Chapter 17: Conversations in the Croom

Chapter 17: Conversations in the Croom

A few days later I was hungry for lunch but not in the mood for cafeteria food so dropped in on the Commodore Room right next door. It a grill that served burgers and sandwiches but was cash only, no meal points allowed, known to students as the C-room or just Croom. Next door to the C-Room was the campus bookstore and downstairs was the post office, but at this point in our story I was hungry and so was focused on the C-Room above Rand Hall’s other charms.

I got a double cheeseburger with fries and ice water, had the usual protracted conversation with the cashier explaining that I had water, not Sprite, and so should be charged accordingly, and found a table. As I was taking a second bite of my cheeseburger, a pretty girl with a slight squint came up to my table with her tray.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked. I looked up from my Time magazine and recognized her from my Koine class.

“Not at all,” I said. “Aren’t you Mary Roberts from my Greek class?” I asked, standing.

“One of them, yes,” she said, sitting down and putting her tray on the table, “but I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I?” I sat as she sat.

“I get the feeling that you’re pretty focused on your studies?” she said. “Like maybe you’re so into what you’re studying that you don’t have enough time to pay a lot of attention to everything else?”

I thought a second. “Well, I did come to school here to study, I guess.”

“And, like, you love Jesus?” she asked.

Lordy.

“I love the Bible,” I said.

“Oh, me, too,” she said. “What’s your favorite book?”

“James,” I answered. Her expression changed a bit into a slightly puzzled frown, head cocked slightly sideways.

“You know, like I’m sure I’ve read the whole New Testament and all, but I honestly don’t remember a Book of James.” She looked at me sideways. “You’re sure it’s in the New Testament? You’re not thinking of John?”

“No, no” I said. “James. Right between Hebrews and First Peter.”

“First Peter?” Lordy.

“Yes. There’s a book called First Peter that claims to be a letter from St. Peter to churches in a lot of different places.”

“Like Paul wrote?” she asked.

“Yes, although it seems to me St. Paul was writing letters to churches he’d founded, mostly. Except for Romans. Peter’s letters don’t seem to be to people he knew. The Peter letters almost seem like they’re arguing with Paul.”

“That can’t be. The scriptures are in agreement?” she said.

“Okay,” I answered. She was eating, so I took another bite of C-Room double cheeseburger and ate a few of my still warm but no longer hot French fries.

“So have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?” she asked. I thought about this for a few seconds. I took another bite of my cheeseburger.

“Not the way you have,” I said, after I swallowed. She was less than horrified and closer to jocular than I expected at my response.

“How many ways are there?” she asked. “The only way to salvation is through the Lord.” But she was smiling. She was twirling the fork in her hand and not really eating her salad. I thought for a minute and ate two French fries in what I hoped was an appropriately contemplative manner.

“I understand your point of view,” I said. “I’ve read the Bible many times, and will continue to read it. It’s the most fascinating book in the world.”

“Of course you’re right,” she said. “It’s the most important book in the world?” She looked slightly sad for a few seconds and finally ate a bite of her salad, looking down at it so that our eyes no longer met. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“ Not at all,” I said. She thought for a few seconds and ate some more salad.

“What makes you think you understand my point of view?” she asked.

So I had to think. “Well, I guess I’ve talked to a lot of born-again Christians before,” I said. “There were a lot of Jesus freaks at my high school.”

“And so you assume we’re all alike?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve just noticed a certain similarity in what people say. If they’ve had a conversion experience, I mean.”

“But don’t you see?” she asked. “That completely misses the point. Christianity is a religion of personal experience? Each Christian experiences God, knows Christ, experiences worship, in his own individual way. To generalize my experience with Jesus with anyone else’s is just a big mistake.” I thought about this before answering.

“I don’t mean to denigrate either Christianity or your experience with it,” I said.

“I understand you think you’re being polite, but can’t you see that you’re being patronizing?” she asked.

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said.

“I believe, I know that Jesus Christ is my personal Savior. I believe He should be yours, too. I’m not an idiot, some hayseed who has quaint religious beliefs you might study in Anthropology. I got the same SATs as you and go to the same college you do and I’m just as smart as you and this is what I think. I’m not intellectually lame. I’ve read and I’ve studied and I came to this conclusion,” she said. I thought for a few seconds.

“I don’t think faith experiences translate into reason very well,” I said. “You can say that, but at bottom you had a faith experience, a conversion experience, that is impossible to understand for someone who hasn’t had one.”

“But that is an aspect of Christianity that is unique? Honestly, I don’t know if it’s unique. I haven’t really studied any other religions. Thou shalt not learn the ways of heathens. But Christianity is a religion of personal conversion? So in the end, being a Christian is a personal experience, and Christianity is personal to each Christian.”

“So all Christians experience it differently?” I asked. She shook her head.

“We experience it together and the same, too,” she said. “In church. In smaller gatherings. In our families when we pray.”

“I guess my experience just doesn’t overlap with that too much,” I said. I took another bite of my cheeseburger, still slightly warm. My fries were now cold. How do they go from being hot to cold so fast? I added salt and ketchup on them, which helped.

“Okay, so what’s your experience?” she asked. “”You say you love the Bible, but you haven’t accepted Jesus as your savior?” I finished my cheeseburger and re-ketchupped my fries before answering.”

“I’m not a person of great faith,” I said. “I wish I could be sure about all of this, but I’m not. I wish I could be like you, sure that there’s a god and that He has a plan for my life, but I’m not that guy.” She shook her head.

“I can’t understand, I guess?” she said. “To me it’s pretty clear. And you say you read the Bible?”

“Yes,” I said. “Regularly.” I did not point out that she, a person who appeared to be unfamiliar with the Book of James or Peter’s Epistles, had little room to challenge the Biblical literacy of others. I thought for a few seconds. “So you think God made us all?” I asked.

“Of course?” she said.

“So God made me the way I am?” I asked.

“Of course?” she said.

“Okay, well, when He made me He made a person with high measures of doubt and skepticism. A person who needs concrete evidence, who can’t really accept the Bible as proof of itself.” She thought for a few minutes, looking down at her unfinished salad.

“God gives us these challenges to give us an opportunity to exercise free will. To use our faith?” she said.

“Yeah, well. He gave me too much doubt to leave room for much faith,” I said. “I want to, and wish I could, but it’s not there.”

“Why?” she asked, a little too urgently for the C-Room. “It’s all around you. It’s on every page of the Bible.”

“I know that people really find that the Bible really strengthens their faith, but sometimes I wonder if they’ve read it. There are some awful things in it.”

“Awful things in the Bible? Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“And you say you’ve read it all the way through?” I asked.

“I think so. Not straight through, of course.”

“Then why do you think you’ve read the whole thing?” I asked.

“People have been reading it to me since I was a baby,” she said. “We go to church three times a week. I’ve been reading passages from it my entire life. I think that in all those years I must have read the entire Bible. Just not straight through.”

“Do you know the story of Tamar at the gate?” She frowned and shook her head.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said.

