back on spaghetti Bolognese,” he said. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Have you started the bread?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. The sourdough starter is still a day or two away, so I’ll be working with Mr. Fleishmann, and I can start that in, maybe an hour or two, as hot as it is.”

“How do you do this?” I asked.

“Do what?” he answered.

“Cook anything that comes up in conversation,” I said.

“You could, too, if you’d get off your dead ass and give it a try,” said Stoney.

“Hush, boys. First, I’m going to be late for a garden club meeting, so I’m leaving. Stoney, won’t those spaghetti ingredients keep to tomorrow night?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answerd.

“Second thing is, tomorrow night we’re going to be joined for dinner by my sisters’s son, Clarence. Ginny is playing in tennis tournaments and such and Winnie’s going to take her around. I’m a little surprised that she wants to go along.”

“Ginny’s part of a mixed doubles pair,” I said.

“Oh, with whom?” she asked.

“Cisco’s friend Walter.”

“That snobby boy from Atlanta?” she asked,

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, that explains it,” said Mrs. W.

“She’s trying to protect Ginny from Walt?” I asked.

“It’s more complicated than that,” she answered, lighting a cigarette. “You said he was from Atlanta. Do you know if his parents are in the Piedmont Driving Club?”

“Yes, ma’am, I think they are,” I answered, after thinking a second. “I think Cisco mentioned it on the way down either Christmas or Thanksgiving. I didn’t understand what it meant.”

“It’s a posh kind of country club in Atlanta. It used to be outside of town, so you had to drive to it, but the town’s grown. If Walt’s nice and his parents are rich, Winnie’s been waiting for this,” she said.

“Hmmm,” I said.

“Is this that Peabody girl that was all over you outside the Campus Grill?” asked Stoney, somewhat awkwardly.

“Later, Stoney,” I said. Mrs. W cocked an eyebrow at me and took a drag off her cigarette.

“I am late for Garden Club. After that I may have dinner with a friend. You boys should take yourselves out to someplace to have dinner and a beer.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Stoney. “What time will you be back?”

“Hard to say,” said Mrs. W.

“We’ll leave the porch light on,” said Stoney. With that she departed abruptly. Usually when she left she gave us a problem to work on, but she didn’t this time, so Stoney and I looked at each other and shrugged. It was a few minutes after four. We looked at each other, then returned our attention to the problem on the blackboard. She’d posed it without letting us know where she was headed, and we soon realized we didn’t know as enough about multi-variable differentiation to solve the problem once we’d stated it. We could state it as

let f :Rn R,

and

let a Rn

and then

let u Rn be a vector such that |u|1.

So we figured that the directional derivative of f at a in the direction of the vector u would be defined to be

which we could not solve. Clueless. Completely empty. Translating Linear A to Urdu. We shook our heads at it, then shrugged.

“Okay,” said Stoney. “Time for a beer. Where can we get a good burger around here?”

“The closest place on this side of the river is over on Frazier, just down from the Oddfellows Hall.”

“What’s it called?”

“Can’t remember. It changes hands about every six months. Sometimes they have a pool table, sometimes they don’t, but whoever buys it seems to hire the same cook. A guy named Rocky. Good burgers, good fries, good chili. A good muffaletta, if you like them.”

“Sounds promising. What are the chances of scoring some dope there?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“What are the chances that there will be a television in the bar showing a baseball game?”

“High.”

“What are the chances they will be showing the Tigers play the Angels tonight?”

“Slim to none.”

“This anti-Detroit bias must be stamped out,” he said.

“Not that. The Braves will be playing the Expos. ”

“Rank regionalism. Let’s go,” he said.

We got there just before 5:00, a little earlier than I would usually have dropped in. The pool table had been removed from the back room in favor of a few more tables. Petey and Rex, two guys who were in this same bar the last time I came in, when I was in high school, were at the bar and had obviously been there for some time. Petey was wearing a summer sailor suit—white crackerjack and bell-bottoms with those really shiny shoes sailors wore in the Cold War. I waved as Stoney and I took seats at the bar. They lurched over. I knew Petey from playing pool and knew Rex from somewhere vaguer than that. Church? Our mothers were friends? Anyway before I’d left town I’d bumped into them in bars all the time.

“Yo, cuz,” said Petey. “Long time, no see. Where ya’ been?”

“Out and about. Hey, Rex.” Rex was maybe six foot five and solid like a brick wall. Petey was reedy and flexible, like a drunken willow sapling.

“You still play pool? Petey asked.

“Not too much. I’ve been in college,” I said.

“Wow. That’s outta sight,” said Petey.

“Why are you dressed like a sailor?” I asked.

“I enlisted, man. I am a Seaman Apprentice in the United States fucking Navy man. What do you think about that?” he took a swig from his Budweiser longneck.

“Last time we talked you were dating a flower child,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cindy.”

“Sandy,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, right. Sandy. Yeah, well, like, it didn’t work out.”

“You were opposed to the Viet Nam war.”

“Yeah, well, that’s over, man, didn’t you hear?” he said.

“Are you a Turtle?” Rex asked, looking at Stoney.

“What?” Stoney asked.

“Ignore him, Stoney,” I said. “Rex and Petey have this whole stupid schtick about being a member of a club called the Turtles. They usually do it on girls, but Rex must be bored. It’s stupid.”

“Why you gotta go fucking with it?” asked Rex. Petey signaled for another beer and laid his head on the bar. “How we gonna pay for this?” he asked Rex.

“I think I know his routine anyway,” said Stoney, knocking back a shot and taking a sip of beer. “Is this ‘name a word that starts with ‘f’ and ends in ‘u-c-k?” he asked. Rex looked deflated. The bartender, a pretty, trim woman in her thirties or forties whom I recognized as an alumnus of the Frosty Mug, cocked her head in bemused concern.

“Firetruck,” Stoney told her. “The other question is ‘What sticks out of a man’s pajamas?” She shook her head as she refilled his shot glass.

“His head!” bellowed Rex, too loud by half. Stoney knocked back his shot and took a pull of his beer. Rex was cackling to himself at the richness of the riddle.

“Club soda, please,” I said.

“Thought it was you,” said the bartender. “I used to work weeknights over at the Frosty Mug.”

“Sorry for not recognizing you,” I said. Petey had started snoring. It wasn’t yet six.

“You boys eatin’ or just drinkin’?” she asked.

“Oh, eating, most definitely,” said Stoney.

“I’ll get menus,” she said.

“Petey?” asked Rex, jostling him.

“What the fuck?” said Petey, sitting bolt upright. He looked confused for a minute, then took a swallow of his beer. “Jesus,” he said.

“You’re supposed to be in uniform?” I asked.

“I am in uniform,” he said proudly. “The uniform of the United States Navy.”

“Where’s your hat?” I asked. Petey felt on his head, then looked around, and a look of panic crept across his face.

“Oh, shit!” said Petey, and scuttled off of his barstool, beer in hand, to search seats they’d had before they came over to talk to us. Rex followed. After much pawing around on the floor, they decided he must have left his hat at the Brass Register, the last bar they’d attended.

Stony watched them flee, beers in hand, impassively, then pushed his shot glass towards our bartender for a refill. “They just stiffed you,” he remarked, as she filled his shot glass with bourbon.

“Not really,” she said. “Rex forgot his credit card. When I cash him out he’s gonna to give me a big tip. He’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”

“Is that ethical?” Stoney asked, knocking back another shot, and placing it within easy reach of a refill.

“Yes,” she said. “Rex is an asshole.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “Grace, do you have Stoney’s credit card? If he passes out from all these shots you’re feeding him, I don’t want to get stuck with the tab.” Stoney smiled, retrieved his wallet, handed her a BankAmericard card, and pushed his shot glass forward for a re-fill. It was going on 6:30. I was about to suggest that we move to a table and order dinner when two young women came into the bar. They looked familiar, much as Rex and Petey had, but I couldn’t quite place them. The taller, blonder one took the stool next to Stoney, and the shorter, brunette one took the next stool down. They looked really familiar.

“What’ll you have?” Grace asked them.

“I think we’ll have two Cokes,” said the shorter, brunette one. The taller blonde seemed to look at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar longingly. She may have licked her lips. At this point Stoney stopped staring at Grace and looked at the newcomers to his left.

“Christ on a crutch!” he said, softly. The taller blonde one smiled. She still looked familiar.

“What was that?” the brunette asked.

“Hello, my name is Stoney,” he said. “This is my friend Henry. He specializes in being gay and making sure sailors remember where their hats are. Who are you?”

“Nadia,” said the blonde, and already there was an accent. Something eastern European.

“Kiki,” said the brunette, and there was an accent there, too. Georgia or Alabama, and not close to a big city. Grace gave them Cokes and was about to ask if they wanted to run a tab when Stoney volunteered that their drinks should be on his tab. They smiled, but they were drinking Coke, so the limits of his largesse were in plain sight.

“I have it,” I said. The three of them looked at me. Stoney motioned for another shot. “You’re the two girls who were sunbathing on your back porch two days ago. I waved at you and you waved back.”

“Oh! Yes!” said Kiki, then they went through one of those excited acknowledgements of recognition that young women do that young men don’t. Within a minute Stoney had established that Kiki’s grandmother lived two doors down from Mrs. W, that they were visiting her for two weeks, and that they were from Colquitt, Georgia. Stoney was unfamiliar with Colquitt, and Kiki’s explanation that it was near Albany didn’t help Stoney much at all. He looked at me.

“South Georgia. You have no landmarks for this. If you drove to Florida on I-75 you’d get within 40 miles, but you’ve never been there and you’re never going.”

“How do you know about it?” he asked.

“The Southside Pool Hall is there. Close, anyway. Nice place,” I said.

“And what is Colquitt?”

“That’s where they’re from. It’s down 91 from Albany a few miles.”

“So why did they even mention Albany?” he asked.

“Kiki knew you wouldn’t know where Colquitt was, so she mentioned Albany, because she thinks of it as a big town.”

“Why?”

“There’s an airport in Albany.”

“And why in the fuck do you know about Colquitt?” He gestured for another shot.

“Well, like I said, Southside Poll Hall is there. And head on down 91 to Donaldsonville and you find Ed’s Pool Hall.” Stoney knocked back a shot and thought for a minute.

“You’re no help whatsoever,” he concluded, and turned to face Nadia. “So Nadia,” he said. “Where are you from?’

“Boolgaaria,” said Nadia.

“She means she used to be from Bulgaria, but now she’s from Colquitt,” said Kiki.

“And Colquitt is in Georgia?” Stoney asked Nadia.

“Yes, of course,” Kiki answered.

“And what’s Colquitt famous for?” Stoney asked, looking directly at Nadia.

“Why our mayhaws, of course,” answered Kiki. Nadia frowned at Stoney intently.

“Mayhaw?” Stoney asked.

“Mayhaw iss small froot in middle of bolshoi swamp,” said Nadia. “Locals make syrup from fruit.”

“She means a fruit that grows wild in Georgia,” said Kiki. “What you call indigneous. We make them into jelly.” Nadia rolled her eyes and sipped her Coke.

“Well, so if your jelly is coming out too runny, maybe you should cook it longer,” said Stoney. “Get it hotter. Or maybe add some pectin. I’ve had good results…” he began. Nadia said something I couldn’t understand but it sounded unhappy and bitter.

“I need to run to the ladies’ room,” said Kiki. “Are you joining me?” she asked Nadia.

“Nyet,” she answered. “Fine where am.” Kiki looked a little provoked at this but went off towards the restrooms. Nadia watched her leave, and as soon as Kiki was outside of earshot, urgently beckoned Grace the bartender, who showed up immediately.

“Yes ma,am?” Grace asked.

“Must haff largest shoot vodka, pliss, fast,” said Nadia.

“Excuse me?” asked the bartender, not sure what she’d heard.

“Nadia wants a triple shot of Stoli,” said Stoney. “Neat.”

“Can I see your I.D. please?” asked Grace.

“No. Iss in tiny little town in South Georgia, not same Georgia I thought. Crazy Baptistses seized my wallet when my madre ran off and left me with thiss pipples to follow crazy artist with big … how you say …” there was a pause.

“Bank account?” asked Stoney. She shook her head.

“Car?” asked Grace.

“No, no,” said Nadia. “How you say … cook?”

“Ah,” said the bartender, smirking. “I still need an I.D.”

“Haff no ID,” she said. “You no been listen?”

“What’s your name?” Stoney asked the bartender.

“Grace,” she said, smiling.

“Hi, Grace,” he said. “Nadia appears to have mislaid her wallet, but I’m ready for a drink. I’d like a double shot of frozen Stoli. I’d like to order one for my friend Henry, too.”

“I don’t …” I started.

“That’s okay, Henry,” said Stoney. “Actually, make Henry’s a triple. And put it on my tab. And I’d like another beer.” The bartender cocked an eyebrow at me as she left to fill our orders, and my expression may have conveyed a shrug. My triple shot and Stoney’s double shot arrived before Kiki returned from the restroom. Stoney took a sip of his vodka, and as soon as Grace turned her back Nadia downed mine in a single gulp, then took a big swallow of her soft drink. She grinned a stylized grin at Stoney, then turned to me.

“Me am sex starved,” she said.

“Ah,” I said somewhat nonplussed.

“So you want to give sex to me?” she asked.

“I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree, there,” said Stoney. “Henry’s gay.” Grace showed back up just in time to hear this, and looked at me. I shook my head. She nodded, then frowned at the empty glass of Stoli she’d served me.

