THE SMOKE THAT THUNDERS
a novel
by Nathan Bassett
Copyright 2010 Nathan Bassett
Smashwords Edition
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PROLOGUE
January 21, 1977
Peter looked at his watch. “Fifty-four minutes. Damn near an hour since they told us to sit here. What’s going on? Wait, wait, wait. They always tell us to wait.”
Chad opened his eyes. He muttered, “You should be used to it by now,” He closed his eyes and folded his arms.
Peter felt his chest stiffen. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and then exhaled slowly. He began to draw another breath when a voice called out, “Mr. McKnight? Mr. Daley?”
The two Americans sprang to their feet.
A diminutive bald man, in khaki shorts, motioned them to come forward, barking “This way!”
With a brisk stride, he led them through an impressive mahogany-paneled room, reminiscent of the great estate homes in Europe. He ushered them into a glassed-in area in the far corner of the huge room and told them to take a seat. It was an auspicious office, the opulent nest of some high-grade official convinced of his own self-importance. They had always dealt with non-caring, nonverbal peons behind glass-partitioned counters, this was something new.
Peter leaned over and whispered to Chad, “What the hell is this about?”
Chad shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. Just relax.”
Through the glass wall, they watched workers, all of them White, hustling back and forth between crowded rows of cluttered office desks.
Chad nudged Peter with his elbow. “Look at those guys in their khaki shorts. Only in Africa. You know they go home in pith helmets?”
Peter nodded, showing no emotion. His eyes remained fixed on the slow-moving fans hung from two massive beams supporting the thirty-foot ceiling in the stately hall. His thoughts wandered back to that first day in South Africa: both excitement and anxiety had rushed through his veins as they drove down the highway away from Jan Smuts Airport. He had leaned his head out the car window, allowing his hair to blow wildly as his nostrils and lungs caught the air of this foreign world – air so different in its smell, texture, and feel. Africa had welcomed him, embraced him that morning.
Chad interrupted Peter’s wandering thoughts. “Odds they kick us out of the country today? I put it at 95 percent.”
“At least,” Peter responded, still staring at the whirling blades moving slowly and methodically. He then looked at Chad and said, “I still don’t know about this Rhodesia plan. I just don’t know.”
Chad rolled his eyes. “Don’t keep going on about that. It is a great plan. It will work just fine.” He leaned toward Peter and said, “Go back to the States if you want. That’d be fine with me.”
Peter shook his head resolutely, but his voice quavered. “No. I am not going home. I’ll do what I have to do.” The thought of going to Rhodesia did not appeal to either one of them, though for Peter, the growing possibility of a month in a war-torn country was a terrifying proposition.
Twenty minutes later, a stout, well-weathered gentleman dressed in a three-piece gray suit, burst through the door. A brash black-and-red striped tie drew attention to his bulging, wrinkled neck. In his right fist, he clutched copies of their visas, their temporary permits, and the denials and appeals for extensions. Under his left arm, he held a bulky, tattered folder.
Surely, nothing to do with us, Peter thought.
With his elbow, the man flipped a switch next to the door; a fan above his desk awakened, causing piles of disorganized papers on the desktop to rustle. He declared authority as he sat down in his worn leather chair and postured himself as a feared dictator would. He tossed the bulky folder down with a thud, silencing whispering loose papers. Their futures lay in this man’s hands; Peter assumed the glint in the man’s eyes declared he had already made his decision.
The man looked brashly through the papers he held. He then shoved them under the tattered folder. Glowering at the nervous Americans feigning confidence, he spoke, “Why is it you are here in South Africa? Huh? Why are you loafing around this country?” He fired his words out in a thick Afrikaans accent; his tone did not seek answers as much as make accusations.
Chad offered a polite smile and stated, “We’re staying with a friend. He is South African. He invited us over.”
“Where have you been staying since you arrived in South Africa?” This was said slowly, yet even more accusing.
Peter stammered, “We’ve been staying with our friend in … in Vanderbijlpark.”
“And? Where else have you been? Tell me!” The Afrikaner’s sharp glare rested on Peter, then Chad.
“We took a trip to Kruger and a few other places. That’s about it.” Chad’s smile disappeared.
“Where else? Where else have you been in my country?”
The pair glanced at one another. Chad held his breath and pulled in his lower lip.
Peter knew his friend’s rage was beginning to boil. Peter fought his own instinct to run, to disappear, to shut down, but he knew he had to be the one to speak. He responded in a fading mumble, “We spent time with some friends … different places … a little time in Johannesburg now and then. A few trips around, here and there. Mainly in Vanderbijlpark though. We stay there.”
The man leaned back in his chair; it creaked and moaned as if it was irritated by his weight. With a slight curl in his lip, he asked, “Have you been working?”
Peter’s stomach tightened and his head began to spin. He shook his head, as Chad indignantly said, “No.”
“Then tell me, how do you support yourselves?”
Peter attempted to raise his voice. It crackled and faded, barely allowing his words to surface. “With money we earned back home.”
Sweat began to ooze from the creases imprinted on this important man’s forehead. “Have you worked in this country? Have you been working here, in South Africa?”
In unison, they replied. “No!”
“Have you worked here?” His anger began to seethe, bolstering his already intimidating tone.
“No! We-have-not-worked-here,” Chad pronounced each word with care.
From the thick folder, the official pulled out a newspaper clipping from a township’s local newspaper.
Their eyes grew wide as their jaws drooped. The two looked at one another; Peter knew Chad’s thoughts mirrored his: How’d he get that? Why does he care about what we’ve been doing? It was a photograph of the two foreigners playing soccer with a group of young African children. The caption read, ‘Two Americans, Peter McKnight and Chet Day, assist a Johannesburg church outreach in Sharpeville.’
“We weren’t work—” Peter’s throat constricted, causing his voice to tremble. The next syllable refused to come out.
Chad stepped in. “We weren’t working. We were just volunteers there. They didn’t pay us anything, and it was only for one day anyway. It’s no big deal.”