“Well, you’d remember if you’d read it,” I said.

“Why?”

“It’s very … racy,” I said. “The kind of thing that would stick if you heard it in childhood.”

“You mean like dirty?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t say dirty, but it’s racy, for sure.”

“And it’s in the Bible?” she asked.

“Sure. There’s lots of racy stuff in there. You really ought to read it straight through. There’s a lot of it that would be exceptionally inappropriate for Sunday school.”

“So what’s the story of Tamar at the gate?”

“It’s really a story of Judah and how cheap he was,” I said. “His whole family was, I guess.”

“You’re calling Judah a ‘he’?” she asked. “I think of Judah as a tribe or a country?”

“You’re right. But Judah was one of Jacob’s sons. He founded the tribe that became the country after they slew enough Canaanites.”

“So what was the skinny on this Tamar at the gate? I want to hear a racy Bible story?”

“Okay. Judah had three sons. He brought Tamar home to be the wife of the oldest, who was named Ur, I think. Ur was wicked in some unspecified way so God smote him, leaving Tamar a widow. Under the custom of the day, you were to expected to take your brother’s widow as your wife, and Judah’s next son, named Onan, took her to wife. Unfortunately for poor Tamar, Onan was wicked in a very specific way, although many college students would disagree, so God slew him, too.”

“How was he wicked?” she asked. I paused.

“The Bible somewhat euphemistically says he ‘spilled his seed.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“He was practicing a form of birth control. A method my high school health teacher said was unreliable. Under the law of the day, if Tamar conceived by Onan, the child would be regarded as Ur’s progeny, not Onan’s, and he didn’t want that, so he was trying to avoid getting Tamar pregnant. By the way, one of the funny things about this story is that Onan’s name became synonymous with another activity that likewise produces no children, but about which Genesis is silent.”

“What?” she asked. I shook my head.

“You’d be embarrassed,” I said.

“You think you know who I am again?” she said.

“Good point. What I meant to say is that I’d be embarrassed.”

“Is this the racy part?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” she asked.

“I’d blush, and I’m not at my best when I’m blushing. I think this is something you should learn in private. Just remember the name, Onan, and look up ‘onanism’ in your dictionary.”

“So what’s the racy part?”

“Judah had one more son, but rather than have him marry Tamar, or keep Tamar in his own house, he sent her back to her father to live, claiming that the third son was too young to get married, so the widow Tamar went back to town, childless. Some years later Tamar heard that Judah was coming to town to get his sheep shorn, so she hatched this plan. She covered herself in a veil and hung out on the road by the town gate, which signaled to people of the day that she was a prostitute awaiting hire.”

“You’re telling me that the word ‘prostitute’ is in the Bible.”

“Well, yes, but not frequently in the King James, and if memory serves not at all in Genesis. I think it refers to Tamar as a harlot,” I said.

“So why is she dressing up like a hooker?” she asked.

“Enough time had passed that she knew that Sheliah should be grown—“

“Sheliah’s the youngest son?” she asked.

“Yes. So he’d grown up, and nobody had come to arrange for her to marry him, which irked Tamar.”

“I still don’t see what dressing like a hooker is going to do for her,” Mary said.

“So she’s waiting by the gate, and sure enough, Judah and a buddy come riding up, Judah sees Tamar, has no idea who she is and can’t see her face, but finds her quite fetching, and says ‘I wouldst come in unto thee,” or something like that. She told him that there was a fee associated with this service, and he offered to pay her one goat to come in unto her. She says ‘I don’t see any goat,’ and he said “I wilt gladly pay you a goat on Thursday for sexual favors enjoyed today.’ She agreed to his terms but required collateral for the promised but thus far unseen goat, so he gave her his staff, his bracelets, and his seal, whereupon their deal was … consummated. So to speak.”

“You’re saying a biblical patriarch had sex with his own daughter in law?” she asked, a little too loudly. Several people at nearby tables looked at us briefly.

“Yes. But he didn’t know who she was. She was just a pretty girl in a dark veil.”

“But that’s almost like incest,” she said, disgusted. “It’s just so … sordid?” I decided now was not the time to tell her about Lot’s daughters. “Is that the end of the story?” she asked

“No. A day or two later Judah sent his buddy back into town to give her the goat and get his stuff back, but the buddy couldn’t find her. She’d taken off her veil and returned to her father’s house dressed like a proper widow. Judah was worried about his reputation and expended some effort to find her, but couldn’t. One of the weirder things about the story is that he doesn’t seem to have been worried that his reputation would suffer if people learned that he’d had sex with a prostitute, he was worried that people would think he hadn’t paid her. A refreshingly abrupt take on sexual morality, I think you’ll agree.” She made a face and shook her head briefly.

“Is that it?”

“No. You haven’t heard the punch line. Tamara was now pregnant by Judah. Several months later Judah heard about how she had shamed the memory of his sons by whoring, and yes, ‘whoring’ is in Genesis, so Judah dashed over to Tamar’s father’s house demanding an explanation and suggesting that maybe she might ought to be burned at the stake for her sins. She pulled out the staff, the bracelets, and the seal and said ‘The man who owns these things is the man who didst knock me up.’ Everybody recognized Judah’s staff, bracelets and seal, and much hilarity ensued. Judah said, ‘Okay, thou hast got me,’ and presumably arranged to support her. Either that or married her off to Sheliah.”

“Ick, no?”

“Why ick?” I asked.

“Imagine marrying someone who’s had sex with your father?”

“The entire male side of the family, actually. It would make for awkward talk at family reunions, that’s for sure,” I agreed. She made faces and shook her head a few times.

“What’s the moral?” she asked.

“I’m not a rabbi or a priest, but my guess would be something along the lines of ‘Don’t be a cheapskate where family obligations are concerned. Even if God doesn’t smite you, you’ll wind up looking like a fool.’”

“You say this is in Genesis?”

“Yes. Chapter 38, I think,” I said.

“I’m seriously going to look this up tonight,” she said. “I think you just have to be making parts of this up. Or seriously embellishing it.”

“You really ought to read it cover to cover,” I said.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know how to ask my pastor about this. Or even my mother. Anyway, I gotta go? It’s been … interesting?” She smiled sweetly but somewhat artificially, stood, said “Groovy,” and was about to walk away when Milton and Brian from my dorm showed up, said hi, and made to sit down. Brian was wearing a United States Navy uniform, which was unexpected. He was without cover, which his C.O. would not have liked, and was wearing rank insigniae I did not recognize. There were little anchors on his shoulder boards.

“Hi, Mary,” said Brian.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said, and put her tray back down. “You look sooooo good in uniform.”

“Hi,” said Milton, and put out his hand towards Mary. “I’m Milton.” She didn’t notice. Mary sat down, so the rest of us did, too.

“So have you read the assignment for our English class?” Mary asked Brian. She resumed eating bits of her salad, which she seemed ready to throw away a few seconds before.