“I think my gay friend Henry needs another round,” said Stoney. I was trying to avoid eye contact with Grace so as to avoid making her complicit in our crime. As soon as she was gone, Stoney nudged his glass towards Nadia, and she bolted it back,” then smiled again at Stoney. She looked at me again, and leaned towards me a bit, then remembered to rinse out her mouth with Sprite.

“So,” she said, stroking my shirtsleeve. “What iss this gay?” I was about to answer when Grace showed back up. Stoney raised his glass for a refill, and asked for another beer as well. I avoided eye contact with all concerned.

“It means Henry isn’t interested in girls,” said Stoney. She frowned at me as she took the Stoli in front of me and drained about half of it.

“You are хомосексуален?” she asked me.

“I doubt it, but I don’t speak whatever language you just said,” I said.

“Iss Bulgarian,” she said. “You am гомосексуалист? Γомик? Πидор?”

“I don’t speak Bulgarian,” I said.

“We know. So I gift you Russian.”

“Don’t know that, either,” I said.

“So he iss гей?” she asked Stoney.

“Yess,” said Stoney, taking a sip of his new drink before she snatced it from his hand and downed it. “Gay.”

“Howdy, all,” said Kiki, returning. “Miss me?”

“Doess this man seems гей to you?” Nadia demanded of Kiki.

“Our Lord says that for a man to lie with another man is an abomination,” said Kiki. Nadia rolled her eyes.

“You?” she demanded of Grace.

“Henry’s always been a little hard to figure out,” said Grace, taking away various empty glasses for refills.

“If you are a homo, I implore you in the name of Jesus to rebuke your sinful ways and return to the bosom of Christ,” said Kiki.

“Thanks for your concern,” I said.

“Jesus has cured friends of mine who were completely sinful. There was this cheerleader at Miller County High who was deeply digging the lusts of the flesh. In a far out, overt the top kind of way. She was doing things that violated Georgia law, from what I’ve been told.”

“Dy-no-mite!” said Stoney.

“But she found Jesus and turned her back on her sinful ways. If it could work for her, whose lusts were … normal, I guess, even if they were … revved up too much, it can surely work for the abnormal, homo temptations you’re experiencing, Henry.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said. Grace returned with various drinks, plopping a triple shot of Stoli down in front of me.

“I’ve been listening,” said Grace, grinning. “You may actually want this drink.”

“This is on Stoney’s tab, right?” I asked.

“The drink? Sure. Good luck with the Baptist.” She smiled and left. Stoney managed to place his drink near Nadia’s elbow, then took mine as his own.

“You can’t really hold it against Henry,” said Stoney. “Sinful as he may be, Henry was born this way.”

“Look!” said Nadia, pointing. “Iss Aquila chrysaetos!” she was pointing out the window as if at a bird. “Golden iggle. Look!” everybody turned to look except me, and she downed Stoney’s drink. I cocked an eyebrow at her and she shot me the bird, although she was smiling.

“Didn’t see it,” said Stoney.

“Neither me,” said Kiki. “Oh, look, there’s Louanne from Mrs. Simms’ Bible study group. I think I’ll go say hi.” She excused herself and left to go talk to a young woman at another table who seemed to have a very un-Baptist beer in front of her.

As soon as Kiki was gone, Nadia drained my triple Stoli and grabbed Stoney by the collar. “Thess pipple is driving me lunar,” she said. “All day long Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Church Sunday, Sunday night, Wednesday night, with all this ..how you say…awkward food. You life down street from me, yes?”

“That’s what Henry tells me, yes,” said Stoney, lighting a cigarette. Nadia immediately took it from him and took a drag.

“Then you call me, we make date. You sex me.” It seemed a little voyeuristic to eavesdrop on this, so I took a swallow of my club soda and turned to my left. And there was Ed Bork. It took me a minute, because his beard was gone and his funny-shaped, possibly dyed hair was much shorter. Mormon missionary short.

“Ed?” I asked.

“Hi, Henry,” he answered.

“Long time, no see,” I said.

“I’ve been sent here to save your soul,” he said. “God has a plan for your life.”

“Ed?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“Ed Bork?”

“Yes?”

“The last time I saw you I think you were wearing a black velvet robe and handing out pamphlets about Satanism,” he answered.

“The Lord tells us that when we come to Jesus, we are washed in the blood of the lamb. All past sins are forgiven.”

“Didn’t you convert Jessie Longworth to Satanism? And Mildie Pinzey? And maybe a couple of other friends of theirs, too?”

“Yes. But I have no shame in my former sinful ways. St. Paul says…”

“Wait, so after converting them to one religion, you just cut them off and converted to another?”

“Yes, but certainly anyone could see that worshipping Satan was sinful.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s, you know, Satan,” said Ed.

“Yet you were convinced.”

“I don’t honestly know,” he said. “There were certain aspects of what we called Sabbaths, not to be confused in any way with a real Sabbath, that I found very enticing. Jessie and Mildie seemed to find black Sabbaths … entertaining, too. But that’s not why—“

“So you found Jesus, just like that? And turned your back on pagan ritual?”

“Yes. The power of Christ is profound.”

“This is just too weird.”

“I need to talk to you about God’s plan for your life,” said Ed.

“No you don’t. You need to talk to me about why I should believe you now any more than I did three years ago.”

“But this is completely different. I’m with Jesus now.”

“Leave Jesus out of it. Why should I believe the you that’s pushing Jesus any more than the you who was pushing Aleister Crowley?”

“Good recall,” said Ed.

“Thanks.”

“But I’ve got Jesus now,” Ed said.

“It’s not about Jesus, it’s about the messenger.”

“You should be able to rise above my flaws, if God can reach you,” he said.

“Why? What reason in the world is there for me to believe you?”

“The Truth is revealed on every page of the Bible. If you’d just read it, and accept Jesus, you would achieve everlasting life.

At this point Kiki showed back up. Grace was just refilling the glasses because Nadia had downed the first round singlehandedly. “Another club soda, please?” I asked.

Nadia took a mouthful of Sprite and swished it around to de-Stoli her breath on Kiki’s behalf.

“Kiki, meet my high school classmate Ed,” I said.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Ed. “Can I ask if you’ve accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

“Oh, yes! Totally and completely,” she said. Nadia rolled her eyes.

“I respect and honor your choice,” said Ed. “I have been talking to Henry about his spiritual journey.”

“Oh, are you saved, too?” Kiki asked me.

“Not so’s you’d notice,” I said.

“Henry has yet to repent of his sins,” said Ed.

“Ed, I have to say, given our respective backgrounds, seeing you on your high horse is a little hard to take,” I said.

“I think I’m going to show Nadia the view,” said Stoney. He and Nadia stood, each taking a vodka. Stoney also picked up his beer, but Nadia ignored her soft drink.

“View?” I asked. There was no view at this bar.

“See ya’ in a few, Henry,” said Stoney. He and Nadia left for the back of the bar, drinks in hand.

“I’d like to invite you to the Vine Street Christian Community,” said Ed. “I’ve been living there for the last six months and it’s really changed the way I look at Jesus and Christianity and Christian service.”

“Which church is that associated with?” Kiki asked,

“We’re kind of Jesus freak non-denominational,” he said.

“But Baptist?” she asked.

“A busload of our group went to services at First Baptist Church last Sunday,” he answered.

“Where did the rest of them go?” she asked.

“I don’t know about all of them, but I went to First Pres.”

“A Presbyterian church?” she asked, obviously irritated.

“Yes. Pastor Ben Haden is quite highly regarded around here. We at the Vine Street—“

“But he’s not a Baptist,” said Kiki.

“At the Vine Street Christian Community, we don’t think pastors are the essential ingredient of God’s message. We strive to live like the first Christians. Sharing, singing, loving. Gene tells us—“

“But you’re not Baptists?”

“No. But we’re not not Baptists, either. And Dr. McEwen is very nice to us,” he said. “We think the particular denomination is not as important as the Truth of God’s message.”

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Dr. McEwen.”

“He’s the pastor at First Baptist. He’s really smart, if you haven’t met him.”

“We go to First Baptist while we’re in town, but of course I haven’t met the pastor.”

“He’s a really neat guy. He really knows the Bible,” said Ed.

“Well, of course he does, if he’s a Baptist minister.”

“That’s not as much true as you’d think. I asked the pastor over to East Ridge Baptist Church a question about the difference about the Old Testament Passages referring to ‘Elohim’ and the ones referring to ‘Yahweh’ and all I got was a nasty look. Dr. McEwen was all excited about that kind of sh— … stuff.”

“So why were you going to a Presbyterian church? And where has that long-hair Stoney taken my sister Nadia?”

“You’re sisters?” I asked.

“In the sense that my family has taken her in as a foster child, and I am also a child of the same family, we are sisters, yes. Plus the Lord has charged me with seeing to her spiritual wellbeing. Where is she?”

“Stoney’s showing her the view. They’ll be back in a minute,” I said, hoping this to be true.

“Jesus came to earth to establish the Baptist Church. Why are you going over to the Presbyterians?” she asked Ed.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Ed asked, pointing to me. “I think you and me are on the same side.”

“He doesn’t claim to be born again,” she said. “Being born again means you’re Baptist.”

I heard a chuckle over my left ear and turned to find Grace, the bartender, pretty as ever, smiling at the discourse between Ed and Kiki. “Ready to take up drinking yet, Henry?” she asked me, with a semi-flirtatious smirk.

“Maybe next time. If there’s still no pool table,” I said. At this point Stoney and Nadia showed back up, paying attention to each other in that way that people who are dating do, but with empty glasses.

“Another round, please,” said Stoney.

“I’ll still need to see some I.D. from Miss Romania,” Grace said.

“I mean, another round for me and Henry,” said Stoney. “And it’s Bulgaria.”

“Maybe you better try this on a different bartender,” she said.

“Is there another one on duty?” he asked, hopefully.

“Not tonight.”

“Ah, shit.”

“I think we need to be going anyway,” said Kiki. “I think your long-haired friend is a bad influence on Nadia.” Nadia rolled her eyes. “Nadia, let’s boogie,” she said, and marched off. As she did, I noticed that Nadia had left her purse. I started to call out, but Stoney silenced me with a hand.

“Grace?” said Stoney, “they’re gone, so could I get a big Stoli, please?” She filled his glass with vodka without measuring shots almost immediately. A few minutes later Nadia came running back into the bar. Without any greeting between her and Stoney she bolted back the Stoli, drained Stoney’s beer in three gulps, gargled with the remains of her Sprite, grabbed her purse, and French-kissed Stoney in a desperate, deep embrace.

“Your undersands my needs,” she said, kissing him again, then sprinted to the door, purse in hand. Stoney smiled as he watched her go.

“She’s a keeper,” he said, and waved the empty glass at Grace. “I think I’ve been brought up to date on the subject of vodka and feel like branching out a bit. How do you feel about Jack Daniel’s?” he asked, earnestly.

“Green or black?” asked Grace.

“Green Jack Daniels?” he asked. “I never heard of such a thing. Let’s try that. While Grace went to get a clean glass and pour the drink, Stoney sighed and looked at the ceiling. Grace brought the drink. He looked at it with a quizzical expression. “I may have neglected to mention that I require a beer. Perhaps a draft beer. A Lowenbrau, unless you have Guiness.” They didn’t have Guiness, of course, so Stoney had a Lowenbrau in a few seconds. I don’t drink, but I have to admit that the sight of a draft beer in an ice cold glass looks like it ought to taste really good. Stoney looked up from his whiskey at Grace as she brought his beer. “It’s not green,” he said.

“Yes it is,” she said.

“No, it’s amber. An agreeable nut-brown, perhaps.”

“Green is the color of the label,” she said.

“Aha!” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Why don’t you leave me to my experimentation, and I will divine the mysteries of green label.” She left, he sipped it, and made a noncommittally agreeable tasting face. “So how do you know,” he asked me, a little over-dreamily, “when you’ve found the one?”

“The one what? Whiskey?”

“No, no. The love of your life,” he said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Stoney.”

“What?”

“She’s a thirsty teenager you met in a bar. You spent a half an hour with her, ten minutes of which you were alone, feeding her vodka.”

“Okay, guys, I gotta go,” said Ed. “I’d like to invite you to the Vine Street Christian Community any time you have some free time. It’s a far out, happenin’ kind of Jesus place. We’ll feed you, put you up if you need a place to stay.”

“Thanks. Good luck with the Christian deal,” I said. “Where are you off to?”

“My shift is about to start at the Yellow Deli,” he said.

“You have a job?” Ed, even saved, did not look to me to be employee material.

“It’s not so much a job, as a way to serve Jesus.”

“At a Deli?” Stoney and I asked together.

“The Vine Street Christian Community, as a way to integrate ourselves into the community and to give us a productive, happy way to serve the Lord, has started several restaurants where we serve wholesome food at a reasonable price.” Stoney looked at me, dubious.

“I’ve been to Yellow Delis a couple of times. Food’s decent. Not expensive. Clean, smells good.” I said.

“Beer?” Stoney asked.

“No, of course not. Jesus doesn’t like alcohol,” said Ed. Stoney crossed it off of his “places I might eat” list.

“What about Jesus turning the water—” Stoney started.

“Don’t start, Stoney,” I said. “They always have an answer for that one. And it takes a long time to explain.” Stoney frowned.

