Chapter 3

Unable to concentrate, I glanced around the library, looking for familiar faces. Don Hammer was sitting to my left and a few tables back, boredly leafing through somebody's term paper. He must have been taking one of those stiff senior seminars on the poetry of Yeats, or Non-Shakespearean Elizabethan Drama, where you spend the whole term reading everyone else's term papers and ripping them apart. It was too soon in the year for that; he was probably reading an old one the library had on hand, just to get in shape.

Well, I wasn't much interested in talking to Don Hammer. Not after this afternoon. I didn't even want him to see me and smile his knowing superior smile at me in that patronizing way of his.

I spotted Lily Norman huddled over a big book four tables ahead of me. She was a small mousy Classics major who took most of her courses at Metropolitan because Chesley just didn't have a faculty capable of keeping up with her. She studied things like Advanced Greek Poetry and Roman Drama last year, and I shuddered to think of what she might be studying now. I had dated her, once, in my freshman year. Just once.

Fred saw me looking her way and nudged me. "Isn't that the creep you took to the Cornell game last year?"

I nodded. It had been a cataclysm. She spent the whole afternoon analyzing the philosophical implications of football in terms of Greek Tragedy, particularly Aeschylus. I was off on an anti-intellectualism kick that month, and besides Cornell whomped us fifty-four-nothing that day too. Then on the way downtown, in the back seat of a friend's car, I had made a grab for her miniscule bosom and got myself loudly slapped.

A little further along I spotted a girl named Marge Halloran. My eyes widened a bit. Marge Halloran was long and angular and untidy, with a sloppy-looking pony-tail dangling down her back and a truly astonishing pair of breasts out front, where you wouldn't expect to find them on such a tall and otherwise skinny girl. I let those breasts linger in my field of vision awhile. They thrust upward and out, magnificent twin mounds of flesh that threatened to split the seams of her shabby-looking maroon sweater. I pictured myself curling up between those big breasts for a good night s sleep, and I started to tingle all over. They were quite some breasts. And they were real.

I didn't have any personal verification of that fact, naturally, but I did have the word of a good authority-Chuck Gordon. "That girl's the biggest pushover on campus," he had confided to me on our way to Geology one day in my freshman spring, when we had seen her striding past, breasts foremost. "All you have to do is get some alcohol into her. Any way at all-spray her with it, inject it subcutaneously, even get her to drink some. And boy, will she do tricks then!"

I remembered that I had made some bitter remark then-muffled, half-swallowed before it escaped-on the morals of college men. That had been in my early, puritanical stage. But now, the ghost of an idea flickered into my mind as I saw Marge Halloran. Tonight, if all went well, I would become a Man of Experience. But there was no sense continuing to pay for what I could get free, if I played it smart. I lifted my gaze from her mammaries to her face. She was a big sad-eyed girl who carried around devil knew what load of sorrow inside her. She took the easy ways of releasing it-drink and sex. But right now I couldn't be too concerned with her private woes; I saw her as part of the cure to mine.

She sat by herself, surrounded by a little invisible aura, a halo of immorality so to speak.

I began to make plans.

Looking down at the book I was allegedly reading, I blinked two or three times. Words, words, words. But the words didn't make any sense; they were just black worms marching across the page. I slammed the book shut.

"You all through?" Fred said.

"I need some fresh air. I have some very serious thinking to do."

"Mind if I come with you?"

"As you please," I said lightly.

He led the way out; I paused near the door to demonstrate to a hawk-nosed checker that the books I had were my own and not library property. We stopped by the water-fountain just outside. I took a drink. Warm, rank stuff.

Then I said, "I'm leaving the dorms tomorrow."

"Huh?"

"I'm going to cancel my room soon as the dorm window opens up shop in the morning. I'm going to move off campus."

It was said, now; an inner transition had been made public. Fred was gaping at me with the same sort of awed bewilderment I reserved for such types as Chuck Gordon.

"What the hell for, Jeff?"

"Use your theoretical brain. You can't bring women into the dorms, can you?"

