72

Ignotum per ignotius

By Don McCormick
Copyright 2009

Part I: 1972 Life on the Road

What really happens when one billiard ball strikes another? Prior to the twentieth century, it was understood that the cue ball and target ball only interacted during the brief moment when they were in contact with each other, as is dictated by common sense. This is all well and good for billiard balls, but what about the forces of gravity and electromagnetism, which appear to act at a distance? Scientists had hypothesized that those forces must propagate through some ponderable medium, known as the luminiferous ether, much as a shock wave propagates through the air. The ether, however, did not stand up to serious scientific scrutiny. In 1887, Albert Michelson and Edward Morley showed that, whatever the ether might be, it did not behave like normal matter. For example, a water wave traveling along a flowing river will propagate faster in the direction of the waters motion than against it. In the case of light, however, Michelson and Morley showed that the speed of propagation was the same regardless of the relative motion of the observer and the hypothetical ether. In Ether and the Theory of Relativity, Einstein notes that special relativity is predicated on the observational fact that light travels at a constant speed for all observers, and thus ether, whatever it might be, it did not behave be like ordinary matter. His theory of general relativity further complicates this matter by proposing that gravity gives rise to the structure of space itself. To put this plainly, gravity is defined even in empty space, and thus there must be something. That something is the ether, or, in modern usage, a field. General relativity and Maxwells theory of electromagnetism represented the first field theories: descriptions of how the world works in terms of omnipresent fields, rather than tiny particles. In many respects this is one of the most important contributions of relativity to physics. In the modern view, all forces arise from fields. The billiard balls described above dont really collide at all, but their electromagnetic fields repel each other on very small scales. In quantum field theory, developed in the mid-twentieth century, about forty years after the present work, not only do the forces, but the particles themselves arise from the field. Consider this work, then, as a transitional commentary between Isaac Newtons classical particle picture and the modern picture in which the universe is comprised fundamentally of fields.
Hawking, S., A Stubbornly Persistent Illusion: The Essential Works of Albert Einstein (2007) Running Press Book Publishers, Philadelphia, PA, at pp 235-36, in Sidelights on Relativity, a preface to Einsteins Ether and the Theory of Relativity, first delivered by Einstein as a lecture at the University of Leyden on May 5, 1920.

Preface 1972 was a good year. I was barely out of high school, playing pool for a living, living on cash, hustling nine ball in teeny-town pool halls and bowling alleys all over the South. I was living out of a beat-up junker with expired Arkansas tags but never got pulled over. I was doing good, living large, in a small-time, recently-graduated-fromhigh-school kind of way. A few months after graduation I had so many twenties I couldnt get any sizable fraction of them in my wallet. At first it wasnt more than six or seven thousand dollars but it weighed a ton and I was already worried somebody would find the shoebox in the trunk of my car and Id have to start all over. And Id only been at it three or four months. I didnt know what I was doing; I was just good at pool. Cons and grifters and sharks were out there, too, but I avoided them. I just shot well enough to win. I got good at convincingly not making a shot but leaving the cueball somewhere where the other guy had nothing at all. I did meet guys with scams, but I never let on what I did for a living, and I never put in with any of them. They could shoot all right, but most of them wouldnt win regularly without a partner setting up the scam. Once I realized there was a team of sharks playing a table, Id stop playing and watch. Education on the cheap. I never got the deal, anyway. If you practice enough, if you have talent, eventually you become good. When youre good, you win, and no scams are necessary. Why climb a tree to lie when you can stand on the sidewalk and tell the truth? The sharks all drove Cadillacs and wore custom boots. Not me. If you pull up in a 1963 Plymouth Valiant with oxidized paint and rust spots wearing Levis and Chucks, nobodys going to worry about betting a dollar a ball. You take a custom cue out of a leather case at Big Willies in Claxton, Georgia and you lose lots more than you gain. Some of the locals will take a crack at you, but theyll all decide, on the spot, how much theyre willing to lose. Theyre willing pay something for the chance of becoming the legend who took down the pro, but that chance may not be worth a lot. Thirty bucks? Sure. Great story, either way. $200? No. I need to make the payment on the Durango and my ol lady gave me all kinds of shit the last time I bet on a pool game. I didnt get laid for a week. Me, I dressed like a welder and played with the straightest 18 ounce cue on the wall racks everywhere I went. I was just some moron passing through, so even when I was beating them, it was possible I was just on a lucky streak that was about to end. I always acted surprised when I made a shot, and was careful not to run the table much. Id keep going until they offered a personal check instead of cash, then it was time to go.

I wasnt a shark, anyway. I was just good with a cue stick. Its all straight lines, and straight lines always make sense. Always. When it was time to go, that meant time to go right now another hundred miles down the road to another little town that still had hand-painted Saxons pecan log billboards by the roadside and an old-fashioned tan motel with 24 rooms in a square U around a gravel parking lot. If I won big, I had to leave right then because the people as Id taken money from might be mad as hell and convinced theyd been cheated. People dont like accepting the fact that theyve failed at anything because they lack talent or skill and so cook up some way of convincing themselves theyve been cheated. They convince their friends or a cop and youve got trouble. I never learned the cons, but I kept moving for that next year or so, and I made a good chunk of change. Im not sure how muchI was afraid to count it for a long time. Cant tell you why. But I was doing well. Id started playing pool when I was a kid. Both my parents were military. There was a recreation area for base kids at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, and they had a kind of summer camp every year. My mom would drop me off. As long as you didnt cause trouble, the counselors didnt care what you did. I didnt care for making lanyards, so I spent all day from the time she dropped me offright after reveilleuntil dinnertime playing pool. I had barely finished third grade, but I was tall for my age and got good at pool the way kids do when talent and opportunity match up. My sisters son has a daughter who was always good at socceramazingly so. When she got to third or fourth gradethe age I was when I started playing poolshe made the all-star team, and I went to see some of her games in her all-star tournament. In the last quarter of a game that didnt matter she took a shot at goal from the half-field line, something that should have been impossible from a ten year-old girl, and it sailed straight into that net right above the goalies fingers without a bounce, like an eight ball rolling into a side pocket. From the half field line. The girls on her team all cheered, but the parents and spectators on the sidelines all looked at each other with their mouths open. Did that really happen? I was like that with pool even in the third grade. The rec room at the Keesler swimming pool was supposed to be off limits to kids after 5:00 so the enlisted men could use it, but the airmen noticed the way I played and would keep me around and make bets with each other about who could beat me. If I stayed too late, Mom would send my dad down to get me. On the way back hed ask me how Id shot and usually it was pretty well. Id get home and Mom would send me to bed without any supper which was a pain because I didnt like being hungry.1 A couple of years later, when Dad got transferred to Eglin2 there was a pool table at the church we went to and another one in the bases enlisted mens recreation center,
1 2

Still dont Eglin Air Force Base in Florida.

but kids werent allowed in to the enlisted mens rec center except on the weekends and on holidays. The church didnt mind me coming in in the afternoons to play, but I could tell they all thought it was a little odd that a fifth grader wanted to play pool by himself for hours on end every day, even though I wasnt doing any harm. It was in that church basement that I started to notice something odd. When you get good at something you notice really small details. Back then, and for a long time, when I made a certain shot, the same thing happened every time, only sometimes it didnt. Its hard to explain. Nobody ever taught me how to shoot pool. I picked up some tricks from the way I saw other people play, but nobody ever explained any of it to me. Plus, because I taught myself, if I make a good shot, I cant explain what I did to another pool player using terms they all use. I know what English is, but thats about it. What I know is that things tend to bounce off of surfaces at the same angle they came in, and that balls bounce off each other in the direction of a line that connects their respective center points at the moment of impact. In optics, youd say angle of incidence equals angle of refraction. Same in pool. But pool players dont talk like that, and they dont like it when I do. Much of physics is an oversimplification, but it always yields elegant phrases. And lots of it actually describes reality. If I did the exact same thing a hundred times, I would occasionally get a different result. Generally the divergence from experience was minimal, but occasionally it was significant, or at least noticeable. Shoot a shot three hundred times and one would be out of kilter. Maybe two. Usually none. If I had told anyone else about what I was noticing, especially another pool player, he3 wouldve explained that my shooting wasnt as precise as I thought, that normal shakes and trembles or normal, slight differences in pressure or force accounted for the variances. No matter how consistent I thought I was, I couldnt be that consistent. But I was. So the lesson I took away at the time was that even if I thought I was better than everybody else in the room, I could never bet my life on a pool game, no matter how tempting the prize, because there was something weird messing up the results. This was the first sign I had that the universe was crumbling at the margins. More on that later. In 1972 I didnt know anything about physics. Then without warning my pool table access was revoked. I got into trouble in the fall, and my observations on the slightly but definitely unreliable nature of the laws of physics were interrupted. The church janitor, a large black4 man I knew as Morris, suspected me of smoking while I played pool and had been trying to catch me. But what got me suspended wasnt Morris the janitor, but Eddie Finch my Sunday School teacher.

3 4

Or she. In 1972, black was the respectful way to refer to someone who would be referred to as AfricanAmerican in 2009.

Mom may have been posted in Thailand at the time, but Dad was home. I think. No, maybe not. Mom must have been home. Maybe Dad was in Thailand. I should probably explain my religion thing. When I was around thirteen I developed an interest in religion that I really cant explain. I started listening to what peopleparents, preachers, preachers on TV, friendswere saying and thinking about it. I was too critical5, of course, and too prone to doubt what I was taught. But still. This is religion. There are holes everywhere, and you have to be a fool or willfully ignorant to fail to see them. Eddie Finch was a fool. He wasnt just a garden-variety fool. When I was assigned to his Sunday School class, hed recently decided to become a painter, and proudly showed off paintings that were clearly less well-rendered than the Paint-by-Numbers Indian chief Id done in the third grade. Then, when nobody would buy his paintings, Eddie found Jesus with an unrelenting fervor that surprised his pretty, petite wife Jane, who, even to me, a grammar schooler who knew nothing of the ways of grownups, often seemed to be looking at her husband in bewilderment. Shed married a life insurance salesman, and now this? Eddie signed up to be a Sunday school teacher, and, his religious longings not satisfied by hectoring me and my grammar-school classmates about burning in Hell for our sinful ways, he also volunteered for a prison outreach program. As a result he started bringing a series of recently-paroled felons to church on Sundays. One special parolee, a man named Frank Jones who, like a caricature of a hardened criminal, had beady eyes, a broken nose, and a crew cut, joined our church, confessing his faith before the congregation one hot July morning. A few weeks later we heard that Frank was moving into the spare room at Eddie and Janes house, and a few weeks after that, my mother heard that Eddie had co-signed the note on Franks new car, a used Cadillac with tail fins. My mother viewed this development with concern. A few weeks later Frank disappeared, and surprisingly, Jane elected to go with him, leaving Eddie and little Mamie E. Finch, their daughter, in Ft. Walton Beach while Frank and Jane cruised the country in a Cadillac that Eddie was paying for. None of that had happened yet when I lost my pool privileges at the First Christian Church, Disciples of Christ, in Ft. Walton, Florida. But it helps explain who Eddie was. The church was completely empty most afternoons, and Morris suspected I was smoking in the rec hall. So as I was playing pool alone in the church basement, there was a certain amount of suspicion and snooping going on. Just so you know, it was odd for me when we went to church on Sunday, when there were all those other people there. During the week the church was a great, empty husk with a beautiful green slate-bed pool table at the bottom and a janitor popping up at
5

Is it just me, or are all adolescents critical?

unexpected times and unpredictable intervals everywhere else. On Sunday it was crowded everywhere, with no chance to play pool. On one such Sunday, in our Sunday school class, Mr. Finch was teaching us about the passage from Matthew in which God was recounted to have said This is my son, in whom I am well pleased,6 following Jesus baptism by St. John. What occurred to me that Sunday morning was the spurious but attractive kind of idea that might seize a fifth grade boy. I understood, vaguely, that we were supposed to believe in a Trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. If the Three were one, why would one of them be pleased with the other? Wouldnt this be an un-Christian kind of smug self-congratulation? Not the way to ask the question of Mr. Finch, of course. ME: FINCH: ME: FINCH: ME: (Hand raised) Mr. Finch? Yes, Henry? I have a question. Yes? If Jesus and God are the same person, like they teach us about the Trinity and all, why is God saying that? About being well pleased and all. Isnt it kind of like talking to Himself? I mean, it just doesnt make a lot of sense. Now you listen here, young man. Ive just about had it with your questioning me in class and refusing Gods Word. God has a plan for your life, and the sooner you shut up and start following it, the better off youll be. But it doesnt make sense. It makes all the sense in the world. Now you be quiet.

FINCH:

ME: FINCH:

The next week I got summoned to Pastor Leslies office, which I liked, despite the occasion. It was full of books. There were Bibles in Greek and Hebrew. He was a nice guy. He smoked a pipe. I wasnt exactly sure why Id been summoned to the pastors study, but I knew it had to do with Eddie Finch7 .
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Matt. 3:17: This is my son, in whom I am well pleased. Im sorry. I didnt know Greek then but I do now and cant think of the New Testament in any other way. Nor should I. Learn Greek. Youll see. You cant un-learn some things. Greek is like that. So is physics. In the first nanoseconds after the Big Bang, when energy and mass were preposterously compact and almost completely disorganized, the tiniest imaginable particles and waves had to take shape, they had to spin. The forms and spins they chose were completely arbitrary, but once they spun, they all spun in the same way, and all of physics has obeyed that same, randomly-chosen rule ever since. Its like a piece of iron. The atoms are all arranged randomly. Expose it to a strong magnetic field, though, or even tap it with a hammer in the right way, and the electrons start to line up, their little clusters of force reinforcing each other, so that ferrous metals will now stick to it. From the random association of iron atoms a pattern emerged that could have gone either way, but from then on that lump of iron is a magnet with a north pole and a south pole and theyre not going to switch. The brain is that way. Well, mine is. I have a friend, Don, who says he almost never makes up his mind. Each bit of information he gets is like another piece of the puzzle, and he comes up with a new theory to explain how they all fit together, but he says the answer is always in flux and hes never confident hes figured things out. I dont know what that would be like. Cant understand it. Hes a lawyer, but I think he may be a Repeater. Im reluctant to ask because they dont like people who arent Repeaters knowing about them.

After I sat down Pastor Leslie lit his pipe and filled the room with a heavy, richsmelling smoke that pleased me at the time but would horrify me today. I hear you have been crossing swords a little with Ed Finch, he said, after a pause. Yes, sir. I guess so. He says you challenge his authority, said Pastor Leslie. No, sir. I just ask questions. And I really want to know the answers. Im not trying to cause trouble or anything. It has never made any kind of sense to me that you can get into trouble for asking questions out of honest curiosity. Ive had friends who asked clearly stupid questions as a way of making trouble or making jokes. In ninth grade science class, after Mr. Spain said we could fill out our science tests in pencil, pen, or any writing implement you choose, Louis Bondurant raised his hand and asked Mr. Spain if he could fill out his test in Chap-Stick. I wasnt that kind of a kid, but Louis was much, much more entertaining than me. So Leonard tells Me hes been finding cigarette butts in the basement after you play pool there. Leonard? I asked. Mr. Morris. The Negro8 who takes care of the church, the pastor said, pulling on his pipe. He pulled out one of those nail-like tools pipe smokers used and tamped the tobacco as he pulled on it. Oh. Well, Im surprised, I said. So youre not responsible for the cigarette butts he finds? he asked. Do I look like a smoker? There was a pause while he fussed with his pipe. I think we need to think of a way to keep you focused, he said, and continued talking. I did not, though, continue listening. I had too much experience ignoring him to listen to him at any length now. He gave these God-awful9 overly-wrought sermons that were bad week after week and were even worse on special occasions. His Christmas sermon was about a hunchbacked kid named Zia or Zeah whose hump magically disappeared when he met the Christ Childit was Amahl and the Night Visitors without
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Or was his name Eddie White? Memory, too, is unreliable. Sometimes I remember an event one way, sometimes another. All people are this way, but not all realize it. Of those who realize it, not all can accept it, and of those, fewer can or will admit it. Were all the stars of our own movie, and this is reflected in the script we recall. 8 In 1965, it was not unusual for an educated man to refer to an employee as the Negro who takes care of the church. 9 Pun inadvertent.

music or a crutch. It was excruciating, and he did it exactly the same every Christmas. We moved to South Carolina after Id heard it four times, and four was plenty. Or was it LeJune? Anyway, whenever Pastor Leslie embarked on a lengthy discourse, I tuned out out of habit. After a few minutes he asked me a question, but since my mind was wandering in all sorts of non-church areas, I had no idea what he was talking about when he asked and that was a problem because Pastor Leslie wanted to be listened to. I had no idea what the question had been and so stumbled ineffectively attempting to formulate a coherent response. Since telling me important things was his role and being educated by this wisdom was mine, and the fact that I didnt know my part convinced him that Eddie Finch must be on to something. Focus, yes, he said, smiling to himself and filling the room with his richsmelling smoke. He thought for a few moments. Heres what were going to do, he said. Your pool privileges are suspended for this week. Next week I will ask Ed how he felt his Sunday school experience was, and if he feels it was good, your pool privileges will be reinstated. Thereafter, as long as Mr. Finch feels Sunday school is going well and Leonard doesnt find any more cigarette butts, your pool privileges will continue. All right? Ah, Hell. What was that? Oh, well. What do you think of this arrangement, Henry? he asked, with a smug look that only a pipe-smoking protestant preacher can have. Well, I guess Im never going to shoot pool here again, because those butts are gonna keep appearing in the Fellowship Room. You must stop smoking, Henry, he said. Pastor, if I were to smoke, and Im not conceding for an instant that I have, but if did, I wouldnt be stupid enough to smoke anywhere where Mr. Morris could bust me, and I wouldnt leave evidence of the crime. If I were stupid enough to light up indoors, which Im not, Id at least pitch the butts outside. He thought about this for a minute and pulled on his pipe. Morris has found the butts, Henry, he said. I dont doubt that, I said. Ive seen them, too, and if Id known I was going to get blamed for them being there, Id have cleaned them up. But theyre not mine.

He rolled his eyes in slight exasperation and shook his hands at the heavens as if to ask for strength. Henry, he said. Youre down there for hours every day. Surely you can understand that it is logical for suspicion to fall on you. Yes, sir. Thank you for explaining. It may be logical, but its not accurate. Those arent my butts. He leaned back in his chair and looked to the middle distance. He thought a few moments while he smoked. Henry, he said, theres a principle in philosophy and logic that we call Occams Razor. Have you heard of it? No, sir. But he was damned sure going to tell me about it. Occams Razor posits that when seeking an explanation, the simplest explanation is almost always the correct one. You are in the Fellowship Hall for hours each day, unsupervised. Young men often experiment with tobacco. Yes, sir. Mrs. Leslie comes down to smoke a Marlboro three or four times a day during the week. She always shoos me out, but it always smells like smoke after shes gone. And Mr. Finch tells you I argued with him even on weekends when we were out of town, I said. There was an awkward pause. You are mistaken, he said. My dear wife gave up smoking almost a year ago. Yes, sir. Smoking cigarettes is sinful. Injurious to the body, and so, indirectly, injurious to the soul. Yes, sir. I would know if my dear Jane were still smoking cigarettes. I could smell it in her hair, on her breath, on her clothes. Plus she would never lie to me, he said. Yes, sir. I dont know if youve noticed, but pipe smoke is very thick and clings to everything. You have something to say? Have you noticed how things dont always work out the same? How so? How you do something the same way and get different results some of the time? Oddly, he was completely content to have me change the subject.

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Well, Henry, I like to think of this as Gods way of adding nuance to the universe, and of reminding us to grateful for the world He has created. I repeat some of My most popular sermons from time to time, and I am struck, as you say, by the differences in the way My flock has reacted to them over the years. He pulled on his pipe several times in rapid succession to get it burning good again, filling the study with rich, sweet smoke. He blew a perfect smoke ring that descended to the floor and then bounced off, still turning axially on its own tiny radius. Over the years, Ive come to think of it as another one of Gods many blessings. Small variations in the stresses I give different parts of the sermons, and larger variations in the mood and composition of the individual members of My congregation, yields larger differences in reaction. Some years Mrs. Jameson cries when Zeah stands up straight, and sometimes she doesnt. Its rewarding either way. You see? Dr. Leslie, Im sorry, but thats not right. Mrs. Jameson crying at My Christmas sermon? No, that makes perfect sense. What doesnt make sense is what just happened to that smoke ring, I said. It just wasnt right. How so? It sailed ten or twelve feet from your lips then bounced off the floor without losing its spin. Thats just not right. They all do that, he said. No they dont. They break up a few feet from your mouth and wont even bounce off of a pool table, much less a floor with shag carpeting. I would be interested to know how you came to these conclusions, but am more interested in why you think Mrs. Jamesons reaction to My Christmas sermon makes sense. Perfect sense, I think you said. I waited, hoping hed blow another smoke ring, but no. If I tell, will you blow another smoke ring? I asked. He deliberated. Perhaps, he said. Asshole. He wouldnt commit to a smoke ring, and he wants me to buy in on eternal life. People truly are fractal. They resemble themselves at all levels. Nietzsche was right, Christians should look more redeemed.

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Ive never liked these things where the universe10 doesnt make sense and wanted to track this one down. Except for the errata I was noticing on the pool table, the only examples I had then of the universe not behaving as it ought to were a few times a few years before when I thought I could see through my big sister when she came home from college (I never could see through her when she was in high school) and a few occasions when I seemed to be able to see through my eyelids when I was falling asleep. This smoke ring thing was important. Okay, I sighed. Mrs. Jameson drinks, but she keeps it under control by only letting herself drink on weekends. When Christmas Eve falls on Friday, Saturday or Sunday, shes been drinking when she gets to your candlelight service, which is when you preach Zeah, and she cries. If Christmas Eve is on a weekday, she shows up sober and doesnt cry. For a kid to be honest with an adult is always risky, and this one didnt seem to go well. Pastor Leslie frowned and sat up and pulled on his pipe. He looked into the distance in a troubled way. He blew a smoke ring, but I think it was absent-minded and not to satisfy me. I followed it with rapt fascination as it bounced first off of a wall and then a glass-fronted book case before it disappeared into the thick cloud of smoke over his head. How can you be sure about this kind of thing? he asked. Amazingly, the smoke ring came sailing down out of the cloud, having apparently bounced off of the ceiling. I have no idea how long it might have continued echoing, but as it sailed towards the floor it encountered the toe of his expensive-looking semi-wingtip,11 jiggling nervously all of a sudden, and broke up. Damn. Her step-son Mark Ralston is a friend of mine, I said. Mark and I always played at his house on weekdays and my house on weekends. One Saturday when I happened to be over there she was cooking something and shed been putting out cigarette butts in the front right eye of the electric range under the misapprehension that it was an ashtray. This upset Mark. Pastor Leslie gazed off in the distance some more. So will you blow me another smoke ring? I asked. Heres what were going to do, he responded. Your pool privileges are suspended for a week. Aah, shit, I said. Mind your tongue, he said. Im going to talk to Mr. Finch next Sunday. If he believes you were appropriately engaged with your class, then your pool privileges will
10

I dont like using the word (cosmos, in English) which most people and all philosophers would use instead of universe here. I dont like it because thats not what it meant in Greek. They hadnt imagined that the universe was as big as it is, so its use here, when I know the universe is much bigger than Socrates ever imagined, would be inappropriate. 11 A kind of shoe.

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be reinstated. Once your pool privileges are reinstated, it will only be on your word of honor as a gentleman that you will not be smoking inside the church. Agreed? When did I ever claim to be a gentleman? I asked. Agreed? he asked. All right, I said. Im going to give you something else to occupy your time, he said. He reached behind his desk and pulled out a Prussian blue book titled Gospel Parallels. Whats this? I asked, leafing through it. Each page listed three columns, labeled Matthew, Mark, and Luke. It points out the similarities between the three synoptic Gospel narratives, he said. Some of the stories in the synoptic Gospels appear in all three, some stories in only one, some in two. This book is designed to point up the similarities and differences. Whats synoptic mean? I asked. I was fascinated. Cant explain why. Its from a Greek word. It means they all look the same, he said. Why Greek? The New Testament was originally written in Greek, he said. Really? Are you sure? Not Hebrew? Quite sure. He got up to open a window. Sorry, getting a little stuffy in here, he said, putting his pipe aside. In Palestine in the days of Jesus, they didnt speak Hebrew, anyway. They spoke a language called Aramaic. Scholars refer to the Aramaic of Jesus day as Syriac. There are four Gospels, I said, but this only has three columns. What happened to John? Its not synoptic. The Gospel of St. John doesnt have many narrative details in common with the other Gospels, he said. Why not? A world had been opened to me, a world that would vex me for the rest of my life. So far, anyway. You will be able to figure this out for yourself in time, Henry. Now I really must be getting to the Fellowship Hall. Do you understand our understanding?

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I guess. When Mr. Finch says I can, I can use the pool table, but until then I read this book, I said. I think its in there somewhere. Ill talk to you next week. It was a mugs game, of course. I didnt ever get to use the church pool table again. Mr. Finch consistently told Pastor Leslie that I interrupted, or squirmed in my chair, or did something wrong. But that was okay. Within a few weeks I found the Niceville Pool Hall, nearby and on the bus routes, where I reacquainted myself with some Airman friends from Biloxi. I could play pool every day there, and really didnt need to bring any money. I still had weekly conferences with Pastor Leslie about my conduct, but I no longer attended our weekly conferences with any expectation of using the church pool table again. Mr. Finch was never going to let up on me, and thats the way it was. I loved talking about the Bible with him, though. He was a pompous pain in the ass, but he really did know Biblical textual criticism, and we talked a lot about the differences and similarities in the synoptic gospels. He tended to shy away from talking about John. Shortly after our weekly meetings started, he gave up smoking, and his fascinating smoke rings ceased to be a part of my life. Alas. How did I get here from 1972? I need to go back. Excuse me.

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Chapter 1 Let me start over. My childhood really has nothing to do with why Im writing this book. In 1972 I was a gambler. I played pool, mainly nine ball, and cards, mainly poker and gin. I almost never lost. Its easier to make a little money playing pool than playing cards, but if you find the right card game, you can make a lot of money. You can almost never do that in pool. You dont run into many rich guys in pool halls or bowling alleys. Ironically, pool requires lots more skilleither incredible innate skill, which you almost never see, or years of patient practice. With cards, you just have to understand the basics of the laws of probability. Every deck of Bicycle cards I saw in the sixties and seventies had one card that listed the odds of drawing particular cards in particular situations. The odds were oriented to poker, but theyd work for pretty much any game other than pinochle.12 The odds of drawing inside to fill a straight were one in 296,231. Later, when I was in college I figured out that the real odds were

but the card in the Bicycle deck is a pretty accurate shorthand. Dont draw to an inside straight. This is all math. High school math. If you graduated from high school, you got enough math that you can understand that you should never, ever draw inside to fill a straight, or draw to a three-card flush, or raise when you dont have openers. Because you have enough math to understand the odds, to do any of those things would be stupid. But most people who gamble are stupid. They believe in luck. There is no luck, just math. Theyll decide theyre due for a win, or theyll think theyre smarter than the guy across the table from them. But its all math, and any departure from math is some version of stupidity. Do you have the cards? If so, do you have the money? If the answer to either is no, you lose more than you win. Maybe two hundred times Ive seen somebody raise on a pair of tens in a game requiring a pair of jacks or better to open. My dad taught me to play gin when I was in the fourth grade. You can learn everything you need to know about cards and odds from gin. You just need to think how many cards there are in the deck and how many of them will make you happy. In many situations, that number is pretty small. Pokers different. Outside a casino, it is, anyway. Dont ever play it in a casino. To the extent youre taking notes to improve your gambling game, thats the first tip: never play poker in a casino. 13 As a matter of fact, heres everything I know about
12 13

Which I didnt play. Still dont. Look for a game with people who know each other and are friends. They usually wont be accustomed to cheating each other, and so wont know how to cheat you. They wont like you taking their money but

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gambling: Dont play a skill game if youre not skilled. Dont bet against anybody who claims he or she can do something improbable.14 In cards, dont bet on anything other than the math. Dont play anything in a casino.15 Dont play poker against people who all know each other but dont seem friendly, and bail on any game once you get a sign that two or more people at the table are cooperating in any way. Dont shoot craps. Craps in a casino is an exciting way for you to lose money and shooting craps in the street is an excruciating way for you to get beaten and robbed. Dont play blackjack unless you know how to count cards, and chances are good you dont. I learned to play blackjack on a Boy Scout trip to Philmont in 1965 and I never played it again. The numbers are obvious and youre always playing against the house. Never play anybody in any game who offers to pay you with a check. Dont bet sports, horses or dogs. Dont bet pool in any place more than two days running. Stop playing cards at midnight, whether youre ahead or not. Never bet money you dont have. Never make a bet to cover another bet. In pool, its all straight lines. In cards its all math. Dont deviate from either. Thats all I know. But the math in cards and the straight lines in pool take a while to master. Dont get ahead of yourself. Every time you do, youll lose. Well, not always. But you wont reliably win. Youre relying on luck, and there is no luck. Theres only the laws of physics and probability. Do it for a living and you realize that both are inflexible. Its easier to make money playing cards because so many people make mistakes when they have cards in their hands. The hard part is getting into a game with big money on the table. I didnt have that kind of friends, so most of my money came from playing pool. There are pool tables all over the place. In late 1972 I met a guy from Chattanooga named Hank. He was my age. He graduated from one of those prep schools in Chattanooga, but I met him at a nine ball table in a bowling alley in Hixson, Tennessee. I didnt play him at first; I just sat and watched as he ran the tables on a series of factory workers and bikers. They all knew him, so he didnt win much money. They played him respectfully, the way amateur chess players might play Bobby Fisher if they met him in a neighborhood bar. I bought a shot every now and then when the balls were arranged improbably. Id nail something odd, and the guys watching could see I was good, but Hank saw it was more than that, and after hed picked up sixty or seventy bucks from the locals my dollar came up on the rail and it was my turn to play him.

wont know what to do about it. Casino poker players work in teams and theyre looking to take money from other teams, or better yet, strangers who wander in. Like you. 14 Ive made innumerable hundreds of dollars betting people I can properly assemble a four-part puzzle ring blindfolded, or behind my back. Why would I make the bet if I couldnt do it? But lots of folks in bars, because they cant do it, assume I cant. Its really easy money. It just takes practice. 15 Not just poker, but all of the games played and other bets made in a casino are there because theyre reliably profitable for the casino. Think this through.

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What are we playing for? I asked. Most of the guys had played for a few bucks a ball or twenty bucks a game, but if he hadnt been paying attention when Id taken my shots, or if he was feeling lucky, or if he thought he was better than me, it was possible that I could make several hundred dollars off of him. That would be dicey, though, because everybody in the bar knew him and liked him even though hed taken money off of all of them. I was outnumbered bad. He thought for a minute, looking at me and remembering the shots Id taken. A beer, he said. All the locals took drags on their cigarettes. This was odd. So much for making any money. Hed noticed. I played him anyway. He was good, but I nailed him three games running. Somebody else had the next dollar up each game, but each time whoever it was let me take the game. They were watching two pros giving everything they had for a beer. It was fun playing him because he was so good, but even still. There were a few improbable breaks, but lines are lines and I see them as well as anybody. The last game I almost ran the table even though a truck driver kept buying shots off me he couldnt make. At the end I put two fives up to cover the games somebody else hadnt gotten to play. Hank owed me three beers and we went to the bar so he could pay me off. Where are you from? he asked, at the bar. Nowhere. Im living on cash and trying not to get beat up, I said. Better move on, then. These guys dont like to lose. Any time somebody cleans them out they figure theyve been cheated. They dont seem to mind losing to you, I said. True enough. You say they figure theyve been cheated. Do you know of any way to cheat at pool? I asked. You mean the cons? Two Brothers and a Stranger and those things? Fuck no. Dont do any of that shit. Youll get killed. Besides, youd need a partner, I said. That this was a bad idea did not need to be stated aloud.

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Freak, youre a better pool player than me. But Im not Grasshopper.16 Dont teach me, wise master. The grifters with the cons I figure theyd just as soon con anybody, and that includes me, Hank said. I stay away from them and always will. Grifters? I asked. I was young. Hank and I were about the same age. Con artists, said Hank. Look, what Im saying is, you can shoot pool better than me, but youre not smarter than me and Im not listening to life lessons just because I owe you three beers. Plus, this is all doing me good, he said. How so? I play all these guys all the time. I got like three months before I go off to college, and Im trying to make enough bread sos I dont have to take a job while Im in college. Ive beat all these guys so often that they even know when Im tanking to tease em into playing me again. About eight of my regulars saw me lose tonight and word is going to get around that Im mortal and Im going to take another hundred bucks off of each one of these sumbitches before I go off to Nashville. That may be enough to see me through to graduation, he said. I should have made you play stakes, I said. Youre not a grifter, you just shoot good. The bartender, a pretty girl with dark brown eyes, seemed to know Hank and brought us both a new round as soon as his glass was empty. I dont drink, so mine was still full. Im done, I said. She nodded smiled and took my untouched beer off and put it in front of one the guys whod been buying shots off of me, a guy who wanted to be known as Bruiser. He winked at her and raised immediately raised it to his lips. It wasnt clear whether he knew it was a used beer. Let me ask you a question, Hank, I said. My names not really Hank, he said. Im Tommy. And just because you ask a question doesnt mean youll get an answer. Okay. Good line. Have you ever noticed how you make the same shot over and over, but sometimes the results vary? Sure, he said. Happens to everybody. What causes that?

16

In Kung Fu, an ABC television series broadcast from 1972 to 1975, blind Master Po refers to his student Kwai Chang Caine as Grasshopper. Why he does so is not explained. Caine, a martial arts master, then wanders around the old west looking for his brother. Good stuff.

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Changes in you. Changes in the felt. Changes in humidity. A thousand little variables that you cant ever fully account for. He was gulping on his second beer. And you cant correct for that in the way you think about a shot? I try to, of course, but nobodys consistent enough to account for everything. Sometimes I miss. Dont you? No, never, I said. If I see the shot, I make it. Sometimes I cant see it right, and those I miss. What kinds cant you see? he asked. Breaks, things that involve three or four collisions, or when more than one ball is moving at the same time in the shot. Look, Smooth, I didnt see you mess up anything in a single shot tonight. Best shooter Ive ever seen. Your confidence is inspiring. Are you in EST17? Oh, fuck no. Thats lunacy. I said. So is what youre saying. How about space aliens? You ever encountered any of those? he asked. He wasnt being dismissive, though. He was just asking. Fuck off. Ive just noticed something weird. Youre good, so I thought you might have noticed it too. You mean how you think youve got it lined up but it goes just a little off? Or how you can feel you were just a little off but it rolls in anyway? Thats it, I said. Did you take chemistry in high school? he asked. Sure. Required. Remember the Heisenberg uncertainty principle? he asked. Sure. Say it, he said. You can know the location or the velocity of an electron, but not both. Close. Not limited to electrons. Remember the observer effect? he asked.
17

A self-improvement movement popular in the seventies. It was inane.

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Sort of. Looking at something changes it.18 Okay, look. Pool is all physics, he said. Things bounce and spin. Masses interact. When you have a number of spheres moving about in space and time, you cant predict where all of them will move. Its just impossible. And the more you look at it and think about it, the more you change the results. Okay, Hank, I said. Tommy. Okay, Tommy. Were going to leave it that you think Im a crank and I think youre a Baptist. But wait. Can we kind of speed this along? he asked. You have someplace to go? I asked. Yeah, Debbies kinda wantinto take me home, and Im kinda wanting to let her do it, but I still owe you one more beer. Whos Debbie? I asked. The bartender. Whats keeping you? I owe you one more beer, and you dont drink. Id been watching an old man wander into the bowling alley for a few minutes, wearing something that might have been something a monk or maybe a priest might wear. The automatic doors had parted to let him in, and then hed stood for a few minutes enjoying the cool air. Then hed wandered around and looked at the bowlers as though hed never seen bowling before. He seemed to be wandering towards us. Okay, tell her to pour the third, I said, remembering where I was.
18

There are several ways in which this works out to be true. In the simplest sense, tracking the position of an electron is difficult because whatever form of energy you focus on the electron to observe its position will tend to excite the electron and so change its position. Heisenberg was right in deeply resonant ways. But observing changes results in more human ways. In the 1970s a major light bulb manufacturer rewired a factory somewhere or another to allow for lots more lighting fixtures, which resulted in lots more light on the factory floor. The result? Dramatically increased productivity from all workers. The light bulb manufacturer was thrilled, of course, and published the results widely. Researchers from the University of Wisconsin (I think) were suspicious and so went back to the same factory and dramatically reduced the amount of ambient light. The result? Dramatically increased productivity. It turned out that productivity increased when the workers were being watched and their productivity recorded. Light had nothing to do with it. Another kind of observer effect.

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Cool. We can send both mine and yours to Walt. Walt? I asked. Walt owns the place. He likes to call himself Bruiser. You saw him play him a few times. Hes not bad, but hes not good, and he loves to play. Okay. Before you go, do you know of any poker games I could get into around here? No. People in Tennessee dont play poker. You want poker, you go to New Orleans. Okay. What do I look for? I asked. Fathers of debutantes and deckhands. Got it, I said. Thanks. The old man in what might have been a black robe all the sudden appeared on the bar stool at Hank/Tommys left. We were both a little startled. He didnt look at us. It was as though he didnt expect to be noticed. His presence made it impossible to carry on a private conversation. Hank/Tommy looked at him. I, Im Tommy, he said. The old man stuck out his hand to shake. , he said. What? asked Tommy. Im sorry, Thomas, said the old man. Nice to meet you Thomas, and sorry to cut this short, but I need to finish up some business with my friend here then I have to hit the road. You dig? Um, yes, I think I dig, said Thomas. Tommy looked back at me, and thought about what he was saying, because however unimportant it was, he was aware that now he was probably being overheard. It took him a minute to phrase what he wanted to say next. There are a lot of J.R. Ewing types down there, too, who think theyre invincible, he said. Easy pickings. Cards, pool, darts. I dont play darts. I wish the fuck Id known that, he said.

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Whos J.R. Ewing? Character on Dallas. Dont know it. See ya. Hank/Tommy gathered Debbie and left. A funny-looking guy with a leather satchel sat down on the stool Hank/Tommy had vacated as soon as hed left. He was fixated on a neon sign behind the bar advertising Jax beer. Is it possible to make a typographical error in a neon sign? he asked. He had a pronounced English accent. Which one, I dont know.19 No, I answered. Are you quite sure? he asked. Quite. Ill ask nonetheless. How does one order a drink here? he asked. I dont know if you can, I said. Hank/Tommy just left with the bartender. Alas, he said, and opened his satchel. He peered into it for a minute, and pulled out a white bath towel, dabbed his forehead and mouth, then returned the towel to the satchel. How about the proprietor? he asked. Hes the one on the other side of the bar with three beers lined up in front of him, I answered. Again, alas. Perhaps you could answer a question, he said. Is it at all possible that Janx Spirit is available at this establishment? Never heard of it. That sign refers to Jax beer. Ah well. Where are you from? I asked.
19

I assume it is vaguely insulting to Englishmen and Englishwomen for non-Englishpersons to refer to an English accent. My assumption is based on the fact that a Savannah prep school accent and an East Tennessee hill accent and a Virginia Tidewater accent dont resemble each other in any way but all would be lumped together as Southern Accent to the rest of the world. I couldnt bear to watch The Dukes of Hazard in any of its incarnations because of this, yet Waylon Jennings, far cooler and far more southern than me, narrated it on TV. Highly irregular things are happening in the universe all the time. We just dont notice.

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Its unlikely youd have heard of it, he answered. I get around, I said. Someplace near Betelgeuse, he said. What? Near Betelgeuse, he said, irritated and ready to leave, since he wasnt going to get a drink. The star? I asked. He was startled. What? Sorry. The only Betelgeuse I know is the star. In Orion. Ah. Well. Im from a village in central England named Betelgeuse, he lied with the confidence of people who are used to lying but who nevertheless arent good at it. Gothca. Nice to meet you. Gotta go. Im Henry, I said, extending my hand. Ford, he said, shaking my hand somewhat tentatively. And you are? Ford asked Thomas, sitting to his left. I didnt hear the response. New Orleans. Why not?