“Anyway I have to go now, to catch the bus to my job, but I invite you to join us at the Vine Street Christian Community any time. Or come to one of our Yellow Deli restaurants and introduce yourselves. Everyone working at each Yellow Deli is imbued with the grace of Christ. Goodbye now.” He smiled and weakly grasped each of our hands in turn, kind of bowing and smiling shyly as he did so. He left and Stoney sipped his whiskey again.

“This stuff is pretty good,” he said. Grace came by to check on us. She refilled my soda, and squeezed lime in it, which she hadn’t been doing earlier. Stoney watched her leave, then drained his double shot of Jack green impassively. “She seems to like you,” he said.

“We’re old friends. She used to tend at the Frosty Mug.”

“You don’t think she’s cute?” He waved his glass for a refill. She came back pretty fast, then looked at Stoney with her hands on her hips.

“Do I need to administer an FST?” she asked.

“A what?” I asked.

“Field Sobriety Test,” Stoney said. “No, I’m fine. I promise. Just two or three more,” he said to Grace. She frowned a bit but got him another drink.

“Give me your car keys, Stoney,” I said, after he took his first sip.

“What is it with you and my car?” he asked. “You always seem to be wanting to drive it.”

“Look at it this way. If you give me your keys, Grace will continue to serve you until you pass out. Otherwise, she’s about to cut you off.”

“That would be rude,” he said. He was getting a little foggy, but I wouldn’t have been able to recognize it if he hadn’t been sober for the last few weeks. He polished off his glass and waved his glass for a refill. Grace frowned at him and shook her head from about twenty feet away. He sighed, then demonstratively pulled out his key ring and made a show of handing it to me. I put the keys in my pocket. Grace brought him a new Old Fashioned glass brimming with sour mash. She patted me on the cheek.

“See, she seems to truly love you,” said Stoney. “Like Nadia loves me.”

“Stoney, what’s going on between you and Nadia is rooted in vodka and hormones, not eternal love.”

“No, I think she’s the one for me,” he said, draining about half his bourbon. He followed it with a swallow of beer. “Sometimes you just know.”

“You met a pretty teenaged girl and got her drunk,” I said.

“Oh, no. I’m sure she was of age,” he said. Grace, who was hovering nearby waiting for him to finish his seventh drink, cocked an eyebrow at me.

“And you’re sure of this because of the fact that she had a strangely concocted-sounding story about the whereabouts of her passport, or because in your experience nineteen year-olds generally don’t have drivers licenses?” I asked.

“Why would she lie?” he asked, draining his whiskey glass. He gestured for anotherdrink.

“Show me the keys,” said Grace. I pulled them out and jangled them and she refilled his glass. I put them back in my pocket.

“Stoney, she’s a teenager. She wants to party and have fun.”

“One need not dissemble to party. Or to have fun. There was lots of fun and partying at my high school and we didn’t have to concoct stories to go about it,” he said, taking a somber sip of his sour mash. “Did we eat yet?” he asked.

“No. Grace, how are the burgers?”

“Good. Rocky’s in the kitchen.” Sale old same old, but he knows what he’s doing.

“Bacon cheddar cheese for me. I like mayo,” I said. Fries.” She nodded and smiled. Stoney discussed his burger options with her and eventually settled on a mushroom burger with bacon and Gulden’s mustard with German potato salad rather than fries. “And another beaker of this excellent green whiskey,” he added. “And perhaps another beer as well.”

“This guy has a hollow leg,” she said, and left to place the food order.

“I thought you said this place had a TV,” said Stoney.

“It does, it’s just not on.”

Stoney looked up, surprised. “I’ll be damned.” Grace showed up with another glass of bourbon. “Do you mind if I call you Grace?” he asked.

“Not at all. And you are?” she asked.

“Stoney.”

“Of course you are,” she said. He extended his hand and they shook.

“Miss Grace, I notice you have a TV mounted right up there and that it’s dark. Can it be activated? Stoney asked.

“Of course. What do you want to see?”

“The Detroit Tigers,” he said.

“I dunno, she said, picking up the remote and turning on the TV. “We get the Braves on TBS and the Cubs on WGN, but they’re both National League teams. I don’t think we get any American League channels. ” She flipped to the cable company’s schedule screen, and no American League games were listed. The Braves were playing the Expos and the Cubs were playing the Padres. “Cubbies or Braves?” she asked.

“How does this always seem to happen in the National League?” Stoney asked her.

“What?” she asked.

“The four worst teams in all of baseball are playing each other,” he answered, “and those are our only choices.”

“Name your poison.”

“Atlanta. And another beer. And perhaps some more green whiskey.”

On the way home, after burgers, lackluster pitching by both teams, middling offense by Henry Aaron and Davey Johnson, and a confused discussion about who was driving home, I brought up Nadia.

“What are you doing with that Bulgarian girl?” I asked.

“Nadia? I expect we’ll marry and settle down somewhere. Grosse Pointe, maybe. Or someplace near Princeton.”

“Stoney, she may be underage. You could get in trouble over this.” He frowned and thought and thought about it. He was remarkably coherent for someone who’d consumed enough alcohol to kill you and me both.

He shook his head. “No, no. She was very clear on this point. She’s nineteen and enrolled in some junior college down there.”

“Did it occur to you that she might be lying?”

“Why would she lie?” he asked.

“So you would buy her booze and have sex with her,” I said.

“I’d get her drunk and fuck her anyway,” said Stoney. “No need to lie for that.”

I decided to try a different tack. “Much of what you hear in bars isn’t true, at least in my experience,” I said. “Several pool players have told me they were All-State basketball players, in their prime. “Men who were five foot one. Six men in three different states have told me they know a woman whose maiden name was Fonda Beavers but whose married name was Fonda Cox.”

“That’s kinda funny,” said Stoney.

“But not at all true.”

“Yeah, well. Nadia’s this nice sweet country girl from south Georgia.”

“No, she’s not. She’s a gymnast from Bulgaria who grew too tall to compete.”

“I’m sure Colquitt is a nice place.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a wide spot in the road in Miller County, which is a slightly larger hole in the ground, although as farmland goes, it’s pretty. There’s nothing in Colquitt except a Baptist Church. The closest pool hall is in Donaldsonville, across the Georgia line. Colquitt is part of a very agricultural part of a pretty agricultural state, and its as much Alabama or Florida as Georgia.”

“Why are you so resistant to my dream of true love? She’s perfect in every way.”

“Because she drinks?”

“That is quite a turn-on,” he admitted. “And she’s very pretty. You have to admit that.” He was right, I guess. He wasn’t, say, in Melissa’s league, but she was cute.

“Pretty girls are good. But Stoney, she wasn’t just throwing herself at you, she was hurling herself at you like Mike Marshall throwing to Rod Carew.”

“Rod Carew is at Minnesota. He won’t ever face Mike Marshall,” said Stoney.

“And my larger point was …” I asked.

“That Nadia was easy?” he asked.

“Very good,” I said.

“Well, we don’t know that yet, do we?’ he said. “She certainly seems … cooperative, and engaging, but many girls seem … cooperative and then turn out not to be so,” he said.

“So your position is that she threw herself at you but might now withhold?”

“It’s certainly happened before. Once I dictated Fermat’s last theorem to this tall, hot math major and then I never heard from her again.”

And you thought that dictating a theorem to a woman would somehow engage her libido?”

“I did. Bu now that I hear it put that way, I see my approach lacked finesse.”

“And were you drunk, high, tripping, or otherwise loaded?” He frowned for a few minutes.

“That’s a very complicated question,” he said. “But I remember blacking out shortly after finishing the theorem, so the answer is more than likely ‘yes.’”

“I hear that girls are not keen on this,” I said.

“Why not?”

“They like company.”

“Well, fuck, I gave her Fermat’s last theorem,” he said. “Isn’t that worth something?” He nodded to himself several times. “You know, that Nadia, she’s really hot,” he said.

“I think she’s underage, Stoney,” I said.

“No, no. You worry too much,” he answered. “Why are you driving? This is my car.”

Chapter 27: June 3, 1974

2011-03-05T21:36:00.000-08:00

The next day when I got down Stoney was making blueberry pancakes and sausage links. Mrs. W was having a smoke and reading the paper. I got a cup of coffee, refilled her cup, and sat. She thanked me and passed me part of the paper. I had figured he was going to make pancakes because when were at the grocery store the day before he’d bought the blueberries and so I’d asked him to buy enough for me to have blueberries and cream for breakfast. He had something that looked like motor oil boiling in a small saucepan. It smelled sweet.

Two days in and we already had a routine.

I got through the front page of the Chattanooga Times and had some questions. “So who is Charles Colson?” I asked. She was about to answer when Stoney placed a plate of blueberry pancakes and breakfast link sausages in front of her, with a glass of milk. He returned a few seconds later with a small china pitcher of hot syrup for her. The butter on top of the pancakes was just about completely melted. It looked good. A few seconds later he placed a double ramekin of blueberries and a small pitcher of cream in next to my coffee cup. A silver sugar bowl was already on the table. “You guys go ahead,” he said. “I’m right behind you.”

Mrs. W smiled at her plate as she picked up her fork. “Stoney, this is just beautiful!” she said. She poured some of the syrup on her pancakes and then took a bite. Her eyes rolled up as she shut her eyes in pleasure. “Oh, my God, where did you get this syrup?” she asked. “I don’t know. Where were we?” he asked me.

“On the Red Foods store over on Dayton Boulevard,” I said.

“What brand is it?” she asked, surprised.

“It’s that same Vermont stuff you like,” he said. “I just thought it was a little watery so I boiled it down some. Maybe by a third,” he said.

“Oh, my God, Stoney!” she said, and ate some more. Stoney joined us with his own steaming plate and tiny pitcher of maple syrup.

“Cheers,” he said, smiling, and began to eat his own breakfast. I poured some cream on the blueberries and then sprinkled some sugar on them, then had a spoonful. They were very good.

“What were you saying, Henry?” she asked.

“I forget.”

“Something about Charles Colson,” said Stoney.

“Oh, right. He’s in the paper this morning. He’s pleaded guilty to something. Going to cooperate with prosecutors on the Watergate deal,” I said.

“So what’s the question?” she asked.

“What’s this Watergate deal?” I asked. Stoney looked up quickly from his pancakes.

“Yeah!” he said. “People talk about it all the time, but I have no idea what it’s about.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she said, exasperated. “How can two boys who are so brilliant be so completely stupid?” Stoney looked at me with a worried expression. “The most important news story of our generation and you two don’t know anything about it. How can you vote if you don’t keep up with the news?” Stoney and I exchanged glances. I wasn’t registered to vote, and Stoney’s expression suggested that he wasn’t either. “Your duties as a citizen extend beyond chasing … love interests and playing pool and drinking whiskey. You need to stay informed. You look at the paper every day Henry, how can you not know about this stuff?”

“Well,” I said, taking a spoonful of blueberries to give me a second to compose my thoughts, “Often I scan the headlines.”

“What are you doing with the paper then?” she asked. She was still savoring her pancakes, but talking while she did so.

“Well, there’s the sports pages, during baseball season. And sometimes in March.”

“And that’s it?”

“No ma’am. I’m also deeply involved in crossword puzzles and the Cryptoquote.”

“No news?”

“Well, I do look at the headlines on the front page. And, as you just saw, ask intelligent questions about them.”

“Intelligent, my ass,” she said, finishing her pancakes and taking a swallow of milk. Stoney had finished his breakfast, at about the same time.

“You?” she asked him. He stood to get the coffee pot to pour Mrs. W and himself a cup and warm up mine.

“Um, I must admit, my schedule at school is often a bit different from the one we follow here. I’m often not up as early as I am here, and scrambling to get to class on the days when I have testes occupies all of my attention. Here, I find myself encumbered only by mild hangovers of a morning and I have much more time than I am accustomed to having on my hands, and so it’s possible I’ve not been keeping up with the news as much as a citizen might.”

“You guys remind me of George Dantzig,”

“Who?” I asked.

“Whoa,” Stoney.

“He was this German guy in one of my math classes in grad school. Actually, it turns out he wasn’t German—his father was German but he was born somewhere on the West Coast. This was in the thirties and things weren’t looking so good in Germany, so we made lots of assumptions about people with German names.”

“Where you go to grad school?” I asked.

“This would have been at Berkeley in 1939,” said Stoney.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Hush,” said Stoney. “I thought this story was a myth. I want to hear it.” He took a sip of his coffee and propped his chin on his hands.

“All right, so you’ve heard it,” she said, looking up at us and lighting a cigarette. I shook my head. I certainly hadn’t heard it.

“Say on,” said Stoney.

“I figured George was just another German high school math teacher trying to stretch out his education until the war started and the borders closed and he couldn’t go home. I was wrong, like I said, but in the thirties all the famous math and physics goyim in Germany were pledging to stay in Germany and support the Reich but all the Jews and young men were looking to get out. Anyway, George is this slightly dorky married guy who was in one of my advanced statistics classes. I didn’t like statistics much, but I thought it might help me some with Bohr’s quantum mechanics, which it didn’t at all—all statistics are not the same, either numerically or theoretically—but it was interesting, in its way. Remind me to show you Gaussian principles before the summer is over. It’s not hard, but it’s slightly more complicated than they present it in undergrad math books. Anyway, George was nice and pretty smart but wasn’t really a standout. He looked a little disorganized and was always getting to class late. So one day Professor Neyman came in and before class got started put two equations up on the board. Once class began he explained that they were classical statistical theorems which, while quite useful, could not be proven. He told us what they might be useful for in making conjectures in the weeks ahead, but warned us that they could not be cited for proof of anything, then went on to talking about the day’s lesson. George wanders in, making a clatter, takes out his notebook and copies down the theorems. According to the way Dr. Neyman told the story, George mistook the two equations as homework problems and worked out proofs for them, and then apologized for handing them in late, saying they were ‘a little harder’ than most of the homework problems.. Eventually both of George’s solutions got published as brilliant solutions, but both times he was published as a co-author, first with Dr. Neymann, then with some other guy who also hit on the same solution.”