The man pulled out a second news clipping, from The West Rand Times. He snarled, “And this?”
It was a picture of the two with a group of White children at a youth camp near Krugersdorp.
Chad’s response was now subdued. “We were just helping, volunteering. It was only for a couple of weeks at some summer church camps. That’s why we applied for work permits ages ago, but it was just for volunteering anyway, not working. Nobody paid us a cent.”
The man pulled out a third picture of Peter playing soccer with young Africans in Soweto. He held it up and said nothing. Peter was certain the man’s eyes were going to burst into flames.
Peter mumbled, “We were never paid. We applied for—”
“Ag nee. I do not care! All this is work, and it is all illegal. You are here on holiday permits. You are not here on work permits.” The man pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his forehead. He continued, “You have violated your visas and South Africa’s trust. You have broken our laws.” Disgust and intimidation reverberated through the Afrikaner’s declaration.
My God! They are going to put us in jail! Peter communicated his fear in a furtive glance toward Chad.
“Why are you here?”
“We did some church things, just helping out, but mainly it’s just been a holiday,” Peter said apologetically.
Chad added, “It’s been a chance to see a different country.”
“Why are you here?” Spit spewed from his mouth like venom from a cobra.
The young men remained silent.
The gentleman stood up. He bent over his desk and supported himself with his short, thick arms; his blue eyes were piercing, and his white skin glowed with a rosy hue. He said, “We have more and more of you young upstarts coming into our country, coming here thinking they can bring their communist garbage, thinking they know better, thinking they will save the Kaffirs. You arrogant Americans! You goddamn self-righteous Americans! You think you can save the world. You do not understand this country! You do not understand our people!” After a slow breath, he spoke slowly, with finality. “You are trouble. You are not welcome in South Africa. You are to leave this country today, and you shall never return to South Africa. Thank you, gentlemen.” He stamped their papers, opened the door, and pointed across the beautiful great hall to the way out.
The two hurried across the mammoth room, down a short corridor, and out a side door into the cool breeze of a summer morning.
“Oh my God!” Peter let out, desperately trying to expel his built-up tension. “Oh my God! We’ve been kicked out, persona non grata.”
Chad responded, “That son of bitch has thrown us out for good. They think we’re damn communists. Communists! That’s your fault, Peter. You had to drag me to that damn township. You had to go to Soweto and let some dumb ass take your picture. You’ve made it impossible for either one of us to ever come back here!”
“God, shut up. Shut it! It’s not my fault they’re so bloody paranoid.”
* * *
They walked down the steps that wind through the sprawling tiered gardens in front of parliament buildings that overlook Pretoria: Jacaranda trees bursting with bright blue blooms dotted the landscape. Thousands of meticulously placed King Proteas, aloes, and rose geraniums welcomed them with soothing scents, while exotic birds greeted them with songs they had never heard before. Simon sat on a wooden bench, eating a sandwich and holding a flask of tea between his legs. They were glad to see their friend, relieved to hear his English South African accent—more soothing, more understandable, more understanding than the Dutch-related Afrikaans with its abrupt, guttural, staccato speech pattern, which can seem intrusive to the foreign ear.
Simon set his flask on the ground, folded his arms, and fixed his gaze on the city’s distant skyline as they related the worse than expected news. They would indeed have to leave the country ... immediately. No, they could never come back. They were now branded as persona non grata.
“They think we’re communists, Simon. They think we’re damn communists!”
As Chad said this, Peter looked away, knowing Chad would be staring straight at him. Peter mouthed some words, but his tightened lungs did not allow him enough air to project his own frustrations. He continued to take deep breaths, trying to slow down his heart rate and satisfy his starving lungs.
Simon sat pensively, allowing his two friends to calm themselves. Finally, he let out a prolonged and heavy breath and slowly said, “Let me see what I can do. Dad has a favor or two I can call in. If … if I can find the right person to talk to. Let me see. I should have gone with you two. I knew I should have. Never mind. Let me see if I can find … just let me see what I can do to fix this.” Simon took the papers stamped ‘persona non grata’ and walked slowly but resolutely toward the grand mahogany hall.
* * *
With the crescendo of their tension waning, Peter and Chad talked again about the plan, “Surely we could go somewhere else, anywhere but Rhodesia,” Peter moaned.
“So let’s head to Australia. They say the sheilas are wild and wonderful there, mate,” Chad said with exaggerated Australian accent.
Peter was subdued in his fantasy. “I’ve always wanted to spend some time in England. There’s lots of history to get lost in there, really Old World stuff.”
Both knew there were only two options: They would go to Rhodesia or return home. Neither was ready to go back to America. South Africa had much more in store for them; they did not want to be anywhere else. If going to Rhodesia meant they might have the opportunity to return, then that is what they would do. However, if Simon did not turn this around, if he could not get the persona non grata rescinded, it would be a guaranteed long, arduous trip back to the States.
* * *
An hour later, which felt like three or four, Simon returned. “Some good fortune indeed! I found that official who knows my father. I was able to vouch for you two, and I made a solemn promise that you are not the sort to stir up any trouble. Do you understand that, Peter?”
Peter nodded, avoiding eye contact with Simon.
“He agreed to repeal the persona non grata. You should be able to return. Let’s get going. You’ve got to catch the next flight to Bulawayo.”
Rhodesia it was. Peter’s heart quickened; going to a war-torn country was not an adventure he had bargained for. Chad let out a shout of relief and satisfaction; he would be able to return to South Africa, where he knew his destiny lay.
* * *
They went straight to Jan Smuts Airport in Simon’s 1972 faded red Ford Cortina. Their flight arrived at Bulawayo Airport at three forty-five p.m. Near a kiosk selling fresh fruit, flowers, and newspapers, they located Richard’s number in a tattered phonebook.