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Chapter 2: Life on the Mississippi I dont describe things much, anyway, but even if I did, describing 1972 New Orleans would involve an inordinate number of adjectives and adverbs. Eating and drinking were all anybody cared about. You could have a better meal at a sandwich joint in New Orleans than you could have in a four star restaurant in New York. Parasols, Aceys Pool Hall, Central Grocery. Best meals I ever had. And nobody who lived there seemed to noticeexcellence in food and drink was assumed. I was there to try to break into the poker business, though, and I didnt have much luck. Hank/Tommy said to look for the fathers of debutantes and deckhands. In my rusted-out 63 Plymouth Valiant and welders clothes, I figured I wasnt going to be meeting many debutantes, but I tried. I went over to Tulane and wandered around for a few days. That this was a completely ineffective strategy was obvious within minutes of my arrival on campus, but I came back for two more days. Utterly pointless. Those Newcomb20 girls were so far out of my league that no amount of self-deception could persuade me I had a chance of meeting their fathers. Finding a job as a deckhand was much easier. I went down to the wharves and hung out with longshoremen and stevedores for a few days and got directed to the Russo Towboat Company yard just uptown from Audubon Park and all those streets that weave around it. It was easy to find. It was also a junkyard, full of the twisted hulks of decommissioned cranes, and stacks of old steam boilers piled indifferently on the levee, with derelict tugs half-submerged a few yards downriver from the dock. Everything was rusted, not just oxidized enough to stain the paint, but to the point that lots of the equipment looked like it might crumble and fall apart. I asked the first fat man I ran into who talk to about getting a job and he pointed to a shed made of corrugated metal built high atop telephone pole stilts. Home office. When I got up the steps I was in the break room with a lot of guys smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, all of whom interrupted whatever theyd been talking about to look at me silently until I said something. I want to apply for a job, I said, after a pause. Got your ABS card? the least threatening of them asked, after another pause. I thought. No, I said. Since I didnt know what it was, it was unlikely I had one. Then you want to talk to Scotty. Two doors down that hall on the right. Name's on the door. Scottie Herrold.

20

In1972 Sophie Newcomb College was associated with Tulane University in much the same way that Radcliffe was associated with Harvard.

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Thanks, I said. I went down to Scottie's office and the door was open. He asked me a lot of questions that seemed to suggest that there was no reason in the world that anyone would want to hire me. Let me, the narrator, interrupt the narrative here. Im having a hard time with this. I got the job at Russo and learned all kinds of important things on the job. I met all kinds of interesting characters and have all sorts of wonderful stories from the months I spent working on the River. Mr. Murphy the machinist, welding, being a deckhand on a bells and whistles boat, how cold it is on the Mississippi in January, flying fish jumping over the fantail in Mobile Bay. New Orleans is a book of its own. But none of that advances the story Im telling one bit. This story is headed for a poker game with some rich guys, so Im cut off from my best stories by narrative convention. Fuck it all. The part thats relevant is this: Scottie hired me and assigned me to a harbor tug called the Mary Margaret. All the Russo tugs were named after female members of the Russo family. Russo crews just had to accept it that their boats had silly names. It was part of the burden they bore for being poor. My assignment to the Mary Margaret wasnt a permanent berth; I was just assigned to her because one of the regular deckhands called in sick. Or stoned. Or sleepy. Or just too fucking indifferent to show up for work. In the tug yard universe, there weren't many classifications. There was a stratum of management people whose jobs didnt really matter, at least not to labor. They could all tell us what to do, and we all did whatever they said. Then there were these four or five highly skilled guys. They worked full time in the yard and werent looking for berths on tugboats. Mr. Murphy was one, a machinist of the highest caliber, a man who could weld, lathe, and machine anything you needed out of metal. There were three or four mechanics who were geniuses who could fix anything, plus one who pissed the others off. Ivey was his name, a mechanic who had been trained at some earlier point in life as an electrician. He expected to be paid extra when he did electrical work, and the only time I ever saw management and labor united was when they disagreed with Ivey on this point. There were a few other journeymen around the lot, but their skills, assuming they had them, werent always obvious. So the yard had six or seven guys who knew what they were doing, mechanics and machinists and carpenters, working at any one time. Those skilled people stay in the yard for the whole workweek. At the same time there are fifteen or twenty other guys working in the yard, helping the skilled guys and sometimes learning from them, or going with the mechanics to fix problems on tugboats. We were called yard dogs. Sometimes yard dogs stick with the machinist or the welder theyre working with. Sometimes they move on to be deckhands. Yard dogs are always assumed to be available to fill in for whichever deckhand fails to show up for work for whatever reason.

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A tugboat has a crew of four: a captain, an engineer, and two deckhands. The captain steers, the engineer keeps the engine running, and the deckhands do everything else. Nobody played any kind of cards on tugboats. On tugboats that stay in port, there are three types: three, five, or seven day boats. The number refers to the number of days they stay out. On a three day boat, youre on the boat for three days, youre at home for three. You get paid a shitload of money for the three days youre working, but then you arent paid anything for the three days youre off, so it evens out. Captains make the most, then engineers, then deckhands, who are pretty much riff-raff. Deckhands can grow up to be engineers or captains, but most dont. When I got to the Mary Margaret she was tied up at the Desire Street Wharf and I had to climb down the ladder embedded in the cement wharf to the deck of the tug, maybe thirty feet. I had a vinyl suitcase with a change of clothes and a toothbrush and climbing down that ladder with a suitcase in one hand was semi-daring. Id never showed up for work on a tug before, so I wasnt sure what to do when I got on board. I opened he cabin door and Warren was lying on the couch. Warren had a bad reputation on the Russo lot. A long-term deckhand, he was also a twice-convicted murderer, having done two life terms at Angola State Penitentiary.21 Next time, drop your suitcase and come on down, said Warren. What? Drop your suitcase from the top of the wharf. You have the right kind. Soft. Wont nothing break in there if you drop it from the top of the ladder. Then you can use both hands to climb on down. Thanks, I said. There was an enormous blast from a horn overhead. Thats Capn Clark, he said. Huh? Capn Clarks wondering why you didnt come talk to him when you got on his boat, Warren said. So hes honking the horn at me? I asked Yeah. You better go on up and see him. Warren never took his eyes off of the Sid Caesar Show. He never laughed, but he didnt look away, either. I worked my way up to the pilot deck. I opened the port and was about to introduce myself to Captain Clark, an extremely old and extremely portly man, but he barked at me first.
21

Parole rules were different in 1972. He killed his second wife with a hammer.

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What are you doing on my boat? he demanded. Scottie Herrold told me to report here, I said. Well, those portside boys can say what they want, but when you come on the water, you ask the Captains permission to come aboard. You got that? Yes, sir. Wash off that window. Yes, sir. There was nothing in the pilot house to wash windows with, so I slid down the rails to the crew deck, where Warren the murderer was still watching Sid Caesar. Where are paper towels? I asked. Did he vomit? Warren asked. No. He just wants me to wash the windshield, I think. There are paper towels over the sink and Windex in the cabinet next to the trashcan, he said. I gathered them and headed back upstairs. I cleaned his windshield, but Captain Clark had already decided he hated me. And so it remained: I was on the Mary Margaret for the next several weeks, and he constantly delighted in waking me up and keeping me busy. He would make me chip paint when it was raining. The windshield was never clean enough. Even so, somehow I got permanently assigned to the Mary Margaret. I want to tell, but will forego, to story of how Warren threatened to kill me because I got spaghetti sauce on his raincoat. It doesnt move this narrative forward but would nevertheless have been a good story. This book is long enough already. One night I was tying up an Itoman container ship down at the anchorage. Warren and I werent pals by any stretch of the imagination, but he left me pretty much alone, and I was handling most of the deck duties by myself. That night I was trying to throw a lead line up onto Itomans deck so the Itoman crew could pull up a cable when a bag came sailing down from the ships deck and landed about fifteen feet to my left on the fantail. A black plastic garbage bag. I wasnt sure what to do. My hands were full. Warren appeared out of nowhere and picked up the bag. What the fuck? I asked, sensibly. Those Japanese, they throw their garbage on our boats, he said.

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I asked just a few questions and Warren mentioned that it would be very easy to elbow a fellow deckhand into that narrow space between the tug and the ship on a dark night. Oh well. Next time I was in port I asked Scottie Herrold if he could explain and he said Son, if you can learn to look the other way, there are all sorts of things you might learn as a result. So on the afternoon of November 17, 1972, I was banging on the bull-nose of the Mary Margaret with a chipping hammer wondering where the poker games were when Scottie Herrold showed up. Which was odd. Scottie doesnt show up on boats, he stays in port, and we were moored way over in Algiers. The only other time hed come out with us was that time wed brought back a newly-acquired tug from Mobile, but I think he had a girlfriend of some sort in Mobile. Still and all, we were tied up over in Algiers and I was working with my chipping hammer when Scottie showed up with another deckhand, Johnnie, a hell of a nice guy, a heroin addict whod been a yard dog with me before I got assigned to the Melissa. Johnnies brother Spike was the captain of the tug Muffy. Johnnie was a tall skinny kid with long blond hair who had a unique ability: he could call a coin toss 100% of the time. I tested him hundreds of times over months. He never missed once. He says its not supernatural, he can just see the coin as it lands. Really, 100%. Scottie handed me a large purple ticket. Captain Billy gave me this ticket to his private party and I knew youd want to go, so were going to put Johnnie here onto this boat and you can go home. Captain Billy was the owner of the company. Id never met him and knew nothing about him except that he was rumored to be fucking his secretary and that he was said to have beat a deckhand named Longboy with a baseball bat for cutting his captain with a razor. I looked at the purple ticket. It was an invitation to a party at an Uptown address. Nobody would look at me except Johnnie. He shrugged. What was going on was that something was going to be thrown over one rail or another that they didnt want me to see. They didnt know me, and they did know Johnnie. Asking Scottie questions seems to have limited my career. I really want to work this ride. Im poor, I said. Not gonna happen, said Scottie. I understand that, but you have to understand that I need to get paid, I said. Im sending you to a party, he said.

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I need a paycheck, I said. Okay. A full day, he said. Fuck that. A full berth, through Tuesday. And the purple ticket. Got it. Get out. I got. The purple ticket got me into Captain Billy Russos Uptown party. Im pretty sure, but not entirely sure, that Captain Billy had no idea that Scottie was using his party as a way to divert me from smuggling operations that involved Captain Billys boats, but I dont understand otherwise how Scottie got hold of an invitation. I didnt like the party at all. Lots of well-dressed boys and girls my age were drinking more than they could hold and acting stupid. I dont drink, and I have to say I just dont get it. I had tried to dress up in khakis and a blazer, but I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb. Hey, said a beautiful young blonde girl, one of dozens present. Why arent you partying? Not used to this kind of party, I guess. Im a country bumpkin, I said. Well, country bumpkin, what brought you to New Orleans? she asked. I thought about all the ways to answer that question. Honestly, I was looking for a card game, I said. Ah, shit, she said. Youre cute but youre just another one of those. Of what? I asked. Gamblers. Card games in the back. Third door on the right, I think. Tell my father I said fuck you. She stormed off. Third door on the right I could follow. I found it. There were about six men in their fifties and sixties with cigarettes and drinks sitting around a table. They looked up when the door opened, then looked back down at their cards. They werent interested in me. There was no way to know how much money was on the tablethere were stacks of bills everywhere. Nobody said anything to me. Can I play? I asked.

29

Prolonged silence. Somebody eventually looked up. "Hundred dollar ante, boy. You got that? one old man said. Not on me, but close, I said. They all looked up at that. I was a skinny kid with long curly hair, underdressed for a Rex Crewe party, and they all knew without asking that they didnt know who my father was. How old are you? a cigar smoking Scotch drinker asked. Over eighteen, I said. Ill be glad to take your money boy, said a skinny man in a smudged seersucker suit and Panama hat. Maybe 85 years old. They all laughed at that. The Valiant was right around the corner, so I went back and pulled $4,000 out of the shoebox, and then returned to the party. They pulled up a chair for me and I sat in it. They were going to teach me a lesson. Everybody else had drinks. I was looking around to see if there was a glass of water when a card landed in front of me. I looked up, and everybody was looking at me. Ante, said the old guy in the hat. I forked over a hundred bucks. The game was something peculiar Ive never played since involving fives, sevens, and nines, I cant remember how it worked. I didnt understand it at the time. Nevertheless, I seemed to be doing okay and I kept bumping the raises, and it turns out I won. The thing is, I won $2,800 dollars on that hand. On a game I didnt understand. $2,800 might be chump change for the bankers and lawyers at the table, but I wouldnt make $2,800 out of two weeks of playing nine ball in Wadley or Anniston, and the old guys in New Orleans were far less likely to try to jump me afterwards. I thought about getting up right then and walking out, because you should always quit while youre ahead, but I didnt. In general, of course, you should never bet on any sort of game you do not understand. Certainly not for serious money. But Id been wanting in on a big stakes game, and they dealt me a card trying to fuck with me because I was not just the new guy but they thought I was one of the boys out there in the party who was going to be undressing their daughters and granddaughters later on tonight, so the dealer called a really strange game. Cards like me because Im good at math, not because Im lucky. Theres no such thing as luck. Chance is chance. Somebody who appears to be lucky is just somebody whos still working off that same odds card in the Bicycle pack. I won even though I didnt understand the game we were playing, but it wasnt because of luck.

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There is no luck. I just bet on heads and it came up heads. But I knew better than to count on that kind of crap. The laws of probability are laws in ways the laws of the State of Louisiana cant dream of. The laws of probability are all maththeres no legislature involved. Had I lost that hand, I still would have been in a high-stakes game and losing a couple hundred to get in would have been worth it. Id like to have an interesting poker story for you, but I dont. Theres a happy ending, but no story to tell. Eventually those old men realized I was doing well. They also realized that I was the only one at the table who neither smoked nor drank, and they offered whiskey and tobacco repeatedly. I didnt bite. Really, Id like to have a good story for how it all happened, but I dont. It was just a poker game. I played well and I won. In fact, I won $80,000 in that card game. $80,000. What the fuck do you do with $80,000? Time to leave.

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Chapter 3: Chaos Theory and Kind Assistance from a Purveyor of Straight Lines $80,000 is a lot of cash. Too much to be driving around in the back of the Valiant. To open a bank account Id need an address, and I didnt have one of those. I didnt know how to get in touch with anyone in my family at that juncture, but my guess was that if I did, their needs would be vast and my willingness to share would be negligible. Id never had a girlfriend and wasnt likely to find one. Its not in my nature, and anyway I havent noticed that girls are much interested in me. There would be many people around who would be interested in $80,000 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds, but calling attention to that sum in cash in my trunk seemed injudicious. Once I opened a bank account, Id have to come by every now and then and check the statements to make sure nobody was stealing it from me. Wandering around with a shoebox full of cash I was footloose and fancy free. Driving around with a trunk full of cash felt unsafe. Id gone to high school in Chattanooga, so decided to head back there. Maybe Id bump into somebody, or think of something. I had money, so maybe I could rent an apartment. I still had no interest in staying in one place, much less settling down. I quit my job at the Russo yard and drifted back up north, looking for pool halls and bowling alleys, picking up a couple hundred dollars every day. With the cash in the trunk, though, I got more cautious. I was afraid to stay more than one day in any town I came to, and I always moved a fifty miles down the road before renting a room for the night. It was like my life before New Orleans, but it was different, too. I still shot pool well, but I was always worried, and I kept moving. As a result, I was back in Chattanooga in a little over a week. Driving into Chattanooga didnt feel like coming home, which was odd. Everything was the sametanneries, foundries, and assembly plants. The Tennessee River was still frustrated by its inability to flow through Lookout Mountain. There were freeways and tall buildings and suburbs. But Id gotten used to the small-town feel of Gadsden and Pinehurst and Wadley. Chattanooga seemed huge. I took a room at this old Victorian boarding house Id stayed in from time to time while I was in high school. It was a combination apartment house and room-for-rent-bythe-week-or-day-depending-on-your-needs place that some prior owner had painted with Army surplus olive drab paint that had peeled away in places to reveal crumbling white underneath. It smelled like mold and natural gas. At any given moment three quarters of the residents were stoned and the rest were out stealing something so they could join the first three quarters. It was referred to by residents and narcotics officers alike as the Green Ghetto. They had a vacancy, so I took a furnished room. It was dusty and dark and had a radiator the sole function of which seemed to be to make loud clanging noises right about the time I was ready to go to sleep. After I got my suitcase, but not my money, out of my car and moved into the room, I went to the First National Bank downtown on Market Street to ask what Id need to open an account. I needed was some sort of i.d., a drivers license, an address, and a

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Social Security number. If my current address didnt match the one on the drivers license, I needed a lease or utility bill addressed to me at that address. The Green Ghetto wasnt a lease kind of place. Id never received a bill there, nor would I. What to do? I was going to have to find, or make, a friend. I dont have a lot of friends, and dont tend to keep the ones I make for very long. It hadnt been that long since Id graduated from high school, but try as I might I couldnt think of a single person whom I thought liked me enough to let me use his or her22 address, at least not one Id trust with anything important. I went to a bar to think about it. I dont drink, but theres not much to do in Chattanooga at 3:30 in the afternoon if youre not a student and dont have a job, and if youre in a bar in the afternoon nobody ever asks you any questions. So I went to this dive bar in a semi-industrial part of town, the Frosty Mug. In 1972 the drinking age in Tennessee was eighteen, so if you could see over the counter the bartenders assumed you were old enough to buy a drink. I first realized this when I was fifteen and went to the Pizza Hut on Hixson23 Pike and was buying a pizza and a root beer for myself and a girl named Sandy but received a pizza and real beers instead. Sandy, my age, had been there before and wasnt surprised, and the fact that I was surprised in an uncool way may have been the reason that we never again connected in any meaningful way. The Frosty Mug had a pool table when I was in high school. Id played pool there a little when I was figuring out that I didnt like beer, but nobody there would play me for money. The problem is I sometimes have a hard time losing intentionally, or did then. When I saw the line, I wanted to shoot it, and I was good at it, so I could beat everybody who picked up a cue in the Frosty Mug from my sophomore year on. I played lots of games, but nobody would bet any money on it, and some people came to kind of resent me for playing because it wasnt really sporting. There were a few semi-good players who liked to play me to try to improve their own games. but nobody would bet any decent money on a game like that. Fifty cents maybe. Even still, the Frosty Mug was kind of like a refuge. Id spent lots of time there without anything bad ever happening to me, so I drove over and walked in. And there at the bar was my high school geometry teacher. She was an old lady of maybe seventy years with a dark red up-do. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, watching a basketball game.

22

An English teacher who is a very good friend of mine tells me that while his or her is grammatically correct, it is awkward. Shes a wonderful reader, teacher, and editor, but Ive decided to stick with he or she. Perhaps continued usage will make it seen less awkward. Assuming he to refer to all of us cant be right. 23 I dont understand why Hixon is spelled Hixson in the greater Chattanooga area. What does the s add?

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Ms. Wertheimer? I asked. She waited until Waltons eighty foot jumper swished before she looked up, but her face brightened as soon as she saw me. Well, hello, Henry, she said. Imagine my surprise, I said. May I join you? Sure, she said. What are you drinking? Just water, I said. The bartender here hates me. Is this a religion thing? she asked, puzzled. She had figured me for a particular kind of kid, and not drinking beer didnt fit in, so she was sifting through her teachers view of me to determine what shed missed. No maam, I drank some beer in high school. I even tried whiskey once, and then decided Id best leave it alone. Didnt like it? Whiskey? Oh, gack, no. I loved it, I said. I loved everything about it. I loved the warm burn as it rolls down your gullet. I liked the pleasant toasty feeling after youve had a few. I liked feeling slightly dizzy. I didnt mind losing my sense of balance. I didnt mind slurring my speech or knowing I couldnt drive. I liked it that I thought things were funny that nobody else thought were funny. You drank too much if all that was going on. Maybe so, but I didnt really even mind when I felt bad the next day. I enjoyed the whole experience start to finish, I said. So why dont you drink? she asked. She put out one Benson & Hedges and lit up another with a full-sized Zippo with a blue enamel Gates Corp. logo on the side.24 I hear its addictive, I said. Not for everybody. I liked that toasty feeling a lot, and I have always aspired to a line of work that requires steady hands. Whats that? Playing pool for money. She frowned at that and thought for a minute.
24

In the seventies Gates made tires.

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I heard a story about Stonewall Jackson once, she said. I think it was in one of Shelby Footes books. Somebody asked him if he drank. He said hed tried it once, and never again. Somebody asked if he didnt like the taste, and he answered No, I liked the taste very much. Sort of the same thing youre saying. Of course, he was crazy. Brilliant people often are. How about geniuses? I asked. Almost never, she said. So what are you up to? Why arent you in class today? Im not in school, She reacted with a hurt look. Henry, you have a fine mind. Youre one of the best Algebra II students I ever taught. You seemed to understand trigonometry and geometry like youd been taught them before. You did your homework while I was calling roll, and you were always right. Youre one of my best pupils ever. Why not develop that? I do like straight lines, I said. But wait. Were glossing over the larger issue. What are you doing at the Frosty Mug on a Thursday afternoon? I love this place, she said. My husband and I used to come here when we were first married. When was that? 1920s, she answered, and smiled. A long time ago. The Frosty Mug has been here since the 1920s? At least. It was here when I got here, and I dont know how long it had been around at that point. Anyway, we used to come in and get a beer when it was a speakeasy. Although speakeasy doesnt really cover it. Speakveryveryeasy might be closer. No secret words or introductions required. Things were different in those days, and whoever owned it paid something or another to a cop and a judge and nobody ever seemed to notice that there was a bar in Chattanooga during Prohibition. Lots of them, actually, but we came here. You know, Ive been in this bar before, from time to time, and Ive never seen you here before. None of my other teachers, either, I said. Oh, sure. While I was teaching I stopped coming in because I didnt want to run into my students. Its embarrassing to run into your high school students in a bar. The Frosty Mug has always served the under-aged, so I stayed away. See, it happened just

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now, and its happened with some frequency since I started coming in here again. A good way to keep up with relatively recent former students. So youve retired? I asked. I had no idea. Yeah. Your class was the last one. I kind of just got fed up. She looked at her empty shot glass and took a sip of her beer. The jukebox started up Brown Sugar and Walton swished another jumper. Do you remember John Bork? she asked, after a pause. Had a goatee. Kind of looked like the guy on the front of a Quaker Oats carton. Sure. Did you know he thinks hes a witch? she asked. Warlock. Yes, maam, I said. John eats a lot of acid. What? He does drugs. She nodded, as though this made sense. He had to have Geometry and Algebra to graduate and he wouldnt study. So he had a barely passing grade, a D minus minus, going into the last test of the year, so he had to pass the final to graduate. She looked up to watch the basketball game for a few seconds. He showed up for the final, but left early, so I knew something was up. When I got to his test, he hadnt even tried to answer any of the questions, he just wrote his name at the top and then wrote in something like I have cast a spell that will give you a fatal heart attack before the grade from this test is counted so I will pass and your attempts to fail me will come to naught, or some such happy horseshit. I put him down for not just an F, but for a zero, so of course he didnt pass and he shouldnt have been eligible to graduate. She shook her head and lit another cigarette. I had never heard Ms. Wertheimer swear before. Two days later I got a call from the Assistant Principal saying he was over-riding me and letting John pass. I told him about the hex story and John hadnt even tried to answer the questions, and our noble assistant principal, who really is a nice man, and an ordained AME preacher, if you can believe it, said he knew John was crazy, but that John wasnt pursuing any higher education goals and that having him around for another year would only disrupt the school further, so he thought graduating him was the best for all concerned. Im sorry it happened that way, but Mr. Cates has a point. Johns a pretty whacked-out guy, I said. I didnt specify which Assistant Principal I was referring to, she said. Yeah, I know, but Mr. Cates was my home room teacher freshman and junior years, and the only other Assistant Principal when I was there was Coach Brewster,

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whos white, so its unlikely hes an AME pastor. I know Mr. Cates is. So unless theres another assistant principal I dont know about, you must be talking about Mr. Cates. My point is that I am not confirming what youre saying, she said, watching the basketball game. Gotcha. And I can see why Borks approach to his final might be discouraging to you as a teacher. It was immensely discouraging, but not just his response, also the schools. You cant graduate people just to get rid of them. The diploma means they have attained things, and those things need to be measured by standards. But they werent, because John Bork was borderline crazy. So I decided to retire. Ive been eligible to retire for years, but just never did. I had stopped teaching when my first son was born, and then didnt take it back up until my husband died, but I always liked it. Teaching is fun. Or was. I didnt need to do it for the money, I just liked it. But for some reason, getting hexed by a boy who thinks hes a witch, then watching him get passed despite not making even a token effort to take the test just kind of changed things for me. I dont need that kind of crap. Anyway, now, since I dont teach, I can come to the Frosty Mug and watch basketball and have a drink. I had no idea you were a basketball fan, I said. Oh, God, yes. Every shot from the field cuts a perfect conic section on its way to the hoop. Geometry and gravity in action. Every bounce pass shows angle of incidence and angle of reflection. All sports are like that. Aaron hits one out, it arcs a perfect parabola on its way to the bleachers. Interesting, I said. Curves. I play pool. The lines in my game are mostly straight. Mostly? she asked. She was a perceptive woman. Maybe always, I said. Ive been noticing something odd, but people who should know tell me its all in my head. What have you been noticing? Well, sometimes when I do exactly the same thing a hundred times, once or twice Ill get a variant result. Not always, but its pretty consistent at one or two percent. She thought for a minute. I dont know. Theres a new field of study in math thats getting lots of talk in the journals, called chaos theory. Chaos?

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Yeah, theyre trying to explain and quantify things that Im not sure can be explained. How turbulence works, for example. We have these elegant mathematical models that seem to describe the amount of lift created by air flowing across the top of an airfoil, but to explain what happens to the little curlicues of air after theyve flowed over the airfoil, nobody understands. Mathematicians and engineers cant describe it, and pilots apparently just learn to avoid where wingtip vortices are likely to be. Hmmm, I said. Sounds interesting, but my problem would still be defined in straight lines. When you think about it, she said, geometry, Newtonian physics, and algebra only describe a tiny fraction of what you see in the world. Physics can tell you about the moment of a pendulum, sort of, but you poke your finger into the path of that pendulum and give it a poke and its path jitters and sways and changes in a way that nobody can predict, much less calculate. Theres a group of mathematicians who are trying to figure out how to crate mathematical models for that kind of turbulent, chaotic condition. Based on probability? No, thats the interesting thing. Based on fractals. She lit another cigarette. Whats a fractal? A fractal is a thing that resembles itself at all levels. You know how if you slice a nautilus shell in half longitudinally it shows the same pattern over and over, down to the tiniest visible detail? I nodded. Thats a fractal pattern, but they also repeat in much, much more complicated ways, and in all dimensions. Anyway, if you were to look at a fractal pattern through a microscope youd see the same pattern as if you looked at it through a telescope. Hmmm, I said. I couldnt remember what we were talking about. See when Bill Walton shoots a shot, its all geometry. A loose sphere moving through air will experience no turbulence to speak of and no chaotic influences come to bear. Even if somebody goal-tends, the loose sphere responds to that pressure by immediately cutting another conic arc. If the ball were suspended from a string, like a pendulum, goaltending, slapping the ball in mid-arc, would have much more chaotic effects. The players wouldnt know what to expect. Theyd stand back and watch until the ball settled down. And Im thinking that spheres that respond only to two forces, such as momentum and gravity, like in basketball, behave differently than spheres that have additional constraints, like pendulums and pool balls. Once you have that third force, the potential for chaos is there. Whats the third force in pool? I asked.

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Maybe the table, she said. Im wondering if the table doesnt have the same effect, in a slightly different way, as the string does to a pendulum. Interrupt the normal swinging, and it bounces all over the place in an apparently chaotic way. Ill have to think about this. It might account for the aberrant responses youre noticing. I didnt think so but didnt really understand her idea. Anyway, thats not what we need to talk about, she said. Why in the world arent you in college? You have a fine mind. One of my favorite pupils in the last fifteen years. Why arent you going on? I was tired of school. Plus, I really didnt have the money. So I decided to go with what I was good at. And what is that? she asked. Shooting pool. Playing cards. Henry, thats never going to make the kind of money you could if you get a college degree. I dont know. Ive been doing okay for the last few months. Henry, she said, what seems like good money now may not actually be enough to live on. How much are you making? Since graduation, maybe ninety or ninety-five thousand dollars, if you add it all up. What? Youre shittin me! she said. No, maam. Really. How in the Hell? she asked Well, most of it in a poker game in New Orleans a few weeks ago. The rest of it playing pool. What are you doing with it? she asked. Maam? What are you investing in? Well, what I do with my winnings is something I dont usually discuss in bars, I said.

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Eventually she got it out of me that the money was hidden in a secret location and that I was having trouble getting a bank account established because I didnt have an address. She volunteered to let me use her address as my home address, and offered to keep tabs on my bank accounts. I could call any time and shed let me know what the balances were. So the next day I went down to the Highway Patrol office in Tiftonia and got me a new drivers license showing Ms. Wertheimers address as mine. This was easy in Tennessee in 1972. Back then a Tennessee drivers license was a green piece of heavy stock paper folded in the middle with no picture. They printed it up on the spot. I then took my new drivers license and about twenty thousand dollars in cash, a good shoebox full, and Mrs. W and I went to the downtown branch of the First National Bank and opened an account. They werent used to handling big wads of cash and we had to wait while they counted it. $21,220, said the clerk, about an hour later, after theyd counted it. The bank officer who had just opened the account looked at me somewhat confused. Whered you come up with this kind of money? he asked. Im a gambler, I said. I thought you said it was more than this, said Mrs. W, fishing in her purse for a cigarette. You could smoke in banks back then. Yes, maam, it is. The rest was still in the trunk of the Valiant, parked just off of Market Street. Look, Ive got a little more cash. Can I bring it in now? I asked the banker. Yes, feel free, he answered. Be right back, I said. Why dont we do that tomorrow? said Mrs. Wertheimer. Nows better. Hes got most of it, anyway, I said. Lets do this tomorrow, she said. Lets go have a beer. I have a lot of money to deposit. If I tell him Im coming back tomorrow to deposit it, he might have some friends who know what I look like wait for me and waylay me on the way. He doesnt look like that kind of guy, but you never know. Henry, this gambling business really isnt having a good effect on you, she said. She wasnt happy, but then she went along. Then, when we got to the car and I pulled out my box of money, her eyes got big. No shit, was all she said.

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The people at the bank were worried about me. This was before the times when you had to report large cash transactions to the IRS, but counting it all was a problem, and took a while. Turned out I had a little over $115,000 in the bank, at the end of a long day. Sorry for the imprecision on amounts. Ive always been superstitious about counting it. A gambler, huh? asked the bank officer, while they were counting my bills. Yep. At what? Pool and cards. Want to play cards with my poker crew on Saturday? he asked. People are like that. They want to be taken by a pro. They want the thrill of getting beaten by somebody whos really good. I dont get it, but I see it all the time. Thanks, but I need to be headed on down the road, I said. Ill look you up next time Im in Chattanooga and take you up on it. You call me if I can do anything for you, he said, handing me his card. Mark Whittington, Vice President of Depository Accounts. Actually, I said, give Mrs. Wertheimer here a card. Shes going to be watching my money while Im out of town. Help her out, if you dont mind. Okay, he said, and handed Mrs. W a card. Look, you guys, Im not in this position a lot, but I ought to tell you that your deposit today exceeds the FDIC insurance amount. If this bank were to fail youd lose everything over $100,000. Is the bank about to fail? Mrs. W asked. No, its fundamentally sound, he said. I trust you, I said. That wasnt actually true. What I trusted was that there was no way he could really fuck me up, so I didnt really need to think about it in any depth. Time to move on. I bought Mrs. W a drink and headed back to the Green Ghetto. I packed up to be ready to leave first thing in the morning. Problems solved.

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Chapter 4: Trust and the Nature of Home For the next year I drifted around the South playing nine ball. In some ways, life was good. I stuck to small towns and cheap motels, didnt stay in one place for more than a few days, lived on patty melts and chef salads, found a card game every few weeks. It was pretty much the same as before, but life was easier in one respect: whenever I had enough money that it wouldnt all fit in my wallet, Id take out half and send it back to Mrs. Wertheimer, and shed deposit it into my bank account. I was still living on cash, but not having the shoebox in the trunk meant I wasnt always worried about getting jumped and fretting about where the Valiant was parkedmy money was all in my pocket, and if somebody robbed me of a couple hundred dollars, well, there was more. It was nice. If somebodyd pulled a gun on me, Idve just handed over my cash and written myself a check at the nearest bank. Having a checkbook was strange, though. I got it when Id opened those accounts at First National, but I still didnt seem to have any reason to write any checks. Every now and then Id take my checkbook out of the glove compartment and look at it and wonder what Id ever need it for. All I spent money on was food, motels, gas, cards and pool. Once a week or so Id wash my clothes at a laundromat. Every few months some article of clothing would get so ragged Id throw it away and replace it, or my boots would need new soles, or Id get a hole in my jeans. Nothing cost much, and I was playing pool most days, so I was sending money to Mrs. W every week or two. She didnt like me sending cash through the mail, and I tried to use Western Union whenever I could find one, but that wasnt often. In the seventies there wasnt a Western Union office in Fruithurst or Wadley either one, but there was a post office in each. I began to lose the feeling that the laws of the universe were crumbling at the edges, but that may have been because I wasnt playing alone too much, and because I had become accustomed to the increased frequency of highly improbable events. The first time a mule talks to you, youre surprised. The tenth time a mule talks to you, you criticize his grammar. Plus, I was alone, and I was stopping in smaller and smaller towns all the time. When youre alone most of the time, you can lose your ability to sense that what youre thinking is strange. Nobodys there to bring you back to the middle. There wasnt any purpose, or even intent, behind my move towards smaller and smaller towns, but that was the pattern, and as the towns got smaller, I went from pool halls to bowling alleys to bars. There are pool halls in Chattanooga and Charleston, there are bowling alleys in Chapel Hill, theres a bar in Wrightsville. But in 1972 and 1973, pretty much every bar at every crossroads had a pool table in the back, and the boys who played there liked to drink beer and gamble. Walking into a pool hall is different than walking into a bar or a bowling alley. In a pool hall, you get your balls and pick a table and start playing by yourself. Sometimes the locals notice you, sometimes they dont. As you settle into the realm of straight lines, you might end up playing by yourself for an hour or two before you get approached about a game. On a slow day, you might not get a game at all, but you have that table. Playing

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by yourself at your own table allows for lots more shots than playing nine ball against a roofer from Anniston in a bar in Jacksonville, so in a pool hall you have a lot of opportunities to notice when something happens thats contrary to expectations. In a bar or a bowling alley, its everybodys table. Anyone with fifty cents to drop in the slots owns just as much of the table as you do, and its rare to have it to yourself. They dont have pool halls in small towns, so when you move to smaller towns you have less solitude at the table. As you move to smaller venues, youre moving away from seeing any irregularities in the laws of physics that the universe may be trying to show you. Unfortunately, moving to smaller towns reduced the number of card games I played. To play poker or gin for any kind of money in a small town you have to get invited to do so, and I never hung around anyplace long enough to make friends. Every now and then Id bump into a game by accident, and theyd let me ante in semibegrudgingly, but I never won more than a thousand dollars, if that. It was still easier money than playing pool. Pool is work. Cards is waiting on the chance. I wasnt lonely, but I began to get bored, so I started to read books. Until then Id been relying on the Bible for literary diversion. The Gideons make sure theres a copy of it in every hotel room, at least they did in1972, and reading it over and over wasnt the worst thing in the world. Theres a lot to read in there, so much that it takes a long time to soak it in, and Im not sure you can ever soak it all in. Lots of crazy stuff no one would believe. Seduction and wrath. Incest and giants. Horrible human sacrifices to make angels happy. Look up the story of Tamar at the gate sometime. Most of the Old Testament youll never hear from a pulpit. Its just too weird. I worry about religion a lot, but Im not a person of much faith. Id like to be, its just not in my nature. Even still, I find the Bible fascinating. After a year or two on the road, though, Id read it so often I had it almost memorized and it just wasnt an interesting read any more. So I started buying books. I started by reading all of the stuff I should have read in high school English, then kept picking books from the literature section. Paperbacks only cost a dollar back then, and at first I threw them all away as soon as I finished them. Then one day when I finished a book of Yeats poetry, I realized I didnt want to throw it away. After that, there was a judgment call every time I finished a book: keep, or toss? Moby Dick? Keep. Complete works of Longfellow? Toss. So I started accumulating books. The only storage space I had was the trunk of the Valiant. I read a lot. I dont drink, and if whoever I was playing got liquored up enough to be stupid, I often had to leave, which sometimes happened early and so left me with a long evening in my motel room. Nothing to do but read. TV is awful. Also, for a gambler theres not much to do in the morning except move on to the next town, which I didnt do every day. Sometimes theres a reason to hang around for another day or two, and after you have your breakfast, theres nothing much to do until guys start showing up around pool tables at lunchtime. So I read. The trunk of my car started filling up with them, which I found worrisome. One of the first books Id bought was Walden, and if

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youve read it youll remember how Henry resisted the temptation to accumulate possessions because they added to the amount of work he had to do. One day he found a rock on one of his long walks and brought it home because he thought it was interesting. He sat it on a shelf and looked at it a couple of times. He realized a little while later that as long as it was on his shelf he was going to have to dust it from time to time, so he threw it out the front door. Having a possession, even one as simple as a rock, added to his labor. That made perfect sense to me, partly because at that point in my life all the personal property Id accumulated, aside from my car, would fit in a small suitcase. I owned three pairs of pants, four shirts, a pair of cowboy boots, a pair of tennis shoes, some socks, tee shirts, underwear and bandanas, yet after a few months I was hauling around the literature section of Smith & Hardwick.25 One summer day I called Mrs. W to tell her another envelope was on its way, and she had advice for me. Hey, Henry, she said, when she recognized my voice. Where are you? Near Wadley, I said. Wheres Wadley? she asked. Alabama. Be more precise, she said. Why, whats up? From experience, youre going to tell me you want to send me some money and I dont like you sending it in the mail. I got a catalogue from Western Union that lists where they have offices. OK. Wadleys in east central Alabama. Near the Georgia border. Between Montgomery and Atlanta, sort of. Are you near Fruithurst or Pinehurst? she asked. Not what youd call close. Id have to back up on 22 for Pinehurst, or figure out how to get over to US 431 for Fruithurst. Theyre both over an hour away. How about Lagrange? she asked. Yeah, sure. Easy. Just over the state line. The Idle Hours in Lagrange. Some good pool halls, too, I said.

25

In 1972, the most interesting book store in the United States. Located in Birmingham.

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Theres a Western Union office in Lagrange. On Whitesville Road. Take the money on over there and wire it to me.26 I am bad about seeing patterns in myself, or understanding that Ive come to conclusions about things. I seem to be able to reach important decisions without having realized Ive done so. It sounds stupid to say, but Im ignorant of my own thoughts. This conversation with Mrs. Wertheimer is a good example. Clearly Id reached the conclusion that I trusted her, which is, in a way, odd. Im not really a trusting soul. Nevertheless, I was sending Mrs. Wertheimer several thousand dollars each month, and the idea that she might be anything other than scrupulously honest with my money just didnt occur to me. It hadnt started that way, of coursewhen we came up with this plan she was just going to open my bank statements and tell me what was going on when I called. Really quickly, though, I realized I liked not having a tempting target for crime in my trunk, and so as soon as my wallet got fat, Id sent half off to Mrs. W, without thinking. If youd walked up to me at that phone booth outside Wadley and asked me who was the person in life I trusted most, I would have been stumped. I wouldnt have come up with anyone. With me as with everyone else in the world, though, what we do shows much more about what we think than what we say. Okay, I said. Like I saidwithout a thought. Trust doesnt think. Now Henry, you need to come on home for a visit. Home? I am home, I answered. Wadley? Wadleys not your home, Henry. The road is my home, these days. I said. Very romantic, she said. You went to high school in Chattanooga. Thats your home until you settle somewhere else. What if I never settle anywhere? Just curious. Then Chattanooga will always be your home. I could do worse. What do you need me for? I dont like you keeping all this money in passbook savings. I want you to put some of it in some stocks and bonds. Ive talked to my stockbroker, and he says we have to do some paperwork to do that, she said. Why?
26

When you send cash through Western Union they really dont wire money anywhere. Western Union is more like a bank. You deposit money in one office, and then somebody else can come by and pick it up later at another. Or at the same office, for that matter. Once Id handed my money over to WU, anyone with a drivers license in the name of Margaret Wertheimer could pick it up.