“That really happened?” asked Stoney.

“Yes, Stoney,” she said. “I was there.”

“Wow. I love that story,” he said. “Always have.”

“You guys are a little like George. “Out there, but really clever. But that’s not what we meant to talk about.” Stony and I sat up. “Your knowledge of current events is appalling. So we are adding ‘Civics’ as a course for summer school.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Cool, said Stoney.

“Did you take Civics at City High?” Mrs. W. asked me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

“Who from?”

“Mr. Cronk.”

“Good teacher,” she said. “Were you one of his favorite pupils?”

“I liked his class, but I did not smoke marijuana with him, no ma’am.”

“People smoked dope with their teachers? That is so cool,” said Stoney.

“No, Stoney, it is not.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Civics. From here on out, we’re going to read the paper every day at breakfast, we’re going to talk about the news over lunch, and we’re going to watch the national news every day at six.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we both said.

“Which network?” asked Stoney. I had no idea what he was talking about. She took a drag off her cigarette and a sip of her coffee, nodding.

“You know, we should look at them all and pick one, I guess. I like Cronkite , but a case could be made for Howard K. Smith. ”

“I like Chancellor , but I have to admit it’s like NBC’s not really trying any more,” Stoney said.

“Okay, so we’ll alternate between ABC and CBS until we figure out who’s better.”

“Cool,” said Stoney.

“You guys really need to be more aware of what’s going on around you, she said. We passed the paper around and drank our coffee. She returned her attention to the newspaper.

“Mrs. Wertheimer, may I ask you a personal question?” Stoney asked, after a few minutes. This worried me. Se looked up and took a drag off of her cigarette. Stoney, contemplative, shook out one of his Winston Gold 100’s and lit it.

“When Dr. Ladd was being rude to Henry, if I understood what happened, he didn’t seem to believe that Henry knew you.” She thought about her answer, and tilted her head one way then another as she thought.

“I guess that sounds like Ladd,” she said. Stoney paused for a few seconds, mindful of his manners. I wasn’t sure where this was going.

“He referred to you as Doctor Wertheimer,” Stoney said.

“Well, he would,” said Mrs. W, still looking at the paper.

“Why’s that?” he asked

“He and I have only bumped into each other at math conferences,” she said. “I like to go to a few every year to keep my hand in.”

“So you have a doctorate? A Ph.D.?” he asked.

“Oh, of course,” she said. “I have two, both issued in 1940 by the University of California at Berkeley. One in Physics, and the other in Mathematics. I must admit it seemed like cheating at the time, because it was essentially the same thesis submitted to both departments, but expressed with slightly different … how do you say … nomenclature. But that was right at the time things changed.”

“What changed?” I asked.

“How strong is your quantum mechanics?” she asked.

“Anemic. It makes no sense whatsoever. I can do the calculations, but they’re inane. No grounding in physical reality.”

“Henry, you’re going to have to let go of that to succeed academically.”

“I have no goals regarding academic success, but isn’t it called Physics because it relates to the physical world?”

“Okay, you two, to get to the point I was leading to a minute ago before the conversation went off on a tangent,” said. Stoney, “So you have two Ph.D.s from Berkeley?”

“Yep. And if you like rock star details, I knew Albert Einstein.”

“Yeah, well, I figured that,” said Stoney.

“How so?”

“Well, I’ve heard he had an eye for the ladies,” said Stoney. She smiled, blowing smoke through her nose.

“He did indeed. Time for school,” she said, standing. Stoney and I grabbed out coffee cups and followed her into the dining room, which now contained three chalkboards, all blank. She then proceeded to introduce us to complex variables, conjugate coordinates, and in started on analytic functions. Stoney had never heard of cream cheese and olive sandwiches, so she showed him (and me) how to make them at lunch, and Stoney accompanied them with a cantaloupe and prosciutto salad that was to die for. Analytic functions are pretty interesting, once you get into them.

2011-02-27T22:30:00.001-08:00

Chapter 26

Chapter 25: Traveling to Summer School

2011-02-16T19:44:00.000-08:00

After exams Stoney took a few days to get himself together to pack his possessions and get ready to drive down to Chattanooga. I was going to call Ginny to offer her a ride, but before I got to it Cisco told me he was taking her, at Walt’s request.

“You know, he’s, um, pretty set on her. Tennis deal,” Cisco said. He’d dropped by to flip a coin to decide which one of us was going to get the inside and which the outside room at McTyeire. That was our dorm for the next year, and it had originally been set up as a dorm of four room suites in which two men shared four rooms and a bathroom. Each resident had a sitting room and a bedroom, on either side of the bathroom, which seems very genteel, even by 1974 standards. By the time 1974 actually arrived, though, times were considerably less genteel, so when we inhabited it, it was up as four bedrooms sharing one bathroom, with the sitting rooms converted to bedrooms, which meant that the person who lived in what had once been the sitting room had to put up with the other resident at his end walking through his room every time he needed the bathroom.

“I think they have this whole country club background scene they share,” I said, about Walt and Ginny. I hadn’t seen either of them since Cisco had driven us all back to school following the Christmas holiday.

“Yeah, you’re right, but it’s more than that. They’ve been playing tennis together a whole lot and apparently they’re pretty good as a mixed doubles pair. They’re going to spend the summer going to tournaments everywhere. Walt thinks they may be the number one mixed doubles pair in the SEC next year.”

“That sounds like something good,” I said.

“I’m picking that up too. Let’s do this,” he said, pulling a quarter out of his soft khaki pants. He flipped it high into the air and said “call it!” tracing the quarter’s arc with his eyes.

“Tails,” I said. He caught the quarter in his right hand and smacked it over onto his left wrist.

“Before we look, let’s talk about this, he said, without revealing the coin. “We’ve resorted to a traditional conflict-resolution process, but perhaps this is unnecessary. Perhaps there really is no conflict. Which room would you prefer to have?”

“The outside one.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t like to have other people going through my room.”

“Which room do you think I want?” he asked.

“The same one, the outside.”

“Why do you think that?” We were standing in the door to my dorm room at Hemmingway, him still with his right hand covering the quarter on his left wrist, right next to his steel Rolex.

“’Cause you’ve always got girls in your room. I’d imagine you’d value your privacy.”

“I do,” he said, and smiled at me. “My impression is that you go to bed relatively early,” he said.

“True, if you judge me as compared to this lot,” I gestured to our hall, left and right. “I get tired around midnight.”

“You also don’t seem to gossip much,” said Cisco, hand still on wrist.

“About what?” I asked.

“Who’s José fucking?” he asked.

“Yeah, well. Who knows?”

“You do. You saw Roz Martin and him leave his room together at 7:00 a.m. last Wednesday.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about that kind of thing.”

“I have deep respect for this aspect of your personality,” he said.

“Why thank you.”

“And it is one of the factors that makes the inner room more appealing to me.”

“No shit?” I asked.

“None. It’s possible that any … friends … I bring to my room will be joining us after you’re asleep. And your … taciturn … nature will be … handy. And guests from my room will not need to pass through yours to have access to the bathroom. Are we agreed?”

“Yeah, well, sure.”

“Excellent! It’s a deal, then?”

“I’m outside, you’re inside, and I don’t talk?” I asked.

“That sums it up. No need to look at the coin, then.”

“It’s tails,” I said.

“How can you know that?”

“I never lose a coin toss.” He lifted his right hand from is left wrist and revealed the spread eagle tails side of a Washington quarter. He smiled that smile, then flipped it with his thumb so that it spun through the air and I caught it in my right hand.

“You’re the man,” said Cisco and headed out, topsiders, khakis, alligator shirt and all. At the door he stopped and turned around in the middle of lighting a Marlboro red. “About the Ginny and Walt deal, they’ve been playing tennis together.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“A lot.”

“Okay…”

“He told me last month that he’d given up smoking,” he said.

“Yeah, well. He’s getting in shape for tennis,” I said.

“He said he’d given it up because she didn’t like the way it tasted.”

“A very specific comment,” I said.

“Thought you should know,” he said.

“Well, look, for some reason people think there’s more going on between Ginny and me than there is. This is not a problem, but thanks for keeping me informed.”

“Later, dude, ” he answered, and left. The phone rang a few minutes later.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Okay, so, I’m almost all the way packed. If I get all my stuff into the trunk will you be able to fit yours into the back seat?” asked Stony, without preamble.

“Yeah, sure. All of my stuff fits into a steamer trunk.”

“Not sure what that is man, but as long as it’ll fit in the back seat, we’re cool. And you’re okay with having my aquarium at your feet?”

“You have an aquarium?” I asked.

“Of course. Oh, shit, you don’t have one too, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Okay. That’s cool. It’s just a ten-gallon one and you’ll get used to having it at your feet pretty fast. I’ll be over in about ten. Wait. You’re in the one that’s closest to Tex Ritter’s?” My dorm was across the street from a fast-food hamburger place called Tex Ritter’s.

“Yes,” I said.

“O.K. That’s cool. That might come in handy. I haven’t eaten anything today and it’s past lunchtime. At least I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today. Anyhow Tex Ritter’s bein’ right across the street is pretty cool. Oh, wow! And then there’s IHOP right down that one-way street. And Jesus! Mack’s Fine Foods and Fresh Vegetables Daily is right across the street from that!”

“Stoney?”

“Yes?”

“Just get here. Then I’ll drive you to wherever you want to eat lunch, I’ll buy your lunch, then I’ll drive us to Chattanooga.”

“But then I’ll have the aquarium down between my feet,” he complained.

“Yes, you will.” I could hear him sigh as though he was resigned to this onerous condition even though he knew it to be patently unfair.

Two hours later, Stoney knocked on my door. He was wearing bell-bottomed Levi’s, his cowboy boots, the vest from a navy blue pinstriped suit, an Oxford cloth buttoned down shirt much like my own, and his aviator shades. “Cool. Ready to go?” he asked.

“Yeah sure.” He helped me negotiate my steamer trunk down the stairs. That was pretty easy because I’d sent all my books to Mrs. W, parcel post, just like when I was on the road. Once my trunk was loaded into his back seat, he looked at me and said “burgers?” We walked across the street to Tex Ritter’s. Both of us had the Chuck Wagon Special, a good double cheeseburger with fries and your choice of soda.

“I think I should drive,” I said, when we got back to the parking lot.

“Really?” he asked. “I’ve driven this car for so long.”

“To feel comfortable having you drive me through steep mountain passes, I’d want to know everything you’d ingested since yesterday,” I said.

“Oh, God. Who takes notes? And more to the point, what have you ingested since yesterday, Henry Baida. Answer me that!”

“Food and water,” I said. There was a pause during which he looked puzzled.

“Yeah. Sure. No beer or whiskey. I bet.”

“I don’t drink.”

“I know you say that, but I mean really,” said Stoney.

“I really don’t drink.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me. Everybody drinks. Except these weird religious fanatics you have down here. Are you one of those?”

“No. Let me have the keys, please,” I said.

“Why do you want the keys to my car?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m offering to drive you to Chattanooga.”

“Cool!” he said, and threw me the keys. We moved to get in. “Ah, shit. I forgot about the damned fish,” he said, after opening the passenger side door. “Lemme drive.”

“No.”

“But there’s no room for my feet,” he said.

“There would be no room for my feet, either,” I said. He seemed confused by this information. “Let’s go Stoney,” I said. We both got in, him placing his feet carefully alongside the aquarium. It contained a single, blunt-looking palm-sized fish, a combination of goldfish-gold and silvery white that faded into river green. Once he was seated I started the car and pulled into traffic.

“Why are you driving, again?” he asked right before we got on the freeway. “This is my car.”

“Because you’re completely fucked up,” I answered.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, well. You know what they say.”

“What do they say?” I asked.

“Reality’s for people who can’t handle drugs,” he answered.

“I’ve heard that before,” I said.

“But I made it up.”

“No, you didn’t. Okay. In a little over two hours you’re going to meet my friend Mrs. Wertheimer. She has little patience for drugs.”

“Why?”

“Partly because intoxicated people are only interesting to other people who are also intoxicated. Recall that one condition of you staying in her house all summer, and so getting a pass to take the math courses you want, is that she said no drugs are allowed in her house at all.”

“Oh, she didn’t mean that,” said Stoney.

“Yes, she did, and if she catches you with anything illegal in her house, my guess is that she’ll send you packing. She’s tolerant, but she enforces rules.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Surely she suspects that you smoke reefer when you’re home for holidays.”

“But I don’t.”

“Not at all?” he asked, baffled.

“Nope.”

“Why not?” he asked, suspiciously.

I shrugged. “Just not interested.” He shook his head in a troubled, baleful manner.

“This is a total bummer,” he said.

“Which part?”

“That you don’t smoke.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“I ran out of reefer just before lunch and I thought I could bum some off of you.”

“No. Stoney, you have agreed not to do drugs all summer.”

“Oh, that’s one of those summer romance promises. Nobody expects you to keep those.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t occasionally take a toke herself?”