Chad made the call. “We’re friends of Simon … Yes … Oh, he’s fine … Yes, indeed he is. Well, we’ve had to make a sudden trip to Rhodesia. We hate to impose, but Simon thought perhaps you could, uh, help us out? Yes … if it is possible. We don’t want to put you out … Oh, that would be cool! Great! … Thank you. Yes … Okay. Thank you so much.”
“So what’d he say?” Peter asked.
“It’s cool. We need to get the bus into Bulawayo, to the Ma … Mapoo … Mpopoma Train Station. He said to wait in the parking lot. They’re … I think he said about an hour or so away.”
The bus arrived at the train station in half an hour. They found a bench near the car park and waited.
Shortly after five, a car slowed, and a woman leaned her head out the window and asked, “Are you two mates of Simon’s?”
They nodded.
The car stopped, and the couple got out.
They greeted the two travelers with comforting friendliness, but also with a keen sense of urgency. The man spoke quickly as he offered rushed handshakes. “I’m Richard. This is my wife Amanda. Such a pleasure to meet you! I’m afraid we must hurry on. It shall be getting dark very soon.”
Richard opened the trunk of his car, pulled a rifle out, and handed it to Amanda. He tossed their luggage into what he called ‘the boot.’ As they got into the car, Amanda cocked the rifle and placed the butt on the top of the front seat and the barrel on the dashboard. She carefully wrapped her arm around the rifle, placed her finger on the trigger guard and, in a very matter-of-fact manner, stated, “We’re ready. Let’s roll.” She looked to the back seat and calmly said, “The terrs, they prefer to come out at night, but we should be just fine.”
The two in the back seat looked at each other and mouthed the words, “What the hell are we doing here?”
PART I
SEPTEMBER 1974 - AUGUST 1976
CHAPTER 1
Worlds Apart
Peter McKnight finished the dreaded task: All his earthly belongings were back in place, freed from their summer hibernation. He looked around his ten-by-fifteen room. A small, but adequate eight-track stereo system rested on a tiny refrigerator beneath the window, and his modest collection of eight-track tapes were stacked neatly beside the fridge. Last year’s textbooks, lined neatly from tallest to shortest, gave an air of intelligence to the small bookshelf above the bed. A picture of his family – mom, dad, and two sisters standing on the south rim of the Grand Canyon – sat on a small desk and drew out a smile as he glanced at it. On the wall above the headboard was a lone poster, a stunning view of the skyline of Beirut, Lebanon; the scene always evoked a tinge of jealousy. He smoothed the multicolored Mexican serape blanket covering his bed. Smiling, he said to himself, Feels good to be back in Norman, back on campus. The University of Oklahoma felt like home.
* * *
Peter pulled his room door shut, locked it, and started walking down the corridor in his habitual turtle-like pace. He counted loose change as he walked, making sure he had enough for a Coke and a bag of chips from the vending machines in the lobby. As he looked up, he caught a glimpse of someone. Shit! Who’s that guy?
They exchanged a fleeting glance, but neither gave the other acknowledgment. This was unusual in Oklahoma, where everyone at least pretends to be friendly. Their eyes had barely connected, but that was enough. As he continued down the hallway, Peter heard the click of an unlocking door – the one opposite his.
First impressions are everything; they say that the first minute gets you the job. In that surreptitious glance, that first impression, Peter knew this guy: disgustingly clean cut, smartly dressed in shorts meant to display his muscle-hardened bronzed legs; the collar of his pink polo shirt turned up. And then there was that obnoxious wavy blond hair and those oversized sideburns, drawing attention to a face just rugged enough to reflect manliness, yet boyish enough to suggest a mischievous streak. A face shallow and coquettish bleach-blondes drool over. I hate frat boys, Peter thought.
Peter mumbled to himself as he stared at the Coke machine, “No way that guy belongs here. Damn pretender, spawn of some rich daddy, raised to think he’s all that. He’s an idiot – one of those guys who only cares about the weekend parties. A stereotypical Greek, a freakin’ frat boy. That’s all he is. Belongs in a damn fraternity house. What’s he doing in my dorm?”
The vending machine had no answer for him except for the humdrum buzzing from its illuminated red and white panels.
As he put his coins into the vending machine, a wave of anxiety overwhelmed him. Wait… that guy is going to be my neighbor. He took several slow, deep breaths and went to sit down in the dorm common area, where he waited for his nerves to settle.
Anxiety was Peter’s secret, something he kept hidden with great emotional effort. Long ago, he had accepted that he would have to live with this anxiety, its senseless ebb and flow. But a panic attack? That was an entirely different species. The first attacks occurred during his senior year of high school. Four times, he went to the school nurse, only to be told in a most condescending, irritated tone, “It’s just a bit of stress, Peter. Now go back to class and relax, you’ll be fine.” He could have sworn that more than once, he saw the nurse roll her eyes at him as if he were making the whole thing up, assuming he just wanted to get out of class. He desperately wanted to scream, You don’t understand! I am going to die! I can’t breathe, my chest is tight! My arms and legs are numb, I’m dizzy as hell! My heart is going to explode! You’re gonna be sorry when I’m dead!
During one attack, he went to the emergency room. After waiting three hours, he finally told a young doctor of his life-threatening symptoms. “Now, Peter,” the doctor responded, “you’ve checked out just fine. There is nothing wrong here. Everything is fine. Go home and take it easy. It will pass.” Then the doctor put his hand on his knee and patted him as if he was a silly boy imagining monsters in his closet.
Peter went home to die, though he never did. After two more visits to the ER, he came to the realization that there was no option – he would have to endure these cruel and heartless beasts, which, at their pleasure, would continue to attack him in their effort to undermine his humanity and devour his fragile sense of self.
* * *
Chad Daley arrived two days earlier and had already settled in his new home. This was his first year at the University of Oklahoma, and he had come early to get a feel for the campus and explore must-see haunts of Norman.