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Because youre not 21, and apparently under the law of New York, you have to be 21 to buy listed securities. My broker says that most people in this situation arrange for their parents to buy the securities and hold them in trust for the child until the child is 21. She paused, and I could hear her striking her Zippo over the phone. It appears to me that you are not close to your parents. Appearances are not deceiving, I said. Why New York? Because the exchanges where stocks are traded are in New York. Would you mind explaining your family situation? I dont get the sense that theres been a rupture. No rupture, were just not much of a family. Both my parents are military. Dads a Marine. Last I heard he was in Viet Nam. Top Sergeant. He doesnt talk much about what he does, but as far as I understand it, he jumps out of helicopters and kills people with a knife. If you talked to him for a few minutes his line of work wouldnt surprise you. Mothers a lieutenant colonel in the Army. She commands nurses and last I heard was in Germany. They were rarely at home when I was growing up. Were just not close. They werent mean to you, though? No. There was nothing bad; there just wasnt much Norman Rockwell. Dont get me wrongIm not resentful. Its not their fault, theres not just a lot of warmth in them, I said. How about siblings? Two sisters. We were closer with each other than with our parents, but theyre several years older than I am and I dont know how to get in touch with either of them. Where are they? Ones in Southern California, somewhere, and the other was in graduate school at Yale last I heard. Some math deal, I said. Henry, come on back home and well set up some sort of way for me to actually manage all this money youre sending. Its getting close to $200,000 now, and its just not right to leave it sitting in a bank account. All right, I said. Ill get on over to Lagrange tonight, and hand over the money to Western Union tomorrow. Ill head on back to Tennessee after that. Since theres no rush, I wont hurry. While Im on my way, you can think of how to solve my latest problem. Whats that? I could hear her lighting another cigarette.

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Im accumulating property. What kind of property? she asked. Books. What kind of books? The kind I should have read in English class, I said. Well, Ill keep them or you, she said, with a tone of voice that suggested all you had to do was ask. I tend to try to solve problems by myself. It just doesnt occur to me to ask for help, no matter how easy it might be for someone else to assist. The hourglass whispers to the lions roar. The clock tower chimes the gardens day and nighthow many errors time has patience for, how wrong we are in being always right. Once more, problem solved. I headed back towards Chattanooga.

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Chapter 5: A Lawyer Who Looks Like a Priest . I got back to Chattanooga a few weeks later. Mrs. W took me to her lawyer, a handsome short man with a good head of hair.27 Maybe my fathers age. Well I cant do that, he was saying, after she explained what she was looking for. It might be a conflict of interest. He really seemed to like to hear himself talk. I know, she said. Just tell me who to go to. The lawyer, John Walker, looked surprised at her response. Maybe he hadnt been listening earlier. Id gone to high school with his daughter, I think. Pretty girl. Or was it church camp? Oh, he said. Maybe not surprised, exactly, but her answer wasnt what hed expected. He stopped to think. Mrs. W had realized that I was making lots of money. Because I made it gambling, it had taken her a while to accept the fact that this was so, but she had made the leap. She wanted it to get a good rate of return. The way we were investing it, depositing it all into passbook savings, seemed to her a wasted opportunity. She wanted me to invest it in other things, but to do that other documents had to be signed. I was too young to buy stocks, and even if I were old enough, the second problem was, I just wasnt interested in money. Or investments. Or any of that kind of stuff. I like having it and would find it extremely fretful not to have any, but I just cant work up much of an interest in what to do with it if I have some. I wish I could work up an interest in the topic, but I never have. But Mrs. W could and she wanted to put my money in places where it would do me the most good. And the fact that I had no interest whatsoever in helping her do what was good for me wasnt going to deter her from doing what was right. So shed brought me to her lawyer, Mr. Walker, knowing he couldnt take me as a client, hoping to get a recommendation from him about who I could go see about giving Mrs. W pretty much complete control over my money. I mainly wanted to do what Mrs. W thought was right. I knew she knew much more than I did about this financial stuff and wanted to follow her advice. I still wasnt aware of it, but I trusted her, and whatever she wanted to do with the money was fine by me. Maybe wed make money, maybe she wouldnt, but either way, Id be fine. Im a gambler. Lifes like that and Im okay with it. Mrs. W waited patiently while Mr. Walker thought through the question of who he was going to recommend I go to. Well, Margaret, he said. I know that sentence continued to go somewhere else, but I didnt really follow. I know everyone has a first name, but Id never thought about Mrs. Ws and really didnt like this yo-yo addressing her so familiarly. He should have respect.
27

The fact that he had a good head of hair may be more interesting to me now, as a 55 year old bald man, than it was to anyone present in 1973.

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Apparently he told us to go to a lawyer named Fieldey Atchling, but I didnt hear it. I was at Mr. Atchlings office the next day, in the afternoon. He was a man in his late twenties who was wearing, against all probabilities, a Nehru suit. The Nehru suit had been a fashion phenomenon in 1966 or 1967. Johnny Carson wore one a few times around then, but it was one of those fashion flashes in a pan that was exceedingly cool one week and exceedingly uncool the next. Yet here was Mr. Atchling wearing one five years post-cool. Odd. His was a black Nehru jacket over a bright white turtleneck. Of course the Nehru suit made it hard to take him seriously so I wanted to be dismissive, but it turned out he was smart. As I recalled, Nehru suits included bellbottomed pants, so I was craning my neck to see if Mr. Atchling was wearing black bellbottoms, too, but he was behind an enormous altar-like desk that hid his pants legs. So youre coming to me for advice on how to structure a power of attorney so that the holder cant cheat you, is that right? he asked. Not really, I said. I wasnt used to this kind of question. I want Mrs. W to be able to invest my money however she sees fit, and I want you to write us up the papers that make that possible. He thought for a minute before speaking. I dont know her very well or you at all, but this is a very risky thing you want, he said. No it isnt, I said. You just think it is because you dont know Mrs. Wertheimer. He clasped his hands behind his head and swiveled his chair around to look out the window. I know you dont know me, but I actually have a role in this process, he said, after a few seconds. And my role now is to advise caution. Look, Mr. Atchling, I appreciate the advice, but I just need to get some documents drawn. I am a lawyer and I take my job seriously and wont assist you in doing anything stupid, he said, still to the window. I know shes a trusted pillar of the community and everybody loves her, but the law requires all of these documents, and requires that they be witnessed and filed with the court and notarized, because in the past people other than you trusted people other than Mrs. Wertheimer and it didnt work out. Trust doesnt play much of a role in the law. Im really not a trusting person, I said. But you trust Margaret Wertheimer, he said, not asking a question.

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Yeah, I guess, I said. Why should it take a lawyer in a five year-old suit asking me personal questions to see such a simple thing? Which is what makes it dangerous, he said. So how much money are we talking about? he asked. Im not sure. Somewhere around $200,000. Youd have to ask Mrs. W. Wow. A lot of money, he said. Thanks. Where were we going with this? Where did it come from? he asked. I made most of it playing pool. A big chunk came from playing cards in New Orleans. There was a pause while he thought about this. First both of his eyebrows went up, then the left one by itself, then, after it went back down, the right one by itself. Everybody can raise both eyebrows, a lot of people can raise one or the other, but Id never seen anybody who could raise either one. This was weird. Do you smoke? I asked. Not cigarettes, no, he said. Do you want one? No, thats not it, I answered. You just remind me of somebody else, and he smoked a pipe. I do smoke a pipe every now and then, if Im fishing or sitting on the porch, he said, somewhat equivocally. He was a little uncomfortable talking about himself, his personal life, with a client, particularly a new client. Do you blow smoke rings? I asked. No, he said, frowning at his desktop. Sorry, I said. Where were we? You were telling me how you made just shy of a quarter of a million dollars, he said. And I guess if Im going to be giving you legal advice, I ought to advise you that gambling is illegal, he said. So Ive heard, I said.

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It doesnt worry you that making money by gambling might get you arrested? he asked. Thats not the way it works. Ive played thousands of pool games and hundreds of poker games. Nobody ever calls the cops. If theyre mad, they might try to jump you in the street afterwards, but nobody calls the cops. What do you think about that? he asked, contemplatively That I should learn karate. He laughed. A very pragmatic response. He paused for a few minutes and looked me over. Okay. You dont know me, but Im a good lawyer. Actually, I dont even know that. But I do take my job seriously. Walker sent you over to me because he represents Mrs. Wertheimer and youre looking for a power of attorney that would allow her to invest your money however she sees fit, and he cant represent both you and her in that kind of deal. I know. But I still cant do that without talking to you about it, he said. Youve made that abundantly clear, and I accept it, although I still dont understand why not. All we want you to do is draw up a couple of documents. I understand that it seems odd that I wont just do that. But Im not just a scribe; Im a lawyer, so I cant just write down what my clients want. I need to ask questions and make sure that my client is making good decisions. I just want a service for an hourly fee, I said. I knew I wasnt getting anywhere. The laws not like that. Why not? I asked. The law is an institution. Like church. Like school. Like college. It has its rules and requirements. It plays a role in the way society and politics play themselves out. By becoming a part of that institution, I agreed to play my appointed role. And that role includes not doing anything that will traduce the system. Traduce? Tend to lower expectations. Degrade. Okay. So what do I need to say to convince you Im not traducing your institution?

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Oh, answer a few questions, I think. One advantage of an established institution is that theres always a book that tells you what questions to ask. What other advantages are there? I asked. They change slowly, so last years questions are probably just as valid as this years questions. Why is slowness to change an advantage? I asked. Because everyone knows what to expect. Most people are resistant to change and the institutions around them make them feel secure. Banks. Schools. Churches. The United States Senate. All of them change slowly. If they evolved rapidly no one would know what was going to happen next, and most people wouldnt like it. Why a Nehru suit? Okay, lets start talking about this, he said. Even going through it all in excruciatingly tedious detail, it only took an hour. Then we called in Mrs. W and that took another hour or so. At the end of the day, she had control of my money. A good feeling, to be taken care of. I hit the road again, but I only got about fifteen miles on before I hit trouble.

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Chapter 6: All Drifters End Up In Jail Eventually I wanted to stop in on Hixson Lanes. I cant say why. It may be the beginnings of an egotism. They were always nice to me. I couldnt make much money there, but it was a nice place to go. So I went back. Bowling alleys always seem like home. Theyre all laid out the same. Off to the right from the main entrance is a bar/diner, and behind that is the pool table, sometimes two or three. There was just one at the Hixson Lanes, a fifty cent per game table with very few cues on the wall. When I walked in, everyone stood up. They apparently remembered the night Id played Tommy/Hank. The two young community college students playing nine ball stood up, as if at attention, the heels of their cue-sticks resting on the floor. Both of that had their own cues. Odd, that. This was a little weird. I dont usually go back to places too much, so Im not used to being recognized. But as I looked around, the faces started to look familiar. Tommy/Hank wasnt there, but Ford was at the bar, drinking something from a pint glass, and Walt, who liked to be called Bruiser and who I think owned the place, was waiting his turn to play pool. They all seemed to be looking at me expectantly. It was weird. I took the stool next to Ford. Hey. Ford, right? I said. He didnt recognize me, though. Um, yes. I must admit I dont remember having had the pleasure, he said. It was right here, several months ago. Youd misunderstood the neon sign for Jax beer, which now seems to be gone, as an ad for something you referred to as Janks spirit. Yes. Janx Spirit, he said. Sorry for having forgotten. So what do you do for a living? I asked. I write a sort of travel review, he said. Look, are you the pool man they talk about? I dont know. I play pool. I think youre the one who beat Hank, arent you? he asked. Well, last time I was here, there was a guy who was running the locals and he was named Hank. I bought a game and was lucky enough to beat him, I said. Three times, right? he asked. Maybe, I said.

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In a row, he said. Maybe. Okay, said Ford, These guys thought Hank was the best ever. Then you came in and beat him several times. Then for the next few weeks they thought he was vulnerable in a way theyd never thought about before, so they lined up but he still won every game. Then he disappeared. They think all of this has to do with the man who beat him games straight. Oh for heavens sake, I said. So I imagine they want you to play, he said, after a pause. This is not right, I said. How so? I generally try to make money when I play pool, and that will be exceedingly difficult here. Plus, its almost like they were waiting on me or something. And Hank, who also called himself Tommy, as I recall it, just went off to college. I didnt kill him or anything. Ah. Nevertheless, theyve recognized you. You know, theres nothing mystical about this. I just practiced a lot when I was a kid, I said. Even so, the good people of Hixson have ideas about you, said Ford. A man with short dark hair and a grizzled beard took the stool next to me. Ford said hello. I think hed been here the last time, too. Im Henry, I said, extending my hand. And you are? , he said. Excuse me? Im sorry, this is my friend Thomas, said Ford. Hello, Thomas. Your friend Ford is encouraging me to play pool. Yes, well, Ford knows these people better than I do. Im just passing through.

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As am I, said Ford. I thought I was just passing through, but have been stranded here for several years. Cant figure out the bus schedule? Cant afford a bicycle? I asked Its a rather larger problem than that, he said, communicating an intent to be elusive that discouraged further questioning. Okay, guys, pleased to meet you. Im going to go play some nine ball, but theyre all acting kind of funny so if I get a bad vibe Im going to bail. If I fail to say good night, no harm intended. They both smiled and raised their glasses in salute. I went down the step from the bar area to the lower area where the pool table was. It contained the pool table and three or four pinball machines, and, oddly, no one was playing pinball. That was very odd for a bowling alley in 1973. People, especially people who smoked a lot of dope or who loved The Who, would play pinball for hours on end, focused but distant, as though in a trance of some sort. But not at Hixson lanes.28 This was a nine ball place. I had meant to ease myself into their rotation by putting my fifty cents on the rail, but when I got to the pool table, a new game of nine ball was racked up. A kid handed me a cue. This is the one you played with last time, he said. I looked at the tip. Still pretty flat. I laid it on the table and rolled it. Straight. Okay, I said. Weird but tolerable. Chalk? The kid handed me one. So Im playing? I asked the group. Everybody nodded. I like to play for money, I said. Dollar a ball? There was some shuffling of feet, then Walt spoke up. We were thinking ten bucks a game. Why? I asked. In nine ball you bet per ball. Its very peculiar to do it any other way. We know youre good and we want to make sure we dont lose too much, Walt said. Okay, but you realize that, since this is nine-ball, youre actually raising the stakes on me by going to ten bucks a rack?
28

Im talking here about the kind of pinball tables with flippers and buzzers and bells. Bally also made a bingo machine that swapped around numbers and was easier to gamble on. The Frosty Mug had two Bally bingo machines and theyd pay you for the games you won. I was never any good at it but Chuck Reynolds won forty dollars one night when I was there. He didnt even seem excited about it. Thats a lot more than I ever made in one night at the Frosty Mug.

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Yeah, but we just figured if we bet it this way we couldnt be taken to the cleaners. This is fine, but I promise you that sometime in the future youre going to realize this was a slightly eccentric decision. Lag? We lagged, I won, I broke, and I pocketed seven straight. The next up was Walt, a.k.a. bruiser, the owner of Hixson Lanes. He was a medium-sized forty-five year old wearing a button-down flannel shirt and khakis. He was smoking a Lucky Strike and had a moustache. The table was clear, except for the cue ball. One way to test if a table is level and even is to place the cue ball on the cue spot29 and hit it medium solid straight center with top right English. If the tables true, the cue ball will pocket in the corner to your right. I set the cue ball on the cue mark and tapped it top right. It sailed right into the pocket. Good table. So tell me how to play pool, Walt said. Everyone was still very attentive. Odd question. What? Tell me how to play pool, he said. What makes you so good? All of us in here, except for Ford and Thomas, we play pool all the time. And youre better than all of us. Why is that? How do you answer that? Okay, well, I have to say, thats a complicated question. This had never happened before. Flattering, so dangerous. I wasnt so reluctant about answering, and not so hesitant about being truthful, which was odd, but sill, Im a guarded guy. What to say? Okay, Im not much of a teacher. I just started off playing when I was pretty young. Eight or nine, I think, and I always loved it. I played every chance I got. So I got good. Just from practice. I kind of looked around. Everyone seemed very interested in what I might say next. I just didnt like this, exactly, yet I kept playing to it. It was quiet, amidst the cigarette smoke, so I spoke. Id play sometimes eighty or ninety hours a week when I was a kid. Plus, for the last couple of years Ive been wandering around playing for money. When you play for money, you think, what do I need to do to win? Its a different way of thinking.
29

I dont play pool much any more, but I hear its called the head spot now. It was called the cue spot in 1972. The place behind which you break.

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What do you do to win? someone asked. I paused. Gack. What to say? Look, like I said, Im really not much of a teacher, but pool is all about straight lines. Just pay attention to those lines. When you look at the table, look for the lines and think. When two balls collide, the one thats struck is going to move in the direction of a line drawn between their two center points. They all looked baffled. I was telling them something they all knew, intuitively, but as soon as I described it they couldnt recognize it. People are strange. Or maybe Im not a good teacher. Everybody looked at me expectantly. They were waiting for something. Think about it, if youre going to play, I said. When you knock one ball into another, theyll always bounce the same way. Every time. Think about that. Youll realize you understand it. Once you articulatecan explain it, youll all play better. Also, listen to guys who play better than you. Even if theyre assholes. Any time somebody beats you, you have something to learn from that guy. They all looked at the floor. I was not meeting expectations. Look, if you want to win, you have to think about how the balls are going to bounce. Once you figure out how it works, you just have to practice. Here. Look. The six was just in front of the side pocket, and the cue ball was on the rail by the corner on the same side. I tapped the cue ball and it rolled softly on down to the six and took a wafer-thin slice off of it, sinking it in the side pocket. It fell in like it was going to bed after a long day. It was only barely possible to have made that shot, but it worked, like they almost always do. The table likes me. Egotistical, I know. But true. All the Hixson boys looked at the pocket. They knew theyd seen a display. They were all expecting something next. What to do? Do it again Okay, look, I said. Its all straight lines. You just need to look for them. If that six ball had been just a half inch further down the table, I couldnt have made that shot. So I wouldnt have tried it. What woulda you did? asked a great big black guy. I dont know. Set it up. The big guymaybe six four and big all overput the cue ball back on the rail and the six a little too far past the side pocket think about rolling it in over there. That it? I asked. Yeah. Get that done, he said.

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It didnt take much thought. I lined up and rocketed the six into the far corner with enough backspin that the cue ball came back close to the rail. Then I shot the seven, eight, and nine in succession, each time bringing the ball back to that same rail. Okay, so I was showing off. That was all just straight lines and the right amount of stop English, which is something you get from practice. I just looked at the lines. Theyre always straight. What else? There was a pause. They all took drags off their cigarettes. You never lose a bet, said Bruiser. Not true, I said. I dont lose many, but I lose some. Another pause. Okay, Im curious about two things, then, said Bruiser. When do you lose, and how is it you win so often? Practice is the answer, but he didnt want to hear that. Well, I lose when theres not a shot on the board. That doesnt happen much, but it does. Most players you meet in bars and bowling alleys dont talk about table scratch rules before a game starts, but there are rules. If the six is the next ball on the table, in nine ball you gotta hit that six ball first. If somebody tries to take a thin slice off the six and misses, thats a table scratch, and I should get to place the cue ball wherever I want above the cue spot. But I never know whats going to happen. Some people know the rules and some people dont. If youre in Wadley and the guy youre playing doesnt understand the table scratch rule and he has friends there, I let it go. Whats Wadley? asked a short guy at the bar. A little town in Alabama, I said. Caint you just talk about the rules before you play? asked a round guy with a red beard to my left. If you ask about table scratch rules before the game, everybody knows you know what youre doing and the betting will be light. Better to leave it alone and take the risk. When it comes up, waste a shot, waste a turn. Long pause. It was fun to be listened to, but I wasnt sure I knew what I was talking about. I could play, but I have no idea how to tell anybody else how. Practice. It was the hours playing that gave you confidence. What else was there to say? I also lose when theres no shot on the board, I said. If the next ball youre supposed to sink is the three, and the its surrounded by a cloud of higher balls, its tough. If you dont have a shot, theres not much you can do. I should have shut up before this point, but it was like a conversation where the other person was waiting for you to answer a question. Im okay with making an asshole

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squirm when he wants you to help him out of a conversational hole, but these were nice people. The silence feels wrong, so you talk, even if you dont really have an answer. I talked, but I wasnt even sure I believed what I was saying. They wanted to learn, so I kept talking. Unless you have a God-given gift, theres no way around the need to practice, and Im not sure Ive ever seen a God-given gift on a pool table. Sprinters? Sure. Singers? Absolutely. Cabinet makers? Probably. Nine ball? No. God has better things to do. But I couldnt shut up. If Im playing against somebody good he can beat me if theres no shot on the board to get to the next ball, I said. I have to take a shot, and will probably shoot myself in the foot when I do. If theres no shot on the board, rearranging the balls on the table is doing my opponent a favor. Of course, that happens the other way around once or twice a night, too, and thats a lot of fun. I was rambling. You only run into this when the break doesnt go well, and I generally win the lag, so breaks almost always go well for me. Ive played against guys who could chip away at a break, and rather than sending the balls helter-skelter, they send one ball in somewhere with each shot. Its pretty to watch, but I almost always beat them. Ive never seen anyone who can reliably run the table that way, and if you can really play, the chaos of a real break is a lot of fun. A long pause. So why do you win so often? Bruiser asked. Mainly practice, I said. This is my job. You run a bowling alley. You work at it all day, every day. Everybody else here has a job. Me, I play pool. Thats all I did since I was nine. Six, eight, ten hours a day. If you practice at it that long for a few years youll beat me. But you have a life, so I win a lot of the time. I paused for a few seconds. Maybe some people cant see the lines or understand the physics so they wouldnt get to be good, but really, the mechanics are pretty simple. Angle of incidence equals angle of refraction. Preservation of inertia. That kind of stuff. Spin is still physics, but its the kind of physics you learn in the lab, not from the book. Betting, said Walt. Yeah. There are some funny things about that, I said. I started practicing lagging30 as I talked. Id lagged of thousands of times before. Alone, in a pool hall, in a church basement, to start a game in one of a thousand little towns. Against a stranger in hiking boots in Duluth. If I had the table to myself, over and over and over. Theres something extremely satisfying about a lag. The smooth green felt. The crisp yet soft rails. The ball kicks back from the far rail and how close can you get it to the near rail? I was good at it, and as I shot those lags none were more than a
30

Players of most billiards games lag to determine who will break. The object of a lag is to hit the cue ball hard enough that it bounces off of the far rail and approaches but does not hit the near rail. Lag shots are taken across the long side of the table. When players lag, the first player to lag places the heel of his cue stick at the place where his lag came to rest, unless he hits the rail, and hands the cue ball to the other player. If the other players lag stops closer to the near rail, he or she wins the lag.

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half inch from the near rail, none hit it, and most were within a quarter inch. The locals were noticing. And yes, I was showing off. I have a good lag stroke. Okay I said. To bet, just think about what youre doing. So you have to have practiced to the point that youre confident that its more likely than not that youre going to make the shot when you take it. If you havent gotten to that point, you shouldnt be betting. Not for real money, anyway. If you are at that point, start betting and see if you win or lose. If you lose, stop betting and practice more. Once youve practiced to the point that youre confident youre going to make most of your shots, theres another thing you have to learn, and Im not sure I can explain it. I thought for a minute. What kind of thing? Walt asked. Hang on, Ill get it in a minute, I said. Im not very articulate. Not a good teacher. Plus, at that point in my life I didnt really think much about what I was doing, I just did it. Intuition and common sense and a good pool game. So it really did take a minute. Okay, look, I said. About gambling, most people dont want to lose more than they want to win. Theyll make stupid shots to avoid doing something that they think might look like a mistake. Theyll avoid taking a shot they could make that might look like a mistake if they missed. If theres an easy shot theyre unsure of, theyll make a terribly hard shot instead, so that their buddies will say Well, that was a hard shot, I can see why he didnt make it. Thats really stupid. Always take the easy shot. Always. Or people will pass up the shot they should make in favor of taking one that wont do them any good but has less risk of failure. If a shot is on the board thatll win the game they wont take it if theres another shot they cant screw up. Its stupid, but almost all amateur gamblers are like that. They want to avoid being observed making mistakes. Its inexplicable. And professional gamblers arent like that? somebody asked. Gack, no, I said. To make a living at it, you have to succeed. If your fundamentals arent sound, you cant. Plus, in nine ball, you pretty much sink them in order. You have to hit them in order, anyway, and that purifies your thinking. There was a pause. Of course, I was speaking purely from personal experience, and in some ways, that was limited. There was a pause. Gentlemen, I must take my leave, Thomas announced, still sitting on the barstool next to Ford. Everybody was a little surprised when he spoke, but a spell was broken or the moment changed somehow and I was glad to be done with it. Alas, I said. Your bed time? I grinned at him. I still felt like I was on stage, but now someone else was the center of attention. The being on stage part was uncomfortable. Id never felt quite like this playing pool before. Being watched by so many people was weird.

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No, said Thomas. Ive been having premonitions that something bad is about to happen here, so I think it best if I go elsewhere. Good night. This was an interesting evening. I want you to think about right and wrong, he said, looking straight at me. Okay, I said, puzzled. See you around. Oh, yes, he said. He smiled and left. Funny accent. Okay, so Im about done, I said. Long pause. Lots of drags off of cigarettes. I think I can beat you, said a trim young woman from the shadows. In any given game, anybody can, I said. Probability is like that. I couldnt see her very well. I pit my handover my eyes like a visor and tried to peer into the smoke. Yeah, but I play these guys all the time, and some of them are really good. And I almost never lose. I dont think Ive had the pleasure, I said. She was standing towards the back and I couldnt see her well. Nobody seemed to know what to do. Thats Rosie, said Ford, from the bar. Actually, her real name is Melissa, but they call her Rosie because shes a riveter by trade, as I understand it. Pleased to meet you Melissa, I said, extending my hand. She stepped forward into the light, revealing herself as an extremely attractive red-head with flawless white skin, petite and slender but nevertheless with some fulsome curves. She shook my hand and smiled a vibrant smile. A few of her teeth were a little out of alignment but somehow that added to the charm. Absolutely beautiful. And Rosies my girl, so dont be getting any ideas, said a big man in the back. Maybe 64. Not mean-looking, but still a guy who liked to fight. Damn. And his girlfriend wants to play. Pleased to meet you, Mr. I said. Reed. Willis Reed, he answered. Okay, I said, looking towards Melissa. Do you want to wager, or just play? Oh, no. Lets play for money. We generally play for a dollar a ball. Okay. Nine ball? I asked. I dont think I know that one, she said. I generally play eight ball.

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Not knowing nine ball in a bowling alley is a little like not knowing beef in a butcher shop. Okay. People play eight ball differently, I said. What are your rules? I dont know, said Melissa. We always play it the same. Do you lag? I dont know what that means, she said. Who breaks? I asked. Well, ladies first, of course. If youre first person to get a ball in, do you call whether youre going stripes or solids, or are you stuck with the first one that goes in? Why wouldnt you go with the one you already sunk? she asked. People are strange. Do you have to call your shots? Only on the eight, she said. And if you get the eight accidentally, before the end? I asked. You lose. Scratch on the eight? I asked. You lose. Rack em up. I expected shed do the honors since I had the table, but no. Willis stepped forward, plunked fifty cents into the slots and racked all fifteen balls up. I wasnt used to playing with all the balls on the table,31 but she had the break. Ladies first. She had a decent break, but that wasnt why shed been winning all those games. When she bent over the pool table, it was quite a view, and everybody present except Willis seemed to be aware of it. As she lined up her shots, all eyes were on her neckline, except for Willis, who seemed to think she had an uncanny ability with pool, and was surprised and disappointed each time she missed a shot, which she often did. Everybody else was looking at the third button of her blouse. Every now and then someone would look over at Willis to make sure he wasnt noticing, but he really was focused on her game.
31

In Nine-ball the lowest-numbered nine balls are racked in a diamond and the ten through fifteen balls are not played.

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I noticed it, and I noticed her, but to a large extent it was all lost on me. I seem to have the libido of a ninety year old man. I knew she was pretty, but it wasnt distracting. It takes a few turns longer for an eight ball game to shape up than a nine ball game because of all the clutter on the table, but pretty soon I was able to sink all the solids. It actually would have been an easier game if shed been a little better and could have gotten a few more of the stripes out of the way. Even still, I got it. Eight ball, far corner, I said, and rifled it in. I had just enough stop English to stop the cue ball dead in its tracks. Well, damn, said Willis. Wanna play again? Its getting a little late, I said. Besides, Thomas had been having premonitions. Id never heard anyone say anything like that before. She just never lost before, said Willis. He put ten bucks on the table to cover her bet. I dont know what it is. All I notice is the table and the balls, I said. Melissa had sat down on a bar stool near Ford. She didnt seem to care about losing and was happily sipping on her beer. It didnt look like there was going to be another pool game, so the onlookers started filing away. Some settled tabs with the bartender, some just slipped off. Lots of them tipped their hats to Melissa or me as they left. I wanted to go, but big Willis was staring at the table as though something unimaginable had happened, and it seemed disrespectful to ignore that. Damn, he said, shaking his head. Willis, he just wasnt distracted by her, like most of them boys is. This came from a wiry little guy standing in the corner. Maybe 60. What do you mean, distracted? Willis asked. Melissas the prettiest girl most of these boys have ever seen, and playing against her is like a thrill. They caint concentrate. This boy here, he just didnt notice. Id heard people refer to him as Smiley, which must have been irony in action, since hed never cracked any kind of a smile. I noticed, I said. Melissa smiled at me. Are red-heads the prettiest women? It just didnt keep me from concentrating on the game.

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Willis walked back to the bar, and the bartender poured up a double or triple shot of Jack Daniels into a tumbler. Willis shot it back in one gulp. How often had that happened already? Uh-oh. So you think every time Melissas been playing pool, these people in this bar in this bowling alley have been looking at her tits? And while theyre looking at her tits they cant concentrate? Melissa began to frown. She put down her beer. There was a big plate glass window on one side of the bar. It looked out over the bowling alley parking lot. In the background, a black Chevrolet Impala rolled slowly across the gravel. Everyone present seemed to notice, except for Willis and Smiley. Willis was focusing his close and suddenly angry attention on Smiley, and everyone else in the bar was nervous. Aw, come on, Willis, dont be like that, said Smiley. Shes a really pretty girl, is all, and guys just caint help themselves, looking at her. Im on32 tell you what Im on do, said Willis. Im on kick yer ass. As if by mutual consent, everyone in the bar except Ford got up to leave, and walked not towards the front door of the bowling alley, but towards a rear corner. A few bowlers were still rolling out their lanes, with that lovely sound the ball makes striking the pins, but none of them were paying attention to the bar. Melisa put on her jacket and gathered her purse. She kissed me on the cheek as Willis glowered and growled at Smiley. She had a sweet floral scent and warm lips. This never goes well, she said. He shouldnt drink. You should follow us to the rear door. Okay. In a minute, I said. I was worried about Smiley. Melissa ran after the others. Smiley kind of cowered in the corner and looked like he was about to cry. Willis didnt notice any of this, including, I hoped, Melissa kissing me on the cheek. He seemed focused on Smiley in a drunkenly intent and mean way. He was a big guy, and I was afraid hed do something stupid. Sure enough, after glaring and huffing and puffing. Willis picked up my cue stick leaning against the table, narrow end in his hands, and raised it over his head like a lumberjack about to split kindling, intending to crack poor Smileys skull. Smiley was just trying to get away and protect himself and had done nothing whatsoever to provoke any of this. Neither of them was aware I was still present. When the cue stick was at the far back end of its arc, I grabbed the fat end with my left hand. Willis was already committed to beaning Smiley, so his motion carried forward and the small end of the cue stick broke off a few inches above his hands. Nothing hit Smiley, and Willis ended up looking at the chalk end of the cue stick like a batter whos been fooled by a changeup. He looked up from his little stick to me. Of course, now his rage was focused on me. Smiley ran to the back door.
32

Tennessee for going to. More easily understood if heard pronounced as part of a sentence.

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You son of a bitch, said Willis, and stepped towards me. I punched a good right jab straight at his nose and two things happened: my wristwatch popped off my wrist and went sailing off somewhere, and he went straight down like a brick. Out cold. I have a really strong right. Excuse me, said Ford, but Im going to visit the restroom. They never seem to find me there. Three bits of information you could use. First, the reason everyone ran away is that the black car that pulled into the car park a few minutes ago may belong to Willis father, Oliver. Willis frequents this pub, and has a certain predilection for trouble, so his father checks in on him from time to time. Second, Oliver is a captain with the Hamilton County Sheriffs Department. Third, he generally blames the people with whom Willis has his fights. Im sure you can sort it out from here. Im in keen need of a loo. Ford walked off. I could see Capt. Reed at the front door. He stopped to talk to someone. I grabbed a chalk and stepped over to the nearest booth in the diner. I stood on the seat, then reached up and lifted one of the acoustic tiles in the dropped ceiling, then slipped my wallet into the space above the ceiling. I marked the tile Id lifted with a blue chalk mark and stepped back down. Capt. Reed looked at me. Where is everybody? he asked. Gone on home, I guess, I answered. Where Im going to, I said, and headed for the front door. I took my leave and had almost gotten to the front door when he shouted out stop that son of a bitch and I was surrounded by bowlers. Oh well. And so did I come to be a resident of the Hamilton County Jail. On stashing my wallet like that I scored ten out of ten for quick thinking but zero out of ten for effective problem solving. Lifes like that. My mistake.

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Chapter 7: Bound in Jail, All Night Long Capt. Reed didnt take me down to the jail himself. He radioed for some on-duty, more junior officers, and they took me in.33 Capt. Reed went on home. And I didnt see Willis again that nightI dont know if it took him a while to wake up or if he left by the back door like everybody else. I got slipped into the back of a sheriffs deputy car by a corporal and taken to downtown Chattanooga. The jail/police station is diagonally across the courthouse square from the Brass Register, a place where lots of my friends used to go. I dont drink, so the appeal of hanging around in bars with no pool table is lost on me, but it was likely that several of my high school friends were across the square having a drink as I was being fingerprinted. The intake officer also had corporals stripes. She was almost as tall as I was, maybe 60, and friendly, in an odd way, given our respective positions. She had a blonde poofy do and wanted me to call her Dot. Mid-twenties, maybe. So what are we charging you with? she asked. The corporal whod driven me in was missing. I was still handcuffed. This struck me as a trick question. Cant tell you I said. I was walking out of a bowling alley and got tackled by a bunch of bowlers. Hixson Lanes? she asked. Yes. So youre the one who got into a fight with Willis? she asked. Well, there was a guy named Willis there, I answered. O.K., she said. Youre stuck here for the night. If you had a lawyer, he might be able to spring you tonight, but without a lawyer, youre not likely to get out on an affray charge before magistrates court tomorrow morning. I have a lawyer, I said. Really? Her face registered surprise, then doubt. Most guys who lose a fight to Willis dont have attorneys. Hang on, I said. Im not sure this matters, but I didnt lose. Willis was out cold behind the pool table when I left. This was a foolish instance of allowing masculine pride to talk. It should always hold its tongue.

33

In retrospect, Im not sure this was legal. Hixson was a separately-incorporated municipality, so it should have had its own police department. So shouldnt the Hixson police have been handling this, rather than the Hamilton County Sheriffs Department Surely Mr. Atchley would have noticed, if so.

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Bullshit, she said. No really, I said. He went down like Liston.34 She frowned at me for a few seconds, and then picked up a bulky walkie-talkie from the counter. She pushed a black button and got back a squawk of static. Kenny? she asked. 10-4 came back. What happened at the Hixson Lanes tonight? she asked. Squawk. There was an apparent 10-1535 reported by Capt. Reed. Oh, for Christs sake. What the fuck is a 10-15? A civil disturbance. Listen, asshole, I know there was a disturbance on account of I got the civil disturber here at intake. What happened? she asked. Some guy named Leon punched out Willis, he said. Squawk. I smiled. Is Willis okay? Hes fine, yeah, came back. Squawk. I called in a 10-5236 but by the time it got to dispatch Willis was up on his feet again so I 10-66ed37 it. So Willis is okay? she asked. 10-4, he said. Squawk. Kenny, you dickhead, does that mean yes or no? she said. Squawk. It means yes, under these circumstances, he answered, after a brief pause. Thank you, she said with exaggerated emphasis. She looked up at me, as if realizing for the first time that the foregoing exchange had been witnessed. I went to
34

The second time Cassius Clay (who later changed his name to Muhammad Ali) fought Sonny the Bear Liston, Clay knocked Liston out in the first round, although his accomplishment is clouded somewhat by confused refereeing. Some people speculate that Liston, who was clearly mob-connected, threw the fight, but the circumstances under which he lost make this unlikely. Clay/Ali, one of the few heavyweights willing to face Liston at the time, beat him the first time they met, as well. Lip aside, Ali was the greatest heavyweight of our era. 35 CB code for a civil disturbance. There is no sensible reason for officer Robinson to be speaking in 10 codes. 36 Ambulance needed. 37 Cancelled.

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high school with a lot of these assholes, she said, and theyve never stopped driving me crazy. I understand, I answered. So, Leon, she said. Youre not only the first guy ever to knock out Willis Reed, youre also the first guy to get arrested on Wednesday night in Hamilton County who has his own lawyer. You get a call, so go ahead, she said. Why are you so worried about Willis? I asked. What do you mean? she asked. Cops are usually hard to read. Theres always this guarded thing about their expressions. Their eyes dont convey much. Dot was trying to lapse back into cop mode. Is Willis a friend of yours or something? I asked. She paused a few minutes. We were in high school together. Oh, you dated, I said. Pause. A little. Were friends, is all. I decided that telling the admitting officer that her boyfriend was now dating a beautiful red-head who couldnt play pool was a bad idea. She wrestled with returning to cop mode for a few seconds but lost. So what happened? She asked. He got mad at this old guy named Smiley for reasons that I cant explain. He looked pretty drunk to me and was about to clobber Smiley with the fat end of a pool cue which might have killed the old guy, so I grabbed the cue, which broke off in his hands, so he got mad at me. I dont like to fight, so I decked him. Everybody else in the bar saw the Captains car pull into the parking lot and left. You clocked him with one punch? she asked, dubiously. Yeah. He went straight down. He looked like he had a lot of liquor in him, which helps. She paused and thought about this. Is he gonna be okay? she asked. Oh, yeah. I have a strong right, but not strong enough to do any lasting damage to a big guy like Willis, I said. You a boxer? she asked. No. Why?

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Ive known him for ten or fifteen years, and hes always getting into fights, but Ive never heard of him getting KOed before, she said. Anyway, heres the phone, if you want to call your lawyer. What time is it? I asked. My watch was missing. It wasnt expensive, I wasnt worried. It had popped off when I hit Willis. Im left-handed, so I wear my watch on my right hand. 12:15, she said. Ill call tomorrow, I said. This confused her. This is your opportunity to call your lawyer, she said. Its late, I said. I dont want to wake anyone. Youre not going to get him, she said. Youre going to get an answering service or one of those machines. Yeah, well, I dont really want to call my lawyer, I said. You said you had one, she said, with rising exasperation. I do, but I dont want to call him. Who do you want to call? she asked. My geometry teacher. All right, asshole, thats it. Youre spending the night in jail, you meet with the p.d. at eight thirty, arraigned at ten.
38

I dont want a p.d. Good night. And so I was led down to the jail by someone else in a sheriffs uniform. It was after lights out, so I slept in a tiny little closet next to the drunk tank. An odiferous experience.

38

Public defender.

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Chapter 8: My First Court Appearance The next morning a fat and unpleasant man of about forty in a sheriffs uniform with sergeants stripes walked me through a series of hallways that would give Icarus a headache. The reason I was given was that I had requested to meet with the public defender in advance of my arraignment. I dont want to meet with the p.d., I said. I have my own lawyer. Then why did you request a meeting with the p.d? asked Sgt. York. I didnt. The intake officer told me I could call my lawyer, but I told her I wanted to call somebody else, and I wanted to wait til the morning so I wouldnt wake anybody up. What time was this? he asked. Not sure. Lost my watch. But after midnight. Who did you want to call? he asked. An old friend of mine. Shell know how to get in touch with my lawyer, and she can help me out in other ways, too. And Intake wouldnt let you do that? he asked. No. She got all mad at me when I told her who I wanted to call. Do you happen to remember the name of the admitting officer? he asked. Dot. He glanced around without looking at me as though he now had an explanation for something. We had arrived at a grey steel door. He fished in his pocket and retrieved seven loose keys and two loose coins. He peered at the keys for a minute, then selected one and unlocked the door. We stepped into a fluorescent-lit room with concrete block walls painted the exact color of Crest toothpaste. So now you got an appointment with the p.d. Explain it, and he can explain it to the magistrate. Theyll sort it out. Your lawyer will come through that door in about three minutes. I have to wait with you here until he comes. Mind if I smoke? I didnt, and just as promised, three minutes later, another cueball-shaped man opened the door specified and stepped in, a stack of files under his arm. Hi, Mike, he said to the sergeant. Hi, Dick, said the lawyer. They gave each other a brief, manly hug.