Fred reddened. The town of Hudson had impressed puritanism even deeper on him than on me. The small-town upbringing can be stifling.

He said, "You got a woman? I mean-"

"Not exactly yet. But I will. Don't you worry about that, Fred. I will."

I put what I hoped was a smug and knowing expression on my face. I was going all-out to impress Fred, giving it full voltage, and I knew why-he represented a sort of old self of mine, the bumbling, innocent self I wanted so badly to discard.

He looked at me strangely, with hatred, disgust, and a curious sort of admiration all mixed. I wondered if I had ever looked at Chuck Gordon this way.

"I knew this would happen to you, Jeff. You've become just like all the rest. Only interested in sex.

"Pardon me. Sex and beer."

He ignored that. "Okay, do whatever you want. But how come the sudden switch?"

"Had a long talk with Chuck Gordon earlier today. He suggested it."

Fred flinched. I knew I had delivered a mortal thrust. A long friendship was coming to an end right here and now, I could tell.

"Oh," he said in a flat toneless voice. His lips drooped. "So you and Gordon are pals now. Well-well-"

"Can it, Fred. Don't take things so tragically. It's not your girl I'm after."

"Thanks." Sarcastically. "Who, then?"

I took a deep breath and gambled on what I hoped wasn't a very long shot.

"Marge Halloran," I said.

Fred eyed me stonily. "She was sitting in the library. You and she didn't seem particularly enraptured of each other then. You didn't even say hello to her."

"Ah," I said. "Things have just begun. She doesn't know the fate that's in store for her, yet. But let's go back within. You can watch from the sidelines while I negotiate for our first rendezvous."

Fred's goggly glare unnerved me. He was shaking his head. I got the feeling he was pitying me. "You sound like Chuck Gordon," he said. The way he said it, it was half a grudging compliment, half a deadly insult. "If you're trying to shock me, Jeff, you've succeeded. But what the hell's your point? Don't you have any decency left?"

"Not very much." I hoped my pretense of decadence was convincing him. "Come watch."

Fred looked disgusted. We went back inside. As I passed the desk, Jack Eigenfeld, the junior who stamps out the books from three to six every day, grinned and said, "Forget something?"

"Yeah," I said, and kept going. Watch this, Don Hammer, I thought. My heart was racing.

Marge was still sitting in the corner, nibbling an unpainted fingernail, her long legs stuck out under the table, her tan trenchcoat open and dangling off her shoulders. That superb bazoom loomed invitingly before me. At close range I could plainly see the little protruding bulges of her nipples, looking like buttons underneath the fabric of the sweater. I quite casually slid into the seat across the table from her. She didn't look up.

I strained an eye peering over to see what she was reading. It was James Joyce-Portrait of the Artist as A Young Man. Her face was devoid of expression.

I said, "That's a marvelous book, isn't it?"

She looked up. "I like Ulysses better."

"So do I. But I can't stand Finnegans Wake."

On such flimsy grounds did we erect our relationship. I said, continuing, "Is that a Chesley course you're reading it for?'

"Yes. Psychological Undertones of the Modern Novel."

"I've heard of that," I lied. "I hear it's quite a thing. You know, I'm glad I happened to sit down here. I've been meaning to listen in on that course and hear the Joyce lectures, but I didn't have the Chesley catalog and couldn't find out when it meets."

"Tuesdays, Thursdays. Eleven o'clock in three-o-five Bryce."

I smiled. "Thanks. I guess I'll come on Tuesday."

Suddenly I became conscious of one of the library monitors, a big blandfaced graduate student, hovering reproachfully above us. He said, "If you want to hold a conversation you'll have to leave the study room."

"But I just want to find out-"

"Sorry. You can't keep on talking in here." I looked at Marge Halloran, shrugging as if to say, you can't beat the forces of law and order. "Well," I said, "would you care to come downstairs to the Den for the rest of our conversation? It's almost dinner time."

