"The artist is sexual because he goves forth emanations." — Otto Weininger

So here goes….

 

At Pitt Prep Kathy had been at the center, the inner circle – cheerleader, gymnast, field hockey player, just the kind of cheerful, responsible, spirited female that the powers that be pictured when they made the school co-ed. I, on the other hand, a cynical, non-conforming rebel was the kind they didn’t want in the picture at all. Even though the boys didn’t involve themselves with her romantically, Kathy was still conventionally "popular," pals with the other populars, and the Dean, various teachers and even the Headmaster himself, the very people who tried so often to convince me I was a terminally maladjusted malcontent, showered her with appreciation and praise.

But when we emerged from the dark hole of what I later learned was considered one of the most conservative and medieval prep schools in the country into the gentle light of a small, non-athletic, liberal liberal arts college things became quite different. Suddenly pep and school spirit were corny and cynicism and non-conformity cool. It’s common to describe the Carter years of the late seventies as a time of dispirited disillusion, of ennui, malaise and decadence, and I suppose all that’s true because I loved it, and for the first (and last) time in my life I felt at one with the Zeitgeist. At that time and at that college I was where Betsy had been at Prep, central, in the middle of things, everybody’s pal, the avatar of cutting edge values – even the teachers and administrators seemed to appreciate my creativity and provocations – while she became just as suddenly anachronistic, at the margins, a spectator in a world without pep rallies. (Of course in the long run un-hip Kathy would be proven right. Life, as they say, is more like high school than college, and the back to baloney rah-rah of the ultimate square Ronald Reagan loomed right around the corner).

My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Megan bearing our pitcher. There ya go.

Thanks, Megan

, I said, folding a bill into the tip jar on her tray. We’re all set.

O-kaaaay….

I’d ridiculously over-tipped, the equivalent of an hour in the pit, and Megan looked slowly from me to Kathy until summoned away by further banging and grunting by the Dekes.

But in another way….

I poured a glass for Kathy and set it in front of her before pouring my own and quickly downing half of it. In another way I’ve never – I don’t know – never felt so alive as I did back at Prep. Like every day everything was possible, everything was important, you know? I killed the glass with another immoderate gulp. Now, especially now that we’re seniors, every time I do something it’s like I’m denying myself the chance to do something else – maybe forever –

I don’t know

, she said, taking a delicate sip. If you think about your future…

I poured myself another. Nooooo few-tchaaa, I crooned in my best Johnny Rotten voice. And in fact that voice was my voice, the voice of my generation, baby, the generation that didn’t even have a name, the one the baby boomers were always trying to annex so that they could appear younger. I’d been surrounded by their music for as long as I could remember, but I’d always known it wasn’t my music, and had never bought into that hippy crap and it wasn’t until I’d heard Johnny Rotten’s voice that I knew I’d finally found a sound I could call my own.

Well, I have a future.

I’m sure you do –

A noxious comeback rose in my throat, but just looking at her, secure in her guileless sweetness, blunted my habitual contrariness. Like tonight, for instance. I foresee a beautiful future for us.

Oh, please.

Another sip, even slighter than the first. Give me a break. You’re impossible.

But things weren’t impossible between us, and with the beer as a lubricant we slowly slipped into an easy conversation more rooted in the present of teachers, classes and contemporaries. Soon enough she was laughing and flirting right back at me, and we were more than casually looking into each other’s eyes.

 

 

Kathy just sat there waiting for the lights to come up. Come on, I said. Let’s go, and she stood reluctantly, crouching so as to not block the view of the pedants behind us who were earnestly scrutinizing the Swedish credits. Soon enough everyone else crowded out too and we were treated on the stairs to Sammy Wisenkoph’s booming amplification of some esoteric detail which he loudly declared was a clear reference to an obscure Danish film, the ignorance of which prevented the uninitiated viewer from ever being able to appreciate Bergman’s work. Kathy and I just smiled at each other conspiratorially, keeping our silence until we were out of the auditorium. The audience split, the smaller part heading for the frats on the north end of the campus while the rest of us made our way down "middle path" to the independent south.

So what did you think? I said finally.

It was weird

, she said, the disappointingly stock response of someone who doesn’t want to analyze something too different or disturbing.

Yeah, I guess it was.

She reacted quickly to the sharpness in my voice. But it was O.K., what did you think?

Oh, I loved it. I love that shit.