“No.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Sober up?” I asked back.

“No, no, I’ll think of something,” he said. He was lost in his own thoughts for maybe an hour. He never seemed to fall completely asleep, but I couldn’t monitor him very carefully because I was driving. He was quiet until I got to the top of the Monteagle Pass.

“Okay, so, hypothetically, if I were to smoke some weed off by myself in my bedroom and she never knew it happened,” Stoney asked. “Could I do that?”

“Not in her house, no. Her deal is no drugs in her house.”

“Okay,” he said, and thought for a few minutes.“No smoking in her house?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And that’s it? I may be able to work with that.”

“Well, no. No possession of illegal drugs in her house would be more accurate,” I said.

“Ah, shit. Now that’s just unreasonable. What does she care what’s in my pockets?”

“Stoney, she disapproves of drugs.”

“But why?” he asked, beseechingly, mystified.

“She’s never done drugs—”

“She doesn’t drink?”

“Yes, of course she does. Not much, but she does. She also drinks coffee and smokes cigarettes. A lot. And I’m sure she takes aspirin and drinks tea. But all of that is different.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. If Mrs. W has a glass of wine with dinner, it may affect her mood, and if she has a lot of wine with dinner, hypothetically, she might become intoxicated. But no cop is going to show up at her door with a search warrant telling her they suspect her of having a glass of wine and haul her off to jail on suspicion that she did.”

“It’s not fair,” said Stoney, looking in his pockets for a cigarette.

“I hear that the only place you find justice is in the dictionary.”

“Good line,” said Stoney, meditatively, nodding and lighting his cigarette.

“Mrs. W disapproves of drugs. She’s some bad experiences.”

“Really? Like bad acid trips, or what?” he asked.

“No, no. Students whose drug experiences worried her.”

“‘Needle and the Damage Done’ shit?” he asked, speculatively.

“No. The only one she’s mentioned to me was this classmate of mine, Ed Bork. Ed was a weird guy even before he started eating acid, and acid put him kind of over the top in a major way. He started quoting Aleister Crowley about devil worship and that kind of crap. He had these pamphlets and tracts he’d hand out to us as we filed into school, him wearing a black velvet robe, with a hood, talking about Satanism. It was all stupid. He had bad hair, too.”

“What kind of bad hair?” Stoney asked.

“Kind of helmet shaped.”

“What did he look like?”

“Five ten, bony. Smiled too much, but that was the drugs.” I said.

“What did he do to … your math teacher?”

“He claimed to put a hex on her.” We’d come through the pass and were on the flatlands that lead into Chattanooga.

“What kind of hex?” asked Stoney.

“He didn’t even attempt to answer the exam questions because he’d placed a powerful curse on her so that she would be dead before grades came in, or something like that, so that she would be unable to fail him, try as she might. She gave him a failing grade on the exam, which should have failed him for the class. The school administrators overruled her and gave him a passing grade just to get rid of him.”

“Witchcraft is powerful,” said Stoney.

“Mrs. W is still alive,” I said.

“True,” he said. He took a drag off of his cigarette. “Why are we talking about that?” he asked.

“Don’t remember.”

“Okay, so, no drugs in the house, but what if there happened to be a stash outside the house but hidden nearby, where a man might stop by and refresh himself?”

“This is a gray area I am not equipped to address.”

“Or what if I found legal drugs of some sort? I could bring them into the house, right?”

“Like codeine?” I asked. “Like you talk some Chattanooga doctor into giving you something you want to take?”

“No. Like psilocybin mushrooms. Nothing illegal about them. ”

“I don’t think they grow in Tennessee,” I said.

“Who would know?” he asked.

“A mycologist,” I said.

“Henry, please be serious. I’m trying to work out a plausible strategy for surviving the next ninety days.”

“I have no idea.”

He was lost in his thoughts for a few minutes. “Booze?” he asked.

“She won’t mind drinking,” I said.

“Well that’s something. What about advanced, graduate-level drinking? ”

“It’s not illegal,” I said.

“Is there a liquor store on the way?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“That’ll help until I can come up with a real solution,” he said. The wheels were churning, and he had a troubled expression. I took him to Nick’s liquor store, across the street from the shuttered Union Station, and he bought a half gallon of Jack Daniel’s black label , a half gallon of Smirnoff hundred proof vodka, and a fifth of something called grappa. He distributed them amongst his possessions in various areas of his car, and then pronounced himself ready to go. We were just a few minutes from Mrs. Wertheimer’s house.

“Okay, bud,” I said, in Nick’s parking lot, just before putting his car in drive. “Mrs. W is very important to me. I’ve asked her to invite you into her house. I need you to respect her rules.”

“I will,” said Stoney, “Incomprehensible as they may be, but you shouldn’t fault me for seeking to understand their limits. Lawyers, priests, penitents, all need to understand what the rules are, and they all interpret them, I guess I’m more accustomed to seeking forgiveness than permission. This is a prices that I, as a Catholic, am accustomed to. Unfortunately, you are telling me, in essence, and I apologize for reducing your elaborate, elegant argument into a catchphrase, that I can’t transgress. This is new territory for me. I can tell you that I’ll comply, but I can’t promise that I won’t explore the boundaries of this rule business.”

“No dope of any sort in her house,” I said.

“Got it, man. But you can’t fault a man for wanting to get high.”

“Yes, I can,” I said.

“Not unless you’re a Baptist,” he said. “That’s like faulting a man for wanting to get laid.”

“What’s the attraction, anyhow?”

“To getting laid?”

“No, no. To drugs.”

“Oh, man, until you try it, you’ll never understand. On acid, you think in poetry. Listen! Listen!” The radio was on and he turned it up as I left Nick’s parking lot. “Magic! Jimi is a genius.”

“‘The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow, and shine in emptiness down on my bed?’ Did I hear that right?” I asked.

“Yes! You see? Genius!”

“Stoney, it makes no sense whatsoever. Since you understand it and you’re still stoned I’m guessing that people on drugs say things that other stoned people understand, kind of like stoners are more interesting to other stoners than they are to straight people.”

“And by straight, you mean ….” he said.

“Unstoned.”

“You’re missing the point,” he said. “Jimi was on acid when he wrote that really cool lyric to ‘The Wind Cries Mary.’ I’m just a teeny bit maybe high from some reefer I smoked hours and hours ago. I may not even be high at all,” he said, glumly.

“Okay,” I said, pulling into her driveway. “The rules are, no drugs of any sort in her house.”

“That’s not what you said before!” he said, distressed. “Before you said no illegal drugs in her house.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “She smokes and drinks.”

“It’s a starting point.” We got out of Stoney’s car. Both of us stretched. I grabbed my trunk and Stoney grabbed his fish tank and we walked to the front door. I rang the doorbell, and Mrs. W answered the door within a few seconds.

“Hello, Henry!” she said, and she might have hugged me had I not been holding an enormous steamer trunk.

“”Mrs. W, may I introduce Stoney Jackson,” I said.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wertheimer,” Stoney said, trying to reach a hand out under his fish tank. She reached under the tank to shake his hand, parking her cigarette between her lips while she did so. “And what do we have in the aquarium?” She adjusted her glasses and took a drag from her cigarette while Stoney was getting ready to answer. “Mr. Jackson, do you have a piranha in there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do you feed it?”

“Fishing minnows, when I can find them. Goldfish, when I can’t.”

“So you have to keep two aquariums going to own one fish?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. You boys show yourselves upstairs. Henry, show Stoney to the room upstairs that’s neither yours nor mine. Stoney, leave that aquarium on the floor. We’ll put some kind of rubber mat on the desk tomorrow so you can put your aquaria on it without worry, but that’s an L. & J.G. Stickley desk and I don’t want anything bad to happen to the finish.”

“Yes, ma’am. We made several trips up and down the stairs taking heaps of his belongings upstairs, then he wanted to fill up his aquarium, and turn on the pumps and filters. This took a few minutes, not least because it’s not as easy as it might seem to find a container in the upstairs of a suburban house that will hold several gallons of water.

Chapter 26, lengthened

2011-02-14T20:36:00.001-08:00

Chapter 25: Summer School

After exams Stoney took a few days to pull himself together to pack his possessions and drive down to Chattanooga. I was going to call Ginny and offer her a ride with us, but Cisco told me he was giving her a ride, at Walt’s request.

“You know, he’s, um, pretty set on her. Tennis deal,” Cisco said. He’d dropped by to flip a coin between us to decide which one of us was going to get the inside and which the outside room at McTyeire. It was our dorm for the next year, and had originally been set up as a four room suite with two men sharing a bathroom, both of whom had a sitting room and a bedroom, which seems very genteel. Times were now less genteel, so it was now set up as four students sharing one bathroom, with the sitting rooms converted to bedrooms, which meant that the person who lived in what had been designed as the sitting room had to put up with the other resident at his end walking through his room every time the other wanted to leave the suite or go to the bathroom.

“I think they have this whole country club background scene they share,” I said, about Walt and Ginny. I hadn’t seen either of them since Cisco had driven us all back to school following the Christmas holiday.

“Yeah, you’re right, but it’s more than that. They’ve been playing tennis together a whole lot and apparently they’re pretty good as a mixed doubles pair. They’re going to spend the summer going to tournaments everywhere. Walt thinks they may be the number one mixed doubles pair in the SEC next year.”

“That sounds like something good,” I said.

“I’m picking that up too. Let’s do this,” he said, pulling a quarter out of his soft khaki pants. He flipped it high into the air and said “call it!” tracing the quarter’s arc with his eyes.

“Tails,” I said. He caught the quarter in his right hand and smacked it over onto his left wrist.

“Before we look, let’s talk about this, he said, without revealing the coin. “We’ve resorted to a traditional conflict-resolution process, but perhaps it is unnecessary to do so. Perhaps there is no conflict. Which room would you prefer to have?”

“The outside one.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t like to have other people going through my room.”

“Which room do you think I want?” he asked.

“The same one, the outside.”

“Why do you think that?” We were standing in the door to my dorm room at Hemmingway, him still with his right hand covering the quarter on his left wrist, right next to his steel Rolex.

“’Cause you’ve always got girls in your room. I’d imagine you’d value your privacy.”

“I do,” he said, and smiled at me. “My impression is that you go to bed relatively early,” he said.

“True, if you judge me as compared to this lot,” I gestured to our hall, left and right. “I get tired around midnight.”

“You also don’t seem to gossip much,” said Cisco, hand still on wrist.

“About what?” I asked.

“Who’s José fucking?” he asked.

“Yeah, well. Who knows?”

“You do. You saw Roz Martin and him leave his room together at 7:00 a.m. last Wednesday.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about that kind of thing.”

“I have deep respect for this aspect of your personality,” he said.

“Why thank you.”

“And it is one of the factors that makes the inner room more appealing to me.”

“No shit?” I asked.

“None. It’s possible that any … friends … I bring to my room will be joining us after you’re asleep. And your … taciturn … nature will be … handy. And guests from my room will not need to pass through yours to have access to the bathroom. Are we agreed?”

“Yeah, well, sure.”

“Excellent! It’s a deal, then?”

“I’m outside, you’re inside, and I don’t talk?” I asked.

“That sums it up. No need to look at the coin, then.”

“It’s tails,” I said.

“How can you know that?”

“I never lose a coin toss.” He lifted his right hand from is left wrist and revealed the spread eagle tails side of a Washington quarter. He smiled that smile, then flipped it with his thumb so that it spun through the air and I caught it in my right hand.

“You’re the man,” said Cisco and headed out, topsiders, khakis, alligator shirt and all. At the door he stopped and turned around in the middle of lighting a Marlboro red. “About the Ginny and Walt deal, they’ve been playing tennis together.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“A lot.”

“Okay…”

“He told me last month that he’d given up smoking,” he said.

“This is consistent with getting in shape for tennis,” I said.

“He said he’d given it up because she didn’t like the way it tasted.”

“A very specific criticism,” I said.

“Thought you should know,” he said.

“Look, man, for some reason people think there’s more going on between Ginny and me than there is. This is not a problem, but thanks for telling me.”

“Later, dude, ” he answered, and left. The phone rang a few minutes later.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Okay, so, I’m almost all the way packed. If I get all my stuff into the trunk will you be able to fit yours into the back seat?” asked Stony, without preamble.

“Yeah, sure. All of my stuff fits into a steamer trunk.”

“Not sure what that is man, but as long as it’ll fit in the back seat, we’re cool. And you’re okay with having my aquarium at your feet?”

“You have an aquarium?” I asked.

“Of course. Oh, shit, you don’t have one too, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Okay. That’s cool. It’s just a ten-gallon one and you’ll get used to having it at your feet pretty fast. I’ll be over in about ten. Wait. You’re in the one that’s closest to Tex Ritter’s?” My dorm was across the street from a fast-food hamburger place called Tex Ritter’s.

“Yes,” I said.

“O.K. That’s cool. That might come in handy. I haven’t eaten anything today and it’s past lunchtime. At least I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today. Anyway Tex Ritter’s bein’ right across the street is pretty cool. Oh, wow! And then there’s IHOP right down that one-way street. And Jesus! Mack’s Fine Foods and Fresh Vegetables Daily is right across the street from that!”

“Stoney?”

“Yes?”

“Just get here. Then I’ll drive you to wherever you want to eat lunch, I’ll buy your lunch, then I’ll drive us to Chattanooga.”

“But then I’ll have the aquarium down between my feet,” he complained.