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Heywere brothers. I love this guy, said the lawyer. Okay, bubba, better leave me alone with this miscreant. The sergeant left and the lawyer sat down at a steel chair in front of a Formica table like my grandmother had in her kitchen. Okay, champ. So what do we got? What was that with the sergeant? I asked. Hes my brother. He got me this job. Love him to death. He raised me after Mom died. And it doesnt ever cause friction at family functions that youre on opposite sides of the law, as it were? I asked. Oh, hell, no, he said. He knows theres nothing I wouldnt do for him. Plus, Ive applied for a job with the DAs office, and they tell me that Ill get hired as soon as Beville quits. Okay, well, sorry for the confusion, and thanks for looking in, but I have a lawyer. Oh, yeah? Where is he? And why did you ask to meet with me? I didnt. I told the intake officer that I wanted to call somebody other than my lawyer first, and she misunderstood, and set all this up over my objection. Who was on intake last night? he asked. Dot, I said. Hmmm. He thought a few seconds. Whos your lawyer? he asked. Ill call him for you. I really want to talk to Mrs. Wertheimer first, I said. Whos she? An old friend. A high school teacher. What did she teach? he asked. Why are people so curious about this kind of thing? What could it possibly matter what she taught? Algebra and Geometry, I said. So you want to call your Algebra teacher instead of your lawyer.

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You got it, I said. Why? Id prefer not to say, I answered. Look, you dont have to worry about talking to me. Everything you say to me is protected by the attorney-client privilege. Thats a very serious obligation, he said, earnestly. Im not sure if that would work if I dont hire you as my lawyer, which I didnt. Yeah, sure it would, he said. Im pretty sure that pretty much any far-out thing you tell me in this kind of context, where Im giving you legal advice and all, would be privileged. It has to be. I think. Thanks, but I still think Id like to wait to discuss it with my regular lawyer. But you dont want me to call him? No, I want to talk to Mrs. Wertheimer first. Your Algebra teacher. Yes, I said. Okay, well, Ill explain to the magistrate and see what he says, he said. He rose and shook my hand, and with that Sgt. Yorks brother left. May I comment without overstressing the point that spending an hour alone in a Crest-toothpaste-colored room that reeks of cigarette smoke with absolutely nothing to do, nothing to read, and no one to talk to can give rise to near-hallucinatory levels of boredom. Nevertheless, at what I presume to be a few minutes before10:00 a.m. Sgt. York returned and said it was time to take me to the courtroom. The drab, linoleumed halls ended at a varnished wooden door that opened to the court. It was a picturesque and light courtroom, with a high ceiling and high windows, and dark wood paneling on the walls. Inherit the Wind could have been shot there.39 I was shepherded into the jury box with six other young men about my age and a man in his mid-forties who smelled strongly of urine. Several of the younger men smelled of vomit, so the jury box was strongly-aromaed. In a few minutes a man in his fifties, balding, in a black robe, opened a door behind the bench40 and stepped in. The
39

In fact, Scopes v. State, 152 Tenn. 424, 278 S.W. 57 (Tenn. 1926) was tried thirty-eight miles further up US 27 in Dayton, Tennessee, although at the time of the Scopes Monkey Trial, Route 27 was known as the Dixie Highway all the way from Miami to Maine. 40 The bench is the raised area where the judge sits.

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bailiff stood and said All rise, at which we all stood, then he said Oyez, oyez.41 The Magistrates Court for Hamilton County, Criminal Division, Superior Court Judge John Pinto presiding, is now in session. All be seated and come to order. We all sat down and the judge took his seat. Public defender York and the man I presumed was the prosecutor exchanged troubled glances. The judge didnt notice. People v. Sharpe? the judge called out. The clerk made a note, and one of the young men who smelled like vomit stood. After exchanging another worried look with Mr. York, the man I presumed was the prosecutor stood up. Your honor, I must admit were surprised to see you here. Hello, Mr. Clydesdale, said the judge. Magistrate Arabian is under the weather, so he called me and asked if I could sit in for him. Your honor, were not used to seeing Superior Court judges in Magistrate Session, said the prosecutor. Ah. I see. This is perfectly legal and you need not worry. Judges of superior jurisdiction can sit for judges of inferior jurisdiction, and its perfectly legal. If Magistrate Arabian were to come and sit for me in the Superior Court on Wednesday, that might cause problems, but this is proper. Are we okay? Yes, sir, said prosecutor Clydesdale. He and York both looked down. They were accustomed to dealing with the magistrate who usually appeared in this court, and now they had to deal with someone else. Your honor, with all due respect. he said. Wow. What a moron. Your honor, we think of you as a civil court judge, said Clydesdale. Counsel, I am a Superior Court judge of Hamilton County and I have jurisdiction over this court. Do you have any further questions? He had this leonine mane of white hair and was wearing Elvis-style glasses that were clear at the bottom and shaded blue at the top. No sir, your honor. People v. Trotsky, said the judge, I stood up, the prosecutor sat down, York42 remained standing, and to my right Sharpe, who still smelled like vomit, sat down. He seemed to have low expectations and extensive experience with chaotic environments. Um, your honor, this is an odd one. Mr. Trotsky says he has a lawyer, but hasnt called him yet because of a misunderstanding with the officer on intake last night. He wants to make a phone call to one of his former high school teachers, who will then, presumably, make the call to the lawyer. I offered to call the lawyer for him, but he
41 42

What the Hell does oyez mean, anyway? The p.d., not the sergeant.

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refused this offer, for reasons he could not explain. Im not a lawyer, but everything he said struck me as overly communicative. There were much simpler ways to explain this. The judge peered through the shaded part of his glasses at me. Youre Trotsky? he asked. Yes, sir, I answered. And you dont want to call a lawyer, you want to call a teacher? Yes, sir. Why didnt you call your teacher last night? Why are you wasting my time with this? he asked. It was late. I didnt want to wake her up. But apparently the intake officer thought I was making a joke, or something, I said. Who was on intake last night? he asked the prosecutor. The prosecutor stood to answer the question. Dot, he said. The judge nodded. I see, he said. And you want to call a history teacher? asked Judge Pinto. Geometry, I answered. His eyes clouded and he frowned at me. What are you saying? he asked. Mrs. Wertheimer was my Geometry teacher, I said. Margaret Wertheimer? He asked. Yes, sir. I never called her by her first name and just didnt think of her that familiarly, but her name had been all over those legal documents Mr. Morgan had drawn up. Well, why didnt you say so? Counsel, well continue this one over to the 1:00 call. Mr. Trotsky can call Mrs. Wertheimer in the mean time and make whatever arrangements he needs to make. Thank you, your honor. I sat back down. The call to Mrs. W was a little odd. She picked up on the second ring.

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Hello, Mrs. W, this is Mr. Trotsky, I said. Is it? she answered, not sure what was going on. There was a pause while she thought and took a drag off of her cigarette. Am I mistaken, or do you sound very much like a friend of mine who was once a pupil? she asked. You are not mistaken. And yet your name is Mr. Trotsky, she said. Another drag. Yes, maam. This is partly due to the fact that I am calling from the Hamilton County Jail. Are you now? she asked. There was another pause while she considered this. Did your arrest have anything to do with gambling? No, maam. Not really. I broke up a fight, sort of. I hit a policemans son in the course of doing so. Things did not go well for me because of who I hit, not what I did. Okay. So what can I do? she asked. You can call Mr. Atchling for me and ask him if he can come down and explain to him if he can about how he needs to look for Mr. Trotsky. If all I owe is a fine, you can help me pay it. I have been separated from my wallet. Oh, I see, she said, voice brightening. You didnt have your wallet when you were arrested and so felt free to exercise your imagination. Since youre not a lawyer, do you think the cops can listen in on this call? I asked. I could hear her flick the Zippo over the line. Maybe, she said. Ill get Atchling to come on down. What times the hearing? One, I answered. If I understood what they were saying. By the way, do you know Judge Morgan? He seemed to know your name. Ed Morgan? Sure. He was in my geometry class. During the War. Pretty bright, but mainly really persistent. A little paranoid about the Red Menace. Look, Ill come down and be ready to bail you or pay a fine or whatnot, but for a drifter with no i.d. who was involved in a violent affray, Im guessing youre looking at some jail time, she said. Ah, shit. All right, Mrs. W. Thanks for the help.

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An hour or so later, Mr. Atchling showed up, in suit and tie. I was waiting in the Crest toothpaste room, which still smelled like cigarette smoke. So, Mr. Trotsky, is it? he asked. Yes. Thanks for coming. As a lawyer, I need to tell you something about my professional responsibilities, he said. All lawyers owe a duty of candor to the tribunal. Meaning? I asked. I cant knowingly mislead the judge, he said. No shit? I asked. None, he answered. You cant lie in court? I cant lie to the judge. Then what is it I see on TV all the time? Lawyers making up stories to let their clients get away with murder and all that. We do not actually practice law like they do on TV, he said. Placing the known facts in the best possible light is one thing. Standing before a judge I have known for twenty years and telling him that someone I know as Baida is in fact named Trotsky is something else. So you cant help me? I asked. Yes, I can help, but I must be very careful. Why was it necessary to use a pseudonym? What did you do? I explained the fight. Then, one of the patrons told me that this kind of fight happened a lot there, and that because the guy I fought withs father was a captain with the sheriffs department, I was probably going to be arrested. Id just as soon not have a police record, so I hid my wallet and tried to get away. They caught me, so I used an assumed name. Mr. Trotsky, there are all kinds of other things they can charge you with if they figure out who you are. This is a very risky thing youre doing.

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I know all that, but Im pretty good with odds. From what I hear, court proceedings go on and on, and Ill be dealing with this for months, is that right? I asked. Yes, he said with a shrug. Adjudication isnt a speedy process. Nor should it be. Okay, I want to speedy it up. What would happen to me if I just pleaded guilty? I dont know, he said. Maybe a fine of a thousand dollars. Maybe a couple weeks in jail. Why would you do that? Most of the time in an assault case, you can show you were acting in self-defense and get it reduced to a misdemeanor battery and time served. But Id have to hang around, or be back here every few weeks for arraignments and stuff, I said. There would need to be a certain amount of involvement with the judicial process, yes, he said, overly-patiently. Lets just plead guilty and Ill pay or serve and well be done. He didnt like it. He was averse to having a client in jail, which is actually a pretty good quality in a lawyer. He sat for a minute and thought morosely. Im not sure this is a good idea, but Ill go see what I can work out with the prosecutor. He stood and left, and again I was left alone in the Crest toothpaste room with nothing to read. There was no paper, no pencil. Seven chairs and two tables. I recounted the concrete blocks in each wall, and calculated the number of tiles in the ceiling. After seven years had passed, Sgt. York slammed the door open. Okay, pal, youre up. He led me into the courtroom, where I found the judge on the bench, Atchling to my left, and Clydesdale, the prosecutor, to the right. As I passed through the courtroom, I noticed Mrs. W, sitting on the back bench, smoking a cigarette. I was shown to a chair next to Mr. Atchling. I sat. The judge looked at me sternly. How is Mrs. Wertheimer? he asked. Shes fine. Very helpful, as always, I answered. I havent seen her since I graduated from City High forty years ago, he said. Best teacher I ever had. I resisted the temptation to point her out. I figured shed wave if she wanted to catch up with him. They tell me you want to waive arraignment and enter a plea, Mr. Trotsky, he said. Is that true? Im not sure what arraignment is, but I did tell Mr. Atchling that I wanted to plead guilty.

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And why is that? I move around a lot. Id just as soon get the sentence done and be over with this, rather than have to come back for court appearances and trials and such, I said. Your honor, I added, as an afterthought. Judge Morgan looked at me and pondered things a minute. Were you to go to trial, from what court personnel are telling me, it is possible or even likely that the accusing witness, Mr. Reed, would fail to show up, in which case the charges against you might be dismissed, the judge said. It sounded like he was trying to be just. The problem was that if anybody asked around at the Hixson Lanes, a district attorneys investigator, for example, he or she would soon learn that I was known there as Henry, which would lead to awkward questions. Best avoid it, I thought. I looked at Atchley. What d I do? He stood. I think, your honor, that my client has thought this over and is ready to enter his plea. He is also ready to wave his right to a pre-sentencing probation report and be sentenced today. Mr. Trotsky, you understand that regardless of whatever discussions Mr. Atchling has had with the prosecutor, I will sentence you as I see fit? Yes, sir, I said. All right, then. Do you wish to enter a plea to the charge of voluntarily engaging in a violent affray? Yes, sir. And how do you plead? Guilty, your honor, I said. Plea accepted. The lawyers looked at each other nervously, and I got the impression that the judge was supposed to have done something he failed to do. Nobody said anything. The judge looked at his stack of papers through the unshaded part of his Elvis glasses. He cleared his throat and spoke in a loud voice. In the case of the prisoner Leon Trotsky, which the court has every reason to believe an assumed name,43 the court
43

I absolutely love P.G. Wodehouse.

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has considered and rejected the sentence suggested by the attorneys in the case, and instead imposes a sentence of thirty days in the county jail, commencing upon his admission at intake last night. Bailiff, deliver him to the jailer. He rapped his gavel, we all stood, and he left. Atchley turned towards me with a half grin. I thought you said two weeks or a thousand bucks, I said. You never told me your first name was Leon, he said. Ed Morgan hates commies. Sorry, bud. Sgt. York led me away to the jail elevator. Did you get fucked or what? he said, shaking his head and lighting a cigarette.

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Chapter 9: Jail The sergeant took me right down to the jail. I was told to remove my civilian clothes, all of them, and I was provided jail-wear, from underwear outwards, and the only underwear option was jockey shorts, or grippers, as they were known in the jail. This, by the way, to a boxers-wearer, was the single worst thing about jail. The food was awful, the whole place smelled terrible all day every day, the toilet practices of the entire cellblock were essentially public, and it was mind-grindingly boring, but wearing grippers rather than boxers was the worst. The few remaining items of personal property n my pockets were taken from me and indifferently indexed, and I was led into the jail. The smell of some faintly disagreeable fried food was wafting in the air. There came a point where we passed through several steel doors that could only be opened by people who were behind bars or bullet-proof glass. I understood as I passed through these barriers that I was now in jail. No longer free. Odd feeling. Just like in the movies, the doors make a clanging noise when they close. Once inside, the Hamilton County Jail was a semi-airy, extremely rectilinear arrangement of grey metal bars, grey floors and white walls. There were maybe fifteen or twenty cells on the one floor. The cells were separated only by bars, and the manylayered grey paint on the cell bars showed signs of extensive flaking underneath. The cells were maybe eight feet by eight feet, with a cot, a small table, and a toilet in each. The tables were all bolted to the floor. There were no walls or partitions between the cells, just bars so you could see from one side of the floor to the other, if you stood in the right spot. From some positions the cell bars kind of stacked up and prevented a clear view. Three or four of the cells were occupied. There were no toilet lids or seats on the toilet bowls. Even in summer, porcelain is cold. The jailer showed me into my cell, which was adjacent to a cell occupied by a large black man who was lying on his cot, smoking on a cigarette and exhaling his smoke in a narrow stream that broke down into chaotic turbulence soon after it left his mouth. He was studying the patterns of the curlicues of smoke like they meant something. He looked familiar. I looked again as the cell door clanged shut behind me. Ah, shit. It was Warren, who had threatened to kill me in New Orleans. Did I tell that story? Warren, I said. He was trouble on at least two levels. He looked up at me and after a few seconds I could see the recognition in his eyes. He exhaled a long plume of blue smoke at the ceiling, about fifteen feet up. Names Wade, white boy, he said. Pause. Okay.

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Theres a guy looks a lot like you wanted to kill me in New Orleans for getting spaghetti sauce on his raincoat, I said. Names Wade, he said, without looking at me. Got that, Henry? Names Leon, I said. He looked at me again, one eyebrow cocked. Pause. Since when? he asked. Since you became Wade. He looked at me through the cigarette smoke and thought things through. Hed done two life terms at Angola44 and was no doubt enrolled in this current institute of higher learning under a nom de plume because whatever crime hed been arrested for violated the terms of one or more of his paroles, and if the Hamilton County Sheriff managed to connect the dots hed be back in Angola for several more years. It was logical to assume that he would be motivated to avoid this. Even if you are the toughest son of a bitch in the valley of the shadow of death, its still best to stay away from the whole damned valley if you are a parolee who aspires to a life of ease and repose. If wed been diplomats we might have recognized an opportunity for dtente, I expect, but as it was, he was still trying to work it around to where he could fuck with me, and I was trying to work it around to where he would be reluctant to do so. What you playing, white boy? he said. The names Leon, always has been, I said. He frowned. It was Leon back in New Orleans. Long pause. You got a real strong reason for talking at me this way, he said. Whatever it is, I got no parole violations to worry about. He thought. So as long as you be Leon, we be cool? he asked. Yep. And as long as Im Leon, youre Wade. He didnt like it because he didnt like not being in charge. Across the aisle a skinny redneck with bad teeth and a shag hairdo stood up to make an announcement. Until then, I had thought his cell was empty.
44

A really tough prison in Louisiana. Warren had been convicted of murder twice in Louisiana, and been sentenced to life in prison in Angola each time. Because of the way parole worked before 1972, a life sentence generally worked out to be about seven years hard time, if you qualified for good time, if that makes sense. Even in a place as tough as Angola, nobody wanted to fuck with Warren, so he always qualified for good time.

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You girls have a harder time figuring out whos who than any two jailbirds I ever saw, he said. Pause. Thats Sparky, said Warren/Wade. Hes in for grand theft auto. Naw, I aint, said Sparky. Im in for petty larceny. If that heap had been worth $500 Id be in Brushy Mountain.45 All I wanted was the starter motor anyway. There was a tale here I figured I had thirty days to hear. How long is everybody in for? I asked. A hundred and eighty days, said Sparky. I done bout half of it. I looked at Warren/Wade. I got about two months left, he said. Me, Im in for thirty days for engaging in violent affray, I said. Yeah. Violent affray, Warren/Wade said. Me, too. Howd you get off with just thirty days? Dont know. It just happened. It was twice what my lawyer expected.46ad been with Warren/Wade seemed to think some injustice had passed because I was going to be released before him. My thirty days of confinement passed excruciatingly slowly. I had nothing to read. There was no jail library. The only book available was the Bible, and that only on request. I requested one, and the guards reaction was one of surprise. It took them almost a full day to find a Bible they were willing to lend me. Piety of intent and piety of action are, of course, very different, but still. Nevertheless, reading the Bible was like refreshing my memory for a history test. I knew this all pretty well. No other books were available. I asked. After about a week, in the middle of my ninth reading of Deuteronomy,47 I called out Anybody got any cards? That day the jail was mostly full. I got no response.

45 46

Tennessees version of Angola. Not as tough. At first I was at a loss to explain the difference in our sentences. Did the fact that he was black play a role? In the course of serving my sentence I heard the story of Warrens arrest. His violent affray had been with several uniformed police officers and the SWAT team had been called. Hed been charged with a list of crimes longer than I-75 and had pled down to violent affray and had pled down to violent affray. 47 This is less entertaining than James Michener would suggest.

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There were more residents over the weekend and through Monday or Tuesday, as people made bail following their weekend arrests. Warren and Sparky were still there, and a few other longer-termers further down the row that were too far away for conversation. After I asked if anybody had any cards somebody way down towards the American National Bank end of the corridor yelled out he had some, but there wouldnt be a way to play cards with him. What you wanna play? asked Warren. He was lying on his back on his cot, smoking a cigarette. He never seemed to get bored. Gin. Poker. Anything. Pause. Warren blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. I tried to watch where it went, but couldnt follow it. Id spent the morning reading Chronicles again for fifteenth time before I switched to Deuteronomy, and was bored out of my mind. I had 23 days to go. Warrens smoke ring disappeared against the ceiling. Pause. In jail, we only play poker, said Warren. Whys that? I asked. Because thats the way it is, he said. Okay, I play poker, I said. Its a gambling game, he said. True enough. What you gonna gamble wit? he asked. I dunno. I got nothing. I noticed. None of us got no money, on account of were in jail, and you got no cigarettes, he said. I dont smoke, but that wasnt his point. In the Hamilton County Jail cigarettes were currency. Id had no money when arrested and so couldnt buy any at the commissary. Warren/Wade seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. Hmm. That seemed to end conversation for the nonce. Warren/Wade was blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. They still didnt bounce. After a minute, I said Yo, Wade. He seemed not to hear.

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Wade, I repeated. No response. Yo. Large black tattooed badass smoking Marlboros in the Chattanooga Jail. He looked at me. You talking to me? he asked. Yeah. Wade, remember? Oh, yeah, right. What you want? he said. It was odd to have him actually look at me. He almost never did. I want to borrow some cigarettes. Wha fo? To play poker. Who you gon play? he asked. I dont know. Skeeter. You. Zach. Any other inmate. Im bored out of my freaking mind, I said. Across the aisle Sparky sat up on his bunk and swung his legs around to stand. He was missing half of his teeth and hadnt washed his shag or shaved in days. A lit unfiltered Pall Mall48 dangled from his lips. He dusted himself off ceremoniously and drew himself to his full height. If you were referring to me, he said, my name is Sparky, not Skeeter, thank you very much. All the Sparkies Ive knowed in jail have been arsonists, and all the Skeeters Ive knowed have been assholes, so Ill thank you to remember that. Second, we uns in this cell block are not inmates we are prisoners. The only times I myself personally have been referred to as an inmate is when I was in prison. I am not in prison I am in jail. I believe if you will inquire amongst the other prisoners you will find their experience accrues with mine. He sat on his bunk and took a long drag off his cigarette. Thank you. Will you loan me some cigarettes, Sparky? What? Oh, fuck no. You got no way to pay me back, he said. Ill pay interest. Loan me ten, and Ill pay you back twenty. No, you wont. And since youre across the aisle, there aint no way for me to fuck with you after you dont. If you was next door I could piss in your cell or throw shit on you when you were trying to sleep or something. He became contemplative, thinking about the ways he could annoy me if we had adjoining cells. You know, maybe set fire to your mattress, or bribe Joey down in the laundry to give you nothing but shirts next
48

Unfiltered Pall Mall contains an unnecessary modifier, as all Pall Malls were unfiltered in 1972. Filtered Pall Malls were first marketed until 1987. They were awful.

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week. Or tell the guards you confessed that your real name is D.B. Cooper and told me youre the one who hijacked that plane. Member him? We had to write a essay about how in-Christian he was in high school. Oh, ho, I got it. Ill tell the guards you got a little container of drugs you hide up your ass. Its really small and really hard to find, but when you want to you pull it out and sell cocaine to Walt. Theyd look for that a good long time. Are there no adverse consequences for lying to the sheriff? I asked. Come again? Assuming you tell the guards that I have drugs in my ass, and they go looking and dont find any, dont you get in trouble? Oh, fuck no, he said. Aside from fights with guards its kindly hard to get in trouble in here. Okay. So. Back to the cigarettes. Assume you can fuck with me in all the ways you described. So loan me some cigarettes, I said. Oh, no. As I was sayin, its real hard to fuck with somebody across the aisle. Besides, it wouldnt help you if I did. Wont nobody gamble with you for Pall Malls. Whys that? I asked. Nobody but me smokes em. If youre gonna gamble and buy shit with your smokes you need to use Marlboros, Kools or Winstons. Wade, what do you smoke? I asked. No response. Wade? No response. Wade, you thieving deckhand motherfucker, listen up, I said. Oh, sorry white boy, he said. I keep forgetting. You smoke Marlboros, right? I asked. Marlboros, yeah, he said. I dont really like em. I like them Pall Malls like your arsonist buddy does, but wont nobody trade nothin for em. So I stick to boros. So loan me some cigarettes. Ill pay interest. Don need no interest, he said. What do you need?

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He stared at the ceiling. Pause. Some relief, he said. Excuse me? Long pause. Heres yo deal, he said. I give you a fresh pack o boros. You got a hour to do whatever you wanna do. Gamble, make deals, whatever. Its just now comin on three oclock. If you haint paid me back twenty boros by the time the guards bring up supper, you have to blow me. Excuse me? He flipped an unopened pack of Marlboros onto my cot and said I get twenty boros back before dinner or you honk on my big black wing-wang. Im not gay, I said. Not my problem, he said. Really, Im not, I said. I could give a shit, he answered. Im going to close my eyes and imagine youre my first wife, anyway, he said. You could be Bozo the Clown for all I care. From across the aisle, Sparky cleared his throat. Ahem. Um, Wade, you dont really mean Bozo the Clown. The clown nose would get in the way of that particular activity. Sparky, do you think you can shut the fuck up for maybe twenty seconds? Im negotiatin, said Warren/Wade. Didnt you kill your first wife with a hammer? I asked. No, no, no, no, he answered. That was my second wife, Norelle. Idve never did nothing like that to Angie. It wouldve been disrespectful. I loved her. What happened to Angie? I asked. I shot her, he said. I cocked an eyebrow at him. She done pissed me off, he said, defensively. But its not like I hit her with a hammer. Okay, I said. So the deal is, if I havent repaid your twenty cigarettes by the time they bring in the baloney sandwiches, I owe you a blowjob, is that about it? I knew you was smart.

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You ready to play cards right now? I asked. Sure, he said. Sparky stood up again and cleared his throat. May I say, he said, looking directly at me, Jack Wrangler you aint, and sat back down. That make any sense to you? I asked Warren/Wade. Naw. Most of what Sparky say is crazy, he said. My agreement with Warren may sound like an odd gamble, but it wasnt. I wasnt thinking about the stakes, I was thinking about the odds. Thats the only way to think about cards. Cards is all math, and whether to play cards is all math, if you have enough accurate information. Warren was the source for Marlboros on our cell block, and if Id played against anyone else Id have gotten a mix of Kools, Winstons and Marlboros, which would dilute my chances of paying Walt/Warren twenty Marlboros before the baloney sandwiches showed up. If I played Walt/Warren, Id be playing in all Marlboros, so it was win or lose straight up. No dilution of currency. Also, Warren had done two life terms at Angola and at least one sentence in Hamilton County, so I assumed a certain lack of impulse control was part of his nature. Impulsive men are terrible gamblers. My chances looked good. Still, it was an odd bet. I cant say Ive collateralized in that way since. I shellacked him. He tried to bail out when I was nineteen ahead but the other prisoners started throwing crap at him and yelling at him for being a sore loser, so he played a few more hands. Then, he and I played cards most of every day for the rest of my sentence. I taught him gin and he taught me every possible variation of poker49. Two days before I got out he asked me a question. So you learn anything in here? he asked. Yeah, sure. Like what? he asked. I shrugged. How to bet on Acey-Deucey. That the best thing on the lunch plate is the cottage cheese, so dont trade it to Rooster for two Winstons or one Kool. Strangelooking grown men will pay for hand-jobs in cigarettes, which theyre getting from other strange-looking men.

49

Except for Texas Holdem, which did not exist in jails or barracks before 2002. Betting blinds is a stupid innovation, by the way.

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You worry about that too much, Said Warren/Wade. What? Situational sexuality? What? he asked. We were playing gin, and I had figured out from his draws that he was playing for threes and jacks and something else I hadnt picked up on, and I had a jack as my last discard, so I couldnt knock, and it looked like he couldnt win without me. As I understand it, situational sexuality is engaging in homosexual sex when heterosexual sex is unavailable, I said. He shook his head. Thats just beinon the down low, he said. If you like gettin it sucked, it dont really matter whos sucking. Just close your eyes. Your imagination may be better than mine. Yeah, maybe. One thing I figured out that you aint, said Wade/Warren. Whats that? I said, drawing the four I needed. Gin, I said, discarding the jack and showing my cards. Well, shit, said Warren/Wade. I caught him with a bunch of points in his hand. He was the kind of card player who believes he can draw inside on a straight. He started laying down his cards and figuring out how many points were involved. So what is it youve figured out that I havent? I asked. Take yo money out before you ditch yo wallet, he answered. Good point. Let me ask you something, I said. If youd been out of money and Id offered you the deal of twenty cigarettes with a blowjob as collateral, would you have taken the bet? Fuck no. What do you think I am, a homo? They let me out two days later. Mrs. W came to pick me up.

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Chapter 10: Prime Numbers Rarely Lead to Anything I got out on a Tuesday. 1973 was decades before cell phones. I called Mrs. Ws number from the pay phone in the police station lobby without luck. It rang and rang but nobody picked up1973 was a few years before answering machines, too. Until they released me there was no way of telling her hen I was going to get out. Even if Id had access to a phone, which I didnt, I had no idea when theyd release me, and the more experienced residents of nearby cells all said there was no way to know when on a given day theyd let you out. So as I emerged from the police station across from Courthouse Square, I figured Id hang out in the sunshine, then call from the pay phone every half hour or so, but of course I was wrong. She was waiting in a parking space across the street as I walked out onto the corner of Walnut and Sixth, blinking from the bright sunlight. I was looking for a comfortable place to sit when I saw her waving across the street, at the wheel of a great big Chrysler Imperial.50 I got across the street to her car, and sitting beside her on the passenger seat was a luminously attractive young woman, thin and spare, with pale, pale white skin, soot-black shiny hair and deep brown eyes. She had been biting her nails but stopped as soon as I spoke. Hey, Mrs. Wertheimer, thanks for picking me up, I said, glad to see her as always. No, problem, she answered. No problem at all. After I got in the back seat she said Henry, this is my niece, Ginny McCoy. Ginny turned around and offered me her hand, not the one shed been biting, and smiled. She had perfect, improbably white teeth. Mrs. W edged her Chrysler out of the parking space. There was no traffic, but it was a big car. Youre looking pretty spry for somebody who just got out of jail, she said. nails, sweetie, Oh, thanks, I answered. Yesterday was shower day, and since I was getting out, they let me shave. And my clothes were pretty clean when they arrested me, so Im really not so bad off. I was clean enough to notice, even after thirty days in the Hamilton County Jail, that her car smelled a like cigarette smoke. It was, however, lacking in several other aromas to which I had become accustomed over the last month,
50

This was 1973, when nobody had realized that climate change was already afoot. Ignorance and cheap gasoline were bliss, but enormous changes had already started. The stock market had started a slow-motion crash at the beginning of the year, and by the end of 1974 the Dow Jones Industrial Average would have lost almost half its value. In just a few months, Israel and its neighbors would fight the Yom Kippur War, in which Israel demonstrated that it had by far the toughest armed forces in the Middle East. As a result of the United States support and resupplying of Israel during and following that war, the Arabic-speaking members of OPEC stopped shipping petroleum products to the United States, so in the few months following my release from jail, the retail price of gasoline would soar from 35 cents per gallon to 55 cents per gallon. As a result, Americans began buying more fuel-efficient Japanese cars, and in doing so discovered they were better-made than their Detroit counterparts. GM, at that time the largest manufacturer in the world and the crown jewel of American industry, never recovered.

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and so smelled sweet as honeysuckle. Mrs. W. just nodded and started off down the block. Okay, Henry, we have to decide what to do, said Mrs. W. Today is my bridge club, and I need to be there in just a few minutes. What do you need to get done? I guess I need to go back to Hixson, I answered. My wallet and my car are still at that bowling alley. Mrs. W kind of nodded and dealt with traffic. Ginny, would you mind if I drive over to Mrs. Popes house and then you drive Henry out to Hixson? she asked. Dont bite your nails, sweetie. Oh, no maam. Not at all. What time will you be done with bridge club? About four, but Mrs. Zander can take me home, she asked. Oh, no, no, no. Ill be back by four. Hixsons not so far away, she said. There was a kind of a long pause. Henry? she asked. Yes, maam? What you did with the police was wrong, she said. Yes, maam. You misled them and then failed to contest something that should have been contested. Both of those things made the world a worse place. Yes, maam. She was right, and she knew I knew she was right. She didnt say anything to hammer it home, which I appreciated. In a few minutes we got to Mrs. Ws friends house. I walked Mrs. W to the front door, and Ginny took over driving. Come on up front, Ginny said. It would have been awkward to have stayed in back, but to have moved forward without invitation would have been presumptuous. She was a very pretty girl. Every now and then she bit her nails, but not in a bad way. This is all kind of weird and far out for me, she said, laughing a little bit, as I slid in up front. Aunt Maggie is extremely protective of me, but she leaves me with this skinny, scrubby guy who just got out of prison. Is that far out or what? She once wouldnt let me go out with a baseball player because she didnt think hed be nice to me.

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And now shes let me loose with a guy she told me nothing about except that he makes money playing pool. Strange world. She bit one of her fingernails for a second. There was something shy about the way she did it. Jail, not prison. If Id just been released from prison, she wouldnt have left me alone with you. Who was the baseball player? I asked. Jimmy Quarles, she answered, and why not? Yeah, well, she was right, I said. Hes not nice. Jimmy had a nasty temper and once picked a fight with me at the Frosty Mug after I beat him six games straight in eight ball. Silly game. Takes too long, but Jimmy didnt know nine ball well enough to play it reliably. And as to why not, penitentiaries are places where felons go to serve sentences of more than one year. Jails are where people go for lesser sentences for more minor crimes, or while theyre awaiting trial, or until they post bail. Its lots easier to end up in jail than in prison, according to my friend and formerly fellow prisoner Sparky, who referred to himself as an experienced criminal defendant. Where do you go to school? I asked. G.P.S., she said. Girls Preparatory School was the high-end private school for rich girls in Chattanooga. But I just graduated. I start at Peabody51 in the fall. Good for you, I said. I take it youre not in school? she said. I shrugged, then shook my head. When I was done with high school, I was ready to do something else, so I just headed out on the road. Yeah. Aunt Maggie says youre really good at pool. Good enough, I said. I practiced a lot when I was a kid. Well, practice always pays off, she said. I dont know. Maybe if Id practiced a lot at tennis, Id be Jimmy Connors now instead of a guy bumming a ride to a bowling alley. She laughed. You know, I play tennis. I practiced a lot. All I did growing up was play tennis and soccer, and it was the best when I got to play both in the same day. Anyway, I havent played Jimmy, but Ive played Charlie Owens and Roscoe Tanner at Manker Patton several times each, and theyve played Jimmy. I played them in singles and mixed doubles. Im really pretty good. All-State and junior champion for Tennessee
51

George Peabody College for Teachers was a college across the street from Vanderbilt that somehow got acquired by or merged into Vanderbilt in the years since 1972. The current attendees at Vanderbilt are unaware that there used to be a college called Peabody even as they attend classes in buildings that were once Peabody buildings. It had a wonderful music program.

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and all that. On one of the mixed doubles games Chrissie Evert was Charlies partner. All of them hit it hard. Wow, I said. Even I had heard of Chris Evert. What I learned from those games was that the pros are way, way better than even really good amateurs. Aunt Maggie would say theyre orders of magnitude better than the rest of us, but those orders are just really close attention to really fine details. A million little things that are hard to describe and impossible to quantify, but which all add up to this irresistible force. Explain? I asked. Roscoe has a wicked52 fast serve, but if that was all he had, I could play him. But he also has this far-out ability to make you think its going one place when really its going somewhere else, and if you manage to return it, he has this other far-out ability to be right where he needs to be to drop a sneaky dead volley wherever it is you arent. Charlie can hit a backhand service return while hes waving at a girl he sees in the stands, or when hes feeling too lazy to hit a backhand, hell just change the racket to his left hand and knock out a forehand from the other side. I never knew anyone else who could do that. And hes not even ranked that high. Chrissie serves it at ninety miles an hour and if Im lucky I get my racket in front of it, but where it goes is partly random, because Im not quick like she is. I can return, but not like she can, and then she can drop back to the base line and pound ground strokes that run me ragged. She doesnt beat me in straight sets, but she almost always beats me. And she has this two-handed backhand thats stronger than my forehand. Theres no weakness there. Not anywhere. Not to a player like me, anyway. But you have beaten her? I asked. Yes and no, she said. Ive beat her, but not when she was trying to win. Ive beat her in practice matches when she was concentrating on changing her serve, or trying some new topspin shot, or something like that. But if shes focused on winning, shell beat me every match. Ill win a few games and even a set ever now and then, but shell win the match. Dont get me wrong. Im good, and I can play with her and with all of them. But Ill lose. Or maybe, Ill never win consistently. Its never a big thing, and I dont ever lose by a lot. But they always beat me. The difference between amateur and pro is thin, and its made up of very small differences, but its insurmountable. Interesting, I said. And youre a pro, she said. At pool, I mean. Do you ever notice things going wrong? I asked.
52

Ginny picked up this adjective at the Boston Youth Invitational Tournament in 1971. Roscoe Tanners serve was clocked at more than a hundred miles per hour in the wooden racket era.

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How do you mean? A shot that always goes the same way when you hit the ball a certain way, that then sometimes goes someplace unexpected? I dont think so, she said, after thinking a few seconds. Do you see that in your pool? she asked. She looked briefly at the fingernail on her left little finger, then nipped something off it with her front teeth. Im not sure, I said. I think so, but nobody else seems to see it. When I see something that seems at variance with expectations everybody else attributes the differences to variations in force or angle or conditions that I thought Id accounted for. Other pool players think Im a crank when I bring it up. Do improbable things happen to you a lot? she asked. She touched the first finger of her left hand to her teeth briefly. She did that maybe once or twice a minute. She wanted to bite her nails but knew she shouldnt. It was cute. Oh, all the time. But Im just talking about when it happens in pool. Its a very controlled environment. You dont see that in tennis? She shook her head. No. But you know, in tennis, there are lots more variables than in pool, I think. Its more like soccer. You never hit the ball from the exact same place in the racket, or to the same place on the court. Much more chaotic, and soccer is lots much more so. I think it may be more difficult to reproduce similar circumstances with confidence in tennis than pool. Your balls are always flat on the table in pool, and in the sports I know, theyre almost never on the ground. In soccer, you have a curved foot hitting a curved ball, both of which are in notion. Practice allows us to achieve predictable results, but not precise results. Does that make sense? She looked at me with a quizzical but friendly expression. Sure, I answered. There are so many interacting variables on soccer and tennis that precision is impossible in ordinary game circumstances. But you have this lucky deal. Before you make contact with your ball in pool, everything is still. That never happens under any circs in tennis and only in penalty kicks and corner kicks in soccer. Maybe you should ask a golfer. She probably had a point, but I had never played tennis or golf either one once in my life, so had no way to know. I also had no idea who Roscoe and Charlie were but felt that letting on would reveal me to be deeply uncool in a terribly important way, so kept it to myself.