In his room, everything was in its place: Posters of Chris Evert, Farrah Fawcett, Led Zeppelin and The Who lined the tacky lime green walls. His 252 vinyl records—all in pristine condition and ordered alphabetically by band and the year released. The lack of any books (textbook or otherwise) was obvious. A nineteen-inch television sat on the built-in desk that was supposed to be used for late-night studying. Encroaching on a quarter of the room sat his most prized possession: a state-of-the-art Yamaha stereo system, boasting four grandiose speakers designed to enhance the squeal of Peter Townsend’s guitar solos and the angry drum rhythms Keith Moon created to vibrate the souls of all youth.
As a young boy, Chad discovered that he had a gift. He did not understand it, nor did he brag about it, but he used it to its fullest. Chad had the rare talent of being able to utilize the minimum to attain the maximum. He was able to do as little as possible while somehow still impressing the masses. He had applied his unique talent to his academic career, putting forth minimal effort yet always somehow making the grade. He lived his life pretending to care about what he was supposed to care about and always had people clamoring to be his friend.
Early on in his life, he learned to use his gift wisely. He would give the impression that he was working hard, while he was only looking for the next eager and worthy female. Ever since Chad had kissed Emily Johnston at her eleventh birthday party, all that mattered to him were girls. He’d just turned ten at that time and thought it doubly exciting that she was an ‘older woman’. He never really cared about finding the ‘right one’; after all, it was fun and safe to pursue the ‘wrong ones’. That was how he used his gift.
* * *
When Chad passed Peter in the hallway, he cringed. Damn hippie! I’ll be living next to a goddamn hippie. The shoulder-length, straggly hair, that unkempt and oversized beard; it was all too disgusting. Probably hides his joints in that repulsive road kill he calls a beard. Chad knew those bell-bottom trousers and baggy shirt came straight from the 1960s. Vintage my ass. He got that out of the bottom of some bargain bin at a goddamn thrift store. Chad purposely communicated his lackluster opinion of this guy with his fleeting glance, and he was sure the tramp clearly understood the message. When he closed the door to his room, he went to the window and screamed out, “Holy crap! I live next to a pot-smoking, acid-dropping, out-of-date, wannabe hippie. Lucky me!”
* * *
A month went by. The neighbors passed each other countless times, both carefully avoiding eye contact with each hallway encounter. There was no point. They lived in different worlds, and both were content with and proud of their own.
One Saturday, Peter caught sight of Chad walking down the hall, dressed in snug white shorts, a crimson button-up shirt, and carrying a megaphone. Oh my God! Peter mused. He’s a mindless, obnoxious, goddamn cheerleader on his way to make a fool of himself in front of 70,000 people at the freakin’ football game! Peter’s opinion of his neighbor plummeted to a new depth that day.
* * *
Peter sat in the back row of the large theater classroom in Psychology 203, Current Theories in Social Psychology. Roderick Kingsbury, the most feared professor in the psychology department, had just paired up students to work on class presentations, due just before the Thanksgiving holiday. God, how Peter hated presentations, hated working with another human being and actually having to communicate. As long as Peter did not have to interact, he could remain mysterious, hidden. He hoped some might even assume he was intelligent, a thinker – after all, still waters run deep.
After everyone paired up with his or her chosen partner, Peter, as always, was left the odd man out. He dreaded being assigned as the third wheel with one of the twosomes, and he felt the anxiety rising in the form of a lump that started in his stomach and worked its way up into his chest and throat.
“Anyone without a partner?” Professor Kingsbury asked in his always accusatory tone. Peter didn’t look, but he knew the professor eyes were peering at him. With great effort, and in slow motion, Peter’s hand began to ascend. God why me? Always the last one picked, always the leftover. Why!
“What shall we do with Mr. McKnight? How about…”
Before Professor Kingsbury could assign Peter to one of the twosomes, Chad burst through the door and proudly apologized, “Sorry I’m late.” He strutted down to the front row and plopped down in an empty chair, completely ignoring the professor’s glare meant to punish him for having the audacity to his classroom late.
Kingsbury pointed his index finger toward Chad and said, “Mr. Daley, you are not to enter my classroom tardy again.”
Chad smiled and nodded.
Kingsbury shook his head as he turned his gaze toward Peter, “You are in luck, Mr. McKnight. Your partner has decided to grace us with his presence.”
“Shit!” Peter said loud enough for several heads to turn. It wasn’t that the language surprised them, but more so that it was the first utterance they had heard from this student in six weeks of class. Peter knew Chad was in the class; he always sat in the front, nestled in between two cheerleader types. Peter religiously sat in the back row in his effort to fade into the woodwork and hopefully into oblivion.
Chad glanced toward Peter when Kingsbury pronounced them partners for the inane project. This was the first time the neighbors’ eyes had made contact since that first day. “Oh damn. It’s that hippie,” Chad said to the two bleach blondes next to him. When they looked back, disgusted snarls appeared as they noticed the unkempt beard.
Kingsbury passed out the assigned topics to each pair. Peter and Chad’s presentation was to be on, “The Application of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs in a Post-1960’s Culture.”
“Easy enough, if I can just figure out what a Maslow is,” Chad complained.
Peter cast a cruel glare.
With a slight grin, Chad said, “Just kidding, just kidding. Lighten up, flower child.”
Peter’s eyes rolled as he shook his head.
Later, they met briefly at Bizzell Library to discuss key resources and then divide Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs: physiological needs, safety and security needs, belonging and love needs, self-esteem needs, and the need for self-actualization. Peter insisted he would take the top two and his grudging partner could cover the bottom three. He had already researched self-esteem and self-actualization and did not want to have to do any more work than necessary.
Chad declared he would present on these same two needs. The more Peter insisted, the more Chad dug his heels. Then, all of a sudden, Chad said, “Fine. Here’s what we’ll do. Let’s flip a coin. Heads and I’ll choose.”
Peter shook his head and muttered, “Whatever. Go on then.” Peter wasn’t sure, but it seemed the fellow was arguing simply for the sport of it.