Immediately I wished I hadn't said that. I had only ninety-seven cents in my pocket, plus the five dollars I was reserving for the evening's entertainment. But Marge got me off the hook by saying, "Sorry, but I have a season's meal-ticket to the Chesley cafeteria."

The monitor hadn't gone away. "No talking in here!" he said again, more sternly. "Look, buddy-"

"Guess he means it," I said to Marge. The time had come for the stroke toward which all this had been building. "Suppose I call you tonight at the Chesley dorms?"

"Okay. I'm Marge Halloran. Seventh floor Morton Hall."

"Right. I'm Jeff Burnside, by the way." She grinned at me; I grinned back and left the library, feeling strange and lightheaded. I thought I had handled the encounter pretty well. I wished Chuck Gordon had been watching.

Well, Fred had. He was waiting for me at the library door, an expression of stuffy morality combined with downright envy plastered over his face.

"Care to stake me to a meal?" I asked. "Pay you back next week. My allotment got used up on textbooks."

"Okay." He smiled, but the smile rapidly tailed off into a scowl. "You made out all right, I guess?"

"I'm calling her later to arrange a date."

"You bastard. You damn lucky bastard."

He waited for me in the Quad while I dumped my books in my room-the room I was abandoning tomorrow-and then we passed out through the arch onto Bryant Avenue. We ate in a little delicatessen a few blocks down. I wasn't very hungry. I kept looking at my watch and counting off the minutes till nine o'clock.

"You aren't talking much," Fred said. "I wish I could figure you out. You know what kind of reputation that Halloran girl has."

I nodded. "Exactly."

"And still-"

"Look, Fred, you go out with a nice girl like Carol. Walk around campus with her, hold her hand, carry her books, kiss her on the cheek when you get up the nerve. I'm looking for something else right now. Okay?"

"Suit yourself," he said.

We parted soon after dinner. I promised to pay him back the buck-fifty I owed him soon as the next check came in from my folks. I returned to my dorm room. It was quarter past seven. For the next hour I did my contemporary civilization reading, understanding ten percent of it, more or less. And then I wandered down to the recreation room and hung around the ping-pong table waiting to get a game. It was five minutes to nine before I reached the table. I played and lost an eleven-point game and went outside into the Quad. It was exactly nine.

Chuck Gordon was standing by the statue, his arms folded. He grinned when he saw me.

"Right on time, Romeo."

"You bet. Let's go," I said.

We left the campus by a 214th Street gate and walked rapidly toward Broadway, and then down Broadway. Below 210th Street the college area ends abruptly.

I felt jittery. "Where are we going?"

"Corner of 203rd and Broadway usually does it," Chuck said.

"You talk like you've done this often."

"Oh, four or five times. Generally when I have cousins from home visiting me. I'm not in the habit of paying for the stuff just for me."

"What's it likely to cost?" I asked. "I only have five bucks on me."

"Five will see you through," Gordon said. He shook his head. "I still can't believe it. A great big monster like you-"

"Well, it happens to be that way," I said grumpily. "At least I'm doing something about it."

"Long overdue, though."

"How old were you when you had your first, then, Gordon? Eight?"

"Twelve and a half."

"Twelve and a ha-that's impossible!" I snorted.

"I was precocious." He smiled dreamily. "The girl was fifteen. She thought I was, too. It happened in a washroom at school. Then somebody told her what grade I was in, and after that she wouldn't even speak to me again. She was a fat pig, anyway."

We reached 208th Street. Five more blocks, I thought. I cleared my throat. "About tonight-what am I supposed to do, really?" I went red all over. "About the arrangements, I mean."

"Leave it all up to me. You've had the health education course, haven't you?"

"Sure." It was mandatory for all freshmen.

"Then you know the mechanics of the thing. I'll pick out a nice sensitive-looking understanding kind of girl. If you have difficulties, she'll help you out."

"And-what's the procedure?"

"You go in, you put your money down, and you open your pants. Don't bother getting all undressed-she'll be in a hurry to get back on the street."

"Will she get undressed all the way?"

"If you want her to. Do you?"