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She was driving down Hixson Pike, and we were getting close to the Hixson Lanes. Youll have to tell me how to get there, she said. I can find Hixson, but I dont know where the bowling alley is. I agreed to do so and there was a lull in conversation. So Aunt Maggie says youre good at math, she said, after a few minutes. I dont know. I got good grades. I think it was because shes such a good teacher. No, no, no. We were talking while we were waiting for you to get out and she said she used to give you different homework than everybody else. Well, thats true, I said. Why? You came out before she had a chance to explain. She flicked he index fingernail against her lower teeth, and if to check to see how long it was. Her hands didnt look like nail-biters hands usually look. Her nails werent long, but they werent short, either, and there was no cuticle problem. Well, she gave her classes five homework problems every day. And they werent always that hard, especially in Algebra I and Geometry. And then the next day, as she called roll, we were supposed answer with how many of the homework problems wed done. They were so easy that I never did them ahead of time. Id just work them out while she called roll, I said. Whats your last name? she asked. Smart girl. Baida, I said. So you answered all of your homework problems by the time she got to the letter B in roll call? No. Thats how she caught on. Id be working on it and writing out my answers when she got to my name and if I wasnt finished Id ask her if she could call on me at the end, I was still looking over my answers, and then shed come back to me at the end, and by that time I could generally have worked out all of the answers. For the first few months she let me do it. Then she started saying she wouldnt pass, I had to tell her how many Id done when she got to my name the first time. And you couldnt just tell her youd done all five and finish them while she took the rest of the roll? I paused to think. Im not sure there is any set of circumstances that would warrant lying to Mrs. W, I said. It just wouldnt be right. Ginny laughed. You want to turn here, I said. She did. So what Id do is Id do my homework problems in the

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last few minutes of my English class, so that I had them ready when I went to the next period. Then one day Ms Bettis, my English teacher, asked me why my Geometry book was open on my desk during English class. That same day, Mrs. W kept me after class and told me she wanted me to actually focus on my homework and learn something from it and so from now on she was going to give me special problems every day. What were they like? she asked. Do you like math? I asked. Oh, for sure, she said. Aunt Maggie had me plotting parabolas when I was in fourth grade. Think Fermats last theorem, then, I said. They were awful. Took hours. I couldnt play pool on weeknights. Ginny laughed. Aunt Maggie also says she put you up for this math competition, she said. Oh, yeah, I said. I forgot about that. That was fun. And it was nice of Mrs. W to put me up for it. And so howd that come out? she asked. You know, you have a lot of interest in my academic career, I said. especially as your own is undoubtedly more accomplished than mine. After all, she hadnt just been released from jail. She recognized the Hixson Lanes from the sign and pulled into the parking gravel parking lot. I was looking around the parking lot for the Valiant and it just wasnt there. Damn. Aunt Maggie said you won that state math contest and that you were at the top of your graduating class, academically, she said, or something like that. I was coming to grips with the fact that my car and all my worldly possessions save my wallet and its content were now confirmed missing, and the fate of my wallet was still up in the air. Well, Ill be dipped in shit, I said. The parking lot was almost empty, and if my Valiant had been there, Id have seen it. Excuse me? Ginny asked. Well, fiddle-sticks, I answered.

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Something wrong? The car was still running, and I was re-scanning the Hixson Lanes parking lot, so it took me a few seconds to reply. My car is gone, I said, eventually. It had some of my stuff in it. What kind of stuff? Suitcase. Clothes. Shoes. A few books. What kind of car is it? she asked. A beige 1965 Plymouth Valiant. I think it was a 65, anyway. Not glamorous, but it ran. Maybe it got towed away, she said. Thats the more likely of the two options. And the other option is that it was stolen? Yes. You may think a 1965 Valiant is an unappealing target for a thief, but he or she may have just needed a ride, and pre-72 cars are easier to hotwire. Now that I think about it, the first car I hotwired may have been a 65 Plymouth. But Sparky occupied the cell across from me because hed ripped off a 62 Impala because he needed its starter motor. He had no use for the rest of the car. So stranger things have happened than the theft of a 65 Valiant. Unfortunately, whatever happened to my car will have to remain a deep, dark mystery, Im afraid. If it was towed, I cant get it out of hock, and if it was stolen, I cant report it. So its just gone. If moneys a problem, I mean, to get your car out of hock, I could loan you some, she said. I mean, I dont have a lot, but I could loan you a few hundred bucks, if that would help. Very nice of you, but no, moneys not the problem. The problem is that when I got arrested I used a fake name. Why? she asked. I got arrested for hitting someone. I wasnt sure if he was hurt or not. If hed been hurt, I could have been charged with something serious. Either way, Id just as soon not have that on my record. You dont look like the bar fight kind, Henry Baida, she said. Had you been drinking? She smoothed her index fingernail with her incisors.

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No, no. Im not much of a drinker. He got mad at me because I stopped him from doing something stupid, and I hit him before he had a chance to hit me. I almost got away. What name did you use? she asked. Leon Trotsky. No, no, you didnt, she laughed. So if I do anything that will show I was lying, like get my car from the impound lot with a drivers license that matches the registration, or report it as stolen, I could be convicted of the felony of treason, according to Mr. Atchling. Fieldey Atchling? she asked. Thats him, I said. You know him? Yeah. Hes kind of cute. He wrote my parents wills, I think. Strange taste in clothes. And you dont mean treason, you mean perjury, Ill bet. Right. Slip of the tongue. I scanned the parking lot in somber silence. We were still sitting in the front seat of Mrs. Ws Imperial. She really hadnt parked, just stopped. So are we done here? she asked. She chewed her thumbnail for a second while I looked at the parking lot. No, I still need to go into the grill and see if my wallet is still there, I answered. She cocked an eyebrow with a quizzical expression, pulled into a nearby parking space, and turned off the engine with the ignition key. You mentioned that before, but I didnt realize that wallet and car were in separate places. You are a man of strange habits, Henry Baida, and everything you say leads to more questions. Lead on. We opened our respective car doors and got out, and I saw her standing for the first time. Somehow she seemed even more slender, and was shorter than I was expecting. Slender as she was, there was nothing at all skinny about her, and no physical awkwardness of any kind. As we walked through the dusty grey gravel parking lot toward the bowling alley she seemed to kind of drift, the way a mist or a vapor does. I was suddenly very aware of my own awkwardness. She was wearing snug Levis, a striped, knitted, long-sleeved top and bluish leather low-heeled shoes that were not like the ones the girls wore at City High. Nice shoes, I said.

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Oh, I love shoes, she said. These are Ferragamos. Love em. Im pretty sure this was the first time in my life Id heard the word Ferragamos and I wasnt sure whether it was a brand name or a shoe type. Ginny would just look at me every now and then and smile. People who know about Fermats Last Theorem generally arent perky smilers. As we approached the double glass front doors of the Hixson Lanes they parted as on Star Trek or at the Kroger. To me, walking into a bowling alley is always a little like going home, but also a little disorienting. No matter how many times I do it, Im struck by the horizontality and expansiveness of bowling alleysthats about as large an uninterrupted enclosed indoor space as youre going to find outside of domed stadiums,53 and it always surprises me how big they are once you get inside.54 I paused at the door, Ginny smiled slightly and quizzically as the glass doors closed behind us. She nipped the nail of her right ring finger just once and cocked an eyebrow at me in an inquisitive way. We want the grill, I said. Right, she said, then saluted and led the march. The grill was the same. Ridiculously so. Debbie was behind the bar, Ford and Thomas were in front of it. Thomas was dressed all in black so that he looked like a priest. He was drinking either soda water or a gin and tonic. Ford had a beer and an empty shot glass. They waved as we walked up. The prodigal returns, said Thomas. Can we buy you a drink? Ford asked. Im keen to hear about your stay in the county facilities. Not much to tell, I shrugged. I caught up with some old friends, made a few new ones. How have things been here? They looked at each other for a minute and thought. Well, after your fight, Rosie broke up with Willis, said Thomas, after a few seconds Well, then some good came out of it, I said. Oh, Christ, no, said Ford. Willis joined Alcoholics Anonymous, only theres no anonymity to it at all as far as we can tell. He talks about it constantly. He just cant seem to keep to himself about it in any way at all. Any time I order a drink he reminds
53 54

I know its really stadia, but that sounds awkward here. Best ever bumper sticker ever on a Toyota Tercel: It may look little but it feels big inside.

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me, kindly and empathetically, that he was once like me, but that alcohol is addictive and that I should embrace the twelve steps. I cannot possibly express how tedious it all is. Thats why were here. Excuse me, Im forgetting myself, I said. This is my friend Ginny McCoy. Ginny, this is Ford and that is Thomas, and behind the bar is Debbie, who was dating Tommy last time I was in here. Hows that going? I asked. I aint heard from that sumbitch since the night you dropped Willis. And Willis going all preachy on everybody has cut into bidness in no small way. I grew up Babdist and all, but a girls got to make a living. I wasnt sure what to say. Well, maybe Tommy just went off to college, I said. College? One of them boys? And a pool player to boot? I expect not, she said. She took an angry drag off of her More55. I was grappling with what to say next and failing. Ginny was looking at the scene in smiling rapt wonder. Thomas and Ford acted as though they hadnt heard a word Debbie said, although they had heard my introduction to Ginny. Thomas stood and bowed towards Ginny, and Ford shook her hand. Charmed, he said. Can I interest you in a beverage of some sort? asked Ford. Thomas is having his accustomed vodka and soda with lime wedge and I am drinking any variety of things. What will you have? Ginny looked at me. Oh, he doesnt drink, said Ford. One of many marks against his character. How do you know that? I asked. We watch, said Thomas. Ginny looked at me. Theyre right, I said. Ill have a white wine spritzer, Ginny said to Debbie.56 Debbie nodded. And you want a glass of water, she said to me. Well, yes. Can I ask a question? Ginny asked Thomas and Ford, brightly. Certainly, they said, in unison.
55 56

A long, thin, dark brown cigarette. I have no idea whether theyre still on the market. In Tennessee in 1973 the legal drinking age was eighteen, and enforcement was lax.

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You were talking about Willis and how his AA participation has become a nuisance, and then you said thats why youre here. I didnt quite follow. Oh, well, thats why were here at right now, said Ford. We cant come here when Willis can be expected. And nuisance about describes it. We have to leave about 6:30, just before he comes in. So you wouldnt normally be in a bar at 3:00 on a weekday, you have to do it because you want to avoid Willis? she asked. Exactly, they both said, nodding. What would you be doing? Ginny asked. She flashed an anticipatory smile as though she expected to enjoy their answer. They both kind of shrugged. You know, this and that, said Ford. See, we used to come in here at about 7:00 and have a few drinks and then have something to eat and watch the pool players. But since Willis got all preachy we come in earlier and then go down to the Dew Drop Inn for dinner. Do you then have a few drinks at the Dew Drop Inn? I asked. Of course, said Ford. Do you ever leave before closing time? I asked. Umm, well, sometimes, I suppose, said Ford. Thomas scowled at his vodka and soda water. So Willis joining AA means your drinking day starts at 3:00 rather than 7:00? I asked. Yes, well, we really hadnt much choice. Hes such a bore. Actually, to be honest, we generally meet here at 2:00, said Thomas. There was something vaguely foreign about his accent. Spanish, maybe, but not quite. If dinner and drinks and avoiding Willis are what youre after, why not just start at 7:00 at someplace else? asked Ginny. That would be kind of hard on Debbie, wouldnt it? said Ford. She depends on us, poor thing. Oh for heavens sake, I said. Debbie scowled at me. Pretty girl with an ancient womans glare.

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Plus, Ford said, Theres no billiards table at the Dew Drop, and we rather like watching customers play pool. Theres one at the Rancho Bar down the street, I said. Ah, but Thomas cannot eat there, said Ford. We all looked at him with puzzled expressions, Debbie included. I am a vegetarian, mostly, although I eat some seafood, Thomas said. What did you eat here? Debbie, asked, reaching for a menu. Youd think she would remember. The tuna salad sandwich and the tuna salad salad57 are both delicious, he said. During the previous discussion Id been looking for the ceiling tile that had a blue chalk mark on it and had found it. Okay, guys, I said. I want you all to either look away or not to worry about what Im going to do next. All eyes were on me, except for Fords, who was trying not to stare at Ginny, who had obviously captivated him. I stood on the booth seat underneath the chalk-marked acoustic ceiling tile, lifted up the marked tile, and reached inside. My wallet was right there, no searching required. Ginny applauded. You found it, she said. I looked inside. Everything was still there. Might I ask why your wallet is in the ceiling at the Hixson Lanes? Ford asked. Misbegotten expediency, I said. So what is it you guys do for a living? Ginny asked. Thomas and Ford both made a hand gesture thats something like a shrug and looked at each other. I write for a sort of travel publication, said Ford. I got stuck here unexpectedly, but will be moving on soon, I hope. And you, Thomas? Or is it Mr. Thomas? she asked. Saint Thomas, he said. Ginny laughed. Which one? I asked. The apostle.
57

At the Hixson Lanes dining area, and at lots of small eateries in the south, a tuna salad salad was a large serving of salad greens in a chef salad bowl with your choice of dressing and two scoops of tuna salad on top. Egg salad salad, chicken salad salad, and your choice combo salad salad were also available.

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Doubting Thomas? I asked. That is me. Ginny laughed briefly and scraped the nail of her little finger against her lower incisors. When she bit her nails, she did so without looking at them before or after and only for a second or two. Does this line get you anywhere, as a rule? I asked. Not really, he answered. Okay. We need to be going. Ginny has to pick up her aunt at bridge club at 4:00. Debbie, give me the tab, and Ill pick up for Linus and Charlie Brown here as well. Alas, said Ford. Alack, said Thomas But thank you, said Ford. I thought he was thanking me for picking up the tab, but then he continued to say Rarely do we see such a lovely young woman, or one with such admirable shoes. I gave Debbie a 25% tip which, given the way Ford had been drinking, was significant. We made our way back to the car and were underway before Ginny said anything. So how many cars have you hot-wired? she asked. Well, maybe four or five. I answered. Or eight. How do you count it if I hotwired one car maybe six times? Each time you hot-wire is a separate instance, she said, after a few seconds of reflection. Then maybe twenty or thirty. Fifty max. Maybe 75 max, I said. She thought. What if we change the counting criteria, and we just count the number of cars youve hot-wired? she asked. Lots easier, I said. Five. Hmm. I can see one, two, or three, but I dont see five, she said. Five is also a prime number, I said.

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Yes, very clever of you to notice, far out and all, but I still cant see a narrative in which you need to hot-wire five cars. So I was thinking you should start at the beginning and tell me about hot-wire number one. Okay, well, I dont remember exactly what I said, but the first car I hot-wired was a Plymouth Valiant about the same vintage as the one I just lost. How did you come to hot-wire any cars at all? She bit for a second on the nail on her right index finger. Well, that one was on a Boy Scout campout, I said. What? It was on a Boy Scout campout, I said. I heard, she answered. But I was never in Boy Scouts, or even Girl Scouts, so Im confused. There cant possibly be a Car Theft merit badge. Okay. Well, we were out in the country near the Chattahoochee River down in Georgia. Troop 72, from St. Phillips Episcopal Church. All our tents were pitched in this field between a dirt road and the river. For some reason there werent any adults around, which was odd. I cant remember why. When we woke up the next morning, there was this Plymouth Valiant on the side of the road about fifty yards from our campsite. We wandered over to look at it, and then realized there was someone in the back seat. A woman in a silk dress, either asleep or dead, we werent sure which. We didnt know what to do, but eventually our senior patrol leader, an Eagle Scout named Kevin Magid, decided to open the back drivers side door to see if she was all right. Punching the door button made a noise that woke her up and she sat bolt upright and was confused for a minute and very surprised to see all of us looking in on her. Wheres Henry? she asked Kevin. Everybody looked at me. I said Do you mean me? She looked at me like I was retarded and said No, of course not. Henry who was with me last night. Nobody said anything. We were all kids, except for Kevin, who was sixteen. Nobody even shrugged. She hauled herself up far enough to look over the front seat and see that there were no keys hanging from the ignition. Do any of you boys know where the keys are? she asked. Kevin, who was still closer to her than the rest of us, hand still on the back door handle, silently shook his head once and pulled back and stood up. She was pretty but looked very tired. We all kind of backed away from the car as she rubbed her eyes and ran her hands through her hair. She took a minute, then opened the car door and got out and looked at us all. She sort of smiled at us, then said Have a nice day and started off down the unpaved road. She was wearing heels, but took them off after a few steps and walked in her bare feet, shoes hanging from her left hand.

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We watched her walk off in silence. Then she stopped and looked back. Henry? she called out. My heart raced. Yes, maam? She smiled at me. Would you look in that car one more time and make sure my purse isnt still there? she asked. Yes, maam! I called back, and bolted for the car. All of the other boys except Kevin did so as well. We looked everywhere, but there was nothing purse-like in the car. I went running after her to report, and the other boys followed. When I got to her, I said Im sorry, maam, but theres no purse in the car. We looked everywhere. She said Oh, well, I expect itll turn up somewhere. Thank you, Henry. And goodbye, boys. She walked off down the dirt road, strolling down a country road, not a care in the world, and we all watched her go, in puzzled amazement. It was maybe five miles from where we were back to the paved road, and she wasnt thirty yards away from us when she started singing. Ginny interrupted to ask a question. I was expecting What song was she singing? and the answer would have been Amazing Grace but instead she asked What kind of shoes was she wearing before she took them off? and I had to stop and think. Heels, I said. I know that. How high? she asked. Again, I had to stop and think. Id say maybe three inches, I said. Color? I think black. Maybe navy. What was he dress like? she asked. White silk. Knee length. With black polka-dots and black trim, I answered, confidently. And you think its possible someone would wear navy shoes with that dress? she asked. I take it you think it unlikely, I said, after a pause. She was just pulling up in front of Mrs. Popes house, where the bridge club was. Boys are so funny, she answered. You should go to the door for her. Shell get a kick out of that. And you need to finish that story sometime. How do you know it wasnt finished? I asked. She was right, but I didnt know how she knew.

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I asked you to tell me about hotwiring cars, she said. That story didnt have any hotwiring in it. Ah, I said and nodded. I rang for Mrs. W, and her friends smiled at me a lot as they fetched her. I felt exceedingly scruffy and very much like a recently-released jailbird waiting for her. I hoped I didnt smell funny. When I got back to the car, Ginny was in the back seat. I opened the drivers side door for Mrs. W and then crossed to the other side. She backed up out of the driveway and we were on our way. So what didnt work out? she asked. If my car and my wallet both been where expected, I wouldnt still be in her car. Car was gone, I said. She nodded. But you got your wallet? Yes, maam. Henry, that car wasnt really worth a lot. Was anything worth much in it? No, maam. A few books I was going to send to you. My clothes and shaving kit. Not much, I answered. So you want to buy a new car? she asked. I dont think so. Im thinking of trying the trains. Why? she asked. It has to do with Thoreau, I said. The no possessions thing? she asked. Exactly, said Ginny. Mrs. W looked at her in the rear view mirror, I craned my neck to look at her, and she smiled brightly. You have no clothes, said Mrs. W. Other than the ones Im wearing, no maam. And your checkbook was in that car? Yes, maam.

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All right, Henry. Lets take you over to Sears to buy you a change of clothes and a suitcase, then over to the Hamilton National Bank to get you some more checks, and then Ill drop you off at the bus station. You okay for money? Yes, maam. I have managed to spend very little money for the last thirty days. In jail without a wallet, I bet. What did you do with your time? I met some interesting people, and renewed acquaintanceship with some others. Ginny laughed. I think he played cards a lot, Ginny said, looking at me to see what Id say. I bet he likes to play cards. With what? Mrs. W asked. Did you have some bills in your pocket, or something? Otherwise, you didnt have anything to gamble. Mrs. W was assuming Ginny was right, and I was wondering what had led Ginny to that conclusion. No, maam. An old acquaintance from New Orleans loaned me a pack of cigarettes. You smoke? Ginny asked, nibbling briefly on a fingernail. But in a good way. Even her nervousness was endearing. No, honey, said Mrs. W. In jail are currency. The sheriffs people wont let you have cash in your cell, but you can buy cigarettes from the commissary. How she knew this was a matter of passing interest, but I didnt ask. Ginnys hands settled back in her lap. As always, Mrs. Wertheimer, I appreciate all your help. Youre a Godsend. But rather than the bus station, can you take me to the train station? Id like to, Henry, she said, shaking a Benson & Hedges menthol hundred millimeter from the soft pack and punching the Chryslers cigarette lighter. Cant, though. We dont have passenger rail service in Chattanooga any more. This was surprising. Ginny and I made faces at each other that were surprised, quizzical, and doubtful all at once. Why? I asked. It was hard to doubt Mrs.W, but still. Ginny nibbled on a nail absent-mindedly for a few seconds. The railroads had been saying they were losing money on passenger lines ever since the War,58 she said. The last passenger train pulled out of Terminal Station in 1970. Nearest passenger rail service these days is down in Atlanta.

58

In 1972, the War could mean either the Viet Nam War or World War II, depending on the context. Mrs. W refers to World War II.

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Why? I asked, still baffled. Railroads had always been a part of my life. It never occurred to me that this would change. The only thing most people knew about Chattanooga was that a choo-choo went there. Well, there are other ways to travel now. Now everybody has a car, and buses are cheaper than trains. She took a deep drag off of her cigarette and whistled the smoke out of the left side of her mouth. We didnt have jets in the Thirties. I went from Memphis to Los Angeles by train in 1932 and it took four days. I did it last month by jet from Chattanooga and it took a few hours. And in the thirties and forties, the only way to get from Chattanooga to Atlanta was by train. Most people didnt have cars, and even if you did, there wasnt a highway system like there is today. You could drive if you wanted, but it would take longer and be more expensive than the train. So we all took the train. Once the federal government built good roads, Greyhound and Trailways59 could go to all kinds of small towns that didnt even have rail stations, and so the railroads started losing those passengers, too. And now theres this whole Amtrak thing. Amtrak? I asked. Yes, she said, swerving to avoid an apparently suicidal squirrel. Once all the passenger service started drying up, Mr. Nixon President Nixon? I asked. Yes. Well, he and Congress came up with this plan where almost all of the passenger service in the country would be taken over by this corporation that was owned by the government. It just doesnt sound right to me. Anyway, they havent brought passenger rail service back to Chattanooga. What will happen to the station house on Market? I asked. Some businessmen have bought it and are turning it into a hotel and a restaurant, she said. Im glad, because I like that building. That part of town is pretty run down, now. I still go down there to Nicks, but its sad. Itll be good if they can fix it up down there. If you could just see it like it was in 1938. Whats Nicks? I asked. Oh, its just a liquor store across from the old station. Its the only place in town where I can buy grappa. Ginny and I looked at each other and shrugged. In 1938 that station was busy, Mrs. W. continued, and that area down by Market and Main was the heart of town. And the Grand Hotel60 really was grand. And that awful J.M. Sanders hadnt moved in.61
59 60

Trailways was once a competitor of Greyhounds. Last I heard, which was maybe ten years ago, the Grand Hotel was owned by a friend of mine named John Duckett. If youre interested in the property, give him a call. 61 J.M. Sanders was a pawnbroker whose shop was across the street from Terminal Station. He ran the most God-awful locally-produced TV commercials in the history of a lamentable genre. Thousands of

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So for me to try my luck on the trains, I need to take the bus? I asked. I think thats the easiest way, Henry, she said. I think there are still a lot of trains through Atlanta. I cant really tell you what they are, but youve never been particular about where you go, and there are lots of trains out of Atlanta. Im not exactly sure where the bus station is in Atlanta, but it will be somewhere downtown, so you can either walk or take a cab from the bus station to the train station. Just tell the driver you want to go to either Terminal Station or Union Station. One has the L&N and the other the ACL, but either one will get you to a small town somewhere. I thought I was just moving into a slightly different chapter in my life as a pool hustler, but in fact that life was almost over. Ginny glanced at me every minute or so and smiled.

actors are out of work in any given location at any given time, yet every pawnbroker and furniture dealer in the state of Tennessee appears, woodenly and ineptly, in his own commercials. J.M. Sanders was morbidly obese who nevertheless had himself videotaped in his pawn shop with his similarly obese yet wordless staff standing behind him, hawking his wares and encouraging trade. These commercials ran unceasingly on all three channels (there were only threeABC, CBS, and NBC) at all hours of the day and night. He made a new commercial only about once every six months, and he bought a lot of air time, so it wasnt odd to see J.M. Saunders telling you ninety days, same as cash or railroad workers welcome six times an hour. There were all kinds of unsavory rumors about him in my high school, but high school rumors are about as reliable a news source as bathroom stall graffiti. A guy in a pool hall told me a few years later that J.M. had been found face down in his pawn shop with two bullet holes in the back of his head and nothing missing from the store. My pool hall sourceand I would rate pool halls stories as slightly less reliable than bathroom stall graffiti, high school rumors, or Fox Newsclaimed that despite the fact that Mr. Sanders hands were bound behind his back, that the death had been deemed a suicide, because the cops just didnt like J.M. This would have been a little easier to believe had it happened in 1970 than 1973. In 1970 the Chattanooga Police Commissioner was named (and ran for office as) James Bookie Turner. There arent many ways to get a nickname like that. In 1973, Gene Roberts was Police Commissioner, and he was a squeaky-clean reformer. I interviewed him for the high school newspaper. Maybe I was always destined to be a writer. But I digress.

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Chapter 11: A Chapter That Wouldnt Have Been Necessary in 1970 I walked into the Chattanooga Trailways station with no specific plan. It was early afternoon. It was hot outside and it was unclear whether the bus station thought it was air conditioned or not. The only ticket agent on duty was not an energetic man and the line of people waiting to talk to him was very, very long. No one in the line looked either happy or cool. The walls were painted a strange green, a blue-green that doesnt exist in nature but can be found in the background in Peter Max62 drawings. The station smelled of stale cigarette smoke and diesel exhaust. When my turn eventually came I told the ticket clerk I wanted to go to Atlanta. I had options. I could leave in an hour and get there at ten or leave in three hours and get there at six. I took the latter. That gave me three hours to kill. Three hours is a really long time if you have no plans and nothing to do. I also realized the three hours in which I had nothing to do while waiting on the bus were to be followed by three more hours in which I had nothing to do on the bus. I spent a dime on a Chattanooga Times63 and then visited the station diner for a patty melt with grilled onions. I lingered at the counter for fifteen or twenty minutes after eating to do the crossword puzzle, the Crypto-Quote, and the Jumble. I paid and went back to the waiting room and re-read the paper thoroughly, learning that someone named John Dean was testifying to the Senate about President Nixon, that my high school classmate Ricky Scopes had been arrested on suspicion of murder64, and that another classmate, Gaylon Martin, was selling his car. From the Sports section I learned that the Dodgers were doing well but not great and that the American League now had something called a Designated Hitter. I couldnt figure out what it was that a Designated Hitter did. I really hadnt been paying attention since I went out on the road. Having thoroughly digested the paper, I had slightly less than two hours until the bus left for Atlanta. I went back to the smoke shop where Id bought the paper and bought Time, Newsweek, The New Yorker, and The New Republic. None had crossword puzzles. By the time I boarded the bus I had a growing realization that President Nixon was in trouble because of something called Watergate. I really hadnt been paying attention.
62

What Richard Brautigan was to literary fiction, what Rod McKuen was to poetry, Peter Max was to visual art. 63 In 1973 the Chattanooga Times and the Chattanooga News-Free Press were separate papers, and the Times was owned by Adolph Ochs, who also owned the New York Times and shared its liberal leanings. The News-Free press was not only conservative, it was atavistic. When we first moved there, the obituaries were divided into two categories: Deaths and Negro Deaths. No lie. I presume the name of the paper was the result of an earlier merger between the News and the Free Press, but the result was a paper whose name implied it was news-free. It had lousy comics and a bad crossword puzzle, too. 64 Reading between the lines, it appeared that Ricky had boldly but somewhat foolishly explained his actions to the arresting officers by saying He done pissed me off, although he was not quoted.

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The bus finally arrived and I got to Atlanta without cooking too much in boredom. When I got there it was still light and about ninety degrees, so I decided to take a cab to the train station. The cab rank was easy to findshort but right outside the station. My bag was so small I tossed it into the back seat ahead of me and slammed the door behind me as I sat. The cabbie eased into traffic using the side-view mirror but without turning his head to check. Where to? he asked. His cab smelled strongly of nicotine and he was listening to the Braves game on the radio. Terminal Station, I said. You mean the train station? he asked. You got it. Cant, he answered. You got some prejudice against rail travel? No. You can go wherever you want. But they tore down Terminal Station in 1972. Its gone, he answered. Why? Amtrak, he said. The Nixon train deal? I asked. Yeah. When hes not busy fucking up the economy or Viet Nam hes concentrated on fucking up passenger rail. So where to? Union Station, then, I said. Sorry pal. Gone too. Last year. Same deal. The only place around here you can catch a train is Brookwood. Why? Amtrak, the cabbie said. The railroads were all losing money and wanted to shut down all passenger service, so Mr. Nixon, sweetheart that he is, turned it all over to Amtrak. You wanna go to Brookwood? How far is it? I asked. Not far. Were almost there.

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Okay. Lets go. There was a pause during which I heard a few pitches from the Braves game on his radio and he negotiated Atlanta traffic. I thought about asking him to take me to the Varsity for a chili dog, but wasnt sure how far it was. You follow baseball? I asked. Yeah, sure, the cabbie answered. Whats a Designated Hitter? I asked. The ruination of all that is holy, he answered. Can you be more specific? An abomination unto the Lord, he said. How does it work? I asked. Imagine the most fucked up thing in the world, and then fuck that up a lot more, and then put Atlanta traffic planners in charge of it, then translate it into Urdu. Yeah, but how does it work? I asked. It takes the game of baseball and fucks it up completely, he answered, forthrightly. You may not realize it, but youre giving off a faint vibe of criticism about the Designated Hitter idea, I said. Thats the most stupid fucking rule to be added to the stupid fucking rule book in the history of the stupid fucking game. What those fuckers were thinking about is fucking beyond me. Its something only a bunch of rich asshole owners who dont want to retire fuckers who can still hit but who cant field worth a fuck could come up with and its the stupidest fucking thing in the world. So hows it work? Ive been out of touch, I said. Okay. In the American fucking League, the line-up can include one player who bats but does not otherwise take the field, and one player who takes the field but does not bat. Why? More runs. So Im guessing its always pitchers? I asked.

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Always, he answered. If you change the pitcher, do you have to change the designated hitter, too? No. You can change the pitcher nine times, DH says put. Lineup card never changes except for the pitcher spot, which isnt in the batting order, so the manager can do whatever he wants. Can you still use pinch hitters? Yeah. Only you dont need them so much because the pitcher never bats. And this is only in the American League? Yeah. National League wouldnt go for it, he answered. So what are they going to do in the World Series? Designated Hitter or no? DH in the American League parks, no DH in the National League parks. This is stupid, I said. I told you it was fucked up. Okay, whats Watergate? I asked. Another Hungarian clusterfuck. But youre here at Brookwood, and I cant wait around. Three bucks. Wait for the light to cross. Out-of-towners get run over here all the time. I paid and left. Brookwood Station was tiny. If thats what it was. All the signs were marked Peachtree Station. It was right next to a freeway, and the train tracks were way down below at the bottom of what might be the longest outdoor staircase Ive ever seen. There was one redcap standing outside, smoking a cigarette and ignoring the world around him in favor of an elaborate inner dialogue that involved demonstrative hand gestures. I passed him and entered the station house, which was about the size of a sub-development ranch split-level. It didnt seem right for Atlanta, proud city of over a million65 inhabitants, to have a train terminal the size of our house in Chattanooga. Atlanta should have something like Penn Station. But no. It had a brick cottage with a long staircase.
65

Metropolitan Atlanta has about five and a half million residents now, so it has quintupled the last 35 or so years.

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There was one ticket agent on duty, head propped on hand, reading a Penthouse magazine with no apparent sense of impropriety, let alone shame. He seemed to know I was there, but left me alone while I looked at the schedule. It looked like the next train through was the Crescent, departing just before ten. So if I buy a ticket to Spartanburg but get off at Greenville, can I use the rest of the ticket later? I asked. He gave up his study of a naked teenaged girl reluctantly but without protest. Yeah, sure, he said. There was a pause. Sir, he added, as an afterthought. I was younger than he was, so he forgot. You can get a voucher you can apply to a future ticket or a cash refund. Cool, I said. Gimme a ticket to Spartanburg. Can I ask you a question? Sure. What is Amtrak? I asked. He thought a few seconds. Cant tell you, sorry. I just dont know. Its Federal, but thats all I know, he said. So your paycheck comes from the Federal government? I asked. Its from Amtrak. Whether thats the Federal government or not, I couldnt tell you. Alls I know is, it clears. What happened to the Southern Lines, and the L&N, and the Atlantic Coast Lines? Couldnt tell you. When I got home from Nam there was an ad in the Journal saying Amtrak was hiring, and I applied, s all I know. Thanks. Army or Marines? I asked. Army. How was it? Fucked up, he answered. Did you go? he asked. No. Didnt get drafted. I shrugged.

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What was your number?66 72. And you didnt get called? Nah. War was winding down. Or so they tell me. Jesus. Is that fucked up, or what? My number was 159. I thought I was gonna skate, he said. Well, glad you made it back, bud. Is there a magazine store or a book store anywhere around here? I asked. Not really, he said. Theres a drug store two blocks down with a magazine rack. I walked down the street and found the drug store. Next door was a place called Lynnes Lunch, so I walked in and sat down. I was hungry and had a headache. Lynnes was a narrow kind of a diner, just a counter with some stools in front and a griddle in back. You didnt need to look at the menu. It was breakfast and sandwiches, maybe a chef salad. There was a stubby unshaven guy in white cotton making the food in back and a dark-eyed waitress named Flo. She put silverware wrapped in a paper napkin and a glass of ice water in front of me and gave me a look, a friendly look, instead of asking me what I wanted. She didnt pretend to hand me a menu. She was about my age and was one of those girls who seems to be capable of saying far out! Pretty much any time. BLT on white toast and milk, I said. And I like mayo. Okay! You want fries or chips with that? she asked. I looked in back ad didnt see any cold fries waiting to be served. Fries, if theyre hot, I said. Hot fries! she said, and made to leave. You got anything for a headache? I asked. She stopped and looked at me.

66

By number, he meant draft number. In the late sixties and early seventies the Selective Service conducted a lottery-style drawing in which birthdates for nineteen year-olds were drawn from a fishbowl and their order was recorded. They then drafted nineteen year-olds in the order the dates had been drawn form the bowl. If your birthday was drawn first, you could be certain you would be drafted. If your birthday was drawn 365th, you were likely safe. The Nixon Administrations Vietnamization program, peace negotiations with North Viet Nam, and troop withdrawals led to a sharp drop-off in the number of recruits the Army needed after 1971. Thus, many, many more young men born in 1953 were drafted than born in 1954. Luck of the draw.

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Like what? she asked, speculatively. Aspirin, Tylenol? I asked. No. I think I can, like, get in trouble for dispensing medicine without a license, or something, if I, like, give you medicine, she said. Okay, I said. I looked back at my now repeatedly folded and wrinkled copy of Time magazine and thought about reading again about Haldemans testimony. Something big was clearly going on, but how it varied from expectations was not so clear. Excuse me, said a man on a stool to my right. He was wearing a Chairman Mao cap with red star, an Atlanta International Pop Festival tee shirt, bell-bottomed Levis with stars stitched into the right leg, and Converse Chucks. He had surprisingly short hair. He had a Coke and his silverware on the counter in front of him, but no food. I heard you ask the waitress for an aspirin, he said. Yeah. Got some? I said. Sure. Help yourself. He handed me a little pocket-sized tin of Anacin that held twelve tablets. The letter A was clearly marked on top of the tin in black magic marker. I popped the top and took three tablets. They looked a little odd, like they had pink circles on top of them, but Id never taken an Anacin before, so maybe they all looked like that. I swallowed them with some ice water and tried to hand the tin back to him at the same time that Flo served him a chicken salad sandwich with chips. After she left I moved to give back his Anacin tin again but he was taking a bite of his sandwich, so I placed the little tin next to his plate. He was in mid-chew when he looked down at it, and when he did, he seemed to freeze for a few seconds, eyes intently focused on it. When he resumed chewing he did so much more slowly, then swallowed carefully. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out another little Anacin tin, identical to the first except that it had a large letter N on top, in black magic marker. He looked at them studiously for a few seconds, then slowly took another bite of his chicken salad sandwich. Flo brought me my BLT and I took a bite. It was good, nice and warm and full of flavor, the tomatoes were in the full sweet tartness of summer, the lettuce was crisp and they hadnt used Miracle-Whip. The white toast abraded the roof of my mouth just the way its supposed to. Chairman Mao cleared his throat. So have you ever tried LSD? he asked. He ate one potato chip. No. I dont do drugs, I said. Why not? he asked.

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Ive got nothing against it, I just dont. Thats cool, I guess, although I have a hard time relating to it. He took another bite or two or his sandwich, chewed and swallowed quickly, then put it down as though he was done with his lunch. Suddenly, or certainly quite recently, he seemed a little nervous. I took another bite of my BLT, and it was particularly bacony. The fries were hot and crisp and salty. A good lunch. Flo, could I get my check, please? he asked. She slapped it down immediately. He fumbled with his wallet for a few seconds and laid some bills on the stainless steel counter. So you want to hear a funny story? he asked. Okay, I said, although I was more interested in my lunch. So I got this friend up in Dalton. Looks stupid but he knows how to make acid. Are you into chemistry at all? he asked. I took it in high school, I answered. Hed paid for his sandwich. Why wouldnt he leave? Well, Im really into chemistry, but I never would have come up with this in a million years, he said. Scooter figured out how to react lysergic acid with trifluoric anhydride to produce a sorta anhydride of both acids, and then react them with some kind of nitrogenous, basic, I mean non-acidic, solution that had at least one hydrogen molecule bonded to a nitrogen molecule. Far out, huh? I didnt follow a word of that, I said. Dont worry. The really cool part is that Scooter figured out that to get a complete reaction you had to do the entire reaction in a really cool temperature, so he did it all in his grandmothers ice box67. Okay. I took two more bites of my sandwich. My fries were cooling, and Chairman Mao was telling me about chemistry experiments I couldnt follow. His process makes LSD, he said. Good LSD. Lots and lots of good LSD. Okay, trying, without being rude, to focus on my lunch in a way that would encourage him go do something else. So Scooter made all this acid, like gallons of it, and we didnt know what to do with it. We tried it, of course, and it was absolutely outta sight trip-wise, so we decided we should try to sell it, but we didnt know how. Most people are selling blotter these days but Scooters friend Spider got busted a couple of weeks ago with two hundred hits
67

In 1972 ice box was a synonym for refrigerator.

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of purple haze blotter, so we figured that was bad luck so Scooter came up with this great plan. You have a friend named Scooter who has a friend named Spider? I asked. Yes. Do you want to know what Scooters brilliant idea was, to keep the pigs68 from figuring out what we were doing? he asked. Okay. Instead of dropping drops of liquid acid onto blotter paper or empty gel caps like all the other dealers were doing wed drop them onto over-the-counter pills like Bufferin and Tylenol. It would look like just another analgesic. I thought it was brilliant, he said. Why are you telling me all this? I asked, finishing my milk and gesturing to the waitress for my check. Because I may or may not have just given you five hundred milligrams of LSD, he said. How many Anacin did you take? Three, I said. Then I may have given you 750 milligrams of LSD. Since I cant remember which tin the acid ones were in and which ones the normal ones were in, I cant be sure. And since I cant be sure, I wont presume to charge you. Okay. One other thing. Flo put my check down, and Chairman Mao put on his cap as if to leave. One of the reasons Scooter and I havent started selling this stuff for real is that we decided that 250 milligrams of this stuff is really too much for your average tripper. Scooters going to dilute it a lot before we start dotting more Anacin tablets. He stood and started to move towards the door. And you may, or may not, have had three times that. Hope it works out for you. He waved and disappeared. I felt fine.

68

In 1974, pigs was sometimes used as a synonym for police, especially among drug-using youth.

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Chapter 12: All Aboard

I got down to the platform an hour early and sat down on a bench next to a bank of five pay phones in old-fashioned wooden phone booths. I was re-reading The New Republic and wondering what TRB stood for when an attractive girl a few years older than me lurched to the phones, straining to carry an enormous tan vinyl suitcase69 along with her. There was a public address system on the platforms playing surprisingly loud pop music, an old song by the Monkeys as I looked again at my magazine. The attractive girl took a seat in a phone booth across from me without seeming to notice I was there. She retrieved some change from her purse and dropped it into the change slots at the top of the phoneone of the black enamel ones with a rotary dial. She dialed a number and waited, then seemed surprised when all of her change fell out into the coin return holder and she had to re-insert it. After a few seconds, she started talking. Hi, honey, its me. Miss me? She frowned a bit, as though she didnt entirely understand what the voice on the other end of the line was saying. Okay, honey, Im on my way, and I heard what you said She paused for a few seconds. I heard what you said, but honey, the train dont stop in Clarkesville.70 It stops in Gainesville. Got that? Not Clarkesville but Gainesville. And it gets there at 9:16. Next stop after Atlanta. She listened for a minute. No, honey. Gainesville. Its closer to you anyhow. And if it got there at 4:30 Id already be there, wouldnt I? Meet me at the station at 9:16. Just a little over an hour from now. You know the station. She paused again. Thats very sweet. Pause. Where must you go? And what do you mean, oh no, no, no? Pause. Have you been smoking dope again? What do you mean you dont know if youre ever coming home? Knock off the weed, Tommy, and meet me at the Gainesville station at 9:12. Short pause. Love you, too. Remember, Gainesville. There aint no train station in Clarkesville. She hung up and looked at her enormous suitcase with a pained expression. She looked up and saw me for the first time. Hes sweet but he aint no genius. I smiled. Got a cigarette? Dont smoke, I said. I wanted to call Tommy so course I ran right past the smoke shop and now Im going to have to lug that damned suitcase all the way up ever one of those goddamned steps to get me a smoke and that just dont seem right. They oughta have a cigarette machine down here on the platform. A young man in a black suit and open-necked black shirt, with stylishly long hair, sat down on the bench next to me. He had an overnight case and a guitar case. You dont see black shirts with black suits too much in Atlanta. He was smoking a very long cigarette. Something didnt seem right about this.
69 70

Suitcases with wheels hadnt been invented yet. Why in the world did that take so long? See Boyce, Tommy and Hart, Bobby, Last Train to Clarksville (1966).