“Not yet. I oughta introduce everybody, I guess, on account of I’m the only one here who knows everybody. Mary, this here’s Henry Baida, he lives down the hall from me.”

“Him I know, she said, and flashed a smile at me, and then one back at Brian.

“This here’s Jimmy Milton, also from the dorm,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. Milton stuck out his hand and opened his mouth as if to speak, but she had already turned her attention back to Brian,

“So do you like Eliot?” she asked Brian.

“Who?” he said.

“T.S. Eliot.” Brian stared back blankly. “He wrote the poem we have to read by tomorrow,” she said.

“Which one?” he asked.

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” she said.

“Oh, yeah,” he answered. “We read that in high school. ‘I grow old, I grow old, I will wear my trousers rolled.’”

“That’s it!” she said, a little too loudly. “So you love Eliot?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know that I understand it all, but some of it’s fun to think about.” Even I could tell that he was just trying to think of things she’d like to hear.

“Are you going to be an English major?” she asked. Milton was eating his sandwich, munching on his potato chips, shaking his head at pretty much all of Brian’s answers to Mary’s questions.

“No, I’m thinking I’ll go Ec./B.A.,” he answered.

“Eckbah?” she asked.

“Economics and Business Administration,” he said. “Sorry.”

“How funny,” she said. “I just naturally assumed you were more of an artist than an economist?”

“I dunno,” he said. “We don’t have to declare ‘til, what? Sophomore year? I was thinkin’ business on account of my Pa has this business and he wants me to come into it and it sounds like a pretty good gig, but it’s gonna be the same business whether I major in business or underwater basket weaving, so I dunno. Plus I got like this Navy trip to deal with, too.”

“What kind of business?” she asked.

“In Ec/BA?” he answered. “Doesn’t matter. Any kind of business.” He frowned in puzzlement.

“No, no, I’m sorry?” she said. “I mean what kind of business is it your father is in?”

“Oh. Gotcha. We make sportswear,” said Brian. Milton, lunch finished, propped his head on his right hand and looked out the window toward the Old Science building in silent despair, shaking his head at what he considered to be Brian’s inept responses to Mary’s questions.

“Like shoes?” she asked.

“No, no. Like tee shirts. Sweat pants. Shorts.”

“How fun!” she said. “And you’re in, what, the Navy?”

“Yeah. Sure. NROTC.” She frowned and shook her head. “Naval ROTC.”

“ROTC?” she asked. Milton looked at her, trying to decide if she was an idiot or not.

“Reserve Officer Training Corps,” said Brian.

“So you’re like a sailor?”

“Yeah. When I graduate I’ll be an reserve ensign in the Navy. That’s an officer. I’ll serve for three years.”

“And a reserve officer is one that only gets called up when they call up the Reserves?” she asked.

“No. I’ll serve even if the Reserves don’t get called up,” he said. “Being a reserve officer doesn’t make me part of the Reserves.”

“Why not?” she asked. Brian paused and tried to think through his answer.

“They’re like two different things,” he said. She made a slightly frowning face and looked at her watch.

“So after you graduate you’re going to be on a ship with nothing but men for three years and a Naval officer?”

“Yeah. I want to do jets.”

“Meaning you want to be a pilot?”

“That’s Air Force talk. In the Navy, we call them aviators. Naval Aviators.” She smiled sweetly at him.

“Where’s your hat?” she asked. Brian’s face registered instant concern. He looked around, patted himself, looked at the floor, thought back.

“Oh, fuck!” he said. “I musta left it at the Training Center. They make us learn knots and shit. Oh, Hell. The C.O.’s gonna kick my ass.” He stood immediately and scrambled towards the door, leaving his tray behind. Mary looked at him leave and smiled sweetly at his departing figure.

She looked at Milton and me. “Do you know if he’s Christian?” she asked.

“Hi, I’m Milton,” said Milton, extending his hand.

“Hello. Milton what?” she asked.

“Jimmy Milton,” he said. “It’s a last name.”

“So do you know if Brian’s accepted Jesus as his personal savior?” she asked.

“He hasn’t said,” said Milton.

“What can you tell me about him?” she asked, looking back and forth between us.

“All I know is that he’s from South Jersey. Cherry Hill, down by Philly,” said Milton. She looked at me.

“He’s a Phils fan,” I said. She stared back blankly. “He likes baseball and follows the National League. His favorite team is the Philadelphia Phillies, which is on the verge of being eliminated from the playoffs. He doesn’t approve of the Designated Hitter Rule.” Milton rolled his eyes.

“The what?” she asked.

“The Designated Hitter Rule.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a rule in the American League that allows a player who does not play a defensive position to appear in the line-up.” She gave me a confused look.

“So it’s a sports deal?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, and stood, with her tray. “Fellahs, it’s been a pleasure,” she said, and walked off.

Milton pulled out a cigarette and lit it. It was brown and slightly slimmer than most cigarettes I saw. He lit it from a matchbook with one hand by curling the match around to the striking surface with his thumb. I’d never seen a cigarette like this before and wasn’t entirely sure what he was smoking.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Sherman,” he asked, and pulled a red pack of Shermans out of his shirt pocket to show. He shook it towards me to offer me one.

“No, thanks,” I said. “Don’t smoke.” He put his Shermans away.

“So what’s your take on Mary’s take on Brian?” he asked, staring again out the window.

“She’s interested.”

“Ya’ think?” he answered.

“I take it you agree?”

“She’s about to throw herself at him like Vida Blue would throw to Pete Rose in a World Series game.”

“Something about a man in uniform,” I said.

“I’m never gonna get laid,” he said. He stared out the window and smoked his cigarette. “You N.L. guys are so hidebound,” he said. “There’s a designated hitter. Get used to it.”

“So is a baseball,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Hidebound.”

“No doubt you think that’s clever.” I did chuckle. Milton rolled his eyes and started moving the remnants of Brian’s lunch onto his tray so he could clear the table when we left. We sat in silence while he finished his cigarette, which he dropped to the floor and extinguished with the toe of his shoe. We were just about to get up when Toni and Rob came up, books in hand. Gack.

“Excuse me,” said Toni, sounding exasperated, as always. “If we join you will we interrupt your male-only rituals?”

“Actually, we were just leaving,” I said. “I’m sure you guys would like to be alone, so …”

“No, you need to stay here to watch our stuff,” she said, placing her books on the table. “We’ll be right back. She was wearing her usual bell-bottomed Levis and denim jacket, but the jacket was over a bright red blouse with some sort of crocheted top underneath. It was warm out, and the rest of us were in short sleeves. After she put down her books she hung her jacket on the back of her chair, then hung her red blouse over that, revealing a crocheted tube top that covered up not as much of her as modesty usually requires. She hovered over the chair fussing with and straightening the blouse so that the seams lined up with the seams of the jacket underneath for a few seconds—not long but too long. She was a funny girl. Rob watched mutely. I glanced over at Milton, whose slightly widened eyes were fixed on her tube top. “All right. Let’s go,” she said to Rob, when her garments were aligned. She frowned at her neatly-stacked books, straightened them in some miniscule way, then turned and walked towards the food service area.