“Yes, you will.” I could hear him sigh as though he was resigned to this onerous condition even though he knew it to be patently unfair.

Two hours later, Stoney knocked on my door. He was wearing bell-bottomed Levi’s, his cowboy boots, the vest from a navy blue pinstriped suit, an Oxford cloth buttoned down shirt much like my own, and his aviator shades. “Cool. Ready to go?” he asked.

“Yeah sure.” He helped me negotiate my steamer trunk down the stairs. That was pretty easy because I’d sent all my books to Mrs. W, parcel post, just like when I was on the road. Once my trunk was loaded into his back seat, he looked at me and said “burgers?” We walked across the street to Tex Ritter’s. Both of us had the Chuck Wagon Special, as I recalled, which was a good double cheeseburger with fries and your choice of soda.

“I think I should drive,” I said, when we got back to the parking lot.

“Really?” he asked. “I’ve driven this car for so long.”

“To feel comfortable having you drive me through steep mountain passes, I’d want to know everything you’d ingested since yesterday,” I said.

“Oh, God. Who takes notes? And more to the point, what have you ingested since yesterday, Henry Baida. Answer me that!”

“Food and water,” I said. There was a pause during which he looked puzzled.

“Yeah. Sure. No beer or whiskey. I bet.”

“I don’t drink.”

“I know you say that, but I mean really,” said Stoney.

“I really don’t drink.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me. Everybody drinks. Except these weird religious fanatics you have down here. Are you one of those?”

“No. Let me have the keys, please,” I said.

“Why do you want the keys to my car?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m offering to drive you to Chattanooga.”

“Cool!” he said, and threw me the keys. We moved to get in. “Ah, shit. I forgot about the damned fish,” he said, after opening the passenger side door. “Lemme drive.”

“No.”

“But there’s no room for my feet,” he said.

“There would be no room for my feet, either,” I said. He seemed confused by this information. “Let’s go Stoney,” I said. We both got in, him placing his feet carefully alongside the aquarium. It contained a single, blunt-looking palm-sized fish, a combination of goldfish-gold and silvery white that faded into river green. Once he was seated I started the car and pulled into traffic.

“Why are you driving, again?” he asked right before we got on the freeway. “This is my car.”

“Because you’re completely fucked up,” I answered.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, well. You know what they say.”

“What do they say?” I asked.

“Reality’s for people who can’t handle drugs,” he answered.

“I’ve heard that before,” I said.

“But I made it up.”

“No, you didn’t. Okay. In a little over two hours you’re going to meet my friend Mrs. Wertheimer. She has little patience for drugs.”

“Why?”

“Partly because intoxicated people are only interesting to other people who are also intoxicated. Recall that one condition of you staying in her house all summer, and so getting a pass to take the courses you want, is that she said no drugs are allowed in her house at all.”

“Oh, she didn’t mean that,” said Stoney.

“Yes, she did, and if she catches you with anything illegal in her house, my guess is that she’ll send you packing. She’s tolerant, but she enforces rules.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Surely she suspects that you smoke reefer when you’re home for holidays.”

“But I don’t.”

“Not at all?” he asked, baffled.

“Nope.”

“Why not?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Just not interested.” He shook his head in a troubled, baleful manner.

“This is a total bummer,” he said.

“Which part?”

“That you don’t smoke.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“I ran out of reefer just before lunch and I thought I could bum some off of you.”

“No. Stoney, you have agreed not to do drugs all summer.”

“Oh, that’s one of those summer romance promises. Nobody expects you to keep those.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t occasionally take a toke herself?”

“No.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Sober up?” I asked back.

“No, no, I’ll think of something,” he said. He was lost in his own thoughts for maybe an hour. He never seemed to fall completely asleep, but I couldn’t monitor him very carefully because I was driving. He was quiet until I got to the top of the descent of the Monteagle pass.

“Okay, so, hypothetically, if I were to smoke some weed off by myself in my bedroom and she never knew it happened,” Stoney asked. “Could I do that?”

“Not in her house, no. Her deal is no drugs in her house.”

“Okay,” he said, and thought for a few minutes.“No smoking in her house?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And that’s it? I may be able to work with that.”

“Well, no. No possession of illegal drugs in her house would be more accurate,” I said.

“Ah, shit. Now that’s just unreasonable. What does she care what’s in my pockets?”

“Stoney, she disapproves of drugs.”

“But why?” he asked, beseechingly, mystified.

“She’s never done drugs—”

“She doesn’t drink?”

“Yes, of course she does. Not much, but she does. She also drinks coffee and smokes cigarettes. A lot. And I’m sure she takes aspirin and drinks tea. But all of that is different.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. If Mrs. W has a glass of wine with dinner, it may affect her mood, and if she has a lot of wine with dinner, hypothetically, she might become intoxicated. But no cop is going to show up at her door with a search warrant telling her they suspect her of having a glass of wine, and haul her off to jail because she did.”

“It’s not fair,” said Stoney, looking in his pockets for a cigarette.

“Somebody once told me that the only place you find justice is in the dictionary.”

“Good line,” said Stoney, meditatively, nodding and lighting his cigarette.

“Mrs. W disapproves of drugs. She’s some bad experiences.”

“Really? Like bad acid trips, or what?” he asked.

“No, no. Students whose drug experiences worried her.”

“‘Needle and the Damage Done’ shit?” he asked, speculatively.

“No. The only one she’s to me was this classmate of mine. Ed Bork. Ed was a weird guy even before he started in on acid, and acid put him kind of over the top. He started quoting strange things from Aleister Crowley about devil worship and shit. He had these tracts he’d hand out, wearing a black velvet robe, with a hood, talking about Satanism and shit. It was all stupid. He had bad hair, too.”

“What kind of bad hair?”

“Kind of helmet shaped.”

“What did he look like?”

“Five ten, bony. Smiled too much, but that was the drugs.” I said.

“What did he do to … your math teacher?”

“He claimed to put a hex on her.” We’d come all the way down the mountain and were on the flatlands that lead into Chattanooga.

“What kind of hex?” asked Stoney.

“He didn’t even attempt to answer the exam questions because he had placed a powerful curse on her so that she would be dead before grades came in, or something like that, so that she would be unable to fail him, try as she might. She gave him a failing grade on the exam, which should have failed him for the class. The school administrators overruled her and gave him a passing grade just to get rid of him.”

“Witchcraft is powerful,” said Stoney.

“Mrs. W is still alive,” I said.

“True,” he said. He took a drag off of his cigarette. “Why are we talking about that?” he asked.

“Don’t remember.”

“Okay, so, no drugs in the house, but what if there happened to be a stash outside the house but hidden nearby, where a man might stop by and refresh himself?”

“This is a gray area I am not equipped to address.”

“Or what if I found legal drugs of some sort? I could bring them into the house, right?”

“Like codeine?” I asked. “Like you talk some Chattanooga doctor into giving you something you want to take?”

“No. Like psilocybin mushrooms. Nothing illegal about them. ”

“I don’t think they grow in Tennessee,” I said.

“Who would know?” he asked.

“A mycologist,” I said.

“Henry, please be serious. I’m trying to work out a plausible strategy for surviving the next ninety days.”

“I have no idea.”

He was lost in his thoughts for a few minutes. “Booze?” he asked.

“She won’t mind drinking,” I said.

“Well that’s something. What about advanced, graduate-level drinking?”

“It’s not illegal,” I said.

“Is there a liquor store on the way?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“That’ll help until I can come up with a real solution,” he said. The wheels were churning, and he had a troubled expression. I took him to Nick’s liquor store, across the street from the now-shuttered Union Station, and he bought a half gallon of Jack Daniel’s black label , a half gallon of Smirnoff hundred proof vodka, and a fifth of something called grappa. He distributed them amongst his possessions in various areas of his car, and then pronounced himself ready to go. We were just a few minutes from Mrs. Wertheimer’s house.

“Okay, bud,” I said, in Nick’s parking lot, just before putting his car in drive. “Mrs. W is very important to me. I’ve asked her to invite you into her house. I need you to respect her rules.”

“I will,” said Stoney, “Incomprehensible as they may be, but you shouldn’t fault me for seeking to understand their limits. Lawyers, priests, penitents, all need to understand what the rules are. I’m … accustomed to seeking …. forgiveness, I’ve done it hundreds of times. You’re telling me, in essence, and I apologize for reducing your elaborate, elegant argument, into a catchphrase, that I can’t transgress. This is new territory for me. I can tell you that I’ll comply, but I can’t promise that I won’t explore the boundaries of this rule business.”

“No dope of any sort in her house.”

“Got it, man. But you can’t fault a man for wanting to get high.”

“Yes, I can,” I said.

“Not unless you’re a Baptist,” he said. “That’s like faulting a man for wanting to get laid.”

“What’s the attraction, anyhow?”

“To getting laid?”

“No, no. To drugs.”

“Oh, man, until you try it, you’ll never understand. On acid, you think in poetry. Listen! Listen!” The radio was on and he turned it up as I backed up then left Nick’s parking lot. “Magic! Jimi is a genius.”

“The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow, and shine in emptiness down on my bed? Did I hear that right?”

“Yes! You see? Genius!”

“Stoney, it makes no sense whatsoever. Since you understand it and you’re still stoned I’m guessing that people on drugs say things that other stoned people understand, kind of like stoners are more interesting to other stoners than they are to straight people.”

“And by straight, you mean ….” he said.

“Unstoned.”

“You’re missing the point,” he said. “Jimi was on acid when he wrote that really cool lyric to ‘The Wind Cries Mary.’ I’m just a little high from some reefer I smoked hours and hours ago. I may not even be high at all,” he said, glumly.

“Okay,” I said, pulling into her driveway. “The rules are, no drugs of any sort in her house.”

“That’s not what you said before!” he said, distressed. “Before you said no illegal drugs in her house.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “She smokes and drinks.”

“It’s a starting point.” We got out of Stoney’s car. Both of us stretched. I grabbed my trunk and Stoney grabbed his fish tank and we walked to the front door. I rang the doorbell, and Mrs. W answered the door within a few seconds.

“Hello, Henry!” she said, and she might have hugged me had I not been holding an enormous steamer trunk.

“”Mrs. W, may I introduce Stoney Jackson,” I said.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wertheimer,” Stoney said, trying to reach a hand out under his fish tank. She reached under the tank to shake his hand, parking her cigarette between her lips while she did so. “And what do we have in the aquarium?” She adjusted her glasses and took a drag from her cigarette while Stoney was getting ready to answer. “Mr. Jackson, do you have a piranha in there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do you feed it?”

“Fishing minnows, when I can find them. Goldfish, when I can’t.”

“So you have to keep two aquariums going to own one fish?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. You boys show yourselves upstairs. Henry, show Stoney to the room upstairs that’s neither yours nor mine. Stoney, leave that aquarium on the floor. We’ll put some kind of rubber mat on the desk tomorrow so you can put your aquaria on it without worry, but that’s an L. & J.G. Stickley desk and I don’t want anything bad to happen to the finish.”

“Yes, ma’am. We made several trips up and down the stairs taking heaps of his belongings upstairs, then he wanted to fill up his aquarium, and turn on the pumps and filters. This took a few minutes, not least because it’s not as easy as it might seem to find a container in the upstairs of a suburban house that will hold several gallons of water.

Chapter 25: Summer School, extended

2011-02-09T19:49:00.000-08:00

After exams Stoney took a few days to pull himself together to pack his possessions and drive down to Chattanooga. I was going to call Ginny and offer her a ride with us, but Cisco told me he was giving her a ride, at Walt’s request.

“You know, he’s, um, pretty set on her. Tennis deal,” Cisco said. He’d dropped by to flip a coin between us to decide which one of us was going to get the inside and which the outside room at McTyeire. It was our dorm for the next year, and had originally been set up as a four room suite with two men sharing a bathroom, both of whom had a sitting room and a bedroom, which seems very genteel. Times were now less genteel, so it was now set up as four students sharing one bathroom, with the sitting rooms converted to bedrooms, which meant that the person who lived in what had been designed as the sitting room had to put up with the other resident at his end walking through his room every time the other wanted to leave the suite or go to the bathroom.

“I think they have this whole country club background scene they share,” I said, about Walt and Ginny. I hadn’t seen either of them since Cisco had driven us all back to school following the Christmas holiday.

“Yeah, you’re right, but it’s more than that. They’ve been playing tennis together a whole lot and apparently they’re pretty good as a mixed doubles pair. They’re going to spend the summer going to tournaments everywhere. Walt thinks they may be the number one mixed doubles pair in the SEC next year.”

“That sounds like something good,” I said.

“I’m picking that up too. Let’s do this,” he said, pulling a quarter out of his soft khaki pants. He flipped it high into the air and said “call it!” tracing the quarter’s arc with his eyes.

“Tails,” I said. He caught the quarter in his right hand and smacked it over onto his left wrist.

“Before we look, let’s talk about this, he said, without revealing the coin. “We’ve resorted to a traditional conflict-resolution process, but perhaps it is unnecessary to do so. Perhaps there is no conflict. Which room would you prefer to have?”

“The outside one.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t like to have other people going through my room.”

“Which room do you think I want?” he asked.

“The same one, the outside.”

“Why do you think that?” We were standing in the door to my dorm room at Hemingway, him still with his right hand covering the quarter on his left wrist, right next to his steel Rolex.

“’Cause you’ve always got girls in your room. I’d imagine you’d value your privacy.”