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Got a cigarette? I asked. He fished a pack of Marlboro 100s out of his coat pocket and shook one out towards me. Its for the lady, I said. He looked at the girl, and she accepted primly, then pulled a truck driver-sized Zippo out of her purse and lit the cigarette with a strong yank. Why thank you, so much, she said. Where you guys headed? he asked her. From just those four words, you could tell he was from Brooklyn. Well-educated. Oh, were not together at all, she said, making a gesture to indicate that she and I were not familiar. Im on my way to Gainesville to see my friend Tommy and had just asked this gentleman for a cigarette and he was nice enough to find one for me. The man nodded and smoked. You? he asked, looking at me. South Carolina. What for? he asked. To play pool. He nodded. Whats your name? he asked the pretty girl. Kathy,71 she said. And where are you going? She asked him. Shed lost interest in me entirely. Some women are just fascinated with musicians. Saginaw, Michigan, he said. Tell me about yourself, she said. He made a kind of half-laugh as he drew on his cigarette. Well, Im sitting in a railway station. I have a ticket for my destination.72 So do you sing for a living? she asked. Yep. On a tour of one night stands. So do you just wander around and look for clubs? she asked. Oh, no, he answered. Every stop is neatly planned.

71 72

See Simon, Paul, America (1968) See Simon, Paul, Homeward Bound (1968)

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Is it fun? she asked. It gets old, being alone and away from home all the time. Ive been wishing I were homeward bound. Oh, but it sounds like so much fun. Singing songs people love, meeting new people. Traveling. Until I got me a job working for Bell Telephone in Atlanta, the biggest town Id ever seen was Taccoa, and I wouldnt have seen that if Tommy hadnt gotten a DUI up in Stephens County. The guy in the black shirt laughed slightly. Partly its because Im not singing songs they love, he said. Why not? I write my own songs, he said, So the audience doesnt know most of what I sing. So youre a songwriter, too? Like Hank Williams? she asked. He laughed again. Just like Hank. A poet and a one-man band. Do I know anything you wrote? she asked. Maybe, he said. One of my songs got covered by a band called The Cyrkle. It was on the radio some. What was it? she asked. It was called Red Rubber Ball. Oh, shit! I know that! Thats a great song! I should have known/Youd bid me farewell/Theres a lesson to be learned from this/And I learned it very well,73 she sang. She sounded to me like she had a good voice, but Im no judge. He smiled. Thats it. You wrote that? Well, thats fuckin great! she said. She thought about this for a minute. She took a puff off her cigarette and looked at him admiringly. And youre tired of this? Goin from town to town, singin great songs like Red Rubber Ball? He smiled and looked at his shoes, which were a form of zip-up boot I had never seen before. Sometimes it seems like every days an endless stream of cigarettes and

73

See Simon, Paul, and Woodley, Bruce, Red Rubber Ball (1966), offered by Paul Simon to The Cyrkle when they were touring with and opening for Simon & Garfunkel.

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magazines. Each town looks the same to me. Movies theaters, factories. Everybody I see is a stranger. It really makes me wish I was headed for home.74 He offered her another cigarette, which she accepted, then moved over to the bench beside him to accept his offer of a light. I made an excuse to move down the platform. Watching them was beginning to feel a little voyeuristic. A few benches further down the platform, I sat down across from another guy in black shirt, no tie, black suit, black shoes. He was maybe ten years older than me. Maybe he and the other guy were in the same band or something. You really dont see that black on black deal much in Atlanta. He looked up as I sat down but then looked right back down. Hey, he said. Tennessee accent. Hi, I answered. Where you headed, young feller? he asked. Carolinas, I said. He lit a cigarette. His hands shook, and he seemed a little twitchy. You? I asked. He shrugged in an exaggerated kind of way. Nashville, eventually, he said. Right now, I just want to ride, you know? Hows that? I asked. There was a pause and he blew a smoke ring. It didnt bounce, but there was no breeze down there and the smoke ring sailed a really long way. He had the slightly accelerated mannerisms of somebody on speed. He shrugged again. I get a sad kind of feeling when I see a passenger train. In this fast movin world we live in nobody rides them much these days. Or maybe Im just sentimental cause I know things have to change. But I still like to go for a train ride because Ive got a thing about trains.75 You know? It was my turn to shrug. People dont usually talk to me much, so I wasnt used to this. Trains. Trains are out of place these days. But they had their days of glory, trains. Trains. He shook his head at the ground, then looked down the track towards Gainesville, then at the darkening sky. You know what Id say to a train if I could talk to it? Id say They say youre too slow for travelin but Im gonna miss you some day. When my little boy says Daddy what was it like to ride a train Ill say it was a good way to travel when things didnt move so fast and Im sorry you caint ride one but trains are a
74 75

See Simon, Paul, Homeward Bound (1966). See Bare, Bobby, Ive Got a Thing About Trains (1966) (as performed by Johnny CashI cant find any record of Bobby Bare recording it before 1992).

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thing of the past. Train, train, youre passin from the scene, but Im gonna mourn your passin. Some kind of stimulant had to be involved in this soliloquy. The train pulled in at 8:21, right on time. The man in black and I got onto the same car. He had no luggage. There were very few people on the car and he took the seat across from me. He kept looking at me intently, then looking away. It was awkward. So what do you do for a living? I asked. Nothing much, recently, he said. Just movin on a night train. Drinkin coffee, doing cocaine. He shook his head and looked out the window and suddenly looked as sad as anyone I have ever known. Like something terrible was inside him and sometimes it overwhelmed him. Either that or he was paranoid and crazy from too much coke. Or speed. Im out here on my night train tryin to get her safely home,76 he said, completing a thought that actually had no end. There was a pause. You all right? I asked. Yeah, sure. He shrugged. Girl trouble. Cant seem to get her off my mind. So you been travelling long? I asked. All the live-long day, he answered. Whats her name? I asked. Dinah, he said. So what happened? One day I come home from work early, and theres Dinah in the kitchen with this banjo player, who was strumming away. I had the feeling Id interrupted something, but they both said it was all perfectly innocent, that hed come from Alabama with his banjo looking for someone named Susannah, and there was some mix-up with the address. And then his story just really didnt make any sense from then on.77 So what do I do? What would you do? I dont know, bud, I said.
76 77

See Lee, Amos, Night Train (2007). It rained so hard the night I left, The weather was bone dry. The sun so hot I froze myself, Susannah dont you cry.

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He looked out the window into the impenetrable darkness. Fee, fie, fiddle-eyeoh, he said, and took a drag off his cigarette. So what did you do? I asked. I went out on a train ride, he said. He shrugged his elaborate shrug again. I wanted to take the midnight train to Memphis78, but it dont run out of Nashville no more. Second choice was the Hummingbird to New Orleans, but it dont come to Union Station, neither. Why? I dont know. Its this goddamned Amtrak thing. I dont know if the Hummingbird dont run no more, or if it just dont stop in Nashville, or what, but that ol station looked mighty empty when I was there. It was always the same til last year. Union Station is Nashville? I asked. Yeah. So since seems like The Floridian is the only train comes to Nashville any more, thats the one I took. But I dont like Florida so I got off in Birmingham and come over here. I dont know xactly where Im headed, but these Amtrak guys seem to treat a ticket just like a dollar bill. Which is nice. Not like the old days. What happened in the old days? Oh, Hell. The L&N wouldnt honor a Southern Lines ticket, even if they was to the same station. I grew up on the Cotton Lines track, and I never could tell what tickets theyd honor. He looked at the floor. Conversation stalled. He lit another cigarette from a small wooden match. He shook his head and looked back at the floor. You follow baseball? I asked. Yeah sure. Why did the American League adopt the Designated Hitter rule? I asked. Oh, Hell, I caint talk about that, he said. The train started to move. He looked back out the window. The train picked up speed pretty slowly, and as it got darker it would have been hard o se anything out the
78

See Metlocke, Rickey, Train, Train, (1979), as recorded by Warrant; Steeldrivers, Midnight Train to Memphis, (2008); Ritchie, R.J. and Shafer, Mark, Midnight Train to Memphis, (2001) (as performed by Kid Rock); Bare, Bobby, Ive Got a Thing About Trains (1966); Fogerty, John, Big Train (From Memphis) (1985).

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windows even if the tracks werent enclosed by concrete walls. He took a mournful drag off his cigarette, then looked at his watch, then at me. Excuse me, he said, and stood. Nice talking to ya, and left the car, heading towards the rear. Embarassment? Looking for the bar car? Wanting to snort cocaine in privacy? He was upset by the Designated Hitter rule? I looked around the car. Way up front was a young couple trying to deal simultaneously with two toddlers and an infant. The kids were bickering and squirming and seemed to be asking for cookies. The parents were trying to calm the kids down but failing because they were focused on bickering amongst themselves about something. I could feel the wheels turning beneath my feet. Id heard the sound of trains on tracks hundreds of times before, of course, but the rhythmic click-clack has a feel almost like a heartbeat when youre on the train, and that rhythm becomes your heartbeat as long as youre on board. Across the aisle was a woman in a pin-striped navy skirt and matching jacket poring over a file of some sort. A lawyer, maybe. She was so intent on her file she had no idea what was going on in the rest of the car. The only passenger behind me was a hobo-looking man who was smiling a glassy smile and sipping from a bottle in a brown paper bag every few seconds. As I turned back around from looking at the rear of the car, a pretty dark-haired girl in almost-new Levis entered from the front of the car, looking side to side for a seat. She paused at my row. Do you know if this seat is taken? she asked me. There was somebody there, but he just left, so I think its free, I said. Okay. You look safe. Are you? Yeah, Im safe. Groovy, she said. I liked her already. She sat but didnt put her suitcase in the overhead bin. She was wearing perfume and had bright blue eyes. Most blue eyes are kind of wan. She left her suitcase in the aisle as if to stress the fact that she was not committed to her current relationship with her seat. She glanced at me several times over three or four minutes and seemed to want to talk, but she was too shy. Im Henry, I said, extending my hand. Henry Baida.

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She shook my hand briefly. Im Barbara McGee, she said. What kind of work are you in, Barbara? She paused and thought about it. She sighed before answering. I guess Ive been a drifter for the last few years. Seeing the country. Wandering around. She looked up briefly and smiled. Its been fun, but I think I want to go home now. Settle down. You know. She shrugged. Wheres home? I asked. Baton Rouge, she said. Youre going the wrong way for Baton Rouge, I said. There was a long pause while she smiled and stared into the middle distance. Youre right, but you know, until I just said that, I dont think Id made up my mind. I didnt mean to disrupt your plan, I said. She stared out the window and smiled but didnt really look at me. Not so much a disruption as resumption, I guess, she said. So where have you drifted to? I asked, after a longish pause in which she seemed to enjoy some kind of melancholic memory. Oh, all over. It started out just outside Baton Rouge. I met this really interesting guy. Interesting how? I asked. She still wasnt looking at me much. Staring out the window and smiling to herself. She had this way of bringing her fingertips to her mouth as though she wanted to bite her nails, but never did. Her fingertips just seemed to want to be close to her smile. Oh, you know. He was a poet. He was a picker. Sometimes he seemed like a preacher. Or a prophet, maybe. He once claimed to have been a pusher,79 but I didnt believe him. He was a walking contradiction. Without really looking at me she reached into her pocket and retrieved a pack of Tareytons with a Bic lighter stuffed in the pack. She shook out the lighter and a smoke and lit it up, still smiling out the window. Whats a picker? I asked. You know, a guitar picker. He had a guitar, a Martin, and he used to sing to me.
79

In 1973, pusher would have been understood to refer to someone who sold illegal addictive narcotics, more particularly opiates, and most generally heroin.

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So whered you go? I asked. I dont really like to hear people talk about singing. Im not very musical. She finally looked at me as she took a drag off her cigarette. Well, we started outside Baton Rouge. In a switching yard. Whats that? I asked. A place with a lot of railroad cars. He wanted to hitch a ride. He told me to kind of lay back in this exaggerated posture and hold my thumb out, and the engineers would stop. He said they like girls. So I did, and just before it rained this big diesel stopped and let us in. I think he would have been happier if it had been just me, but anyway, we sang songs for him and played harmonica and he got us to New Orleans. Not so long a ride. Not really, but Kris thought it was great. Im not sure hed ever flagged a diesel down before. Neither had I, I guess, but nobodys surprised that old men like young women. After that, we kind of hitch-hiked and rode the rails all over. From Kentucky to California. It was a lot of fun. She blew out a large cloud of tobacco smoke through lips pursed as though she might want to whistle. So why are you travelling alone? I asked. There was a long pause in which she smoked. Its complicated, she said. He was very philosophical. He didnt want to own anything. He didnt want to be tied down. He said you could only be free if you had nothing to lose. I thought about that for a few seconds. I dont know about that, I said. Im a drifter myself, and I find Im freer to drift when I have some money. She didnt look at me but she laughed and took another drag off her cigarette. What kind of drifting do you do? she asked. Gambling. Pool and cards. You good at it? she asked. I dont think so. I think more about what I did wrong than what I did right. But I never lose. Almost never, anyway. What do you do with your money? she asked.

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I have a friend who invests it for me, I answered. She thought about that for a minute. Whats a mutual fund? she asked. Im not entirely sure, but I have some. Its like a pool of money where some guy who knows what hes doing takes all the money youve invested and buys stocks with it, and if hes good, you make money, and if hes bad, you lose money. She nodded. You drink? she asked, and looked straight at me. If youre asking about alcohol, no. Whys that? she asked. Cant tell you, I said. I just have an idea that its better for me if I dont. True enough, she said. So you were traveling around with no possessions, having a great time, but now all of a sudden youre thinking you might go back to Baton Rouge. Yeah, she said, and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. There was a pause that lasted maybe four minutes. She stared out the window and smiled intermittently, caught up in her own little world. You know its all great to say that freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, she said, eventually, but Ive been worrying about this tooth thats bothering me. And hobo-ing around like weve been doing, its really hard to get my birth control pill prescription refilled every month. And God only knows what would happen if I got pregnant, because Im not married and have no health insurance. So it started occurring to me that I have a lot to lose even though I thought I had nothing to lose. So what happened? I asked. Oh, somewhere near Salinas I slipped away. I couldnt bear to say goodbye. I loved him, he was wonderful, he sang the most beautiful songs, but I want to settle down. I want to have kids and all. She looked down at the floor and raised her eyebrows and lowered the corners of her mouth in an expression that seemed to convey unhappy resignation. She looked up, not at me, but up the corridor of the car. Then she frowned. Shit, she said. The Preachers here. Who? I asked, trying to look where she was looking. I guess you dont travel on trains much she said.

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Just started, I answered. Okay, well, theres this guy on the trains. Especially since Amtrak. You bump into him from time to time. All of us who spend a lot of time on trains call him The Preacher and we all avoid him. He just came into this car, so Im going to leave. Sorry. What? I asked. The Preacher is here, and Ive heard his all aboard speech one time too many already, so Im leaving. Thanks. It was fun talking to you. She got up, picked up her suitcase, still in the aisle, and strode towards the back of the car. Almost as soon as she left, John showed up and flopped back down. Hey, young feller, was that Bobbie who just left? he asked. Could be, I said. She said her name was Barbara McGee. I thought it was her. Met her a couple years ago. When she was seein my friend Kris. She left because she didnt want to have to deal with somebody she called The Preacher, I said. Oh, Hell, is he here? John asked. So she said, but I dont know him, I answered. John craned his neck and rose slightly in his seat, trying to get a glimpse. Dont see him, he said. If I have to listen to that speech o his one more time, I think I might bust. All aboard? I asked. Yeah! You heard it? No. Barbara mentioned it right before she bolted. Oh. There was a short pause. He was agitated in a kind of unfocused way and seemed to have a hard time sitting still. It ever occur to you that things just aint right? he asked. Yeah, sure, I said. How? His dark brown eyes bored straight in at me. He hadnt seemed focused before.

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Well, I play pool for a living, I said. Nine ball? Yes. Where? he asked. Pool halls, bars, bowling alleys. I know that, he said. But where? Mainly Tennessee, Georgia and Alabama. Sometimes Louisiana and Arkansas. Them Mississippi boys dont know how to play, they dont know how to gamble, and they dont know how to lose, he said. Well put, I said. But youre on a train to the Carolinas, he said. Yep. Changing your luck? he asked. Just got out of jail, I said. Dont want to be in Tennessee. Lost my car. Thought Id try the trains. Aint gonna work, he said. Whys that? You take some money off some peckerwoods in Wadley, you just get in your car and roll. Never see em again. If youre travelin by train you take their money down to the depot and wait. While youre waitin, they round up ten of their friends and come beat the snot out of you and take everything you got, whether you won it off o them or not. Its gonna fuck up your game. Plus, in South Carolina they dont gamble for anything bigger n lunch money on pool, and in North Carolina they put on airs but theyre really just a bunch o farmers. Like Mississippi? Like Mississippi with college degrees, he said. And mountains. And tobacco fields and cigarette factories, but thats not what I wanted to talk t you about. Whatd you notice that just aint right?

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Oh, I said. Its a little weird. I paused. Still that intense bright stare from John. I play pool a lot. And particularly when I play alone, I notice that things arent right. How? I do the same thing every time, and I get slightly different results. Not something anyone else would notice, but slight variations that cant be accounted for. That it? he asked? No, there are all sorts of other things, I said. Like what? Today I get the feeling that my life is somehow governed by song lyrics, I said. I had never voiced this thought before and it felt crazy to have sad it. Oh, Hell. Everbodys like that, he said. The first thing I remember knowin was the lonesome whistle blowin and a young uns dream of growing on the ride.80 So its not just me? No. Everbodys like that. I turned twenty-one in prison doin life without parole. And Mama did try. What makes them lyrics great is that all of us know em in our hearts. What were you in prison for? I asked. I shot a man in Reno, he said. Just to see him die? I asked. Oh, fuck no, he said. What kind of psycho do you think I am? Then whyd you kill him? Cause he pissed me off! Whyd you think? John answered. I let that one sit for a few seconds. What strikes you as weird? I asked. He thought for a few seconds. He was agitated, and he shook his hands while he thought.

80

Haggard, Mel, Mama Tried (1968).

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Theres a madness, he said, a shuffling madness. You know how the steam used to exhale out of a train, like a dogs breath in winter? I used to think that was locomotive breath.81 And I have this persistent dream. No, dream aint the right word, cause I think about it when Im awake. Im the all-time loser, and Im runnin headlong to my death. Why would you do that? I asked. Because I have to. No you dont I said. Yes I do. I feel the piston scraping. Sweats breaking on my brow. Caint you see it? He was pretty sweaty Stop, I said. I caint, he answered. Charlie stole the handles and the train it wont stop going. No way to slow down. Whos Charlie? I asked. Somebody who did something he shouldnta done. What did he do? I asked. Caint say, he answered. He looked up. Oh, Hell, I gotta go. The Preacher? I asked. Naw. The conductor. I aint got no ticket. He got up and disappeared towards the back of the train. I looked up and saw the conductor, a rotund red-faced sixty-or-so man making his way down the car. I found my ticket and wedged it into the corner of the seat-back in front of me, so he wouldnt have to ask for it. The fluorescent light seemed to be turning increasingly blue. I had nothing to read except three magazines Id already committed to memory. I firmly resolved never again to leave homenot that I had a home, exactlywithout a Bible. The conductor got to me a few minutes later. He punched my ticket with one of those funny hole-punchers they have. You dont look familiar, he said, looking down at me. People usually dont talk to me much, although strangers seemed to have been walking up to me and starting conversations all day. Still, it was odd to have the conductor starting small talk. Excuse me? I asked. He handed me my ticket back.
81

See Anderson, Ian Locomotive Breath, (1971).

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I been seein you talking to regulars like John and Bobby, but I dont think I seen you around before. I dont take trains too much, I answered. Why you startin now? he asked. Amtrak done fucked everything up. My car got towed away and I couldnt go get it back. Whys that? he asked. Long story, I said. He chuckled. All stories on a train are long stories, he said. Take care. He moved on back towards the rear of the car where the man with the bottle in the brown paper bag was smiling blankly towards the black window. I moved to the window seat, thinking I might attract less attention further from the aisle. I had nothing to read and I couldnt see out the window except for the occasional scene lit by the blue glow of a mercury vapor streetlight.82 I could feel the wheels turning underneath my feet as I pulled down the shade on the window.83 I felt weird. Lost. I decided to pray. I know, thats odd. An interesting issue. Interesting to me, anyway. Ive never really decided if I believe in God or not. I think about it a lot. Sometimes I go to church, sometimes I dont. Sometimes I pray, sometimes I dont. On the train between Atlanta and Toccoa, I decided to pray that where I was going was better than where Id been. It felt odd, and pretty disingenuous, to pray to a God I wasnt sure existed for something for my own advantage. I wasnt praying for world peace or to end the suffering of children. I wanted my life to be better in some inchoate way I couldnt have articulated easily. This was pretty self-centered, and I was aware of this. But Id prayed. Perhaps that counted for something. Then out of nowhere a crazy stranger sat down next to me like he was right at home. He touched me and said I see youre traveling alone, and by the way, son, you forgot to say Amen. Had I been praying aloud? He had long black and grey hair, almost shoulder length, and an unruly black beard streaked with white. He looked vaguely familiar, but it didnt come right away. How did he know I was praying, or what Id prayed?
82

The first sodium vapor lampsthe orange onesshowed up in 1970 but nobody started buying them until the 1980s, when the price of electricity went up. Installation of new mercury vapor streetlights was banned a few years ago, so their strange blue light will be unknown in a few years. 83 McCoury, Del, All Aboard, (2001), the best train song ever. The only other train song even close is Trainwreck of Emotion, also by Del McCoury.

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I guess theres something I need to explain, he said. I try to talk to everyone riding on this train. Some of them listen, but most dont pay Me no mind. He stood straight up in his aisle seat. All aboard, he said, kind of loud, everybodys got to get on board. The funny thing was that nobody seemed to notice him. He still looked familiar. Pastor Leslie? I asked. He looked at me sharply and I thought for a moment he was going to recognize me. No dice. Take that woman with the frown sittin across the aisle, with her briefcase open nigh on ninety miles. She never even noticed that lake back at Horseshoe Bend. And that couple with the kids at the front of the car, fussin all the way about some cookie jar. I wanna ask them what they see at their journeys end. And theres a feller I left sittin in the back. Keeps a smile on his face from a paper sack. Hes lookin out the window but he cant see past the pain. Pastor Leslie, if thats who he was, and I really wasnt sure, stood up again. And the train keeps rolling . And the world keeps turning. He shook his index finger at me as if to make a point. All aboard, everybodys got to get on board he said. Look, bud, I said. You need to calm on down. The other passengers are going to notice. No, theyre not, he said. Nobody notices me here. He had a point. Nobody was looking up. Then the train slowed down unexpectedly. The Preacher, or Pastor Leslie, or whoever he was, seemed to want to look out the window. As I raised the shade, he slapped my knee, saying This is My stop, son, but you wont be travellin alone. He stood and left. What was he talking about? Who was going to be traveling with me? Jesus? The train had stopped in Gainesville. The platform was lit so I could see The Preacher leaving the train, then leaving the platform. He seemed to be in a hurry, but that may have been because he didnt want the conductor to catch him. I tried to wave goodbye, but then it seemed like hed vanished. There werent many lights at the Gainesville station. Kathy from the Atlanta station came out with her enormous suitcase and looked for Jimmy, but there was no Jimmy there to meet her. Maybe hed gone to Clarkesville after all. There was a silver glow to the light outside the train the way there is when the moons out but you cant see it. Had that been Pastor Leslie? Either way, was he insane?

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Then the conductor shouted all aboard from the platform, Kathy, clearly exasperated, grabbed her enormous suitcase and hopped back on the train. The train started rolling, leaving Gainesville in its past. I felt the wheels rolling underneath my feet. This just wasnt right at all and I knew it. Something was wrong. I called Mrs. W at the next stop, Toccoa, although I hadnt really meant to call. Id just seen her a few hours ago. I got off the train to stretch my legs, but it was raining. I looked around for a place to hide from the rain. There was an old water tank across the tracks, and a bunch of hobo84-looking guys were huddled underneath it. There was boxcar on a sidetrack near the water tank, both doors open. One of the guys under the water tank waved. Hey! he yelled. Hey to you, I answered. Hows it goin? he asked. He had to yell because the rain was really coming down. Fine. You? I was trying to be polite but was really looking for someplace dry. There was a phone booth about ten yards down the platform. Im a million miles away from home,85 he called out. Waitin on a train. I waved and ducked into the phone booth. The door wouldnt close. This brought me closer to the boxcar. A middle-aged man shot me a peace sign. Hey, I said. Hey, he called back. Hows it going? I yelled. Rainy night in Georgia,86 he said, and shrugged. Over his shoulder I could see a neon sign flashing, and could hear what sounded like taxis and busses passing through the night. Where were they? There wasnt a road in sight You got that right, I said. Seems like its rainin all over the world, he said, and shrugged again. He turned to leave the door of the boxcar, and I could see he was holding a guitar. All aboard! the conductor shouted.
84

In 1973, we still used the word hobo, and thought of hoboes as people who had chosen to live their lives this way. The phrase homeless person hadnt entered the English language, and the idea that hoboes hadnt chosen vagabondage because they liked it hadnt crept into the national consciousness. 85 Rodgers, Jimmy, All Around the Water Tank (1928). 86 White, Tony Joe, Rainy Night in Georgia (1962), as performed by Brook Benton.

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Oh shit. Because it was raining, the conductor hadnt come out onto the platform, hed just stuck his head out the door at the last minute, and the train had started rolling immediately thereafter. No time for me to get back on board. Well, damn. I took a quick inventory of my possessions. It was not encouraging. I had a little over three hundred dollars and the clothes on my back, because my suitcase had just rolled down the track. Nothing to read. I had several dollars in change, including a 1963 silver quarter. I moved that into the other pocket. I dialed Mrs. Ws number, and then, when prompted, dropped most of my change into the change slot. She answered almost immediately. Wertheimer residence, she said. Hi, Mrs. W, I said. Henry! she said, at first excited, then Is everything okay? Yes, maam. I just missed my train and I had a thought I wanted to discuss with you. Where are you? she asked. Toccoa, Georgia, I said. How are things in Toccoa? she asked. Raining hard. Its raining here, too, she said. I thought a second, then decided not to say anything about that. So whats on your mind, Henry? she asked. You dont usually call out of the blue. I could hear the scrape of the thumb-wheel against the flint of her Zippo and the relieved sound of her inhaling her smoke. Do I have enough money to go to college? I asked. Oh, Lord, yes, Henry. You have enough for a Ph.D. at Yale. Are you thinking of going to school? I think so. Ever since that fight in Hixson, I havent liked the way things are going, I said. Have you been losing at pool? Or cards? she asked. I thought I detected a note of something almost hopeful in her tone of voice.

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Oh, no maam, I said. But I cant seem to get anywhere, since I lost my car, and this whole train thing doesnt seem to be working out too well. Whats happening? You havent been gone that long. Since you dropped me off at the bus station, everything thats happened to me seems highly improbable. Henry, have you been drinking? No maam. Taking drugs? she asked. Not intentionally, no maam. Whats that supposed to mean? Something happened back in Atlanta that Im not sure I understand. Im not sure drugs were involved, but I dont feel right. What happened? she asked. I took these strange Anacin from this guy in a Chairman Mao cap, I said. And everything that happened on that train I just missed was really strange. Everything that happens to all of us is improbable, Henry. But all of the alternatives are equally improbable. Youre not becoming a conspiracy theorist are you? I have no idea what that is, but I doubt it, I said. Do you think people have been plotting things in secret? she asked. No, maam. About what? Oh, you know. The Kennedy assassination. The Trilateral Commission.87 The what? I asked. Its a government deal, she said. Like Amtrak? I asked.

87

Founded in July of 1973.

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I dont think its quite that sinister, she answered. What kind of improbable things are you talking about? Its hard to explain. Somebody came up to me earlier and told me a story that sounded almost like Ive Been Working on the Railroad. So? she asked. Well, Im on a railroad. What are the chances? And then it sounded like one of the other characters in the story was trying to make like he was really acting out Oh, Susannah. So? I still dont get it, she said. Well, Im no lawyer, but youve got the wrong song seems like a pretty lame defense. Listen, Henry. I will admit that whenever you show up a number of exceedingly improbable things seem to happen. Thats been true since Ive known you. Its also true that you have plenty of smarts, but your brain roams all over the place, so I would imagine youre concocting highly improbable explanations for why that is. Okay, about this improbability thing. Have I told you about my problem with pool shots? I asked. About how sometimes when you perform the same process you get divergent results? Yes maam. Youve me about it, yes, she said. And? The most logical explanation is that changes or differences that are too small for you to detect account for the variations, she said. Theres a new kind of analysis emerging that deals with fractals and turbulence and chaos. Fun stuff. From what Im reading, initial conditions are very important. Initial conditions? I asked. If youre running a computer model on a complex weather system, point oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh one percent variation makes the model unpredictable over about six weeks, she said. Fascinating, I said. Relevant to pool?

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Not so far, she said. But Im thinking about it. Lets go back to Newtonian mechanics. Okay, she said. I could hear her inhale her Benson & Hedges. What if the rules of the cosmos are set up in a very orderly pattern, like a checkerboard, but there are some disturbances at the margins that are somehow not influencing the larger grid? Some improbable, even impossible, events that never get noticed because theyre happening off in the corners where the scientists and doctors dont watch? Like in pool halls? she asked, and I could hear her lighting another cigarette. Maybe. Henry, go to college. Take physics from a real physicist. Take chemistry and chemistry lab. You know math pretty well, but math isnt grounded in reality. Its just out there. Take some sciences grounded in observation. And you think further education will explain my pool shot problem? In a way, but education has a way of luring you in with a question, then making that question irrelevant. So college. Yes, Henry. You need to go to college. I took her advice. I went to college. I studied physics and math. It didnt help, but it gave me different ways to ask the question.

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Part II: 1975 College

I do not define time, place, space, place and motion, as being well known to all. Only I must observe, that the common people conceive those quantities under no other notions but from the relation they bear to sensible objects. And thence arise certain prejudices . --Sir Isaac Newton

There is no more common error than to assume thaqt, because prolonged and accurate mathematical calculations have been made, the application of the result to some fact of nature is absolutely certain.

--A. N. Whitehead

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Chapter 13: Higher Learning I started college in 1974. College in the seventies was weird, although it didnt seem so at the time. We had become accustomed to a steady decline of the role of rules and standards in our lives, and most people my age assumed that they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and resented the imposition of any limits whatsoever. Drugs? Sure. All kinds, on demand. Sex? Sure. Every day. Strangely colored clothing that followed no conventions whatsoever? Of course. Plot-free films that made no sense at all? Routine. Having some minimal standards, or requirements for graduation or a major? What the fuck kind of Nazi regime is this? Students fell into categories. There were lots of categories, but everybody you met fit into one of them. Greeks. Stoners. Engineers. Musicians. English majors. Math Majors. Gay men. The professors fell into categories, too, but not quite as neatly as students. You could differentiate between the Greek and stoner categories pretty much on sight.88 It was harder to tell the difference between the Professors who will have sex with their students and Professors who will not have sex with their students categories, but both groups of were well-represented. If you were a college freshman in Nashville in 1974 nothing about the way the school was organized would help you focus on a field of study or a career. College was a process, not a means to a degree, certainly not a means to an occupation. We were encouraged to explore and to make alternative suggestions. All of which was bullshit, of course. Employers everywhere value the baccalaureate credential because it demonstrates that you can stick with the program, some program, for four years or however long it takes you to get that bachelors degree. That you adhered to the complicated, if amorphous, rules of some institute of higher learning long enough that it gave you a diploma says several things about you. It could be Harvard or Southern Union Community College in Wadley, Alabama, but it says the same thing. Let me take something I said earlier back. It did feel weird, it just didnt feel weird to anybody but me. All freshmen who didnt hail from Nashville were required to live in student housing. Most freshman men lived in what was called the Freshman Quad, which was incomplete if not silly, because all the freshman women lived somewhere else. We were all assigned a faculty advisor based on where we lived, so everyone in the south end of the third floor of Hemmingway Hall had the same adviser. He showed up a few days before classes started and commandeered Joss dorm room to talk to us all. Jos was a Cubano whose parents had fled after Bautista fell. His father was a doctor of some sort whod had to deal with more straitened means after moving to Florida in 1959. Joss appreciation of American culture was a little limited because hed grown up in Catholic, Spanish-speaking, Castro-hating private schools.

88

I guess thats not entirely true. B was a fraternity made up entirely of stoners, so there was an element of ambiguity to both sets, so far as that one group of guys was concerned.

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When it came my turn to talk to Professor Ladd, he seemed both glad to see me and worried. Mr. Baida. Welcome, he said, as I sat in Joss desk chair. I am Dr. Ladd, professor of Mathematics. And Im delighted to note that you wish to pursue Mathematics. He was in his mid-forties, had la-little-bit-long, dark-approaching-black hair, balding but not graying, erudite-looking and slightly indifferent, with a slight whiff of complete asshole about him. Yes, sir, I said. Im fascinated with math. I looked around Joss room. There was a poster on the wall of two ducks having sex on the wing over the legend Fly United! The only object on his bookshelves was a candle in the shape of a naked man picking his nose. Jos was a class act. Excellent, excellent, he said. I couldnt tell that hed noticed Joss decorating. I see where you won the Tennessee State High School Mathematics Competition in 1971, said Dr. Ladd. I was on the committee that selected one of the problems. He seemed very pleased with himself. Which one? I asked. It involved three variables, he said, smiling. The a2-b3+c3=0 one? I asked. Well, there were two other equations, as well, he said. Yeah, sure. It was fun. Fun? he asked. Yes, sir. Well, wed learned how to solve those in Algebra II. Line em up right and they kind of solve themselves, once you know the trick. You learned to solve three variable equations as a senior in high school? I think it must have been junior year, because I already knew how when I was in the contest. Young man, none of the high school algebra texts have that particular set of problems. Some of the pre-calculus texts do, but none of the junior-level Algebra textbooks have them. Well, Mrs. Wertheimer gave us lots of handouts that werent in the textbooks. I think

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Mrs. Wertheimer? he interrupted. Yes, sir. You arent referring to Dr. Margaret Wertheimer, are you? Doctor I dont know about, but her name was Margaret Wertheimer, I said. You took high school algebra from Dr. Margaret Wertheimer. I guess. If she has a doctorate, I answered. Where was this going? How did he know Mrs. W? All right, my Mathematics prodigy, how would you have altered the three variable, cube-level factoring problem in the 1971/72 Tennessee State Math Competition to have made it more challenging? he asked. Well, it would have been harder if youd only given two variables with each equation. Excuse me? he asked. It would have been more fun if youd given three equations, each of which has only had two of the variables in it. That would have required either good induction or powerful intuition. I mean, it was a good problem and all, but its the kind of thing that if you know how to solve it, it just lines up, I said. And how would you, Mr. Baida, set up the equations so that each equation only contained two variables? Just solve each one for zero, I answered. Set a at zero and work out the other two. All three variable equations are not amenable to that solution, he noted. Oh, for sure. But some sets of three equations are. And Im not sure how Id solve that. It would be hard. You might need four equations to make it solvable. Id need to work on that with a pencil for a while. The problem wouldnt be solving it, it would be proving that youd found a solution, he said. I get what youre saying, but you could solve it so that two different equations with dissimilar components were solved to the same value. Say a2-c2=72 and b2+a3=72. Then a2-c2=b2+a3 states all three.

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More difficult to pose, he said. I was asked to provide an algebra problem for a high school math competition. Ah, I said. He expected me to say something else. I didnt. Whats this about a double major? he asked. Id like to double major in Physics and Math, I said. He had this odd reaction. He shuffled his cards and changed his posture. He shifted again in his chair. An odd selection, he said. Really? I thought it would be quite common, I said. They seem so closely related. No, he answered, firmly. Mathematics is pure reason. A completely intellectual exercise. Physics and engineering and computer programming and that kind of thing is an attempt to describe observations in mathematical terms. Physics is much more like Botany or Journalism than it is like Mathematics. Math is pure. We dont think about how it meshes with the observable universe. I wanted to ask why every math book Id ever opened had so many word problems in it if math was so divorced from reality, but decided Id probably irritated him enough already. He looked at me expectantly, hoping hed convinced me to give up this Physics foolishness, but I had nothing much to say, so I just looked back at him. Well, I guess were going to put you down as a double major, for now, but I will make a note to revisit this idea with you next semester, he said. Or perhaps next year. You wont take much of either subject your freshman year. Okay. That leaves the question of your minor, he said. Aside from Physics and Math, all I really want to learn is languages, I said. Which ones? Greek and Italian, I said. Modern Greek? Attic? he asked. Koin, I said.

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Why? he asked. He disliked me already, and his bafflement was colored by his asshole-ishness. To read Aristotle, Josephus, and the New Testament. He instantly deduced that I was a Jesus Freak89 and adjusted his attitude accordingly. I see, he said, and raised his eyebrows. Greek is in the Classics department, and Italian is its own department. Neither will amount to a minor on its own. If you add Latin, you could get a Classics minor. I already know Latin, I said. You already know Latin, he said, plainly disbelieving me. Yes, sir. And just where did you pick it up? he asked. My mom had a textbook from her grammar school on the shelves when I was a kid, and I read that. Then I took it in high school. Hed had about enough of me. Translate da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo, he said. Roughly, make me pure and virginal, but not just yet, I said. He was surprised. You know the quote? he asked. Ive heard it in English, but never before in Latin. I think St. Augustine said something like that when he was still sinning but thinking of saintliness. So you could have just recognized the quote, he said, looking at me critically. Lets have you translate some modern English phrase into Latin. There was a knock at the door. A young man with a ginger beard and long frizzy hair, black-rimmed glasses, and absurdly loud pants opened the door. His name was Milton, from the far end of our hall. The night before hed been stoned beyond belief and was trying to remember whether his favorite Captain Beefheart tune was titled Big-Eyed Dudes From Venus or Big-Eyed Beings From Venus, and the fact that he was unable to remember had him on the verge of tears.
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Jesus Freaks showed up in maybe 1970. They were counter-culture kids, many of whom liked psychedelic accoutrements and music, who had probably dabbled, experimented, used, or abused drugs, but who had then had a powerful conversion experience which brought them face-to-face with the born-again religion of their grandmothers. Inexplicably, none of them looked to their grandmothers for guidance and spiritual direction. All looked instead to their drug-addled peers. None of them sorted out the Bible. They were annoying in exactly the same way and for the exactly the same reasons that stoned people who are fascinated with their own reactions to stimuli are annoying to the un-stoned.

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Mr. Ladd? asked Milton. Doctor Ladd, he answered. Yes? I have the 1:30 appointment, he said, and came in. As you should be able to see Mr. Milton. Mr. Milton, Mr. Baida and I are not done. So if you will wait in the hall Milton made a sheepish face and left, closing the door behind him. Ladd looked at me. Where were we? he asked. You dont think I know Latin, I said. Ah, yes. Translate some common modern phrase into Latin, he said. Ad praesens ova cras pullis sunt meliora, I said. He drew his head back and frowned. Whats that mean? he demanded. Roughly, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. No it doesnt, he said. I didnt hear anything about bushes. That was something about eggs. Well, yes, I answered. Literally, better eggs now than chickens tomorrow. But youre still remembering, not translating, he said. True enough. Translate to boldly go where no man has gone before. I thought for a second. Id say praecessi audacter qua haud vir has antea viator, I guess, I said. I realized as I tried to translate it that my Latin was really rusty, but it didnt matter. He couldnt follow. He would need to write it down and look at it to decipher it, and he wasnt going to do that. He thought a few seconds. Im not so sure about that, he said, either briskly or dismissively, depending on your point of view. What courses do you want to register for? he asked, re-opening his file folder on me. Mathematics 154, Physics 202, English 101, Greek 101, and History 101. He didnt seem to be listening. He looked up at me.