“Is this okay, fellahs?” Rob asked, with a worried expression.

“Sure,” said Milton.

“I was just about to go.” I began.

“No, you’re staying,” said Milton. “You’re going to introduce me to .. these nice people.” Rob thanked us and followed Toni. Milton watched Toni as she walked away.

“Wow,” he said.

“Milt, she’s an absolute head-case,” I said.

“Did you see those knockers?” he answered. He shook his head in disbelief.

“Milt. Really. She would drive anybody other than Rob absolutely crazy,” I said.

“And that stomach, my God, it was as flat as .. what?”

“A pancake,” I suggested.

“Not an adequate metaphor,” he said. “What else is flat? A plate glass window? The griddle at McDonald’s?”

“A pool table,” I said.

“Yes! Perfect! And those legs. Longer than …”

“The Mississippi River,” I offered.

“Yes, excellent,” he said. He spent the next several minutes thinking of metaphors for Toni’s waist, breasts, hair, eyes and behind, speculating on her libido all the while, and was still at it when they returned with their trays a few minutes later. She had a tuna-fish sandwich, an opened can of Tab, and a cup of ice, he had what may have been a chicken salad sandwich, fries, and a carton of milk. I stood when they showed back up, Milt didn’t. Toni looked at us before she sat down.

“So you’ve been talking about me,” she said, still standing.

“No, no,” said Milton. “We’ve been talking about the pros and cons of the Panama Canal Treaty,” said Milton.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, flopping into an empty chair and dropping her tray harder than she needed to, as if to punctuate her exasperation. Her Tab and her cup of ice both bounced and then fell over, spilling ice and foaming soda all over the tray, but without getting onto her tuna fish sandwich, sitting on its plate. She made no effort to right the soda can, and we all watched it gurgle out onto the tray, except for Rob, who put down his tray and ran off, I assumed to fetch wads of paper napkins.

“Look at this mess, she said. “25 hundredths of a liter of Tab shot to Hell. I just don’t understand what it is with men.” She looked Milton and I, one at a time, shook her head dismissively, then looked straight down at the ice and soda surrounding the plate on which her sandwich rested.

“Oops,” said Milton. “I’m Milton,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. She seemed not to hear him, didn’t look up, and Milton’s hand hung over the table for a few seconds before he withdrew it as she appeared to make a discovery about her tray.

“Oh, my God!” she said, too loudly for the Croom, and pronouncing “God” as “Gawad,” almost but not quite two syllables. “I have a little mini containment vessel in my lunch!” She looked up at Milton and I, both uncomprehending. As she looked at us, one at a time, we both shook our heads. We didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Nuclear reactors are all built within a containment vessel, a huge concrete and steel basin, so that if there’s a meltdown of the reactor core, the meltdown will be contained within the structure,” she said, looking back and forth between us. “The AEC requires it. I checked.”

“Cool,” said Milton, looking her in the eye, not letting his eyes drop to her crocheted top.

“So like The China Syndrome couldn’t have really happened, although, like, nuclear energy is still a completely bogus idea. No way to close the fuel cycle.” She looked up at us and received, from me, the “what the fuck are you talking about now”? look she usually got from me and, from Milton, the “oh my God how I’d love to see how you look naked” look he usually had around women.

Rob showed up not with paper napkins but a dry tray, quickly transferred Toni’s sandwich plate to the dry tray, then took the wet tray away. As he did so neither Toni nor Rob took any notice of each other. Milton frowned, and I avoided starting a conversation with either. Toni stared at the ceiling in an elaborate effort to avoid looking at Rob. Milton, always captivated by a pretty girl, did not seem to be aware of Rob, either.

“So where are you from and what’s your major?” she asked Milton, as Rob left to buy her a new Tab.

“California and probably Philosophy.”

“Los Angeles or San Francisco?” she asked.

“Marin County.”

“Don’t know it,” she said.

“North of San Francisco.”

“Democrat or Republican?” she asked.

“There are no Republicans in Marin County,” he answered. Rob returned with a fresh glass of iced tea, placed it on Mary’s tray and sat down.

“What’d I miss?” asked Rob, placing a can of Tab and a glass of ice on Toni’s tray. Without acknowledging him, she poured her Tab over ice, exactly half-full.

“Milton here is from north of San Francisco and is thinking of being a Philosophy major,” I said.

“Or maybe a double major in English and Philosophy,” said Milton.

“Is that how you’re friends?” asked Rob. “Some mutually double major trip?” I shook my head.

“Same dorm floor,” I answered.

“Isn’t Philosophy just irrelevant bullshit?” asked Toni. I glanced at Rob, who looked down quickly and stared intently at his egg salad sandwich, placidly stuffing Fritos into his mouth.

“Oh, no. Not at all,” he answered, surprised by the question. “I think Philosophy examines the greatest questions of the universe. Of history. Of mankind.”

“Exactly. Mankind. All men. All D.E.W.M.s” Toni said.

“Dooms?” Milton asked.

“No. D.E.W.M.s,” she repeated.

“Doo-ems?” asked Milton.

“Dee, ee, double-you ems,” she said, taking an aggravated bite of her tuna sandwich.”

“Rob, can you translate, please?” I asked. “We’re freshmen. We don’t speak Toni.”

“She means dead European white males,” he said, speaking with his mouth full, which would no doubt have bothered his mother. “It’s an acronym.”

“Obviously,” said Toni. Milton thought for a minute. He was trying very hard to like her.

“So you’re suggesting that Philosophy is bad because it was written by dead European white men?” he asked, tentatively.

“I’m saying that Western culture is phallocentric, limited, sexist, biased, prejudiced, and patriarchal,” she said, waving half of her tuna sandwich at him in an almost threatening manner and nearly knocking over he second Tab.

“Because it was written by men?” he asked.

“A certain kind of man,” she said. “Where is the place of Native Americans or Blacks in Western Philosophy?” Milton thought for a minute.

“I really don’t think Socrates knew many Blacks or Indians,” he said.

“Exactly,” she said, making a gesture with the remains of her sandwich that indicated that she had won the argument. Milton wasn’t entirely sure what point had been made.

“Henry, couldn’t you say the same thing about Physics?” I really didn’t want to get dragged into a Toni argument. It was hard enough to watch.

“How so?” I asked.

“Aren’t they all … dee ee double-you ems?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” I said. “Some of our white males are living. And some of them aren’t European.” He thought, then nodded silently.

“So the big ideas of Western Culture aren’t relevant, but calculating …” he looked at me.

“Today it’s instantaneous acceleration and the velocity of freely-falling objects,” I said.

“But calculating stuff like that is?” he asked.

“We’re describing the physical world. That’s why it’s physics.” she said. She took one of my French fries and dropped it onto my plate. “See. Gravity. Real world stuff. What do you learn in Philosophy?”