"I-I think so. I want to see."

"Okay, then. She'll get undressed. You don't. You transact your business with her. Don't think you're doing her any favors by taking your time, either. She's not interested in making a grand affair out of a five-buck make. So get it over with, wash up in the basin, and leave. I'll go in ahead of you, just so I can make sure you'll get the right treatment."

I smiled nervously. Gordon was going out of his way to make sure I got the right sort of initiation. But I couldn't put my appreciation into words.

"And-is there any chance of my catching something?" I said worriedly.

"Not if you take precautions," he said. "You mean-but I don't have any-"

He shook his head deploringly. "I figured as much. Here, have one of mine." He held out a little cardboard box with a flip-top, like a cigarette pack. Inside were rolled up rubber goods. I took one gingerly, as if it was a mousetrap, and pocketed it.

We were at 205th Street and Broadway now. The night was dark and moonless, but Broadway was lit up bright enough to read by. The streets were crowded.

"Slow down," Chuck murmured. "Just stroll along. And we'll keep our eyes open."

"You mean the girls just stand around out here?"

"Most of the time. The cops make a crackdown once a month. The rest of the time you can usually find a girl here. Mainly Puerto Rican. You don't mind that, do you, Burnside?"

"No-no, no, of course not." I was trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

Gordon said quietly, "There's one right now. But I doubt that we're interested."

I looked. She was a woman of about forty, standing in a doorway lighting a cigarette. Maybe she was only thirty, but used up ahead of her time. She wore an old gray sweater that failed to conceal the baggy droop of her breasts. I felt sick. We walked on.

At the next corner Chuck nudged me and said, "Okay. There's what we want."

I looked again. This time it was a pretty Spanish-looking girl, seeming hardly more than seventeen or eighteen. She too was wearing a sweater, and it emphasized the sharp projecting points of her breasts. Her dark hair hung down to her shoulders. She looked exciting, exotic, and much too pretty to be a prostitute.

"How do you know she is one?" I asked.

"It's ten to one," Chuck said. "If I'm wrong, I get my face slapped and try again. Wait here."

I waited. Gordon walked casually up to her and offered her a cigarette. She smiled, showing brilliant white teeth, and accepted. Behind his back, Chuck made a sign with his circled forefinger and thumb-success. I heard them talking quietly in Spanish. Chuck was speaking just as fast as she was. I couldn't understand a word of what was being said, but after a few minutes of quick talk Chuck pointed at me, standing sheepishly some distance away. The girl smiled at me. Chuck waved me over.

"Chiquita, Jeff. Jeff, Chiquita. Chiquita doesn't speak any English, except the words, 'five dollars."

Chiquita giggled. "Five dollar," she said.

Chuck nodded. "You see?"

Chiquita said something in Spanish and we started to follow her. Her rear wiggled saucily as she walked. I was bowled over. She seemed to be clean and she was certainly attractive. I had always thought that five-buck tarts were dirty and ugly. But Chuck had a master's touch, it seemed.

We crossed the street and went a short way down 203rd, stopping in front of a dilapidated tenement. Kids of five and six were playing noisily out front, even though it was certainly past their bedtime. They grinned wisely at us as we followed Chiquita in, and called things out in Spanish.

We entered. The lobby was dark and smelled of uncollected garbage. We walked three flights upward, Chiquita still leading the way and twitching her behind at us as though it were bait. On the third floor she produced a key and let us into a two-room apartment.

It was dingy as all hell, with a lot of Salvation Army tenth-hand furniture. A baby about a year old was sleeping in a battered cradle in the outer room. Further in was the bedroom. I had never seen such a shabby place in my life.

But I understood now why Chiquita took this particular way of supporting herself. Obviously unmarried and with a child to feed-maybe some of the kids downstairs belonged to her too-she needed income. And she could probably make a hundred bucks a week this way, which was about twice what she would be getting in any legitimate job.

Gordon said, "You sit down here and wait. And stay calm, Burnside. Calm and loose. I'll be right out. Just take it easy till it's your turn."