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It says here you graduated from high school in 1972, he said. I did. What have you been doing for the last two years? he asked. Travelling. Odd jobs. Deciding what I wanted to do. Playing pool. And now, it appears, you are ready to resume your education. Yes, sir. And what classes do you want to register for? he asked. Mathematics 154, Physics 202, English 101, Greek 101, and History 101, I said. Pre-Calculus, Mathematics 140, is a prerequisite for 154, he said. According to the catalogue, thats waivable with academic advisor approval. How do I know youre ready for Calculus? he asked. I took Pre-Calculus in high school, I said. High school programs are notoriously spotty, he answered. I made straight As in high school, I said. I won first place in the Tennessee State High School Mathematics Competition in 1971. Im a highly motivated student. I shrugged. So youre choosing to ignore my strong advice that you take Mathematics 140. Thats not the way Id put it, I said. And this Physics course you want to sign up for. Its called Physics for Physics Majors. Yes, sir. You dont need to take that. Youre a Math major. Im a double major. He glared at me for a few minutes. I dont know when Ive encountered a more pig-headed young man, he said. Youre going to find that this university isnt like a pool hall. Constant work is required, and the sage advice of elders and experienced

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academics is something to be prized, not ignored. Im going to approve every one of these courses you want to sign up for. Youre going to quickly find out youre in over your head. Then well talk about your real academic goals. Thank you. You may go. Milton was dutifully standing in the hall. He smelled faintly of marijuana. I wondered if Prof. Ladd would notice.

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Chapter 14: Physics, Math, and Greek My first class on my first day of class was Physics for Physics Majors, in an amphitheater in a round building in the middle of something called the Math and Science Center. It had been some architects attempt to update what a sedate red-brick liberal arts college might want to look like if thrust unwillingly into the design notions of the 1960s, but already by the middle of the 1970s it looked exceptionally stupid.90 For reasons I didnt understand then and still dont, architects changed their minds about what all buildings should look like in 1960, and despite the fact that no non-architect agreed with any of the architects, everything built since the early sixties looks a lot like the Math and Science Center. Sterile and boxy. The exception is single-family residences, and the reason for that is that no one will pay for this junk with his or her own money. Since nobody likes modern architecture, the logical question is: Why? Why do people pay for this crap? Why not design and build something people actually like?91 Physics was a 9:00 a.m. class. You walked in from this enormous bricked courtyard to this small circular building with linoleum flooring in a circular hall that led to one of two doors to an amphitheater-style classroom, which was sort of circular. The rows of seats were steeply banked, so that when you sat, if you turned to look behind you, you were looking at someones knees. I got there about ten minutes before class was supposed to begin and took a seat near the center at the back, pretty high up. I had nothing to do, so I opened my textbook. The preface was about the authors wonderful colleagues, and the introduction was about the awesome splendor that is Science, so I skipped to Chapter I. It was about vectors. It seemed pretty straightforward. Somebody sat down to my right. After a minute I looked up. Hey, she said. Im Toni. She extended her hand, and I shook it. You a sophomore, too? she asked. She had a Memphis/Delta accent. Trim but tall, jeans and a puffy-sleeved shirt in what may have been sea foam green satin. Pleased to meet you, Toni, I said. Im Henry. And no, Im a freshman. Really? she asked. You look so mature. Far out! And its really, really weird that they let you in here, because I tried to sign up for it last semester and they wouldnt let me. Said it was too demanding. She had shoulder-length brown hair, which she flipped behind her right ear. It didnt catch, so she did it again. She was looking at me, expecting an answer. I took a couple of years off between high school and college, I said, so Im a little older than most freshmen. So why do you think theyd let a freshman male take a course that they wouldnt approve for a freshman female? asked.
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Its still there. So far as I can tell, there is no real answer to this. Society collectively ceded control of public buildings to architects who then abused our trust by inflicting ideas of order and organization on the rest of us in sterile and boxy forms that the rest of us found ugly and easy to ignore. Why?

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An almost-tall and lanky young man in dark blue corduroy Levis and a denim jacket sat down to my right. He had a lot of curly dark-brown hair and hadnt shaved for two weeks. He was wearing desert boots, an eccentric choice even in 1974. Hey, Toni, he said, without acknowledging me. He was carrying a notebook and a textbook. He placed the textbook neatly under his seat, then wrote the days date on the top line of the first page of his notebook with a fine-point Bic pen. Hey, Rob, she said, without looking at him. So are you some kind of physics genius or something? Toni asked me. No, really, I said. Im a double major in Physics and Math, but I never took a Physics course before. What? both Toni and Rob said. Rob noticed me now. Im a freshman. I havent taken any English courses, either. But in high school? Toni asked. No, no. I took General Science and Chemistry. Biology, too. There was a Physics course, but it wasnt required for graduation, so I didnt take it. Both of them glared first at each other, then at something else: Toni glared at the toes of her right foot. Shed crossed her legs and was bouncing her right foot in an agitated manner, and she seemed to be staring at the toe of her shoe as she did so. Rob propped his head in his hand and stared, apparently, at the date hed written at the top of his notebook sheet. I left them to it and continued reading the textbook, still about vectors. Interesting, but simple. Almost exactly on time, the professor walked in. He was almost young, with light brown shoulder-length hair pulled behind his ears and a slightly bushy but not long beard of the exact same color. He was wearing blue wide-wale corduroy jeans, an off-white cable-knit fishermans sweater with an enormous turtleneck that looked hot, and desert boots. My second pair of desert boots in as many minutes. What this a Physics thing? The professor was neither tall nor short, and despite perfectly erect posture, unusual on any campus in 1974, he had a casual, fluid way of moving. I looked around. All of the women in the classroommaybe a third of those presentwere watching him with rapt attention, but none of the men had noticed him at all. He took his place behind the large lab-style table that served for a lectern and desk at the front of the amphitheater, opened his textbook to a particular page, put a yellow pad of paper with some notes to his left, then looked over his shoulders at the blackboards behind him, perhaps to verify that they were blank. I was trying to decide how old he was. Twenty-four? Thirty-five? Couldnt say. He looked at the textbook page and rubbed his hands together as though washing them, then stood up straight.

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Good morning, Im Lorne Dannhausen, he said, conversationally. The room immediately became quiet. This class is Physics 108. Physics for Physics Majors. His voice was not exactly quiet, but he was making no effort to project. Still, you could hear every word, even as far back in the classroom as I was, and it was a big room, because everyone was listening carefully. The first thing I want you to know about this class, he said, is that we mean it just as we title it. This class is for Physics majors. We expect to challenge those students who are entering our discipline. If youre looking for a course to fulfill your majors natural science requirement or a core course requirement because this time fit your schedule, you might want to look at another course. Here, we will explore Newtonian dynamics and its limitations to an extremely thorough degree, and will touch on elements of Einsteinian physics and quantum mechanics that will prepare Physics majors for upper-level courses but are not necessary for practitioners of other disciplines. Does anyone have any questions at this point? He looked around. No one raised his or her hand. Next, he continued, I am going to assume a certain degree of mathematical competence that you may not have if you have not completed a course like Mathematics 104, the introductory Calculus course that the Math department here offers. Is there anyone here who has not taken such a course at the college level? Three or four of us raised our hands. He looked at me. The mathematics in this course is very difficult, and I will not slow down. Do you understand? Yes, sir, I answered. No need to call me sir, he said. Youre sure you belong here? A bad grade in your sophomore year can adversely affect your future. Yes, sir. Im a freshman who had a really good high school math experience. He smiled, but everyone who was looking at me had a you dont belong here you turkey expression. The same goes for the rest of you who raised your hands, he said. This is a course for people familiar with calculus. I am not going to slow the pace of the class to teach elementary Calculus to you. You need to know that going in. If you dont, this may not be the right course for you. Also, the basic concepts of physics need to be familiar to you. Is there anyone here who hasnt taken either the introductory physics course here at this college or a good high school physics class? I thought about keeping my hand down, but decided to be honest and raised my hand. Mine was the only hand in the air. He looked at me with a slightly worried expression. Perhaps you should come talk to me at the end of class, he said. After warning us for about fifteen more minutes how hard his course was going to be, and how nobody that didnt want to live inside a particle accelerator belonged in his class, he said we could go.
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I was in a middle seat, so it shouldnt have been hard to wait until the tide of exiting students left to gain access to the aisle and so go speak with Prof. Dannhausen, as hed requested, but it turned out to be not so easy. Toni to my left and Rob to my right
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Turkey was a mild form of insult in 1974. These things dont all make sense.

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both stood and each of them expected me to leave one way or the other. They both stood and looked at me, neither happy. Im just waiting on everyone to leave, I said. I need to speak to Prof. Dannhausen. Dr. Dannhausen, said Toni. And we want to leave, too, so you need to go. But I cant I said. You guys are on either side of me. Look, loser, you need to pick right or left, then you need to go. Im not interested in any more of your undereducated phallocentric bullshit, said Toni. So you want me to leave, right or left, and then youll both leave the same way? I asked, slightly puzzled. All of the rest of the students were long gone, and Prof. Dannhausen was watching us patiently. Yes! said Toni, irritably, as though talking to a five year old to whom shed explained this point fifteen times. Okay. I picked up my books and turned towards Rob. He pivoted and walked straight out. Behind me Toni sighed an exasperated sigh. Really. Men! she said to herself. Rob and Toni turned right and went upstairs to leave the amphitheater together and I turned left to go downstairs where Prof. Dannhausen was waiting next to the lab table-shaped lectern. I see you made friends with Toni and Rob, he said. You know them? I asked. Yes. Since theyre students I shouldnt comment on them, but I know them. How did you find your interaction with them? he asked. Eccentric, I said. I think they are pretty focused on each other, he said. He thought about it a second. Well, hes focused on her, anyway. But lets talk about Physics. Yes, sir. Okay. I will support whatever decision you make, but this has the reputation of being a very difficult class, he said. I understand, I said. I can do the work.

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Everybody else in the class has had a year of high school physics and some college physics. Theyre all Physics majors. One might assume theyre better prepared for this course than are you, he said, then immediately thought he might have gone too far. I dont mean to malign your intellect or abilities, but part of what goes into a college education, unavoidably, is preparation. It is possible that many of the students in this class have a degree of preparation that will help them succeed here. You can catch up by taking a few introductory courses. But like I said, I will support whatever decision you make. Professor, I appreciate your interest and your concern. I think I will be able to do the work. Okay, he said. The first problems well be addressing have to do with constant acceleration and vectors. Do you know what a vector is? A vector is a mathematical quantity with a magnitude and a direction. He looked at me funny. He may have been surprised at the simple directness of my answer, I dont know. I was quoting his textbook. Okay, he said, hesitantly. Look, I know I went to City High and dont have much of a Physics background, but I looked through the first chapter and I dont have any trouble with kinematics in scalar forms, which is what youre getting at, or with several vectors operating at once, I said. Okay, he said, hesitantly, and thought. Do you have an analogue for your ability to understand this stuff? Analogue? I asked. I guess I mean explanation, he said. Im a professional pool player, so the idea of forces acting on masses at an angle comes pretty natural to me, I said. He nodded. But mainly, in the time I had before class I looked through the first chapter of your textbook and I really didnt have any trouble following it. He nodded. Still, you dont have much background. Were going to cover all of mechanics, thermodynamics, electromagnetism, and optics. Were going to discuss it in the context of Newton, Einstein, and quantum mechanics. Its a tough course. Yes, sir. I think I can do the work.

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Having talked to you, Im sure you can do the work, he said. Just do it. Dont fall behind. Dont get so busy chasing pretty girls or beer that you dont do your homework. No risk of that, sir, I said. Really? he asked. Not that Im aware of, I said. You didnt notice Toni? he asked. The girl sitting next to me in class? Yes. You didnt notice that shes extraordinarily pretty? he asked. Yeah, well, I guess I didnt notice. So, if I ask you to calculate how far an object traveled if it started with an initial velocity of five meters per second and constant acceleration to 15 meters per second, how would you calculate it? he asked. Id have to think, I said. He didnt like that answer. What would you think about? he asked, crossing his arms. He was still holding a chalk, and he deftly held it between two fingers, like a cigarette, so that it didnt put a mark on his jacket. Well, just looking through the problems, it looked like you could restate all of the linear acceleration problems in terms of four or five equations based on whats missing, I said. Excuse me? he asked. Well, I always liked word problems in math, and it seems like to me it would be more efficient to state all these acceleration problems in terms of whats missing. Explain, he said. I had his attention now, but I didnt understand why. I was just stalling for time on a homework problem. Okay, well the book makes a big point of saying that the change in displacement is the same as the velocity times the change in time. Okay, he said. How would you write that down?

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Gack. I dont know, I said. But you were asking me how far something had traveled. And these things all seem to be related. Change in displacement, velocity, change in time. He wrote s = vt on the blackboard behind us. Does that ring any bells? he asked. No, sir, I said, but the textbook did use delta for change so if displacement is s, velocity is v and time is t, thats what I just said, yes, sir. And you never saw this before? he asked. No sir. We went on for maybe half an hour, and I explained how it looked like four or five equations would suffice to figure out missing variables in straight line acceleration problems. He was very keen on the idea that someone must have explained this to me before. Im sorry, Professor, and I really didnt mean to take up so much of your time. This was just an idea that occurred to me while I was looking through the book. Im sure nothing will come of it. Hed written five equations on the blackboard. I had no idea what he was getting at. And youve never been taught physics before? he asked again. No, sir. But Ill study hard, I promise. Thats not the point, he said. I dont see the world this way, so I dont teach it as such, but there are many physics instructors who teach their students how to solve uniform acceleration problems with these same five equations that you claim to have deduced in a few minutes before class began. If true, you have a remarkable mind and a remarkable affinity for the subject matter. Ive never seen anything like it. If its true. Gack. He thought I was lying to impress him. I thought I was bullshitting. I know you dont know me, but I really have no interest in impressing people, I said, and I really dont like calling attention to myself, and really, those five equations seemed to be pretty much calling out from the order in which the problems were presented. He thought a minute. Whichever way it works out, good luck with the class, he said. Thank you sir, I said, and left. College was weird already. My first math class was next. The classroom was in a building next door, large for a classroom but still much smaller than the amphitheater. Maybe forty-five desks. I took a seat close to the back. There were a few students already present, all flipping

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through the textbook. Unlike the physics class, none of them seemed to know each other. The Physics students had tended to clump up in groups of three four or five. The Math students seemed to disperse as far as possible, maintaining the maximum amount of separation. When they sat down, they didnt look around for people they knew, they looked down. At their books, at their notebooks, at something they were reading. None of them looked around much. Their dispersal in the classroom they would have reminded a chemistry student of an ideal gas obeying Boyles law, but since this was math I guess it didnt count. Eventually someone took the desk to my right. He looked around before he sat down a little more than the others, but he never really looked at me. He opened his textbook and tried to look at it for a few seconds then looked up again. He fidgeted a little. He was wearing a University of Tennessee big orange tee shirt, grey pinstriped bell-bottomed suit pants, and brown suede cowboy boots. His jaw-length hair was parted in the middle and kept in place by a beaded headband of a vaguely Hindu design. Or maybe Jain. What do I know? He saw me looking at him. I looked down at my book, trying to fit in. Hey, he said. Hey, I answered. This is Math, right? he asked. Mathematics 150a. Single Variable Calculus, I said. Good. Thanks. Im pretty fucked up and sometimes I walk into the wrong class by mistake. Last year I went into multi-variable differentiation and sat down and was takin notes and shit and I could totally follow it all and the fuckin prof started raggin on me about being in the wrong class and all and I said Cool it man. I can like totally dig this class and he asked me a question about differentiating this three variable problem he was working on and I totally knew the answer but when I answered right he was still mad but I thought if I could do the work I oughta be allowed to stay but he was totally like youre just a freshman and you need to go to Math 140 down the hall and it was a calculus survey that was like totally bogus high school math. I like went to none of the classes and got like the highest grad in the class and all. So youre high on marijuana? I asked. Yeah, sure. And a little coke. Im Stoney, he said, and held out his hand. Stoney? I asked. Actually its not my name. Thats a nickname. My real name is Tom Jackson, but everybody calls me Stoney on account of my name.

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I dont get Stoney from Tom, I said. Are you sure its your name that got you that nickname? Oh, sure, he said. Thomas Jonathan Jackson. Thats me. Also Old Blue Light. I had no idea what he was talking about, and it showed. You dont know Stonewall Jackson?93 he asked. Oh, God. Yes. Sorry, I said. Im Henry. I shook his still-outstretched hand. Hows it goin, Henry? he said. So what do you think this class is going to be about? he asked. Lets look at the book, I said. I dont know, man, he said. Im pretty fucked up. On reefer and coke, I said. There may have been some tequila involved, too he said. I kinda forgot today was the first day of class, then I remembered and came running over, and running got everything kinda churned up inside me. I shoulda maybe cut class, but Im already here and its the first day and all. Besides I dont really want to walk very far right now. Just so you know, the class began at 11:00 a.m. Okay, Stonewall, Ill read you the topics from the table of contents for the first few chapters. Far out. Thanks, he said. He closed his eyes and composed himself as though meditating. Functions. Limits. Differentiation of Algebraic Functions. Applications of Differentiation. Integration. After a few seconds he opened his eyes. What? Thats it? he asked. Afraid so, I said. Aw, fuck. Another fucking high school class. It is pretty lean, I agreed.
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General Thomas Jonathan Jackson was nicknamed Stonewall Jackson because he was immovable at the first Battle of Bull Run; Tommy J. Jackson was named Stonewall by his peers in the fifth grade at Newton New School in Newton, Massachusetts. His schoolmates had a different kind of irony in mind when they started calling their Massachusetts classmates after a Confederate general.

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Im a fucking sophomore at this Mickey Mouse fucking school and I still havent taken a single fucking course that teaches me a single fucking thing. If I could walk Id leave here right now. Im with you, I said. Youre stoned, too? he asked. Man, you dont show it. No, no. Im straight, I said. He thought a minute. Youre a sophomore, too? he asked, tentatively. Nah, Im a freshman. Then why the fuck arent you in that lame-ass Math 140 fucker? he asked. You can skip it with faculty advisor approval. Whos your advisor? he asked, after taking a second to focus. Dr. Ladd. Mine, too. I begged and pleaded with that motherfucker not to make me take that 140 course, but he said high school math courses were unreliable. Fuck that. I was in AP math and my math teachers day job was at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton. He fucking owned math, said Stoney. Whered you go to high school? I asked. Lawrenceville, he said. Wheres that? I asked. New Jersey. Its right down the road from Princeton. Its one of the big deal upeast boarding schools. You? City High in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I said. Yeah, I could tell you were Southern, he said. And you got good math at City High? Yeah. Like you. Great teacher. Far out. Thats really cool. Wake me when the prof gets here, he said. He put his head down on his desk and fell asleep immediately.

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Looking through the book, it really was disappointing. In the entire semester, we werent going to study anything I didnt already know. After a few minutes, a youngish blonde man with slightly buck teeth came in to the classroom, closed the door behind him, and strode purposefully to the desk at the front of the classroom. He put his book and notebook on the desk and looked up. He was expecting us all to go silent, which we did, although it took a few seconds. He was wearing a blue blazer, grey flannel slacks, and a blue dress shirt whose collar did not button down. No tie. Which was wrong, since his collar didnt button. I couldnt see his shoes under the desk. Good morning, he announced, in a slightly over-loud voice, I am Assistant Professor Wallace Wolfe. This is Mathematics 150, Single-Variable Calculus, he said. I tapped Stoney on the shoulder. Hed asked me to let him know when class began. He sat up with a start. What the fuck? said Stoney, under his breath. Prof. Wolfe noticed him. Oh, shit, not this fucker again, said Stoney. Is there a problem, Mr. Jackson, I think it is? asked Prof. Wolfe. Stoney shook his head a little as if to clear the cobwebs. No, doc. Sorry. I musta fallen asleep or something. Good to see you again. This course, Mathematics 150, Single-Variable Calculus, is the most important math class you will take as an undergraduate. It will lay the foundation for all of the math you will study later, and mastering it cannot be overemphasized. Jesus, what an asshole, said Stoney, under his breath. He put his head back on his desk and appeared to fall asleep immediately. I cannot overstress the importance of this course, said Asst. Prof. Wolfe, seeming slightly peeved at either Stoneys presence or his slumber. For those of you who have yet to explore Calculus, this course will open up new ways of seeing the world. For those of you who have studied Calculus, you will see the study in a new and more rigorous way. The holes in your understanding will be filled, and you will be prepared for higher math, he said. Stoney, who appeared to have been not so much listening as drooling, sat up long enough to fish some Ray-Ban aviators out of a pocket, put them on, and put his head back down, said, under his breath, Lord fuck a duck, Im stuck for eternity in Calculus one. Asst. Prof. Wolfe continued without commenting on Stoney. The students in nearby desks were ignoring him studiously. Our methods will be rigorous. Our approach, absolute, said Wolfe. There can be no half-right answers in math, so do not expect accommodations. You are adults in the pursuit of higher learning. You must take what is yours, but expect no favors. Knowledge will be presented to you, but you must

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take it, you must learn it, you must embrace it. We will not feed it to you. You must grasp it and feed yourselves. Read through Chapter 1.6 and do all of the intervening problems before next class. Good day. He picked up his books and strode manfully out of the classroom. Stoney sat up. Jesus H. Christ. What an asshole, he said. Are you planning to come to class? I guess so, I said. Wolfe isnt spontaneous enough to do pop quizzes. Any way I can convince you to call me if he announces a test? Bud, Ill do my best, but Im forgetful, and I dont want it to be my fault if you fail. Ill give you some reefer for every test you tell me about, he said. Dont smoke it, I said. I thought you were a Math major, he said. Double major. Math and Physics, I said. He took off his sunglasses to look me in the eye. His were hugely dilated. Math and Physics and you dont smoke dope? he asked, dubiously. I shrugged. Nope. He thought about it for a few seconds, quite intently. I looked back at him. If I werent so totally in the bag Id know what to do about this, he said, and stood up. But Id still appreciate it if youd call me when theres going to be a test. I dont seem to know anyone else in this class. He replaced his sunglasses, picked up his textbook and stood. I stood, too. Christ on a crutch, but Im fucked up, he said, and lurched out. I had one other class that day, Greek, and it was on the other side of campus, in Furman Hall, a grey stone building that stood out amongst the red brick buildings that made up the rest of the campus. The night before Id walked around and located the building but wasnt sure about the room because the building had been locked up. I found the building again, and the classroom was up a flight of heavily, if indifferently, carpeted stairs that were part of a large central staircase that led both up and down from the ground-level entrance and seemed to render the entire floor-numbering idea somewhat ambiguous. There was no floor at ground level, although there was one a half floor below the entrance and another a half-floor above. My classroom, number 212, had a high-school-style glass panel door, a floor of various glossy beige linoleum squares, the requisite blackboard up front, and about twelve of those movable desks you have in high

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school. None were occupied, and they were all jumbled together in the right rear corner of the classroom, so, I pulled one out and sat in it. This felt very vulnerable. After sitting there for less than a minute but more than thirty seconds I got up and moved several other desks out into the classroom space. I spaced them randomly. I put maybe seven in various places around the classroom, most, but not all, vaguely pointing towards the desk at the front of the classroom. There was a lectern, too, but it was off in the corner. I sat back down at my desk and opened my textbook about twelve minutes before class was scheduled to start. I was still alone in the room. I began reading the first lesson. Greek is wonderful. From the start. Really. Not everybody can do math or physics, but everybody, you included, can learn Greek. And youll be much happier if you do. A few minutes later, a young blonde woman in sunglasses, bell-bottomed jeans, a red, white and blue striped tube top, and wooden platform shoes maybe three inches high tossed the door open, looked around disapprovingly for a second, then strode on in. The shoes made a pronounced clip-clop sound on the linoleum as she walked. She selected a desk not far from me, straightened it out in a way that brought it closer to and in line with my desk, sat, and then stretched like someone waking up from a long sleep. It was odd, but eye-catching. She stared off into the middle distance for a minute. I looked back at my textbook. Another young woman appeared a few minutes later as if by magic. I hadnt heard her entrance, but there she was, standing nearby, tall and slender, with shoulder-length brown hair and dark brown eyes. She was wearing beige linen slacks and a white cotton button-down shirt, although the collar tabs werent buttoned. She had a light dark brown cotton sweater tied around her shoulders and some kind of grey-tobeige leather shoes that seemed to be high heeled, although I couldnt really see. She looked around, then pulled a desk in line with the other student and I. Ours seemed to be a self-organizing universe. At this point we had desks arrayed in a straight line defined by three points determined by choice. Each of the women to my left and right had selected a classroomappropriate distance, but both had chosen me as their apparent point of reference, which seemed weird. All Id done was get there first. I was looking at my textbookmy feeling for Greek was love at first sight and this was the first time Id ever really started looking at itbut both of them seemed to be glancing at me from time to time as though they knew me. Or expected me to say something. Or something. I smiled at first one, then the other, but was already memorizing the Greek alphabet. It was rote work, but it felt good to look at it. Three or four more students came into the classroom, looked around, and moved desks into an indifferent line behind us. If Im not mistaken, the women to my left and right moved a tiny bit closer to me. Primary squatters rights, because wed gotten there first? I looked up to check out a noise behind me and to my left and in so doing, caught the eye of the young woman in jeans and a tube top. Pretty girl. Hey, she said. She was still wearing her sunglasses. Round ones with gold rims. I dont recognize you.

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Im Henry, I said. Im new here. A transfer student? she asked. No, no, I said. Im a freshman. And youre taking Koin94? she asked. Sure, I said. Im not good at this kind of social chitchat. It seems odd to me for a stranger to ask me questions, but there wasnt really a reason not to answer. I was expecting most of the people in here to be philosophy majors, she said. I dont recognize anybody though. She looked at me for a minute with what seemed like a strangely piercing stare. Ive got it, she said after a few seconds. You were in Viet Nam. I could sense the woman to my right looking up at this. No, I said, I just want to study Greek. So you werent in the military? she asked. No, maam. What in the world was she getting at? Well, thats good, she said. Im a Philosophy major, and we talk about the War a lot. Isnt it kind of over? I asked. She looked at me somewhat judgmentally for having asked this question. Its true that the worst of the hostilities seem to be over, and that Ho Chi Mins freedom fighters seem to have won. But as philosophers were still sifting through the political and ethical detritus of the debacle to place the entire episode in its proper historical and moral perspective. She took an empty seat immediately behind me. I know an Amtrak employee you should talk to, I said, over my shoulder. Amtrak? she asked. Yes. Amtrak. Whats Amtrak? Its whats left of passenger rail service in the United States following the Nixon administrations reorganization of everything.

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, or common Greek. The Greek that was the lingua franca of the Mediterranean world at the time of Jesus, Aristotle, St. Paul, and Plato.

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Well. We know Nixon is a criminal, but I dont know much about this train thing, she said. Four years ago, there was passenger rail service to thousands of little towns all over the South. Nixon took over the passenger rail service with this Amtrak deal, and all thats gone now. Outside of Georgia, you can only catch passenger rail at big cities on major lines. All the feeders are gone, I said. She looked at me for a few seconds. Two or three more students wandered into the classroom and pulled up desks behind those of us already there. I really think bombing Cambodia and deciding to bug the DNC are bigger issues than this train trip youre on, she said. As soon as she said that the classroom door swung open again and Prof. Krawiec came in. He paused at the door to survey us, and we all turned to look at him. He clearly paid attention to his clothing and hair. He was wearing an extremely carefully tailored, custom-made, dark caramel brown polyester suit, a canary yellow cotton shirt, and a dark brown and blue striped tie. He had an extremely full head of hair, carefully coiffed in an attempt to conceal an ear-to-ear combover, and a well-groomed beard. Hair and beard may have been dyed a walnut brown. Good morning boys and girls, he said, from the doorway. I am Prof. Kraweic, chairman of the Classics Department. This is Koin Greek. I dont know most of you, so by way of introduction, Id like to go around the room and ask everyone here why they want to study Koin. Ill start with you, he said, pointing to the young woman to my right, the pale blonde in the tube top. He walked to the front of the classroom, placed his books on the desk and moved the lectern to the center of the front of the classroom, a few feet in front of me. Me? she said, removing her sunglasses. She looked around a bit as Prof. Krawiec nodded. Hi. Im Mary Roberts, she said. Im a philosophy major, and I want to read Plato and Aristotle in their original language. I think subtleties can be lost in translation. Thank you, said Prof Krawiec, and looked at me. Im interested in the New Testament, I said. Also Aristotle, I guess. And your name is? he asked. Henry. Henry Baida. Ah. Mr. Baida, are you aware that your initials have a numerical significance in Greek? Yes, sir. I think my father planned it that way. He was born in 1927 and believed in symmetry.

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Youll have to explain that to me later. And what parts of Aristotle interest you? he asked. I got the feeling that he didnt like me for some reason. The sthetics, mainly. The Poetics and Rhetoric. I really like his writings on rhetoric. He looked at me briefly as though I were trying to con him about something. He looked at the young woman to my right. And you are? he asked. She looked at the woman to my left and waved before speaking. My name is also Mary Roberts, she said. This is my language elective. How odd, said Prof. Kraweic. I dont think Ive ever had two students with the same name in a class before. Whats weirder still, she said, is that we have the same middle name too. Elizabeth. So were always getting each others mail and phone calls. The chances against it must be astronomical. And why did you choose Koin Greek as your language elective, Miss Roberts? Prof. Kraweic asked. Ive heard that you get a much clearer idea of what Jesus actually said if you read His words in Greek, she said. Ah, he replied. I must presume you are right. And you? he looked at the woman directly behind me. Rachel Circe, she said. I want to read Aristotle and Plato. The rest of the students were named Meg, Randy, and Ralph, and their aspirations were somewhat vaguely expressed. They all just seemed to want to know Greek, and when Prof. Krawiec asked Meg why she chose Koin over Attic Greek, her answer, that the Attic course conflicted with one of her nursing courses, seemed to irritate him. His questioning of my few remaining classmates was perfunctory. At the end of our introductories, he grasped the lectern in a meaningful way and sighed. I expect youre wondering why such an important course is so poorly attended, he asked. I share this wonderment. It is singular that in Shakespeares day, grade school students in small villages could translate Greek into Latin and conversely, but now, 410 years later, a rudimentary understanding of either language is considered exotic. Here, though, you will learn Koin Greek, the lingua franca of the Mediterranean world at the time of Nero, at the time of Aristotle, at the time of Christ. When the Roman Empire was at the height of its powers, the citizens of Rome were much more likely to speak Greek than Latin. When Marcus Aurelius wrote his Meditations, fluency in Greek was assumed even in Rome, and fluency in Latin was not, at least outside the nobility. Thus Greek was the language of both philosophy and commerce. In what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, he talked about the history of Greek, and how a wide variety of island and other local dialects, and several different writing styles, had boiled down to three or four dominant dialects by the time of Thucydides, and then how Alexanders army had taken Koin, probably a Macedonian variant of Attic, with them around the

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Mediterranean as they conquered everything they encountered, then pressed the conquered locals into Alexanders army, where they learned Koin Greek at spear-point. What could be fairer than that? Aristotle, Alexanders teacher, wandered around with him on his conquests, recording his thoughts in Koin95 and leaving an intellectual legacy that it would take the Reformation, the Renaissance, Sir Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, and hundreds of years of biological and botanical observation to overcome. I want you to read all of chapter one. You should plan to have the Greek alphabet, both capital and small letters, memorized by this coming Monday, to be able to write all the letters, and recite the alphabet in order as well. Until you accomplish that, we will make little progress, so do it quickly. That will be all for today. We all gathered our things and walked out. The young woman in the tube top seemed irritated with me, the one in the linen slacks seemed to like me. Or something. First day of college done.

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Note that Aristotle was from Thessalonica, where they spoke Aeolic Greek. That everything that survives that it attributed to him is in Koin is a little odd. Its as if Cervantes wrote in Portuguese.

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Chapter 15: The Provosts Office and College Food Ive always been kind of a loner. I cant explain why. Some people are lefthanded. Some people like ice cream. Some people like boiled okra, and I dont understand how this is possible. 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 wasnt really an answer, I just didnt. Which is a better analogy to why Im 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 Im a loner not because I dislike other people or their company, Im just not motivated to seek them out in any companionable way. I dont mind being around others, and often have a good time when Im with them. But if Im alone in my room studying it just doesnt occur to me to go look for other people so I can have company. I dont really get lonely. In the same way I dont miss hanging out with others, I dont miss pickled beets. There were no pickled beets in my dorm room, and I didnt need to go find any. When theyre not on the menu, I dont complain. Again, not a good analogy. I dislike pickled beets, and I dont dislike people. College was a slightly different experience for me than it was for lots of my classmates. Most of the guys in my dorm first year were free of adult supervision for the very first time although there were two guys whod attended boarding schools up East and one guy from Marin County whose parents seem to have placed no limits on his behavior whatsoever. That actually wasnt that different from the way I was raised, but its not common and the verdicts still out on whether I grew up right. My interactions with others werent bad, but they were infrequent. I liked studying and always went to class. I usually ate alone. People talked to me in class, and I got along with them. I never raised my hand or initiated any class participation although I got called on from time to time. Im not shy; I just didnt have any questions. These were freshman level courses, after all, so the concepts were pretty basic. A few days into the semester I got a note in my college-approved and collegerequired post office box from the office of the Provost96 saying they needed to talk to me. There was no indication of why. I was done with classes for the day, so I walked on over. The Provosts office, the address for which was helpfully provided in the note, was on the third floor of Kirkland Hall, easy to find on campus because of the clock tower and loud chimes. The Provost and his staff occupied what seemed to me to be cramped quarters. On entry, I asked for 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 Provosts secretary. Okay.

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Universities, like cruise ships, have titles that you wont find anywhere else. Corporations dont have chancellors, provosts or deans, much less vice-chancellors for alumni and development. We had an associate dean of housing whose real title was landlord.

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The receptionist pointed her out and I strolled over. The Provosts secretary, a pained-looking and bony thin middle-aged woman with elaborately fluffy hair, said the problem was that they didnt have an address for my parents. Why do you need that? I asked. To send the bills to, she said. My parents arent paying for any of this, I said. If its 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. O.K., look. I need the name and address of an adult to send the tuition bills to, she said. Adult? Im over eighteen and Im paying my own bills, I said. I havent talked to my parents in years. I dont have a trustee. Im just a guy who has enough money to pay for his own education. Grandparents? she asked. I dont know whether 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 dont understand why youre being so difficult, she said, raising her voice slightly. I wouldnt 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. Whats up? he asked. Mr. Baida here wont give us his parents 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 provosts name might be. Are you the provost? I asked.

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Dr. David Seville, at your service, he said to me. Miss Cunneware, can you bring me this young mans 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 wasnt flat, like maybe the carpet had been laid over other carpet several times. He had the oddest and shiniest shoes I believe I have ever seen. Dark brown to match his appropriately tweedy, professorial look, they were wing-tips at the bottom but they were over-the-ankle high lace-ups almost as tall as three-quarter hiking boots, but wingtips at the bottom. Id never seen anything like them. So what brings you here? he asked, sitting down and gesturing that I should do so, too. Nice shoes, I said, sitting. They were repellent, of course, but a guy making a fashion statement like that has his mind made up, and agreeing with him cant hurt. Thank you, he said, smiling. English. And so what brings you here? This. I leaned forward and handed him my note. He leaned forward to take it, looked at it, nodded to himself, and placed it on his desk. While Miss Cunneware looks up your records, let me ask you a few questions, he said cheerfully. How long have you been here? This is my first semester, I said. And how are you enjoying your college experience? he asked. Okay. I like my classes. The math is a little more basic than I was expecting. Miss Cunneware walked in with a slender file folder and dropped it on Dr. Sevilles desk. She turned and left without looking at me. He picked it up and nosed through it for a minute. So youre 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 dont know. It was called pre-calculus, but we did all of the stuff were 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 Im not being entirely accurate, now that I think about it. She used to give me homework problems she didnt give anyone else, and some of this stuff I probably picked up from my special assignments.

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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, then sat up straighter. Sir, I added, too late. 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. Hes chairman of the department. If he thinks youre ready for the course, you must be ready. And youre also taking Physics 202. Heavens, what demanding courses you take. Im enjoying them. And how is the rest of your college experience? Do you like your dorm? he asked. Oh, yes, sir. The room is fine. Its small, but its comfortable. It beat the hell our of the Green Ghetto,97 thats for sure. Making lots of friends? I shrugged. Im guess Im kind of a loner, I said. Plus I have all these demanding courses to study for. Well, dont 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 Miss Cunnewares attention is that we have no information a bout your parents. Yes sir. Is there some problem with providing it? I dont 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
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Henrys nickname for his apartment building back in Chattanooga.

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for Cambodia or some place like that. Theyd left me with a family friend in Chattanooga who has subsequently moved away. To Italy, I think. I made some money over the last two years, enough to get me through college, so Im not really sure why you need my parents, anyway. We really dont, 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 isnt filled in on Miss Cunnewares form. Shes 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 Miss Cunnewares desk, she asked 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. Id 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 toupes 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. Sevilles admonition that I should make the most of my college experience. I stood up and put on my shoes, noticing as I did 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 guys98 were in the hall, talking amongst themselves. The only one I recognized was Milton. He did not appear to be stoned. Hi. Im 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
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It was not at all unusual in 1974 for college dormitories to be strictly segregated by gender.

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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 didnt know anyone present. So, said Milton. Wheres everybody from? We all looked at each other. Well, Milton, said a short, fair-skinned guy wearing a sweater even though the weather didnt call for it. As you know, Im from White Plains. He was overstressing his syllables as though saying 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. Im from Atlanta, said a guy with a mustache, smoking a Marlboro. Im from Chattanooga, I volunteered. I was taking Mrs. Wertheimers 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, thats it, said helmet hair. No, thats way to the north and, like, down by the shore. I dont get over there. Asbury Park is a dump. 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, didnt look happy, and, as noted, was wearing shiny combat boots. No telling what went with those boots. Of course, he hadnt 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.

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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! Its 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 butt away, then offered his arm and walked away with her. We all watched them walk away. Frankie didnt 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 hes such a bandit, Brian said. We watched them walk away for a few more seconds, collectively sighed, and started walking towards the dining hall. Has anybody been following the pennant races? said Milton after wed walked a few minutes in silence. Looks like the As are going to make it. He looked at me. You follow baseball? he asked me. Sort of. I did when I was a kid. Ive been traveling a lot the last few years and its been hard to keep up. Whats your team? he asked. The Dodgers, I said. Milton, Brian, and helmet hair all made guttural vocalizations that might be spelled ugh. I smiled. Well, theyre in the hunt, said Milton. A general discussion followed about the Dodgers infield, hitting, and pitching, all in far more detail than I could have provided, even though I was the only Dodgers fan present and everyone else present professed deep hatred for them. After a few minutes, I ventured to ask a question.

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One of the things that happened while I wasnt paying attention was the adoption of the designated hitter rule, I said. Howd 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 its great. Milton roots for the As. and I root for the Yankees, and Id bet Brian does, too. Who you callin a Yankees fan? said Brian, a little loudly. Youre a Mets fan? asked White Plains. Fuck., no. What is it with you New Yorkers, man? Like, the world does not fucking revolve around Manhattan. So. A Phillies fan? I asked, after a beat. O course. These American league guys, he said to me as though we were best friends. I havent 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 hafta get struck by lightning and even still wed get fucking murdered by either the Dodgers or the Reds in the LCS99. So, yeah. Not mathematically eliminated, maybe, but spiritually eliminated. White Plains and Milton looked at each other with a shared look of National League crap. Who cares? So who decided to allow the designated hitter rule? I asked Brian. By now we were in line at the dining hall. Oh, fuck, dont get me started, said Brian. The American League is, like, more fucked up than Nixon, 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 womens quad, said Milton. Is the food better over there? I asked. No, no. Same crap as here.

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League Championship Series. Major League Baseballs playoffs that determine who is going to the World Series.