The coin decided, and they divided the list of needs. They did not see each other again until the day of the presentation. It was not that Peter trusted Chad to do his part of the work, he certainly did not. But, Peter knew communicating with any semblance of civility with one another would be next to impossible.
When the day of the presentation arrived, Peter desperately wanted to skip the class, give Chad his notes and stay in bed; partly because of his propensity for panic attacks in such situations and partly because he felt fluey and knew death was beckoning. However, he knew he had no choice. The presentation constituted one-third of their final grade, and he did have someone depending on him. He hated this fact, but he respected his responsibility, though he did not respect the one to whom he was responsible.
CHAPTER 2
An Accidental Friendship
The two walked back to the dorm together. Peter’s impulse was to walk faster and leave Chad behind, but he did not want to be seen as childish. He gritted his teeth and focused on an oak tree at the far end of Lindsey Street.
Chad started jabbering – something about next weekend’s football game – and then he bemoaned that the Sooners were on some sort of probation and something about the possibility of a national championship and someone he called ‘Little Joe’ having a chance to win something called ‘the Heisman.’
Peter pretended to listen as Chad prattled on about football, or at least he assumed it was football. It was all pointless gibberish to Peter. Near the top of Peter’s ‘Twenty Things I Hate Most in Life’ list was America’s obsession with football. He had long ago decided it was a barbaric game that should be banned. The ‘sooner’ the better, he thought. It did occur to him, though, that perhaps Chad was attempting to bring a momentary truce to the ridiculous unspoken feud they each had silently declared after that first glance. He quickly decided the guy was only feeling sorry for him.
Peter was about to turn and walk the other way when Chad said, “Hey, it really didn’t go so bad. I’m sure Kingsbury won’t grade you too hard.”
Peter gave Chad a defiant stare that clearly conveyed, Shut up. We’re not going to talk about what just happened.
Chad ignored the look. He chuckled and said, “Come on! It’s not that big a deal.”
Peter’s glower intensified. “What happened in Kingsbury’s class is never to be talked about or mentioned again.” Peter stated this as firmly as he could in his naturally low, deep voice – a voice that refused to project itself and gave the distinct impression to those who might be listening that his words offered nothing of any importance.
“You’re right. It is forgotten. I’m sure everyone will forget it … even if they noticed. Nothing to worry about. I bet—”
Peter sped up, intending to leave Chad behind.
Chad caught him by the shoulder and said, “Right, not another word. How ‘bout a drink later? I mean, we are neighbors. We may as well act like it, at least once a semester.”
“With you? No way,” Peter was about to say, then he thought, I’ve been snubbing this human being all semester. I never used to be this way. Oh what the shit. He blurted out, “Sure. That’s cool.” He then stopped and said, “I’ve got to do something. I’ll be back at the dorm in an hour or so.”
“That’ll work. See ya' then.” Chad darted up the stairs to the dorm.
* * *
Chad shut the door to his dorm room and lay on his bed. What the hell have I gotten myself into? Shoot! I thought he’d say “No thanks.” And give me that go-to-hell look. Goddam it ! That’s what I get for being nice. Not too worry. Chances are he’ll just slither back to his room and hibernate for the rest of the school year. Yeah. What a pathetic goddamn hippie. He drifted off to sleep.
A knock at his door startled Chad out of satisfying dream of friendly and topless co-eds. He got up, shook his head to shake off the residue of his nap, and answered the door.
A stranger, with a thin and gaunt face, stood motionless. His eyes appeared tired, if not entirely disengaged; they were eyes that seemed to wonder where they were. His haircut was much too short for 1974, cropped and nearly shaven.
Hmm ... What do we have here? A lost ROTC cadet? “What can I do for you?”
The stranger stood, staring.
“Well? What do you want, buddy?”
Still no response.
Chad’s impatience surfaced just as effortlessly as his friendliness; he had no time for fools. “Jesus! What do you want?” He began to close his door.
“And I thought you were serious. Stupid me. To hell with you.”
“Oh my God! Oh my God! How was I supposed to recognize this?” Chad said, pointing his finger toward the clean-shaven face. “Geez! I didn’t know it was … God, I am sorrrrryyyy. I mean look at you, man! You do resemble a human being. I always wondered what lurked beneath that massive hairball.”
“So now you know. Did you want to have that drink for real, or were you just feeling sorry for me?”
“Of course it was out of pity, but I guess we can try it anyway. At least I won’t be embarrassed to be seen with you now.”
“Charming, aren’t you?”
“It comes so naturally for me.” Chad pointed to his hairless head. “Hey, you didn’t do that because of what happened in—”
“It is never to be spoken of.”
“Yeah, understood. Where you want to go? Anyplace you hang out at? O’Connell’s is good. Or the Mont?”
Peter smiled and said, “I know a good place.”
Peter suggested a hangout he frequented, The Library – not the Bizzell Library, the university library, but The Library, Norman’s best-kept secret. The two-story house, built in 1901, overflowed with books, exclusively textbooks, from any course one could name: Anthropology, Zoology, and little-known subjects in between. It was the hidden cavern of a real-life urban legend, the lair of someone students called ‘The Professor.’
The Professor prided himself as being the prototypical eternal student: bachelor’s in seven subjects, masters in six, two PhDs, and working on his third. He supported himself by writing essays, term papers, and theses. He had recently completed a doctoral dissertation for an octogenarian fulfilling a lifelong dream before death beckoned.
The Professor reveled in helping needy students. “You must be needy, not lazy,” he would declare to inquirers. If he thought a student lazy, he would dismiss them immediately. “I have no sympathy for lazy,” he would declare. He could work up an essay in two to three hours for twenty dollars; a term paper in two days, guaranteed, for a reasonable fifty dollars; a thesis in two to four weeks, for a hundred or two hundred. The lone dissertation took five months, with a hefty fee of two grand.
What kept Peter returning to this secret den was The Professor’s willingness to provide cheap beer to weary, frustrated students. At times, students would give him a ‘tip,’ as he liked to call the gesture, of a six-pack or two. The Professor would then collect reasonable donations from underage drinkers. “No ID needed here,” he’d whisper to new customers.