“Ethics. Morality. Epistemology. The nature of knowing and thinking. Stuff like that.” He shook out another cigarette, put it between his lips without lighting it, and looked out the window.

“You can’t smoke in here,” she snapped. “It’s against the rules.”

“Oh, I assure you I have no intention of lighting it inside,” he answered. “I believe we have a moral obligation to abide by rules designed to protect the public health. I think you’ll find most philosophers agree on this.” She glared at him but he didn’t notice because he was staring at her breasts somewhat wistfully. I think he’d tried to restrain himself as long as he thought he might have a chance with her.

“Rob I have to go. I have an appointment,” she said. They both rose at the same time and left to return their trays, leaving their books.

“Milt, she’d drive you crazy,” I said. “They sit on either side of me in Physics every day and they bicker incessantly.” He looked out the window mournfully and watched the passers-by for a few seconds.

“Great rack,” he said.

“She’s utterly insane,” I answered.

“You have to expect to put up with a certain amount of … difficulty to be around a girl who looks like that,” he said, philosophically. “For, certainly, if you’re not willing to put up with it, someone else will. She’ll never be lonely, and so would never have any motivation to change whatsoever. So one would have to accept that. She even wears Earth Shoes.”

“What are Earth Shoes?” I asked.

“They’re this healthier kind of more holistic kind of shoe that’s better for your body than regular shoes. I wore them back in San Rafael but don’t here because everybody wears Topsiders and shit. But back to Toni. How can you fail to see the attraction?”

“She’s nutty like a can of Planter’s peanuts,” I said.

“You may not be aware of this, but peanuts are not actually nuts at all. They’re a form of bean.”

“Yes, I know,” I answered. He propped his wispily-bearded chin on the hand with the cigarette and turned to look at me.

“Really? Most people don’t know that,” he said.

Toni and Rob came back to pick up their books. I looked, and she was wearing very strange looking, duck paddle-like things on her feet that seemed to be halfway between shoes and sandals. I’d never seen anything quite like them. Toni put on first her red blouse, then her jacket, then picked up her books and looked straight at Rob. “Ten,” she said. “An hour.”

“Can do,” said Rob. She turned and left. Milton watched he leave, ruefully enjoying the view.

“Man, can I ask you a question?” Milton said to Rob. Rob sat back down, almost surprised to be asked a question.

“Sure,” said Rob.

“Is she always like that?”

“Like what?” Rob asked.

“Argumentative, difficult, unappreciative, bitchy.” Rob shrugged.

“She has her own way of seeing the world, I guess,” he said. “What do you think, Henry?”

“Yeah, well, that was about par for the course in my experience,” I answered.

“She says she likes for us to be with Henry because we don’t squabble as much when he’s between us,” Rob said.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said.

“And you’re always having to wait on her like that?”

“I don’t mind,” he answered. He shrugged. Milton lit his cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling through his nostrils.

“Why?”

“I’m happy,” Rob said, and shrugged again.

“What’s in it for you? Ego strokes for being seen with a beautiful woman?” asked Milton. You could tell by the way he asked the question that would do it for him.

“Not that, so much,” he answered. “She’s pretty and all, I know.”

“So what?”

“She really likes sex,” said Rob. Milton made a face that would be hard to describe, but it included an element of anguish.

“Ah,” he said, eventually, then took another long pull on his Winston. “Um … how much?”

“A lot.”

“Is there any way you can quantify this for us?” asked Milton.

“Two or three times a day,” Rob answered. A pause.

“Every day?”

“Sure. More on weekends. Sometimes on weekends we never get out of bed except to eat.”

“Wow.”

“You know how she is. Such a perfectionist. We do things over and over until we get them right,” Rob said.

“Christ on a crutch,” said Milton. There was a long pause while Milton looked out the window. “You’re aware you’re an extremely lucky son of a bitch, I suppose?”

“Oh, good Lord yes,” said Rob. Another pause.

“So where was she off to?” I asked. There weren’t many afternoon classes. For some reason, most of them were in the morning.

“I don’t know, she never tells me. I just know she expects me to be in my dorm room at ten tonight. Anyway, I need to be going,” Rob said. We bid him goodbye, and Milton took the last puff off of his butt.

“I am never going to get laid,” said Milton, staring morosely out the window. Then, after another few seconds’ pause, “Man, did you see her?” and shook his head.

Chapter 17a, in which Mary talks to Midshipman Wilmot

“I don’t know. I don’t even know how to ask my pastor about this. Or even my mother. Anyway, I gotta go? It’s been … interesting?” She smiled sweetly but somewhat artificially, stood, said “Groovy,” and was about to walk away when Milton and Brian from my dorm showed up, said hi, and made to sit down. Brian was wearing a United States Navy uniform, which was unexpected. He was without cover, which his commanding officer would not have liked, and was wearing rank insignias I did not recognize. There were little anchors on his shoulder boards.

“Hi, Mary,” said Brian.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said, and put her tray back down. “You look sooooo good in uniform.”

“Hi,” said Milton, and put out his hand towards Mary. “I’m Milton.” She didn’t notice. Mary sat down, so the rest of us did, too.

“So have you read the assignment for our English class?” Mary asked Brian. She resumed eating bits of her salad, which she seemed ready to throw away a few seconds before.

“Not yet. I oughta introduce everybody, I guess, on account of I’m the only one here who knows everybody. Mary, this here’s Henry Baida, he lives down the hall from me.”

“Him I know, she said, and flashed a smile at me, and then one back at Brian.

“This here’s Jimmy Milton, also from the dorm,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. Milton stuck out his hand and opened his mouth as if to speak, but she had already turned her attention back to Brian,

“So do you like Eliot?” she asked Brian.

“Who?” he said.

“T.S. Eliot.” Brian stared back blankly. “He wrote the poem we have to read by tomorrow,” she said.

“Which one?” he asked.

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” she said.

“Oh, yeah,” he answered. “We read that in high school. ‘I grow old, I grow old, I will wear my trousers rolled.’”

“That’s it!” she said, a little too loudly. “So you love Eliot?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know that I understand it all, but some of it’s fun to think about.” Even I could tell that he was just trying to think of things she’d like to hear.

“Are you going to be an English major?” she asked. Milton was eating his sandwich, munching on his potato chips, shaking his head at pretty much all of Brian’s answers to Mary’s questions.

“No, I’m thinking I’ll go Ec/B.A.,” he answered.

“Eckbah?” she asked.

“Economics and Business Administration,” he said. “Sorry.”

“How funny,” she said. “I just naturally assumed you were more of an artist than an economist?”

“I dunno,” he said. “We don’t have to declare ‘til, what? Sophomore year? I was thinkin’ business on account of my Pa has this business and he wants me to come into it and it sounds like a pretty good gig, but it’s gonna be the same business whether I major in business or underwater basket weaving, so I dunno. Plus I got like this Navy trip to deal with, too.”

“What kind of business?” she asked.