She nodded meditatively. I liked it when the spider came out. And that last part with the helicopter and everything, I thought I was going to scream.

Yeah, the ending was great.

I guess I didn’t understand everything, though.

Who does? Except Sammy Wisenkoph of course. I mean you’d have to see it about a million times – and speak Swedish or something.

I had an aunt that went crazy, she said. She was always talking about that God stuff, too.

We slowly approached the lit door of the Pretzel Bar, conveniently located right off Middle Path, the buzz of conversation and the thump of the jukebox familiar to me as home. I came to an automatic stop. So…

So?

You do drink beer, don’t you? I couldn’t remember ever having seen her in the bell in all my misspent hours there.

Yes, I drink beer

, she said. Just not as much as you do.

Hah! I’ll believe it when I see it. Why don’t you come on in and demonstrate for me?

Well, I…

Come on, Kathy! I automatically reached for her arm, realizing only after I’d grasped it that it was the first time I’d touched her. It’s Friday night! We’re on a date for Christ’s sake.

Well, all right.

I felt her muscle relax under my hand. Just one.

And one and one and one. I let go reluctantly and opened the door for her. We went into the dark interior, surrounded by the sour smell of spilt beer and stale cigarette smoke, passing through the bar into the "restaurant" which abandoned all pretense of being a place where food was served as the night wore on, devolving into an antic drinking hall.

I led Kathy to a small table in the corner, empty except for the detritus of the couple who had staggered past us as we entered, not escaping the stunned and amused glances of my usual companions in debauchery who were roosting in a suddenly silent booth nearby. Even though they managed to adhere to the unwritten rule that forbade disturbing couples who clearly didn’t want to be disturbed, their shock was palpable, particularly manifest in the crooked, incredulous grin of my best friend Keith and the squint eyed scowl of his main squeeze, party girl Ungie. They, along with me, Kathy and a half a dozen others had gone from Pitt Prep to this college, the result of their proximity, their similar small size and Episcopal toniness, not to mention a Prep college guidance councillor who was an alumnus and had done his best to guide us here. The opinion of Ungie and the rest of the Prep bad girls concerning Kathy was not unknown to me – she was considered a prissy goodie-goodie and narc, possessed of the kind of irritatingly self-satisfied virtue of someone who hasn’t faced much temptation. Ungie particularly still held a grudge concerning some information Kathy had volunteered concerning a prank Ungie and a friend had pulled junior year at Prep, the exposure of which had nearly gotten them kicked off the cheerleading squad.

Fortunately, the arrival of the waitress shielded me from Ungie’s glare. Hey, UBU, she said, sweeping up the bottles and a meager tip even as she dabbed at a puddle of standing beer. Hey, Kath. Megan was a blond, amazonian field hockey/woman’s lacrosse player, striking, but built on an intimidatingly different scale than me. We knew each other from frequent barroom banter, while she and Kathy were no doubt acquainted from the field hockey team, where Kathy still toiled with the JV, even as a senior. What can I get you crazy kids?

A pitcher of Rock’s good Megan, thanks.

Sure thing.

A pitcher! Kathy said.

Don’t worry. You can have your glass and I’ll take care of the rest.

Huh.

And then there was a sudden awkwardness, the impromptu ease of our breakfast conversation stiffening with the formality of a date.

So.

The jukebox began, a few bass notes bringing instant appreciation from a table full of Dekes. Oh, God, not this again. The leaders of tomorrow, destined for boardroom and even White House never seemed to tire of the song "Brick House," its constant blare never tempering their condescending amusement. The pounded the table arrhythmically, chanting along in deep exaggerated faux Black voices Sheeeeee’s a brick house….All the while ogling Megan as she served them their Heinekens with a barely suppressed sneer. She’s mighty, mighty and she’s letting it all hang out…

So?

Kathy asked, slightly bobbing her head. Several of her roommates were Deke-ettes and I’d seen her standing in a corner when I’d braved their mixers to scarf up their potent but abominable spiked punch.

So –

I said, reaching clumsily for conversation. You really liked it at Pitt Prep, didn’t you?

Like it? Yes, I did. And you hated it.

No, not really. I mean I had a good time, I made some great friends, I had some good teachers – some jerks too. I guess I just thought that as an institution it was pretty fascist. I like college a lot better I can tell you that.

In fact Kathy and I had undergone a reversal of fortune between high school and college.

 

That’s all for now! Will write more soon,

Yr Pal,

UBU