The Professor warmly welcomed Peter’s friend – well, his acquaintance, but The Professor would not have understood that. He wore a sweater vest and a narrow, out-of-date tie. Not once had he ever been seen without his tie, though he was known to wear a bowtie on rare occasions. He delicately held his favorite meerschaum pipe in his left hand, leaving his right hand to gesture as he talked. The smell of the pipe tobacco perpetually filled the house with a sweet, slightly piquant aroma.
He took Chad’s hand and gave it one quick shake. “Pleased to meet you. What is it you are studying, Chadworth? Or is Chadwick?”
Chad held in a smirk and replied, “Chadwick, if you must know. Psychology, at least this month.”
“Oh yes, yes. Chadwick. Yes. Psychology. On the second floor, you’ll find what you need. The west wall. When you need anything, please let me know. I will be so glad to help. Would you care for a cold beer?” The Professor spoke with short, concise sentences, each ending with a quick breath as he prepared to give birth to a new one.
After The Professor slipped into the kitchen, Peter whispered, “He likes people to come and spend time here. Between you and me, I think he likes being needed, but he can only stand a few minutes of human contact at a time. He rarely goes out, and then only to classes. He’ll give generous discounts for running errands for him. Boy, that helped me last year.” Peter paused, shook his head slowly, “Sometimes I admire The Professor and think I’d like that kind of life, but other times I … well, I sort of pity him. Such a waste of a gifted life.”
As Peter made that last statement, Chad contorted his mouth in a peculiar manner, which caused Peter’s face to turn a rosy hue.
The Professor brought two six-packs and handed them to Peter. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. No donation needed.” With that, The Professor retired to the study to continue working on his commissioned projects.
With refreshments in hand, they went up to the attic.
* * *
The attic was a wonderfully secluded hideaway for The Professor’s more favored customers – a place to escape and do some late night cramming. Though many went to just melt into the beanbags, guzzle cheap beer, and discuss the world’s problems or, more often, to forget about the world around them.
Coors was on tap that particular evening. As they took their first sips, both declared they preferred Bud.
Chad laughed and said, “There’s one thing we have in common.”
“Probably the only.” Peter said as he lifted his can, inviting a superficial toast.
“Your cold better?” Chad asked and quickly subdued a chuckle.
“Riggght,” Peter said, with a look that stated clear and simply, Do not go there.
There was a moment of silence as Chad finished off first can, and then he began to chatter about football again. Peter wanted to tell him to shut up and declare such talk as inane and annoying, but instead he handed Chad another beer, waited for him to take a swig, and then began talking about how bored, burnt out, and inept his professors were. Chad agreed: another thing they had in common, something they both loved to complain about.
With three beers downed and Peter’s inhibitions ebbing, Chad asked, “So, have you always been a hippie?”
Peter tried to glare at Chad, but the alcohol buzz wouldn’t let him. He just smiled and said, “You ever hear that you shouldn’t judge the book by its cover?”
“My assumption is ... yes, that you carefully chose a cover that would discourage anyone from wanting to pick the book up.”
“Bingo.”
“So what is in this book?”
Silence. Peter studied Chad’s face, trying to detect whether sincerity or impertinence or alcohol – or some concoction of all three – had motivated the question. He wasn’t sure, but with alcohol continuing to lower inhibitions, he simply opened the book. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Chad laughed. “Sheer fantasy. That is a train wreck waiting to happen ... a train I’d never get on.”
Peter swallowed the last mouthful of his fourth can of beer, looked down at the floor, and allowed the words to come. “The summer after I finished high school, I went on this community service sort of thing, out in Kentucky. A place called Norwood, a little mountain town of about 900. Twelve of us went to fix the place up, remodel old houses so families could have more decent homes, that sort of thing.”
Chad interrupted, “Down in hillbilly country? Like the McCoy and Hatfield feuds?”
“They’d take that as an insult. They’re not hillbillies. They are mountain people. Anyway, I went to the first planning meeting, and there she was – eighteen, about five-four, a sassy twinkle in the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Not so much pretty, I suppose, but cute. Yeah, really cute. She was one of the locals meant to take care of us, keep an eye on us, whatever. Our eyes met. It was weird, strange, like a light switch being flipped ... no, more like a match being lit. No. It was spontaneous combustion. I knew without a doubt she was feeling exactly the same.”
“Spontaneous combustion? Trust me when I say that was simply lust doing its work. I speak from great experience.”
“Naw, it was a connection, a knowing. Knowing something … something was going happen – something fine, real fine.”
“My God! The train has left the station.”
“Love at first sight. It’s movie garbage, I know, but that glance, that moment ... well, I just can’t explain it. Anyway, not to bore you, we talked, we hit it off. Started with the usual casual stuff. It was great, fantastic. Then … then one day this guy comes up to me and says, ‘You better be careful. She has a boyfriend. Lives in the next town. Word will get around. When it does, the shit will hit the fan.’”
“Buyer beware. It was time to cut and run, buddy. Get off the train, Pete!”
“Shoot! It didn’t bother me. I knew my instincts were right. I asked her about it, she says, ‘Yeah, but it’s nothing.’ Said she’d wanted to cut it off for a long time. I told her to let me know when she dumped him. She came over the next day and said it was done. Boy, that was it.”
“Gaining steam.”
“That night we talked late into the night. I walked her home, and we kissed. I know it sounds really, really dumb, but it was like those ridiculous movies, you know, where the fireworks go off? It was like a wave of emotions bursting Hoover Dam. I never experienced anything like that before … or since.”
“Orgasmic?”
“Yeah, no, I suppose. Summer went on, the relationship was great, she was great, it was amazing, it was perfect … beyond perfection.”
“Full steam ahead. It’s too late now.”
“So I went home and started my first year at OU. We wrote and we talked. I dreamt of getting married. We began to talk about it. Then … then in the spring, letters got shorter, less … less …”
“Romantic?”