“In Ec/BA?” he answered. “Doesn’t matter. Any kind of business.” He frowned in puzzlement and tried not to glance down at her breasts.

“No, no, I’m sorry?” she said. “I mean what kind of business is it your father is in.?”

“Oh. Gotcha. We make sportswear,” said Brian. Milton, lunch finished, propped his head on his right hand and looked out the window toward the Old Science building in silent despair, shaking his head at what he considered to be Brian’s inept responses to Mary’s questions.

“Like shoes?” she asked.

“No, no. Like tee shirts. Sweat pants. Shorts.”

“How fun!” she said. “And you’re in, what, the Navy?”

“Yeah. Sure. NROTC.” She frowned and shook her head. “Naval ROTC.”

“ROTC?” she asked. Milton looked at her, trying to decide if she was an idiot or not.

“Reserve Officer Training Corps,” said Brian.

“So you’re like a sailor?”

“Yeah. When I graduate I’ll be an reserve ensign in the Navy. That’s an officer. I’ll serve for three years.”

“And a reserve officer is one that only gets called up when they call up the Reserves?” she asked.

“No. I’ll serve even if the Reserves don’t get called up,” he said. “Being a reserve officer doesn’t make me part of the Reserves.”

“Why not?” she asked. Brian paused and tried to think through his answer.

“They’re like two different things,” he said. She made a slightly frowning face and looked at her watch.

“So after you graduate you’re going to be on a ship with nothing but men for three years and a Naval officer?”

“Yeah. I want to do jets.”

“Meaning you want to be a pilot?”

“That’s Air Force talk. In the Navy, we call ourselves Naval Aviators.” She smiled sweetly at him.

“Where’s your hat?” she asked. Brian’s face registered instant concern. He looked around, patted himself, looked at the floor, thought back.

“Oh, fuck!” he said. “I musta left it at the Training Center. They make us learn knots and shit. Oh, Hell. The C.O.’s gonna kick my ass.” He stood immediately and scrambled towards the door, leaving his tray behind. Mary looked at him leave and smiled sweetly at his departing figure.

She looked at Milton and me. “Do you know if he’s Christian?” she asked.

“Hi, I’m Milton,” said Milton, extending his hand.

“Hello. Milton what?” she asked.

“Jimmy Milton,” he said. “It’s a last name.”

“So do you know if Brian’s accepted Jesus as his personal savior?” she asked.

“He hasn’t said,” said Milton.

“What can you tell me about him?” she asked, looking back and forth between us.

“All I know is that he’s from South Jersey. Cherry Hill, down by Philly,” said Milton. She looked at me.

“He’s a Phils fan,” I said. She stared back blankly. “He likes baseball and follows the National league. His favorite team is the Philadelphia Phillies, which is on the verge of being eliminated from playoff consideration. He doesn’t approve of the Designated Hitter Rule.” Milton rolled his eyes.

“The what?” she asked.

“The Designated Hitter Rule.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a rule in the American League that allows a player who does not play a defensive position to appear in the line-up.” She gave me a confused look.

“So it’s a sports deal?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, and stood. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure,” she said, and walked off.

Milton pulled out a cigarette and lit it. It was brown and slightly slimmer than most cigarettes I saw. He lit it from a matchbook with one hand by curling the match around to the striking surface with his thumb. I’d never seen a cigarette like this before and wasn’t entirely sure what he was smoking.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Sherman,” he asked, and pulled a red pack of Shermans out of his shirt pocket to show. He shook it towards me to offer me one.

“No, thanks,” I said. “Don’t smoke.” He put his Shermans away.

“So what’s your take on Mary’s take on Brian?” he asked, staring again out the window.

“She’s interested.”

“Ya’ think?” he answered.

“I take it you agree?”

“She’s about to throw herself at him like Vida Blue would throw to Pete Rose in a World Series game.”

“Something about a man in uniform,” I said.

“I’m never gonna get laid,” he said. He stared out the window and smoked his cigarette. “You N.L. guys are so hidebound,” he said, after a pause. “There’s a designated hitter. Get used to it.”

“So is a baseball,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Hidebound.”

“No doubt you think that’s clever.” I did chuckle.

Chapter 16: The Provost’s Office and College Food. Okay look, I had to correct Brian's diction. that's all that's different.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you need that?” I asked.

“To send the bills to,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Grandparents?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what brings you here?” he asked.

“This.” I handed him my note.

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

“This is my first semester,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“Your school offered calculus?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got it, yeah,” I said.

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

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

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

“I’m enjoying them.”

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

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

“Making lots of friends?”

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

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

“Yes sir.”

“Is there some problem with providing it?”

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

“Come in” I called out from my bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jersey,” said Brian.

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

“South,” said Brian. “Cherry Hill.”

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

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

“Yeah, that’s it,” said helmet hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You follow baseball?” he asked me.

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

“What’s your team?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So. Phillies fan?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck, don’t get me started,” said Brian. “The American League is like fucked up, man.” White Plains and Milton looked at each other in silent irritation but said nothing. By this point we were standing in line and were advancing toward the cafeteria line. There was a lull in conversation that lasted maybe a minute.

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

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

“No, no. Same crap as here.”

“Why go over there, then?” I asked.

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

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

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

“What green stuff?” I asked.

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

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

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

“I guess,” I answered. “I like them.”

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

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

“What’s rapini?” asked Milton.

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

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

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

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

“Diced turnips,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“I agree wholeheartedly,” I said.

“So why’d you get it?” asked Brian.

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

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

“Not like beef.”

“Well, like what?” he persisted.

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

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

“Not at all,” I asked.

“What did it taste like?”

“Soybeans,” I said.

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

“Like what?” I asked.

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

“Any chance we can talk about somethin’ other than food?” asked Brian. There was a pause.

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

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

“Me neither,” said Brian.

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

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

“Ya know, it may be time to like to put some distance between me and this dining hall,” said Brian.

And with that, we got up and left.

An odd repost of Chapter 16 in which the only real difference is Brian's diction

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you need that?” I asked.

“To send the bills to,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Grandparents?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what brings you here?” he asked.

“This.” I handed him my note.

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

“This is my first semester,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“Your school offered calculus?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got it, yeah,” I said.

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

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

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

“I’m enjoying them.”

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

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

“Making lots of friends?”

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

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

“Yes sir.”

“Is there some problem with providing it?”

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

“Come in” I called out from my bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jersey,” said Brian.

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

“South,” said Brian. “Cherry Hill.”

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

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

“Yeah, that’s it,” said helmet hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You follow baseball?” he asked me.

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

“What’s your team?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So. Phillies fan?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck, don’t get me started,” said Brian. “The American League is like fucked up, man.” White Plains and Milton looked at each other in silent irritation but said nothing. By this point we were standing in line and were advancing toward the cafeteria line. There was a lull in conversation that lasted maybe a minute.

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

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

“No, no. Same crap as here.”

“Why go over there, then?” I asked.

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

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

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

“What green stuff?” I asked.

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

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

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

“I guess,” I answered. “I like them.”