“I do,” he said, and smiled at me. “My impression is that you go to bed relatively early,” he said.

“True, if you judge me as compared to this lot,” I gestured to our hall, left and right. “I get tired around midnight.”

“You also don’t seem to gossip much,” said Cisco, hand still on wrist.

“About what?” I asked.

“Who’s José fucking?” he asked.

“Yeah, well. Who knows?”

“You do. You saw Roz Martin and him leave his room together at 7:00 a.m. last Wednesday.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about that kind of thing.”

“I have deep respect for this aspect of your personality,” he said.

“Why thank you.”

“And it is one of the factors that makes the inner room more appealing to me.”

“No shit?” I asked.

“None. It’s possible that any … friends … I bring to my room will be joining us after you’re asleep. And your … taciturn … nature will be … handy. And guests from my room will not need to pass through yours to have access to the bathroom. Are we agreed?”

“Yeah, well, sure.”

“Excellent! It’s a deal, then?”

“I’m outside, you’re inside, and I don’t talk?” I asked.

“That sums it up. No need to look at the coin, then.”

“It’s tails,” I said.

“How can you know that?”

“I never lose a coin toss.” He lifted his right hand from is left wrist and revealed the spread eagle tails side of a Washington quarter. He smiled that smile, then flipped it with his thumb so that it spun through the air and I caught it in my right hand.

“You’re the man,” said Cisco and headed out, topsiders, khakis, alligator shirt and all. At the door he stopped and turned around in the middle of lighting a Marlboro red. “About the Ginny and Walt deal, they’ve been playing tennis together.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“A lot.”

“Okay…”

“He told me last month that he’d given up smoking,” he said.

“This is consistent with getting in shape for tennis,” I said.

“He said he’d given it up because she didn’t like the way it tasted.”

“A very specific criticism,” I said.

“Thought you should know,” he said.

“Look, man, for some reason people think there’s more going on between Ginny and me than there is. This is not a problem, but thanks for telling me.”

“Later, dude, ” he answered, and left. The phone rang a few minutes later.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Okay, so, I’m almost all the way packed. If I get all my stuff into the trunk will you be able to fit yours into the back seat?” asked Stony, without preamble.

“Yeah, sure. All of my stuff fits into a steamer trunk.”

“Not sure what that is man, but as long as it’ll fit in the back seat, we’re cool. And you’re okay with having my aquarium at your feet?”

“You have an aquarium?” I asked.

“Of course. Oh, shit, you don’t have one too, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Okay. That’s cool. It’s just a ten-gallon one and you’ll get used to having it at your feet pretty fast. I’ll be over in about ten. Wait. You’re in the one that’s closest to Tex Ritter’s?” My dorm was across the street from a fast-food hamburger place called Tex Ritter’s.

“Yes,” I said.

“O.K. That’s cool. That might come in handy. I haven’t eaten anything today and it’s past lunchtime. At least I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today. Anyway Tex Ritter’s bein’ right across the street is pretty cool. Oh, wow! And then there’s IHOP right down that one-way street. And Jesus! Mack’s Fine Foods and Fresh Vegetables Daily is right across the street from that!”

“Stoney?”

“Yes?”

“Just get here. Then I’ll drive you to wherever you want to eat lunch, I’ll buy your lunch, then I’ll drive us to Chattanooga.”

“But then I’ll have the aquarium down between my feet,” he complained.

“Yes, you will.” I could hear him sigh as though he was resigned to this onerous condition even though he knew it to be patently unfair.

Two hours later, Stoney knocked on my door. He was wearing bell-bottomed Levi’s, his cowboy boots, the vest from a navy blue pinstriped suit, an Oxford cloth buttoned down shirt much like my own, and his aviator shades. “Cool. Ready to go?” he asked.

“Yeah sure.” He helped me negotiate my steamer trunk down the stairs. That was pretty easy because I’d sent all my books to Mrs. W, parcel post, just like when I was on the road. Once my trunk was loaded into his back seat, he looked at me and said “burgers?” We walked across the street to Tex Ritter’s. Both of us had the Chuck Wagon Special, as I recalled, which was a good double cheeseburger with fries and your choice of soda.

“I think I should drive,” I said, when we got back to the parking lot.

“Really?” he asked. “I’ve driven this car for so long.”

“To feel comfortable having you drive me through steep mountain passes, I’d want to know everything you’d ingested since yesterday,” I said.

“Oh, God. Who takes notes? And more to the point, what have you ingested since yesterday, Henry Baida. Answer me that!”

“Food and water,” I said. There was a pause during which he looked puzzled.

“Yeah. Sure. No beer or whiskey. I bet.”

“I don’t drink.”

“I know you say that, but I mean really,” said Stoney.

“I really don’t drink.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me. Everybody drinks. Except these weird religious fanatics you have down here. Are you one of those?”

“No. Let me have the keys, please,” I said.

“Why do you want the keys to my car?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m offering to drive you to Chattanooga.”

“Cool!” he said, and threw me the keys. We moved to get in. “Ah, shit. I forgot about the damned fish,” he said, after opening the passenger side door. “Lemme drive.”

“No.”

“But there’s no room for my feet,” he said.

“There would be no room for my feet, either,” I said. He seemed confused by this information. “Let’s go Stoney,” I said. We both got in, him placing his feet carefully alongside the aquarium. It contained a single, blunt-looking palm-sized fish, a combination of goldfish-gold and silvery white that faded into river green. Once he was seated I started the car and pulled into traffic.

“Why are you driving, again?” he asked right before we got on the freeway. “This is my car.”

“Because you’re completely fucked up,” I answered.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, well. You know what they say.”

“What do they say?” I asked.

“Reality’s for people who can’t handle drugs,” he answered.

“I’ve heard that before,” I said.

“But I made it up.”

“No, you didn’t. Okay. In a little over two hours you’re going to meet my friend Mrs. Wertheimer. She has little patience for drugs.”

“Why?”

“Partly because intoxicated people are only interesting to other people who are also intoxicated. Recall that one condition of you staying in her house all summer, and so getting a pass to take the courses you want, is that she said no drugs are allowed in her house at all.”

“Oh, she didn’t mean that,” said Stoney.

“Yes, she did, and if she catches you with anything illegal in her house, my guess is that she’ll send you packing. She’s tolerant, but she enforces rules.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Surely she suspects that you smoke reefer when you’re home for holidays.”

“But I don’t.”

“Not at all?” he asked, baffled.

“Nope.”

“Why not?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Just not interested.” He shook his head in a troubled, baleful manner.

“This is a total bummer,” he said.

“Which part?”

“That you don’t smoke.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“I ran out of reefer just before lunch and I thought I could bum some off of you.”

“No. Stoney, you have agreed not to do drugs all summer.”

“Oh, that’s one of those summer romance promises. Nobody expects you to keep those.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t occasionally take a toke herself?”

“No.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Sober up?” I asked back.

“No, no, I’ll think of something,” he said. He was lost in his own thoughts for maybe an hour. He never seemed to fall completely asleep, but I couldn’t monitor him very carefully because I was driving. He was quiet until I got to the top of the descent of the Monteagle pass.

“Okay, so, hypothetically, if I were to smoke some weed off by myself in my bedroom and she never knew it happened,” Stoney asked. “Could I do that?”

“Not in her house, no. Her deal is no drugs in her house.”

“Okay,” he said, and thought for a few minutes.“No smoking in her house?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And that’s it? I may be able to work with that.”

“Well, no. No possession of illegal drugs in her house would be more accurate,” I said.

“Ah, shit. Now that’s just unreasonable. What does she care what’s in my pockets?”

“Stoney, she disapproves of drugs.”

“But why?” he asked, beseechingly, mystified.

“She’s never done drugs—”

“She doesn’t drink?”

“Yes, of course she does. Not much, but she does. She also drinks coffee and smokes cigarettes. A lot. And I’m sure she takes aspirin and drinks tea. But all of that is different.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. If Mrs. W has a glass of wine with dinner, it may affect her mood, and if she has a lot of wine with dinner, hypothetically, she might be intoxicated. But no cop is going to show up at her door with a search warrant telling her they suspect her of having a glass of wine, and haul her off to jail because she did.”

“It’s not fair,” said Stoney, looking in his pockets for a cigarette.

“Somebody once told me that the only place you find justice is in the dictionary.”

“Good line,” said Stoney, meditatively, nodding and taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Mrs. W disapproves of drugs. She’s some bad effects.”

“‘Needle and the Damage Done’ shit?” he asked, speculatively.

“No. The only time she’s mentioned it was over this classmate of mine. Ed Bork. Ed was a weird guy even before he started in on acid, and acid put him kind of over the top. He started quoting strange things from Aleister Crowley about devil worship and crap.. He had these tract he’d hand out, talking about Satanism and shit. It was all stupid. He had bad hair, too.”

“What kind of bad hair?”

“Kind of helmet shaped.”

“What did he look like”

“Five ten, bony. Smiled too much, but that was the drugs.

“What did he do to … your math teacher?”

“He claimed to put a hex on her.” We’d come all the way down the mountain and were on the flatlands that lead into Chattanooga.

“What kind of hex?” asked Stoney.

“She told me that he didn’t even attempt to answer the exam questsions because he had placed a powerful curse on her so that she would be dead before grades came in, or something like that. She tried to fail him, but the administration overruled her and gave him a passing grade just to get rid of him.”

“Witchcraft is powerful,” said Stoney.

“Mrs. W is still alive,” I said.

“True,” he said.

“Okay, so, no drugs in the house, but what if there happened to be a stash outside the house but hidden nearby, where a man might stop by and refresh himself?”

“This is a gray area I am not equipped to address.”

“Or what if I found legal drugs of some sort? I could bring them into the house, right?”

“Like codeine?” I asked. “Like you talk some Chattanooga doctor into giving you something you want to take?”

“No like psilocybin mushrooms. Nothing illegal about them. ”

“I don’t think they grow in Tennessee,” I said.

“Who would know?” he asked.

“A mycologist,” I said.

“Henry, please be serious.”

“I have no idea.”

He was lost in his thoughts for a few minutes. “Booze?” he asked.

“She won’t mind drinking,” I said.

“Well that’s something. What about advanced, graduate-level drinking?”

“Well, it’s not illegal,” I said.

“Is there a liquor store on the way?”

“Yeah, we can do that,” I said.

“That will help until I can come up with a real solution,” he said. The wheels were churning, and he had a troubled expression. I took him to Nick’s across the street from the now-shuttered Union Station, and he bought a half gallon of Jack Daniel’s black label , a half gallon of Smirnoff hundred proof vodka, and a fifth of something called grappa. He distributed them amongst his possessions in various areas of his car, and then pronounced himself ready to go. We were just a few minutes from Mrs. Wertheimer’s house.

Chapter nummbers have changed, which is a little confusing. Some of this you've sen before. I'll post partial chapters here and whole chapters on FB

2011-02-03T19:45:00.000-08:00

“You’re the man,” said Cisco and headed out, topsiders, khakis, alligator shirt and all. At the door he stopped and turned around in the middle of lighting a Marlboro red. “About the Ginny and Walt deal, they’ve been playing tennis together.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“A lot.”

“Okay…”

“He told me last month that he’d given up smoking,” he said.

“This is consistent with getting in shape for tennis,” I said.

“He said he’d given it up because she didn’t like the way it tasted.”

“A very specific criticism,” I said.

“Thought you should know,” he said.

“Look, man, for some reason people think there’s more going on between Ginny and me than there is. This is not a problem, but thanks for telling me.”

“Later, dude, ” he answered, and left. The phone rang a few minutes later.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Okay, so, I’m almost all the way packed. If I get all my stuff into the trunk will you be able to fit yours into the back seat?” asked Stony, without preamble.

“Yeah, sure. All of my stuff fits into a steamer trunk.”

“Not sure what that is man, but as long as it’ll fit in the back seat, we’re cool. And you’re okay with having my aquarium at your feet?”

“You have an aquarium?” I asked.

“Of course. Oh, shit, you don’t have one too, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Okay. That’s cool. It’s just a ten-gallon one and you’ll get used to having it at your feet pretty fast. I’ll be over in about ten. Wait. You’re in the one that’s closest to Tex Ritter’s?” My dorm was across the street from a fast-food hamburger place called Tex Ritter’s.

“Yes,” I said.

“O.K. That’s cool. That might come in handy. I haven’t eaten anything today and it’s past lunchtime. At least I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today. Anyway Tex Ritter’s bein’ right across the street is pretty cool. Oh, wow! And then there’s IHOP right down that one-way street. And Jesus! Mack’s Fine Foods and Fresh Vegetables Daily is right across the street from that!”

“Stoney?”

“Yes?”

“Just get here. I’ll then drive you to wherever you want to eat lunch, I’ll buy your lunch. Then I’ll drive us to Chattanooga.”

“But then I’ll have the aquarium down between my feet,” he complained.

“Yes, you will.” I could hear him sigh as though he was resigned to this onerous condition even though he knew it to be patently unfair.

Two hours later, Stoney knocked on my door. He was wearing bell-bottomed Levi’s, his cowboy boots, the vest from a navy blue pinstriped suit, an Oxford cloth buttoned down shirt much like my own, and his aviator shades. “Cool. Ready to go?” he asked.