“Well, yeah. Less personal. Then the calls got shorter. My head was tellin’ me something had changed, but my damn heart refused to believe it. Spring break came, and I had to see her, so I got some money out of my savings, hopped on a Greyhound and went to Harlen – a dump of a town, but as close as you can get to Norwood. I called her, gonna surprise her … that I was there in Harlen. So she answers and I say, I really want to see you. Before I told her I was in Harlen, and she could come pick me up, she blurts out, ‘You’d better sit down.’ I thought, Oh shit! ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m back with—.’ ‘The asshole,’ I said. Then she slowly said, ‘I’m really sorry. Peter. We’re planning to get married. Don’t be …’ I hung up.”
Peter stopped and opened another beer and gulped half of it before he continued, “I got on the next Greyhound back to Oklahoma. Slept ‘til it got to Tulsa. I got off there. I couldn’t go home and answer endless questions from my parents, my sisters. I found a Motel 6 and stayed there ‘til the next weekend. Went home and lied to my parents, told ‘em it was great. Went back to Norman and muddled through the rest of the semester, like a zombie, the goddamn living dead. That’s when I found out about The Library and The Professor. He got me through. He felt sorry for me, so he didn’t charge much. He must have done about ten or twelve papers for me and gave me plenty of free beer. That’s when I stopped shaving … stopped caring.” He paused for a moment, leaned back in the beanbag, and poignantly said, “Paul Simon, he summed me up, ‘I’ve built walls, a fortress deep and mighty. I have no need of friendship. Friendship causes pain. It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain. I touch no one, and no one touches me.’ That’s me. That’s how you found me.”
“Geez. So your parents? They still don’t know? About Norwood and all that shit?”
“No one. You’re the first. It was too humiliating, stupid, painful … just too full of hate and anger. Couldn’t give it words. And now, here’s the thing, I still just don’t give a damn. I mean ... about anything. Chadwick, the world’s just a cruel, cruel place, and I can’t be bothered with any of it anymore. That’s what’s in the frigging book. And you’re right ... I don’t want anybody reading the goddamn thing.”
“Poor Pete. Truly, a devastating train wreck. Poor, poor pitiful Pete.”
Peter ignored Chad’s exaggerated sympathy and spoke with marked lassitude, “I don’t know how it was for you. When I was eleven and twelve years old, race riots were on TV all the time – God, it seemed like every night. I was scared to walk by a Black person, couldn’t understand why they hated White people so much … and why ... why they were torching their own places. Then … you remember, on the news every night, hearing how many more had died in Vietnam. Every night the body count plastered on the TV screen. You remember that?”
Chad shook his head.
Peter continued, “When I was in junior high, I despised those who were against the war. In high school, I protested the war. Then we pulled out last year, and now it’s becoming the hell we were supposed to prevent … the killing fields. Shoot. What’s the point of anything? Tell me that? Nixon was an ass. The war was a hideous joke. You tell me – what’s right, what’s wrong? Life is an illusion. There’s no right, no wrong – just the illusions politicians and corporations create. Tell me, Chad, what’s worth living for? Tell me, what’s worth dying for?”
Chad shrugged his shoulders.
Peter sighed, “It’s all an illusion – a goddamn fucking illusion.”
Chad leaned close to Peter’s face and with slightly slurred speech said, “If it’s an illusion, I think it’s a goddamn fucking wonderful illusion.”
Peter replied, “Blessed are the illusion dwellers, eh?” He then shook his head quick and hard. “God, I’ve had way too many beers. I don’t mean to be a bore.”
“Boring? Somewhat. Depressing? Incredibly. It’s time we get back to the dorm. I have enough arsenic to do us both in.”
“I suppose it’s good to … what would Kingsbury say … have a cathartic moment?”
Chad chuckled. “Well, Carl Rogers would be proud of me for enabling you to move into this new, uh, this new openness to life, encourage your ability to move away from … from defensiveness and the need for … oh, what was it … subception. Whatever the hell that means. Kingsbury and Rogers lost me there. Subception, Subception. Why do shrinks talk out of their asses?”
Peter shook his head. “Yeah, but hell, don’t flatter yourself. You know it’s just the booze!” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as far as his neck allowed. He had just revealed a hidden secret no human being west of the Mississippi knew about; he felt emotionally disrobed in the front of this stranger. Peter looked Chad straight into his perfect blue eyes and said, “Alright, so what about you, frat boy? What’s underneath that pretty boy cheerleader façade of yours?”
Chad winked, “Hey! Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
“I assume your cover tells it all, but what the hell is a Jersey boy doing cheerleading at OU?”
“The short and brutally honest answer is football. I wanted to go to a school where football is king. It came down to Michigan, Ohio State, Alabama, or Oklahoma. I decided Michigan is too damn cold, and I don’t want to be known as a Buckeye. Who the hell names their school team after a nut anyway? So it was between Oklahoma and Alabama. I flipped a coin and here I am. As simple as that. It’s been great. Heck, this year, we’ll be going to Miami for the Orange Bowl, maybe be playing the National Championship.” Chad laughed and continued, “The cheerleading squad travels free. What could be better than that?”
“Man. I don’t get the appeal. I mean … really, a cheerleader? A cheerleader? Seriously? Please!”
Chad grew increasingly animated. “Oh, man! It’s amazing. Cheering on 70,000 crazy fans! Man, what an adrenaline rush! As good as sex … hell, better than sex! It’s fantastic.”
Peter drew his eyes in and pulled his eyebrows down, “For the purpose of self-disclosure, I have to say near the top of my twenty most hated and annoying things in life are football and cheerleaders. Now I know there are such things as male cheerleaders, that has to go the very top of my list. Sorry, I just don’t get it. Standing in front of mindless people, jumping up and down, waving your arms around like some stoned robot screaming out utter nonsense about a bunch of guys throwing a ball around. No. I just can’t respect that.”