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

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

“What’s rapini?” asked Milton.

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

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

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

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

“Diced turnips,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“I agree wholeheartedly,” I said.

“So why’d you get it?” asked Brian.

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

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

“Not like beef.”

“Well, like what?” he persisted.

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

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

“Not at all,” I asked.

“What did it taste like?”

“Soybeans,” I said.

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

“Like what?” I asked.

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

“Any chance we can talk about somethin’ other than food?” asked Brian. There was a pause.

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

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

“Me neither,” said Brian.

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

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

“Ya know, it may be time to like to put some distance between me and this dining hall,” said Brian.

And with that, we got up and left.
b

Chapter 17: Conversation in the C-Room with a fellow student of Greek

A few days later I was hungry for lunch but not in the mood for cafeteria food despite the fact that I was right next door to Rand Hall. Rand contained not just the cafeteria, but also a grill called the Commodore Room, or, in undergrad lingo, the C-Room or just the Croom. It served burgers and sandwiches but was cash only, no meal points allowed. Next door to the C-Room was the campus bookstore and downstairs was the post office, but at this point in our story I was hungry and so was focused on the C-Room above Rand’s other charms.

I got a double cheeseburger with fries and ice water, had the usual protracted conversation with the cashier explaining that I had water, not Sprite, and so should be charged accordingly, and found a table. As I was taking a second bite of my cheeseburger, a pretty girl with slightly squinty eyes came up to my table with her tray.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked. I looked up from my Time magazine and recognized her from my Koine class.

“Not at all,” I said. “Aren’t you Mary Roberts from my Greek class?” I asked, standing.

“Yes,” she said, sitting down and putting her tray on the table, “but I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I?” I sat as she sat.

“I get the feeling that you’re pretty focused on your studies?” she said. “Like maybe you’re so into what you’re studying that you don’t have enough time to pay a lot of attention to everything else?”

I thought a second. “Well, I did come to school here to study, I guess.”

“And, like, you love Jesus?” she asked.

Lordy.

“I love the Bible,” I said.

“Oh, me, too,” she said. “What’s your favorite book?”

“James,” I answered. Her expression changed a bit into a slightly puzzled frown, head cocked slightly sideways.

“You know, like I’m sure I’ve read the whole New Testament several times, but I honestly don’t know a book of James.” She looked at me sideways. “You’re sure it’s in the New Testament? You’re not thinking of John?”

“No, no” I said. “James. Right between Hebrews and First Peter.”

“First Peter?” Lordy.

“Yes. There’s a book called First Peter that purports to be a letter from St. Peter to churches in a lot of different places.”

“Like Paul wrote?” she asked.

“Yes, although St. Paul seems to me to have been writing letters to churches he’d founded, mostly. Except for Romans. Peter’s letters don’t seem to be to people he knew. The Peter letters almost seem like they’re arguing with Paul.”

“That can’t be. The scriptures are in agreement?” she said.

“Okay,” I answered. She was eating, so I took another bite of C-Room double cheeseburger and ate a few of my still warm but no longer hot French fries.

“So have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?” she asked. I thought about this for a few seconds. I took another bite of my cheeseburger.

“Not the way you have,” I said, after I swallowed. She was less than horrified and closer to jocular than I expected at my response.

“How many ways are there?” she asked. “The only way to salvation is through the Lord.” But she was smiling. She was twirling the fork in her hand but not really eating her salad. I thought for a minute and ate two French fries in what I hoped was an appropriately contemplative manner.

“I understand your point of view,” I said. “I’ve read the Bible many times, and will continue to read it. It’s the most fascinating book in the world.”

“Of course you’re right,” she said. “It’s the most important book in the world?” She looked slightly sad for a few seconds and finally ate some of her salad, looking down at it so that our eyes no longer met. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“ Not at all,” I said. She thought for a few seconds and ate some more salad.

“What makes you think you understand my point of view?” she asked.

So I had to think. “Well, I guess I’ve talked to a lot of born-again Christians before,” I said.

“And so you assume we’re all alike?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve just noticed a certain similarity in the arguments people who have had a conversion experience put forth.”

“But don’t you see?” she asked. “That completely misses the point. Christianity is a religion of personal experience? Each Christian experiences God, knows Christ, experiences worship, in his own individual way. To generalize my experience with Jesus with anyone else’s is just a big mistake.” I thought about this before answering.

“I don’t mean to denigrate either Christianity or your experience with it,” I said.

“I understand you think you’re being polite, but can’t you see that you’re being patronizing?” she asked.

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said.

“I believe, I know that Jesus Christ is my personal Savior. I believe He should be yours, too. I’m not an idiot, some hayseed who has quaint religious beliefs you might study in Anthropology. I got the same SATs as you and go to the same college you do and I’m just as smart as you and this is what I think. I’m not intellectually lame. I’ve read and I’ve studied and I came to this conclusion,” she said. I thought for a few seconds.

“I don’t think faith experiences translate into reason very well,” I said. “You can say that, but at bottom you had a faith experience, a conversion experience, that is impossible to understand for someone who hasn’t had one.”

“But that is an aspect of Christianity that is unique? Honestly, I don’t know if it’s unique. I haven’t really studied any other religions. Thou shalt not learn the ways of heathens. But Christianity is a religion of personal conversion? So in the end, being a Christian is a personal experience, and Christianity is personal to each Christian.”

“So all Christians experience it differently?” I asked. She shook her head.

“We experience it together and the same, too,” she said. “In church. In smaller gatherings. In our families when we pray.”

“I guess my experience just doesn’t overlap with that too much,” I said. I took another bite of my cheeseburger. It was still slightly warm. My fries were now cold. How do they go from being hot to cold so fast? I put some more salt and some ketchup on them. They were better with ketchup.

“Okay, so what’s your experience?” she asked. “”You say you love the Bible, but you haven’t accepted Jesus as your savior?” I finished my cheeseburger and re-ketchupped my fries before answering.”

“I’m not a person of great faith,” I said. “I wish I could be sure about all of this, but I’m not. I wish I could be like you, sure that there’s a god and that He has a plan for my life, but I’m not that guy.” She shook her head.

“I can’t understand, I guess?” she said. “To me it’s pretty clear. And you say you read the Bible?”

“Yes,” I said. “Regularly.” I did not point out that she, a person who appeared to be unfamiliar with the books of James or Peter, had little room to challenge the Biblical literacy of others. I thought for a few seconds. “So you think God made us all?” I asked.

“Of course?” she said.

“So God made me the way I am?” I asked.

“Of course?” she said.

“Okay, well, when He made me He made a person with high measures of doubt and skepticism. A person who needs concrete evidence. A person who can’t really accept the Bible as proof of itself.” She thought for a few minutes, looking down at her unfinished salad.

“God gives us these challenges to give us an opportunity to exercise free will. To use our faith?” she said.

“Yeah, well. He gave me too much doubt to leave room for much faith,” I said. “I want to, and wish I could, but it’s not there.”