“Yeah sure,” he said. He helped me negotiate my steamer trunk down the stairs. That was pretty easy because I’d sent all the books I might want to keep to Mrs. W, parcel post, just like when I was on the road. Once my trunk was loaded into his back seat, he looked at me and said “burgers?” We walked across the street to Tex Ritter’s. Both of us had the Chuck Wagon Special, as I recalled, which was a good double cheeseburger with fries and your choice of soda.

“I think I should drive,” I said, when we got back to the parking lot.

“Really?” he asked. “I’ve driven this car for so long.”

“To feel comfortable having you drive me through steep mountain passes, I’d want to know everything you’d ingested since yesterday,” I said.

“Oh, God. Who takes notes? And more to the point, what have you ingested since yesterday, Henry Baida. Answer me that!”

“Food and water,” I said. There was a pause during which he looked puzzled.

“Yeah. Sure. No beer or whiskey. I bet.”

“I don’t drink.”

“I know you say that, but I mean really,” said Stoney.

“I really don’t drink.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me. Everybody drinks. Except these weird religious fanatics you have down here. Are you one of those?”

“No. Let me have the keys, please,” I said.

“Why do you want the keys to my car?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m offering to drive you to Chattanooga.”

“Cool!” he said, and threw me the keys. We moved to get in. “Ah, shit. I forgot about the damned fish,” he said, after opening the passenger side door. “Lemme drive.”

“No.”

“But there’s no room for my feet,” he said.

“There would be no room for my feet, either,” I said. He seemed confused by this information. “Let’s go Stoney,” I said. We both got in, him placing his feet carefully alongside the aquarium. It contained a single, blunt-looking palm-sized fish, a combination of goldfish-gold and silvery white that faded into river green. Once he was seated I started the car and pulled into traffic.

“Why are you driving, again?” he asked right before we got on the freeway. “This is my car.”

“Because you’re completely fucked up,” I answered.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, well. You know what they say.”

“What do they say?” I asked.

“Reality’s for people who can’t handle drugs,” he answered.

“I’ve heard that before,” I said.

“But I made it up.”

“No, you didn’t. Okay. In a little over two hours you’re going to meet my friend Mrs. Wertheimer. She has little patience for drugs.”

“Why?”

“Because the intoxicated are only interested in others who are intoxicated. You will recall that one condition of your tenure in her house over the summer, and getting a pass to take the courses you want, is that she said no drugs are allowed in her house this summer.”

“Oh, she can’t have meant that,” said Stoney.

“She did, and if she catches you with anything illegal in her house, my guess is that she’ll throw you out.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Surely she suspects that you smoke reefer when you’re home for holidays.”

“But I don’t.”

“Not at all?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I don’t care for it,” I answered. He shook his head in a troubled manner.

“This is a total bummer,” he said.

“Which part?”

“That you don’t smoke”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“I’m out of reefer and I had assumed I could bum some off of you.”

“No. Stoney, you have agreed not to do drugs all summer.”

“Oh, that’s one of those summer evening promises. Nobody expects you to keep those.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t occasionally take a toke herself?”

“No.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Sober up?” I asked back.

“No, no, I’ll think of something,” he said.

Chapter 26A: Another chapter that will come out in segments

2011-02-01T19:36:00.000-08:00

Chapter 25: The rest of freshman year

2011-01-28T21:23:00.000-08:00

The weirdest class in my entire academic career happened a few months later, just before exams, in my math class. Stoney was in the desk next to me sound asleep in his aviator shades, head resting on his copy of Moby Dick. Dr. Wolff was addressing us on some tedious point and for some reason, Dr. Ladd, the chairman of the Math department and my academic adviser, was present, seated in a chair behind Dr. Wolff. Wolff called on me to ask me about something that seemed complicated but wasn’t if you’d read ahead a chapter or had Mrs. W as a math teacher, and I answered in a way that I thought the next chapter would approve of, and Wolff got all cross.

“No, Mr. Baida, I want you to focus very clearly on the methodology of this chapter,” he said. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean yes, sir, but next class you’re going to teach us a much simpler way to address the same problem. All you need to do is get really close to the limit, and the limit here is zero.”

“Mathematics is a rigorous discipline, Mr. Baida. Each thing I teach you is a building block for what comes next,” he said.

“I guess, yeah,” I said.

“You guess? You guess?”

‘I mean, the way the next chapter addresses this same set of limits has a really different methodology. And it’s lots faster, at least for me,” I said.

“I know you dabble in Physics,” said Wolff. “But in math, once things are true, they are always true. Always settled. Every few years physicists change their minds about the fundamentals of their discipline. Physics changes. Math does not.”

“Okay,” I said. Stoney woke up, sat bolt upright, and looked surprised at to be in these particular surroundings, as though he’d never been there before. He looked at Wolff, who was obviously cross with me, then at me, then a wary expression settled on his face.

“You disagree?” asked Wolff.

“Maybe,” I said.

“If A is greater than B and B is greater than C, A is always greater than C, always and everywhere.”

“Okay,” I said.

“You disagree?” Wolff asked. Now that Stoney had realized he wasn’t about to get in trouble, he was following the conversation with a contemplative expression, so far as I could tell from the part of him that wasn’t covered in sunglasses.

“I understand that you believe that the laws of mathematics are universally true,” I said.

“And you do not?”

“Not exactly.”

“If A is greater than B and B is greater than C, A is always greater than C. You disagree with that?” he asked.

“Not exactly. It’s not like I think it’s wrong. I just don’t think that any precept is universally true.”

“Why not? How can you not?” Wolff asked.

“I just don’t think that anything is always true. Rules all have exceptions. Beliefs and laws all have holes in them.” I really didn’t like being in this semi-confrontational conversation.

“You can’t agree with me that if A is greater than B and B is greater than C, then A is always greater than C?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Wolff. I don’t mean to be disagreeable or difficult, but I just don’t think that anything is universally true. I just don’t. Reality’s not like that.” There was an awkward pause. The other students, except for Stoney, were shifting awkwardly in their seats and trying to not make eye contact with anyone else.

“Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants, name me one place in the entire universe, in Physics or Mathematics, where if A is greater than B and B is greater than C, A is not greater than C.”

“In Rock, Paper, Scissors,” I said. Stoney immediately threw back his head and cackled so loudly that the smell of marijuana smoke filled the room. He coughed and caught his breath and cackled some more.

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ perfect,” he said. The other math students were looking at me in frank horror.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Dr. Wolff, primly.

“John,” said Prof. Ladd.

“I’m asking a serious question and you answer with a child’s game?” said Wolff, to me.

“John—” said Prof. Ladd, to Wolff.

“Yes, sir,” I said, to Wolff.

“John!” said Prof. Ladd, to Wolff.

“But—” began Wolff.

“I know,” said Prof. Ladd. “I asked you to make this class your most rigorous, and to make sure Mr. Baida was possessed of the mind of a mathematician. But you have challenged him and he has answered your question deftly, with insight and ingenuity. He is absolutely right, and it is a delightful answer.” There was a pause.

“Far fuckin’ out,” said Stoney, in a conversational voice, starting at me. Those few words reoccupied the air between us with the rich dark smell of marijuana smoke.

“John, let’s move on. Mr. Baida, if you’d come have a word with me after class? Thank you.”

Stoney took off his shades and looked at me in frank admiration, gesturing in some odd, high way. Other students looked worried, as though I’d done something improper that was going to get everyone in trouble. Wolff turned his attention to some other student. He (Wolff) was discombobulated for a minute or two but soon reassumed his air of supercilious punctiliousness and class reassumed its normal rhythm.

At the end of class Stoney looked at me, as usual, with a lunch question. “Rand or Campus Grill?”

“Your pick, but Ladd wants to pow-wow first.”

“Oh, right.” I stood and walked the few steps to the front of the classroom. Dr. Ladd and Dr. Wolff were talking, and I stood a few paces away and waited for them to be through. Stoney followed right along, standing right next to me with his copy of Moby Dick, as though he, too, had an appointment with Dr. Ladd.

“Mr. Baida,” Ladd said, frowning slightly, when he’d finished talking to Dr. Wolff. “I believe we got off on the wrong foot.” He paused. It’s not uncommon for people I don’t particularly like to pause as though I’m supposed to help them along with the conversation. He looked at me. I looked back. There was an awkward pause. “I guess I assumed that the policies of the department were based on years of experience, and that assuming that someone who had not taken the prerequisite courses was doomed to failure was … reasonable.” Dr. Ladd looked at me again as though he wanted me to say something. I looked back. There was a pause. Even Stoney started to look at me as though I was supposed to speak. “And so I was wrong,” said Dr. Ladd. “John—Dr. Wolff, that is, has been showing me your grades, and it appears you’re in first place in your class for both semesters. Never a wrong answer. Well, you’re tied for first place. There’s somebody else—”

“Oh, cool, that’s me,” said Stoney, stepping forward behind his sunglasses.

“And you are?” asked Ladd.

“Thomas Jackson … sir,” said Stoney, proud of himself for remembering to say “sir.”

“Is this correct?” Ladd asked Wolff.

“Yes, sir,” he said. They both shook their heads ruefully.

“Would you mind standing a little further away, Mr. Jackson? I’m trying to talk to Mr. Baida. Stoney took a step backwards.

“Okay. Mr. Baida, I am worried that through departmental limitations I have unduly restricted the development of a sound mathematical mind.” He looked at me. I looked back. There was a pause. “Did you really take math from Dr. Margaret Wertheimer?”

“My high school math teacher was named Margaret Wertheimer. I don’t know about her educational background.”

“Tell Dr. Wertheimer that if she tells me you’re okay with complex integration and differentiation, I’ll approve you for any math course you want to take, whether you’ve taken the pre-requisites or not. There’s a book I think she has, Introduction to Complex Analysis, by Zeev Nehari. I know he’s a friend of hers, so I assume she’s got his book. It’s a little more engineering-related than I like for a math student, but the math is acceptable. Tell her I said if you can read it, you have the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I hadn’t actually made any plans for my summer, but now it appeared I had some.

“How about me?” asked Stoney.

“How do you mean, Mr. … Jackson?”

“If she teaches me, too, do I get the same pass?”

“You, too, know Dr. Wertheimer?” he asked.

“No, no. But Henry’s my best friend in the whole world, and I’m sure he can get me in.” I looked at him and frowned. Stoney all day every day might be a bit much. There was a pause.

“Are you two ….” Wolff asked.

“Oh, no,” said Stoney, shaking his head. “Henry’s gay, but I’m totally straight.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said.

“Okay, Mr. Jackson. If Dr. Wertheimer signs off on you, you get the same pass. We smiled and shook hands. Dr. Wolff cocked an eyebrow at me as we left.

“So you really want to spend the summer in Chattanooga studying math?” I asked, outside.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, firing up a joint right outside the doors. “Grosse Pointe is kinda boring. Gotta be lots of good weed in Chattanooga.”

We did Campus Grill for lunch. Roxie was our waitress. She didn’t do any magic tricks, but my bill came out to exactly $4.00, including tax. Later that day, Milton knocked on my door and asked if I’d decided where I wanted to live the following year. I hadn’t, and he said he’d decided we should be roommates, or at least suite-mates. I was floored.

“Why’s this?” I asked. He was trying to straighten out a cigarette from a pack that had been in his back pocket when he’d sat down on it several occasions.

“It’s a larger plan,” he said, studying his cigarette with a degree of scrutiny that might accompany the examination of fingerprints from a crime scene. “If I get both you and Cisco into one suite, I may have my best year ever.”

“How’s that?” I asked. I needed a place to live, and his plan was fine, I was just curious about his reasoning.

“Well, improbable things are always happening around you. And me getting laid could easily be filed under “improbable things.” All these really attractive women are always circling around Cisco, like moths circling a moderately intelligent, handsome, morally compromised, extremely Southern porch-light. So I figure when the improbable happens because I’m around you it will be with a beautiful girl because I’m around Cisco, which is good all around, no?”

“How high are you?” I asked. It was about 3:00 in the afternoon.

“Hardly at all,” he said, taken aback and a little wounded that I’d asked. He selected another, slightly less broken cigarette and lit it, then gazed at it speculatively. “I smoked part of a joint after lunch, but nothing since then.”

“I’m fine with rooming with you and Cisco,” I said. “You said four. Who’s the fourth?”

“Yeah, I dunno,” said Milton. “I kinda don’t think most of the guys on the floor are right for the vibe I’m tryin’ to set up.”

“Do you know my friend Stoney?” I asked.

“Stoney who?” he asked.

“Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson.”

“Stoney Jackson? You know Stoney Jackson? Oh, man, that would be so cool! He has the best drugs on the planet!”

I called Stoney, and he was okay with the roommate plan. I called Mrs. W, and she was okay with teaching him math over the summer. I had been aware from the time Stoney had suggested he accompany me on the Summer of Math that it would involve her putting us both up for the summer. If she minded, it didn’t show.

“Tell Stoney no marijuana or other illegal drugs over the summer,” she said. “Not in my house.”

“Yes, ma’am. Just out of curiosity, what made you think that Stoney might be interested in recreational pharmaceuticals?” I asked. There was a pause.

“That nickname was a good start,” she said.

“He’s called that because he has the same name as Stonewall Jackson,” I said. I could hear her lighting a cigarette and savoring that first deep breath.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“No, really,” I said. I could hear Mrs. W thinking and smoking for a minute.

“I’ve heard it said that a good symbol is one that can stand for a lot of different things. Different people can see it different ways. Makes it enduring. Maybe a nickname is the same deal.” I heard her take another drag off of her cigarette and conversation moved on to something else.

So we were set for the summer.