“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
Peter laughed. “I’ll never play the fool. I’ll leave that up to you.”
“And I do appreciate that.”
“But surely there’s got to be more than football, girls, partying, and road trips. I’d hate to think you’re that shallow.”
“I am what I am. But you want a story? I’ll give you one. My Dad, he’s a big-shot lawyer in New York. I’m the only kid. Boring you yet? I always lived under my dad’s expectations. He wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer, or – worse – a dentist. Yuck! Well, my dad’s a Harvard guy – to his crusty core. He assumed, of course, that I would be a Harvard man.”
Chad stopped and took a slow sip of beer, then continued, “Now we live in Englewood, Englewood Cliffs, to be exact – the American headquarters of Ferrari and Maserati. It’s the hallowed home of 4,000 of Jersey’s poshest S.O.B.s. I went to an upper-crust private school, ole ‘D and E,’ Dwight-Englewood, a school full of rich, snotty, entitled, wonna-be farts. My grades were always pretty good, but not quite good enough for the Ivy Halls of Harvard. Dad decided I would go to Princeton, about fifth best in his frigging utopian world. He pulled in a few favors to get me in there. He went to school with the Dean of Admissions, and that always helps ... as does writing a hefty check. Goddamn Princeton! I hated it. I mean I really hated it! The academics weren’t that hard – just too much of it. But it was the campus life that bugged the hell out of me. Too boring, too serious, too posh. I flunked out my first semester, entirely on purpose. So, dad made me work the next semester. I ended up in a steakhouse cleaning tables, mopping floors, and serving up salad with an unrelenting plastic smile.”
Chad paused and took a healthy gulp of Coors as he stared out of the attic’s diminutive oval window. Peter sensed he was working hard to corral suppressed anger, anger that begged to be set free whenever he thought about the forbidden secrets of his family life.
Chad continued, speaking slowly, “Dad was trying to teach me a lesson, give me a reality check. Then he’d get me back into Princeton. He had already arranged it with his puppets there. All I had to do was to go before some committee and plead my case. I was supposed to feed them some bull-crap about how I hadn’t adjusted well, but felt very confident now. I’m sure my dad had already slipped them another impressive check to show our family’s love and support for their prestigious and wondrous school.”
“So what did you do?”
“I refused to go to their goddamn committee meeting. And that morning, Armageddon broke loose right in our front living room. We got into it like never before. Oh, there’d been words before and Dad had slapped me a few times – lots of times, actually – but this? This was different. I was ready to fight to the death. Words got ugly. I bucked up … he bucked up. Honestly, I have no idea who landed the first punch. When it was over, Dad was in the dining room cabinet. Mom’s Royal Dalton china set was shattered, and her engraved Derwent Crystal collection sat in dad’s lap. Dad disappeared for the night, to his firm’s apartment in Manhattan.”
“And then?”
“The next day, Mom sat me down and asked me what I wanted to do. I told her I needed to get far away. She didn’t argue. She knew I had to get out of the shadow of dad’s expectations and out of reach of his wrath. She said she’d talk to him and told me to come up with a plan.
“So here I am. Decision made on football, partying, and low-key academics, and the flip of a coin. I told Mom they have a solid pre-law program just to make it sound sincere, and I told her I’d work to get back to Princeton for graduate studies. That was just a necessary lie to keep the financial aid coming in. So here I am, a Jersey cheerleading boy, enjoying the illusions of life to their full extent. The cover pretty well says it all.”
“You and your dad? You talk much?”
Chad’s mouth twisted. “Same as always. Curt and to the point. ‘Please don’t bother me with trivials, son. Can’t you see I’m busy? Another time, son. Eff off, son.’ Hell. I know orphaned kids who have better fathers than me.”
At one a.m., the stairs creaked, and The Professor entered the now-chilly garret and placed two beers on the table. Smoke from his pipe enveloped the room with its pleasant and exotic smell. With a measured smile, he said, “Bedtime for me. Take your time. You know what to do, Peter. Turn the lights out. Exit through the back door. The front door is, of course, bolted. Good to have met you, Chadwick. Yes, very good indeed.” With his pipe clenched between his teeth, he turned and went down the stairs.
Peter wanted to dig deeper. He had seen a new female slip into Chad’s room about every three or four weeks. “What about … well, what about the chapter on Chad Daley’s love life in that book of yours?”
Chad’s eye’s widened, and half his mouth curled up, “Oh, Peter, the joy of being a cheerleader – with chicks all the time, joking, teasing, flirting. Throwing them around, lifting them over your head, getting quick looks up there. But love life? A disaster! Utter disaster. Life is miserable when I’m not in a relationship and miserable when I am. Explain that to me. When I’m without the superficial love of some female, I’m bored, scared, lost. I feel like crap. So I latch on to someone, and it’s great. I’m happy, satisfied, content as hell. That will last for about four weeks. Then, without fail, I start feeling trapped, smothered, inadequate, scared, lonely, and depressed. Like clockwork, the apology comes. ‘Chad, I’m really, really sorry. It’s not you, it’s me, but I don’t think this is going to work out. It was fun, Chad. See you around, Chad.’ That speech frees me. It cuts a tight noose right off my neck, and I can breathe again. But at the same moment, a dreaded abyss begins to grow in the pit of my stomach. I’ve started betting myself how long each new chick will last. I’m betting on five weeks for Jen. Let’s see, it’s been—”
“Three weeks.”
“Damn, you’re observant! That is a bit scary. But, yeah, about two more weeks. I think I can make that.”
Peter, emboldened by alcohol and his Southern drawl taking hold, said, “Sounds to me like you just need to be single for a while, to find yourself. Be happy with who you are. Be content without having to have anyone else around. If you can do that, you’ll be ready for a relationship.”
“Really? That must mean you’ll be waiting for eternity. Here’s the man that makes Eeyore look like a raving optimist giving me advice. I wonder how long it will take for you to be so happy with who you are.”
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