“Why?” she asked, a little too urgently for the C-Room. “It’s all around you. It’s on every page of the Bible.”

“I know that people really find that the Bible really strengthens their fait, but sometimes I wonder if they’ve read it. There are some awful things in it.”

“Awful things in the Bible? Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“And you say you’ve read it all the way through?” I asked.

“I think so. Not straight through, of course.”

“Then why do you think you’ve read the whole thing?” I asked.

“People have been reading it to me since I was a baby,” she said. “We go to church three times a week. I’ve been reading passages from it my entire life. I think that in all those years I must have read the entire Bible. Just not straight through.”

“Do you know the story of Tamar at the gate?” She frowned and shook her head.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said.

“Well, you’d remember if you’d read it,” I said.

“Why?”

“It’s very … racy,” I said. “The kind of thing that would stick if you heard it in childhood.”

“You mean like dirty?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t say dirty, but it’s racy, for sure.”

“And it’s in the Bible?” she asked.

“Sure. There’s lots of racy stuff in there. You really ought to read it straight through. There’s a lot of it that would be exceptionally inappropriate for Sunday school.”

“So what’s the story of Tamar at the gate?”

“It’s really a story of Judah and how cheap he was,” I said. “His whole family was, I guess.”

“You’re calling Judah a ‘he’?” she asked. “I think of Judah as a tribe or a country?”

“You’re right. But Judah was one of Jacob’s sons. He founded the tribe that became the country after they slew enough Canaanites.”

“So what was the skinny on this Tamar at the gate? I want to hear a racy Bible story?”

“Okay. Judah had three sons. He brought Tamar home to be the wife of the oldest, who was named Ur, if memory serves. Ur was wicked in some unspecified way so God smote him, leaving Tamar a widow. Under the custom of the day, you were to expected to take your brother’s widow as your wife, and Judah’s next son, named Onan, took her to wife. Unfortunately for poor Tamar, Onan was wicked in a very specific way, although many modern people would disagree, so God slew him, too.”

“How was he wicked?” she asked. I paused.

“The Bible somewhat euphemistically says he ‘spilled his seed.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“He was practicing a form of birth control. A method my high school health teacher said was unreliable. Under the law of the day, if Tamar conceived by Onan, the child would be regarded as Ur’s progeny, not Onan’s, and he didn’t want that, so he was trying to avoid getting Tamar pregnant. By the way, one of the funny things about this story is that Onan’s name became synonymous with another activity that likewise produces no children, but about which Genesis is silent.”

“What?” she asked. I shook my head.

“You’d be embarrassed,” I said.

“You think you know who I am again?” she said.

“Good point. What I meant to say is that I’d be embarrassed.”

“Is this the racy part?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” she asked.

“I’d blush, and I’m not at my best when I’m blushing. I think this is something you should learn in private. Just remember the name, Onan, and look up ‘onanism’ in your dictionary.”

“So what’s the racy part?”

“Judah had one more son, but rather than have him marry Tamar, or keep Tamar in his own house, he sent her back to her father to live, claiming that the third son was too young to get married, so the widow Tamar went back to town, childless. Some years later Tamar heard that Judah was coming to town to get his sheep shorn, so she hatched this plan. She covered herself in a veil and hung out on the road by the town gate, which signaled to people of the day that she was a prostitute awaiting hire.”

“You’re telling me that the word ‘prostitute’ is in the Bible.”

“Well, yes, but not frequently in the King James, and if memory serves not at all in Genesis. I think it refers to Tamar as a harlot,” I said.

“So why is she dressing up like a hooker?” she asked.

“Enough time had passed that she knew that Sheliah should be grown—“

“Sheliah’s the youngest son?” she asked.

“Yes. So he’d grown up, and nobody had come to arrange for her to marry him, which irked Tamar.”

“I still don’t see what dressing like a hooker is going to do for her,” Mary said.

“So she’s waiting by the gate, and sure enough, Judah and a buddy come riding up, Judah sees Tamar, has no idea who she is and can’t see her face, but finds her quite appealing, and says ‘I wouldst come in unto thee,” or something like that. She told him that there was a fee associated with this service, and he offered to pay her one goat to come in unto her. She says ‘I don’t see any goat,’ and he said “I wilt gladly pay you a goat on Thursday for sexual favors enjoyed today.’ She agreed to his terms but required collateral for the promised but heretofore unseen goat, so he gave her his staff, his bracelets, and his seal, whereupon their deal was … consummated. In more than one way ways.”

“You’re saying a biblical patriarch had sex with his own daughter in law?” she asked, a little too loudly. Several people at nearby tables looked at us briefly.

“Yes. But he didn’t know who she was. She was just a pretty girl in a dark veil.”

“But that’s almost like incest,” she said, disapprovingly. “It’s just so … sordid?” I decided now was not the time to tell her about Lot’s daughters. “Is that the end of the story?” she asked

“No. A day or two later Judah sent his buddy back into town to give her the goat and get his stuff back, but the buddy couldn’t find her. She’d taken off her veil and returned to her father’s house dressed like a proper widow. Judah was worried about his reputation and expended some effort to find her, but couldn’t. One of the weirder things about the story to me is that he doesn’t seem to have been worried that his reputation would suffer if people learned that he’d had sex with a prostitute, he was worried that people would think he hadn’t paid her. A refreshingly abrupt take on sexual morality, I think you’ll agree.” She made a face and shook her head briefly.

“Is that it?”

“No. You haven’t heard the punch line. Tamara was now pregnant by Judah. Several months later Judah heard about how she had shamed the memory of his sons by whoring, and yes, “whoring” is in Genesis, so Judah dashed to Tamar’s father’s house demanding an explanation and suggesting that maybe she might need to be burned at the stake for her sins. She pulled out the staff, the bracelets, and the seal and said ‘The man who owns these things is the man who didst knock me up.’ Everybody recognized Judah’s staff, bracelets and seal, and much hilarity ensued. Judah said, ‘Okay, thou hast got me,’ and presumably arranged to support her. Either that or married her off to Sheliah.”

“Ick, no?”

“Why ick?” I asked.

“Imagine marrying someone who’s had sex with your father?”

“The entire male side of the family, actually. It would make for awkward talk at family reunions, that’s for sure,” I agreed. She made faces and shook her head a few times.

“What’s the moral?” she asked.

“I’m not a rabbi or a priest, but my guess would be something along the lines of ‘Don’t be a cheapskate where family obligations are concerned. Even if God doesn’t smite you, you’ll wind up looking like a fool.’”

“You say this is in Genesis?”

“Yes. Chapter 38, I think,” I said.

“I’m going to look this up tonight,” she said. “I think you just have to be making parts of this up. Or seriously embellishing it.”

“You really ought to read it cover to cover,” I said.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know how to ask my pastor about this. Or even my mother. Anyway, I gotta go? It’s been … interesting?” She smiled sweetly but somewhat artificially, stood, said “Groovy!” and took her tray away.