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Why walk further, then? I asked. Because the freshman womens quad is filled with freshman women, he said. Everyone else nodded. We didnt 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. Whats 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. Turnip greens, I answered. Everybody looked at my dish with interest. Never seen it before, he said. Thats one of those Southern things, isnt 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. Whats rapini? asked Milton. Its a bitter kinda herb from Southern Italy thats eaten braised or boiled. I love it, but some people dont. Yeah, Im okay with it but I dont like go looking for it, said White Plains. My mother likes it. Yeah, well, the flavors not as strong, and turnip greens100 are generally chopped pretty fine and boiled a long time so the textures different, but I think theres 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.
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The best turnip greens in the world are at K&W cafeterias in North Carolina.

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Oh, wow. Kind of a cosmic reconnection with the rest of the plant right in your dish, said Milton. Whats that meat deal you got? Brian asked me. It was called veal cutlet. Doesnt look much like veal, said White Plains. I agree wholeheartedly, I said. So whyd you get it? asked Brian. I asked the server what kind of meat was used in the meatloaf, and her answer was its 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 meats in the meatloaf to say, Its jus meat so thas what Im sayin. Brian, who had finished his meatloaf, looked at his plate with a frown. So how did it taste, Brian? asked White Plains. Not like beef. Well, like what? White Plains persisted. Im really trying to not think about what that might have tasted like, man, he answered. Did the veal cutlet taste like veal? Milton asked me. Not at all. What did it taste like? Soybeans, I said. Hey, look, I dont know what any of this stuff is called, man, but I want to sample the local cuisine. And in the cafeteria they dont label shit so I cant tell what it is unless I recognize it. But Id like to try some of the local cuisine. Get the full-on Nashville experience. This was Milton from Marin County, and he wasnt stoned, wanting to experience Southern cuisine in a college cafeteria. Like what? I asked.

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Id 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 youre expecting a show of hands, observed White Plains, note that I am not raising mine. Me neither, Brian added. Oh, come on, said Milton. We beat them last year 18-14. The way I hear it, we also lost to Tulane 24-3. Thats pretty pitiful, White Plains noted. Ya' know, it may be time to, like, put some distance between me and this dining hall, announced Brian. And with that, we got up and left.

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Chapter 16: 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. In its day it was 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 Halls 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 Koin class. Not at all, I said. Arent 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 wasnt sure youd recognize me? Of course I do, I said. Why wouldnt I? I sat as she sat. I get the feeling that youre pretty focused on your studies? she said. Like maybe youre so into what youre studying that you dont 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. Whats your favorite book? James, I answered. Her expression changed a bit into a slightly puzzled frown, head cocked slightly sideways. You know, like Im sure Ive read the whole New Testament and all, but I honestly dont remember a Book of James. She looked at me sideways. Youre sure its in the New Testament? Youre not thinking of John?

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No, no I said. James. Right between Hebrews and First Peter. First Peter? Lordy. Yes. Theres 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 hed founded, mostly. Except for Romans. Peters letters dont seem to be to people he knew. The Peter letters almost seem like theyre arguing with Paul. That cant 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. Ive read the Bible many times, and will continue to read it. Its the most fascinating book in the world. Of course youre right, she said. Its 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 Ive 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 were all alike?

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Not exactly, I said. Ive just noticed a certain similarity in what people say. If theyve had a conversion experience, I mean. But dont 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 elses is just a big mistake. I thought about this before answering. I dont mean to denigrate either Christianity or your experience with it, I said. I understand you think youre being polite, but cant you see that youre 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. Im 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 Im just as smart as you and this is what I think. Im not intellectually lame. Ive read and Ive studied and I came to this conclusion, she said. I thought for a few seconds. I dont 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 hasnt had one. But that is an aspect of Christianity that is unique? Honestly, I dont know if its unique. I havent really studied any other religions. Thou shalt not learn the ways of heathens.101 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 doesnt 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 whats your experience? she asked. You say you love the Bible, but you havent accepted Jesus as your savior? I finished my cheeseburger and reketchupped my fries before answering.

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She comes close to quoting part of Jeremiah 10:2 and is actually quoting Hawaii by James A. Michener, which she read in grammar school.

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Im not a person of great faith, I said. I wish I could be sure about all of this, but Im not. I wish I could be like you, sure that theres a god and that he has a plan for my life, but Im not that guy. She shook her head. I cant understand, I guess? she said. To me its 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 Peters 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 cant 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 its not there. Why? she asked, a little too urgently for the C-Room. Its all around you. Its on every page of the Bible. I know that people really find that the Bible really strengthens their faith, but sometimes I wonder if theyve read it. There are some awful things in it. Awful things in the Bible? Oh, for heavens sake. And you say youve read it all the way through? I asked. I think so. Not straight through, of course. Then why do you think youve 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. Ive 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.

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Do you know the story of Tamar at the gate? She frowned and shook her head. Doesnt ring a bell, she said. Well, youd remember if youd read it, I said. Why? Its very racy, I said. The kind of thing that would stick if you heard it in childhood. You mean like dirty? she asked. I wouldnt say dirty, but its racy, for sure. And its in the Bible? she asked. Sure. Theres lots of racy stuff in there. You really ought to read it straight through. Theres a lot of it that would be exceptionally inappropriate for Sunday school. So whats the story of Tamar at the gate? Its really a story of Judah and how cheap he was, I said. His whole family was, I guess. Youre calling Judah a he? she asked. I think of Judah as a tribe or a country? Youre right. But Judah was one of Jacobs 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 brothers widow as your wife, and Judahs 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. Whats that supposed to mean? she asked.

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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 Urs progeny, not Onans, and he didnt want that, so he was trying to avoid getting Tamar pregnant. By the way, one of the funny things about this story is that Onans name became synonymous with another activity that likewise produces no children, but about which Genesis is silent. What? she asked. I shook my head. Youd be embarrassed, I said. You think you know who I am again? she said. Good point. What I meant to say is that Id be embarrassed. Is this the racy part? she asked. Not really. Why cant you just tell me? she asked. Id blush, and Im not at my best when Im blushing. I think this is something you should learn in private. Just remember the name, Onan, and look up onanism in your dictionary. So whats 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. Youre 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 Sheliahs the youngest son? she asked.

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Yes. So hed grown up, and nobody had come to arrange for her to marry him, which irked Tamar. I still dont see what dressing like a hooker is going to do for her, Mary said. So shes waiting by the gate, and sure enough, Judah and a buddy come riding up, Judah sees Tamar, has no idea who she is and cant 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 dont 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. Youre 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 didnt know who she was. She was just a pretty girl in a dark veil. But thats almost like incest, she said, disgusted. Its just so sordid? I decided now was not the time to tell her about Lots daughters.102 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 couldnt find her. Shed taken off her veil and returned to her fathers house dressed like a proper widow. Judah was worried about his reputation and expended some effort to find her, but couldnt. One of the weirder things about the story is that he doesnt seem to have been worried that his reputation would suffer if people learned that hed had sex with a prostitute, he was worried that people would think he hadnt paid her. A refreshingly abrupt take on sexual morality, I think youll agree. She made a face and shook her head briefly. Is that it? No. Theres a 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
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All right, this has nothing to do with the story, but I learned about Lots daughters (Gen. 19:30-38) in the third grade when it was read to me by my teacher, Mrs. Evans. She seemed to be vaguely aware that she wasnt supposed to be teaching us religion, although she didnt seem to be clear why, so every day when she read us Bible passages she assured us she wasnt reading it to us because it was religion, but because it was history, and it simply never would have occurred to a person raised like she was that the events described in the Old Testament werent historical truths. Our daily Bible lessons eventually stopped, I presume because Principal Holland got a complaint from one of the parents. The only reason I can think of that she would have picked that particular story to read to a bunch of nine year-olds is that she was trying to convince us that alcohol was bad, but it was a woefully inappropriate story to tell to children of that age. The day before shed read us the story about Noah getting drunk and the frightful consequences not to Noah, but to his son Ham. (Gen, 9:21-27). I must say that Noah and his sons came across as far more prudish than Lot and his daughters.

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yes, whoring is in Genesis, so Judah dashed over to Tamars fathers 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 Judahs 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 whos had sex with your father? The entire male side of the family, actually. It would make for awkward talk at family reunions, thats for sure, I agreed. She made faces and shook her head a few times. Whats the moral? she asked. Im not a rabbi or a priest, but my guess would be something along the lines of Dont be a cheapskate where family obligations are concerned. Even if God doesnt smite you, which he sometimes does, youll wind up looking like a fool. You say this is in Genesis? Yes. Chapter 38, I think, I said. Im 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 dont know. I dont even know how to ask my pastor about this. Or even my mother. Anyway, I gotta go? Its 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,103 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.
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Cover is Navy for hat.

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Hi, said Milton, and put out his hand towards Mary. Im Milton. She didnt 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 shed seemed ready to throw away a few seconds before. Not yet. I oughta introduce everybody, I guess, on account of Im the only one here who knows everybody. Mary, this heres 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 heres 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. Thats it! she said, a little too loudly. So you love Eliot? Maybe, he said. I dont know that I understand it all, but some of its fun to think about. Even I could tell that he was just trying to say things he thought shed 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 Brians answers to Marys questions. No, Im thinking Ill go Ec./B.A., he answered. Eckbah? she asked.

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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 dont 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 its 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. Doesnt matter. Any kind of business. He frowned in puzzlement. No, no, Im 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 Brians inept responses to Marys questions. Like shoes? she asked. No, no. Like tee shirts. Sweat pants. Shorts. How fun! she said. And youre 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 youre like a sailor? Yeah. When I graduate Ill be a reserve ensign in the Navy. Thats an officer. Ill serve for three years. And a reserve officer is one that only gets called up when they call up the Reserves? she asked.

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No. Ill serve even if the Reserves dont get called up, he said. Being a reserve officer doesnt make me part of the Reserves. Why not? she asked. Brian paused and tried to think through his answer. Theyre like two different things, he said. She made a slightly frowning face and looked at her watch. So after you graduate youre 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? Thats Air Force talk. In the Navy, we call them aviators. Naval Aviators. She smiled sweetly at him. Wheres your hat? she asked. Brians 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 hes Christian? she asked. Hi, Im Milton, said Milton, extending his hand. Hello. Milton what? she asked. Jimmy Milton, he said. Its a last name. So do you know if Brians accepted Jesus as his personal savior? she asked. He hasnt said, said Milton. What can you tell me about him? she asked, looking back and forth between us. All I know is that hes from South Jersey. Cherry Hill, down by Philly, said Milton. She looked at me. Hes 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

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of being eliminated from the playoffs. He doesnt approve of the Designated Hitter Rule. Milton rolled his eyes. The what? she asked. The Designated Hitter Rule. Whats that? she asked. Its 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 its a sports deal? she asked. Yes, I said. Okay, she said, and stood, with her tray. Fellahs, its 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. Id never seen a cigarette like this before and wasnt entirely sure what he was smoking. Whats that? I asked. Sherman, he asked, and pulled a red pack of Sherman cigarettes out of his shirt pocket to show. He shook it towards me to offer me one. No, thanks, I said. Dont smoke. He put his Shermans away. So whats your take on Marys take on Brian? he asked, staring again out the window. Shes interested. Ya think? he answered. I take it you agree? Shes about to throw herself at him like what? Like Bob Gibson throws a fast ball? I asked. Yes. No. Like Vida Blue would throw to whom?

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Rod Carew? I suggested. No, like somebody he really hated, Milton answered. Reggie Smith? Ron Cey? Steve Garvey? Those are Los Angeles guys. He never sees them. Assholes, of course. All Dodgers are assholes. We need an A.L. guy. Reggie Jackson. Excellent! Okay. So Mary Roberts is about to throw herself at Brian just like Vida Blue would throw to Reggie Jackson. With great precision and high velocity. I think that about sums it up. He thought a few seconds, puzzling through why he was so unlucky. Why, do you think? Hes just Brian. No genius, surely. No Robert Redford. Something about a man in uniform, I said. He nodded his head and took a drag on his cigarette. You know, man, I am never gonna get laid, he said. He stared out the window sadly. You N.L. guys are so hidebound, he said, eventually. Theres a designated hitter. You should get used to it. So is a baseball, I said. What? he asked. Hidebound. He shook his head. No doubt you think thats clever. I did chuckle. Milton rolled his eyes and started moving the remnants of Brians 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. Im 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. Well be right back. She was wearing bell-bottomed Levis and a denim jacket as usual, 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

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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 jacket for a few secondsnot for long but slightly 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. Lets go, Toni said to Rob, when her garments were aligned. She frowned at her neatly-stacked books, straightened them in some minute 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, youre staying, said Milton. Youre 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, shes 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 McDonalds? 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 Tonis 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 tunafish sandwich, an opened can of Tab,104 and a cup of ice, he had what may have been a

104

Tab was something like Diet Coke, only worse. Note that in 1974, pop-tops were a relatively new thing, and not all soft drinks had them. Sometimes the cans had to be opened with a type of can opener known as a church key. Tonis Tab was in such a can.

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chicken salad sandwich, a bag of Fritos, and a carton of milk. I stood when they showed back up, Milt didnt. Toni looked at us before she sat down. So youve been talking about me, she said, still standing. No, no, no, said Milton. Weve been talking about the pros and cons of the Panama Canal Treaty. Oh, for heavens 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 dont 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. Im Milton, he said, smiling and extending his hand. She seemed not to hear him, didnt look up, and Miltons 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 didnt know what she was talking about. Nuclear reactors are all built within a containment vessel, a huge concrete and steel basin, so that if theres a meltdown of the reactor core, the meltdown will be contained within the structure, she said, looking back and forth between us. The AEC105 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 couldnt 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 Id love to see you naked look he usually had around women.

105

The Atomic Energy Commission was a Federal agency until 1974, when most of its responsibilities were handed over to the newly-formed Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

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Rob showed up not with paper napkins but a dry tray, quickly transferred Tonis 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. Rob 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 re you from and whats 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. Dont 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 new can of Tab and a second cup of ice and placed them on Marys tray, then sat down. Whatd I miss? asked Rob. Without acknowledging him, she poured her Tab over ice, exactly half-full.106 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 youre friends? asked Rob. Some mutually double major trip? I shook my head. Same dorm floor, I answered. Isnt Philosophy just irrelevant bullshit? asked Toni. I glanced at Rob, who looked down quickly and stared intently at his probably chicken but possibly tuna 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.
106

Or half-empty.

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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. Were freshmen. We dont speak Toni. She means dead European white males, he said, speaking with his mouth full, which would no doubt have bothered his mother. Its an acronym. Obviously, said Toni. Milton thought for a minute. He was trying very hard to like her. So youre suggesting that Philosophy is bad because it was written by dead European white men? he asked, tentatively. Im 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 dont 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 wasnt entirely sure what point had been made. Henry, couldnt you say the same thing about Physics? Milton asked me. I really didnt want to get dragged into a Toni argument. It was hard enough to watch. How so? I asked. Arent they all dee ee double-you ems? he asked. Not exactly, I said. Some of our white males are living. And some of them arent European. He thought, then nodded silently.

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So the big ideas of Western Culture arent relevant, but calculating he looked at me. Today its instantaneous acceleration and the velocity of freely-falling objects, I said. But calculating stuff like that is? he asked. Were describing the physical world. Thats why its 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 cant smoke in here, she snapped. Its 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 youll find most philosophers agree on this. She glared at him but he didnt notice because he was staring at her breasts somewhat wistfully. I think hed 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, shed 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. Shes 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 youre not willing to do so, someone else will. Shell 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. Theyre this healthier kind of more holistic kind of shoe thats better for your body than regular shoes. I wore them back in San Rafael but dont here because

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everybody wears Topsiders and shit. But back to Toni. How can you fail to see the attraction? Shes crazy. Nutty in every way. Nuttier than Planters could imsgine, I said. You may not be aware of this, but peanuts are not actually nuts at all. Theyre a form of bean, he said. 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 dont 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. Id 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 her 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 dont squabble as much when hes between us, Rob said. Oh, for Christs sake, I said. And youre always having to wait on her like that?

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I dont mind, he answered. He shrugged. Milton lit his cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling through his nostrils. Why? Im happy, Rob said, and shrugged again. Whats 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. Shes pretty and all, I know. So what? Rob paused and considered how to phrase his answer. She really likes sex, said, after a few seconds. 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 Sherman. 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, said Milton. You know how she is. Such a perfectionist. We do things over and over until we get them right, Rob said. Fuck me and the horse I rode in on, said Milton. There was a long pause while Milton smoked and looked out the window. Youre aware youre 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 werent many afternoon classes. For some reason, most of them were in the morning.

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I dont 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. Milton paused to consider fate and his position in the universe. I am never going to get laid, he said, staring morosely out the window. Then, after another few seconds pause, Man, did you see her? and shook his head.

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Chapter 17: A Math Test and an Omelet and the Return of the Impossible The following Monday, Dr. Wolfe announced that wed have a Calculus test on Friday. I called Stoney. Actually, I called him several times, and got him on the fifth try, at about nine that night. For the first four calls, Id hung up after the first five rings, as my mother had taught me. For the fifth one, I just decided to let the phone ring for a while to see what happened. I counted the rings and he picked up on the 23d ring. Who the fuck is this? he answered. Stoney? I asked. Yes, of course, asshole, you call Stoneys number and let the phone ring 99 jillion times and you eventually get somebody mad enough that he picks up the phone so who in the fuck is this? Henry. Henry Baida, I answered. There was a pause. Vaguely familiar. Need more clues. Do I owe you something? he asked. No. Im in your Math class. You wanted me to call you if Dr. Wolff scheduled a test. Oh, fuck yes. I got it. Blue-collar lookin dude from Knoxville, he said. Chattanooga, I answered. Okay Chattanooga. And Wolffs scheduled a test? Yeah. Friday, I said. What time is this class? he asked. Eleven. Cool. Thanks for callin. There was a pause. Do I like, owe you anything for this information? he asked. Nope. On the house. Cool. Um, what have we studied? Over the last week or two? Slope intercept and point slope forms, I answered. Still with the kiddie stuff, he said.

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Pretty basic. Maybe we should form a club, he said. Not following you, I answered. A like-minded spirits club, he said, after a pause. He seemed to be waking up from a deep sleep. When I think club I think Cub Scouts or glee club, I said. He thought about that. And? he asked. I never advanced in Cub Scouts, I said. The meetings were in the building where the pool table was. I cant honestly claim to have attended. Ah, fuck it, said Stoney. See you Friday, and the line went dead. On test day Stoney actually seemed to be completely un-stoned when he showed up in aviator shades, jeans, white boots, a white Oxford cloth button down shirt, what appeared to be the vest from a purple velour tuxedo, and wearing what may have been a womans blue satin garter as a headband. She would have been a big girl, if so. Dr. Wolff frowned unhappily as he handed Stoney his test. It was easy, but I tried to pay attention to details anyway. Stoney held it up like a magazine, flipping through the pages, shaking his head from time to time. After hed finished looking through it he put it flat on his desk and solved the problems with short, sharp strokes of his mechanical pencil. He didnt stop to ponder or think, so far as I could tell, and finished before I did. Once finished, he sat up and looked around, without checking his work. I finished a few minutes later, but I leafed through my test, checking my work and making sure I didnt see any mistakes. When I was done with that, I looked up and there were still ten minutes left in the period. Dr. Wolff was staring at Stoney in disapproval, and Stoney was scratching his nose with his index finger in a way that may have been intended to suggest the possibility that Stoney was flipping Dr, Wolff off. That, of course, was counterproductive of Stoney. Theres no use in unnecessarily antagonizing an adversary, but the smartest people you know are often the dumbest, too. I stared down at my test. When the boredom grew too great to stand, about five minutes, I built decent-sized Fibonacci/Cartesian triangle on the back of one of the test pages, just to keep myself occupied. Professor Wolfe eventually called time, and it was a profound relief. Stoney and I left together. Lunch? he asked, when we were outside. Sure. Where? Rand? Croom? Branscomb?

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Oh, fuck all that, he said. No college food. Lets go to The Campus Grill. Say hi to Rosie. Does she play pool? I asked. Couldnt tell you, he said. Red hair? I asked. Oh, fuck no. White-haired. Maybe seventy, he said. Wait. Did I say Rosie? I meant Roxie. Do they take Meal Points? I asked. No, no. Its this little diner across the street. Not affiliated with the school. Foods good? I asked. No, its terrible, Stoney said. Then why go there? You ever eat at the Krystal? he asked. Sure, I said. Im from Chattanooga. Ever have a good meal there? asked Stoney. I thought for a few seconds. Good is not the right word for it, I said, after a pause. But youre going back? Yeah, sure, I said. Good isnt the right word for The Campus Grill, either, said Stoney. Im in, I said. He didnt lead, exactly, but I followed, through a passageway I didnt know about between two of the hospital buildings from near the Math and Science Center to 21st Avenue, a good thing to know. There wasnt much conversation. Easy? he asked, after a few minutes, referring to the test. Easy, I said. We go to his office for our grades? he asked.

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Yep. Dr Wolff had said he would post all test grades on the door to his office, and the grades would be available two or three days after the test. Stoney hadnt been there for that class, but hed taken a course from Dr. Wolff before. Im really into math, but Im not getting much out of the courses. I made a gesture with my hands as if to say So? Do you like it, or are you just good at it? he asked. I had to think. I like it, I said. Why? I like puzzles, and I like understanding how things work, I said. Stoney nodded his head. Not me. Youre just good at it? I asked. Yeah, he shrugged. Im also compulsive about it. I think about it all the time. Two or three times a year Ill take acid and late at night Ill solve Fermats Last Theorem.107 Whats the theorem? I never can remember when I wake up, and I never write it down when Im tripping, he said. Why not? I like to drink when Im on acid and its hard to write when youre drunk.

107

In marginalia in a journal entry made by Pierre de Fermat in 1637, he claimed to have found a wonderful little proof for the theorem that there was no solution for an + bn = cn for any n greater than 2. He left no proof of this, although he left a proof for the special case of n=4, although that had been proved by Leonardo Fibonacci four hundred years later. Fermat does not appear to have been familiar with Fibonaccis solution. Fermats Last Theorem wasnt proved until the 1990s, when an English mathematician named Andrew Wiles did it with a lengthy and convoluted series of calculations based on Gerhard Freys elliptic curve observations. Wiles proof took days to present and could hardly be called little. The presentation to an eager audience of mathematicians was a little like that Broadway production of The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby a few years laterthree days long, convoluted, and understood by almost nobody. The audience applauds at the end, but isnt sure exactly what to take away from the experience, except a deeper understanding of uncomfortable chairs. It took several years before the mathematical community could agree that Wiles had indeed proved that theres no n greater than two for which an + bn = cn was true, but he did do so. If, indeed, Fermat had figured out the proof he claimed to have doneand Fermat was right about everything else he saidtheres another, much simpler solution out there somewhere.

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Youd be famous, I said. I wasnt sure about any of this. In my experience people who are stoned think their thoughts are much more profound than they actually are and the issue of whether Henry had actually proved Fermats Last Theorem was by no means decided. Yeah, yeah, I know. Plus, I always remember the last five or ten steps but not the ones in the middle, but part of the problem is that I think there ought to be a more elegant, shorter solution. You could dictate. Yeah, yeah, one time last year there was this really cute chick in a halter top hanging around when the long version came to me and I asked her to get a pencil and something to write on. She was just a Physics major, but shed have enough math to take it down, and so I started telling her, and she really didnt followthey dont do number theory in Physicsbut she could write it down. It was fun. She was crazy as a bedbug, but God Almighty was she gorgeous. So what happened to what she wrote down? I asked. Dont know. I passed out. She was gone when I woke up. She was cute. Had on these radical platform shoes and had a Christian Dior brooch on this cheap silkscreened Godspell tee shirt. He seemed totally unconcerned with getting credit for solving a 300 year-old mathematical enigma. We were standing at a crosswalk on 21st waiting for the light to change when I heard a shout from across the street. 21st Avenue was four or five lanes wide and full of traffic, but I could hear the call Henry! Henry Baida! from the Peabody side of the street across all five lanes. A group of three young women was standing opposite us on the other side of the crosswalk, one of whom was frantically waving her hand over. It looked like Mrs. Ws niece, Ginny McColl. Hey! I called and waved back. Stoney squinted at the girls across the street. Thats a pretty foxy triad, he said. Whos your friend? Friend from home. Niece of the math teacher I told you about. Peabody girl? he asked. Think so, I answered. The light changed and Stoney and I started across the street. Ginny ran out to meet us in the middle, and immediately grasped my arm. Okay, Henry, I have to run because we have a test but you need to call Aunt Margaret because she hasnt heard from you since you started school and she wants to know youre doing okay and you need to call me because I want to know the same thing plus I want to hear the end of the first hotwire story and I want to take you to play pool at this place I heard about down the street. So give me something to write my number on.

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Wed just taken a test so I didnt have a notebook. I looked at Stoney and he shook his head. I pulled out my wallet and had nothing but twenties, so I handed one to Ginny. She wrote her phone number on it, folded it neatly, then slipped it into my shirt pocket. Dont spend it until you write the number down somewhere else, she said, then came a little closer to me than she ever had before, frowned a little, then smiled, and said Call me as she ran to join her friends. Stoney watched the triad walk away, then turn into the Peabody campus mid-block. As she turned, Ginny waved at us briefly. Stoney looked at me. Dude, he said. What? I answered. Are you, like, gay? he asked. No, I said, surprised at the question. Are you sure? he said. Cause its totally cool with me if you are. Ive had queer friends before, and Im totally cool with that. Not that Im gay. Im totally, 100% straight. And would really like the phone number that really cute girl with the nice hooters and Ferragamo flats wrote on your twenty. Since if youre gay its not going to matter to you. Not in the same way it would to a straight guy like me, I mean. Okay, so which was more important to you, the hooters or the shoes? I asked. Oh, hooters all the way, Stoney said. Good shoes, but extraordinary bod. Like magnificent. Slim. Toned. Perfect. She plays tennis, I said. Really? I didnt get that competitive, country club, I-need-a-four-carat-diamond vibe off her at all. This is you straight? I asked. He thought about this and looked at me. Yes, but which question are you asking? Straight might mean several things, he said. Well, at least two. I meant to ask This is you un-stoned? I answered. Ah. Um, then yes, I am straight in the sense of being relatively drug-free. Generally a mistake. Yes. But I thought it wise since we were taking a test. Prof. Wolff or is it Wollffe?can be quite the quadrilateral asshole. And thanks again for letting me know there was a test, he said. He thought a minute. Thinking back, though, I am unable to recall an occasion on which we talked about much when I was not under

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the influence of one chemical or the other. So perhaps youve come to know me as one might be, pharmacologically enhanced? But not now? I asked. Aside from an anguishing hangover thats vanquished the eight aspirins I took when I woke up, no. But we are losing sight of the larger issue, he said. Whats the larger issue? I asked. Your relative gayness, he answered. Im not gay, I said. Really, the way that Peabody girl with the nice hooters leaned on you and made you take her phone number was, like, astonishingly interesting to watch, as a piece of what? Performance art? She wanting you and you not seeming to notice. I think you must be gay, he said. No, really. I answered. Then how do you account for you failure to give that seriously behootered cute tennis-playing Peabody girl a kiss? he asked. She was clearly waiting on one, and any reasonable straight man would have given her one whether she was waiting on one or not. Really, Stoney, Im not gay. I said. Are you sure? he asked. Havent you ever found yourself looking at my butt cheeks and wondering? No, really, Stoney, Ive never looked at you that way, not even once. Im sure you are just as gorgeous, in your way, as Ginny. Im just not motivated by desire the way most people are. Youre weird, he said. Were here. He held the door and we walked into The Campus Grill. There were about six booths and six stools at the counter. A tiny diner that smelled like omelets. All horizontal surfaces above the floor were white patterned Formica except for the stools and the seats on the booths, which were an odd cherry preserves red. Stoney chose a booth next to the large plate glass window that made up the front wall. Okay, he said You can come here any time of the day or night, the waitress is going to be Roxie. And if you order any kind of omelet, it will be served with eleven tater tots whether you ask for them or not. He lit a cigarette and took off his sunglasses,

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reacting to the bright sunlight coming through the window as though it was totally unexpected, then put his sunglasses back on. I looked at the menu, but Stoney didnt BLT or omelet? I asked. Omelet, Stoney answered. The fries here suck. A spry and energetic woman of retirement age with an extremely crisp white waitress uniform and a folded paper cap above carefully coiffed white hair brought us utensils, napkins and water. She didnt say anything but looked at Stoney, serious and focused, like someone taking an exam. Roxie, I will have a cheese omelet, wheat toast, and un-sweet tea, he said, exhaling cigarette smoke with his words. And maybe a cup of coffee while we wait. She nodded but didnt write anything down, then looked at me. Ill have a bacon, cheese, and mushroom omelet with rye toast, I said. Outta shrooms, she said. Okay, a bacon and cheese omelet, I said. What to drink? she asked. A large milk, I answered. Skim? she asked. No. Two percent? No. Whole milk, I said. She shook her head disapprovingly and left without having written anything down. She doesnt seem to approve of my milk, I said. Roxie moves in mysterious ways her miracles to perform, he answered. Perhaps you just dont know youre homosexual yet. You have these yearnings that you dont yet understand. When you watched Tarzan movies you couldnt take your eyes off of Tarzan no matter how little Maureen OSullivan was wearing. Maureen OSullivan? I asked. Jane. In high school, was the most dangerous part of the day for you showering after gym class? Why in the world would that be dangerous? I asked.

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Because if you stared at anything too long the other boys would notice. Theyd know. No. Stoney. Im not gay. Then your reaction to he paused for me to fill in her name. Ginny. Is utterly inexplicable. You did not react at all. Im just not that motivated by sex, I said. I focus on other things. Besides, I imagine pretty girls are getting hit on by guys all the time. I imagine they find it tiresome. From what I hear they find it tiresome except when theyre interested, then they cant hear it enough, he answered. Plus, shes very close to her aunt, who is a really, really good friend of mine. Shes the one who taught me math, and if Ginny and I were to date, and it didnt work out, the way things generally dont, I wouldnt want there to be any awkwardness between any of us. At the mention of math his face brightened and he nodded briefly and stubbed out his cigarette. Anyway, Im just kind of a loner, I said. From where I was sitting I could see part-way into the kitchen. I couldnt see anyone working, but I could hear the sounds of cooking and from time to time Roxie would emerge with plates. She had this odd, hopping gait and moved surprisingly quickly, the way birds do when observed up close. Speaking of Math and being a loner, my homo friend, I think you should join a club. Roxie came out of the kitchen with one of those heavy diner coffee cups that that you could use to crack a cocoanut. On the way to our table, with her bouncing step, for no reason I could see, she dropped the cup. I sat up and expected a crash but she bent down incredibly quickly and caught it again inches above the linoleum floor then straightened as though nothing had happened, hardly breaking stride. Whoa! I said, as Roxie placed the still-steaming cup in front of Stoney. She didnt notice my reaction, put Stoneys coffee in front of him, turned and bobbed away. Stoney looked up at me. No big deal, man. Just a group Im thinking of forming, said Stoney, pouring a preposterous amount of sugar into his coffee. He sipped it off, then poured in cream.

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No, no. She like dropped your coffee, then caught it just before it hit the floor, and never spilled a drop. Uh-huh, he said, slurping a still-hot sip of his coffee. Im talking about something Roxie just did. Like an acrobat. Okay, she said, stirring his coffee and taking another sip. No, really, I said, Things like that just shouldnt happen. Okay, said Stoney. What about the math club? Okay, so who are your proposed members? I asked. You, me, Rasheed Washington and Cecil Murray, he said. I was talking to him but still thinking about the way Roxie had handled his coffee cup. I dont know them, I said. I was trying to watch Roxie carefully. Theyre like we are. Still havent hit anything hard in the math they teach here. Uh, Im not much of a joiner, I said. Roxie ferried a chicken salad sandwich and a side order of fries to someone behind me without incident. Im not asking you to join my fraternity, man. Just an informal get together to talk math every now and then. Have a beer. Maybe smoke a little reefer. Youre in a fraternity? I asked. Sure, he said. B I wouldnt have figured it, I said. Why? You seem a little more counter-culture than country club, I said. Its a pretty counter-cultural frat, he said, as Roxie cane bobbing our way to bring us our omelets. She held each plate on the fingertips of an upturned hand, and the motion caused the tater tots, which neither of us had ordered, on each plate to roll around. She smacked our plates down then returned to the kitchen and Stoney counted his tater tots. Eleven, he said. You? I counted.

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Eleven, I said. Roxie emerged from the kitchen carrying my milk and Stoneys tea. Once again, she seemed to lose her grip on the glass of milk, it fell, she dropped by bending at the knees extraordinarily quickly and her hand darted down to catch the glass of milk two inches above the floor and caught it without spilling a drop, either of milk or tea. She never even completely broke stride. Holy shit! I said. Theyre just tater tots, man, said Stoney. She did it again. Who, Roxie? as she bounced up to our table with the drinks. You doing tricks Roxie? he asked her. Knew Id have trouble with that milk. Somethin odd about that coffee. Butterfingers today, she said, and returned to the kitchen. This is just weird, I said. What happened, exactly? asked Stoney, cutting off a piece of his omelet and placing it on his toast. While chewing he upended the sugar shaker and poured a long stream of sugar into his tea, then stirred vigorously in a vain attempt to dissolve the sucrose sediment at the bottom of his glass. She dropped two containers filled with liquid, then caught them again just before they hit the floor, without spilling a drop. Good talent for a waitress to have, said Stoney. It was like impossible, I said. Cant have been, he said. I dont know. Why did you order un-sweet tea if you like it so sweet? I asked. Its just not natural the way you Southerners bring tea to the table already sweetened. He stirred vigorously for a few more seconds then tasted it. He resumed loading bite-sized pieces of his omelet onto his toast. Our omelets were on the thin side, but tasty. So you think impossible things happen? In a mystic kind of way, maybe? he asked. Carlos Castaneda says they do. Of course he eats a lot of psilocybin and was probably fucked up when he said it. Or maybe it was Khalil Gibran. Did Khalil Gibran eat mushrooms? I dont know about Castaneda or Gibran, but every now and then I get the feeling that the universe isnt as smooth as we think. That from time to time theres some crumbling at the margins, or some inadvertent clash in the rules, a glitch, so that things

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that shouldnt happen do happen anyway. Sometimes theyre so small its hard to notice. Sounds cool. What about a math club? I never seem to be able to interest anyone in my speculations about outcomes that vary from expectations, I said. For metaphysical bullshit to be interesting to anyone other than you it has to explain something. That or the other person has to be loaded, he said. Youre driveling about a waitress who didnt spill your milk. So math club yes or no? What would we do? Pick a topic and try and figure out the math. Maybe take Tychos observations and see if we could deduce Keplers laws from them. Something like that, he shrugged. Just something fun. I could see my reflection in his sunglasses. The curvature of the lenses made my nose cartoonishly long. All right. Ill give it a try, I answered. He nodded and lit a cigarette as I finished my omelet His plate was completely clean. The next time Roxie passed by he raised his coffee cup at her and she returned with the pot to fill it. She still had her birdlike way of moving, but no acrobatics. Just before she turned, Stoney said Roxie, I think my gay friend Henry is ready for the check. She brought us one check. He pulled out his wallet as though to pay, then winced. Fuck. I raised my eyebrows inquisitorially. Tapped out. Fuck. This is what happens to you when you dont do drugs. You got cash? Sure, I said, and put a twenty on the table. Roxie swooped down and picked it up almost immediately. So you really dont like my ass? he asked Oh for Christs sake Stoney, I answered. No, really, he said. I have a very nice heiney. Roxie came back with my change, including lots of ones to facilitate tipping. I left her a larger tip than custom requires but it still didnt seem like much money, so I put down another one, then picked them all up and put down a five. Jesus, Henry, Stoney said, standing. Youre not trying to get her to blow you. He said goodbye to Roxie, then went out the glass door first. A few feet outside he stopped, still ahead of me, and looked over his shoulder, as if to suggest I should be looking at his ass.

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Give it a rest, Stoney.

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Chapter 18: A Number of Stumbling Blocks That Would Have Been Less So Had I Read Kuhn After dinner I called Mrs. Wertheimer. Ginny had said I needed to call her, and she was right. This was the first time Id considered the idea that our relationship might have changed. When I met her, shed been my teacher. Then, Id bumped into her and shed been nice enough to be my banker. At the time, I was an itinerant gambler and shed facilitated my sinful108 and peripatetic ways. Now, I was a student again, I had identified her as my emergency contact, and I wasnt entirely sure certain what the rules of our relationship were. But even getting in touch with her wasnt as easy as I anticipated. I dialed her number, using one plus dialing, and an operator came on the line. May I help you? the operator asked. Im just trying to call a friend in Chattanooga, I said. I need your S.T.A.N. number, the operator said. My what? Your S.T.A.N. number, she said. Whats that? A Student Telephone Account Number, she said. Dont think I have one. Youre a college student, right? she asked. Yes, Calling from (615) 555-1972? Yes. Before the semester began, your parents were sent a packet of information that allowed them to associate your long distance charges with another phone number as long as that phone number was a listed Bell System109 number, she said, explaining the obvious.
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That gambling is sinful isnt so clear in 2010 as it was in 1972 or 1974 either one.

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I dont have any parents, I said. An exaggeration, certainly, but I was tired of talking about it. Lets see, she said. I show (615) 555-1972 as being assigned to Henry Baida. Thats me. And according to our records your mother is Margaret Wertheimer of Chattanooga, Tennessee, she said. Interesting. Shes not your mother? she asked. No, not at all. Well then who is she? the operator asked, exasperated. Now, why is it you assume Ill know who she is just because you dont? I asked. I was just curious. Sir, shes associated with your phone number. And your companys associations are never wrong? I asked. They are reliable. Who is she? Can I ask your name? I asked. Nora. Operator 340F90D, she said. Who is Margaret Wertheimer? She was my high school geometry teacher, I said. And will she be willing to have your long distance charges associated with her phone number? Meaning youre going to bill her for my long distance charges? I asked.

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The Bell telephone system was supposedly broken into several regional Baby Bells in the sixties, but they got along so well that employees were regularly transferred from one company to another and the broken up Bell System was indistinguishable to everyone except the FCC and Bell employees. Telephone service in the United States was monopolistic in a way thats difficult to understand today. Wherever you were, there was only one service provider. There was no such thing as cell service, and Bell owned not only the network, but the wires into your house and the phone on your nightstand, which was manufactured by Western Electric, a Bell subsidiary. There were no choices on long distance service. It was expensive, but it worked surprisingly well.

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Yes, of course. Well, I guess she and I can work it out, I said. Thank you. Connecting your call, she said. Wait. What? Connecting your call, sir, she said, tired of me. You dont need to confirm with her first that Im going to be charging long distance calls to her number? I mean, I could have picked anybody. I just dont understand why youre being so difficult, said Nora, and I heard the phone start ringing, indicating that the call had gone through. I wondered if Nora planned to listen in. After a few rings, Mrs. W picked up. Hello? Hello, Mrs. Wertheimer, this is Henry. Hello, Henry! her voice brightened. How in the world are you? Hows college? Interesting. Im learning stuff. Like what? Tell me. Physics, Greek, History, English. And? Physics is really cool. Its easy, but I just havent thought about the universe that way before. All these precise mathematical formulas for working out the physical world, I said. There was a slight pause. Precise? she asked. I paused. Well, theyre teaching that the problems have exact answers. What kind of problems? she asked. Vectors, instantaneous acceleration, that kind of thing. Straight line stuff. I could hear the scrape of her Zippo against the flint in the lighter and her first big drag.

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Look, Henry, I know its all fun. I remember my first physics class. But remember, none of the math is perfect. Newton came close, and people since have improved things. But when we think math, were people. When the universe acts itself out, its reality. You cant describe the moment of a pendulum accurately with an equation any easier than you can do it with a sentence. You can say in a sentence that it swings back and forth. Equations arent much better, in some ways. Theyre good, theyre just not perfect. I paused to think about this. Youre saying the equations in my physics book dont accurately describe pendulums? Yeah. Sure. Theyre approximations of reality. An equation explains the movement of a pendulum in the same way a paragraph does. But oscillators like pendulums are notoriously difficult to describe with precision. I thought physics, the equations were studying, had been proven to accurately describe the physical universe. Not really. All we can say is that they seem to accurately describe reality. But theres no proof, the way there is in geometry. I can prove to you that opposite angles are equal. You can prove that the sum or product of any two even numbers will also be even. Theres nothing like that that in Physics. All you can do is say it seems to be accurate what we predict by our equations seems to be pretty close to what happens when we measure it. No way to prove it. I thought about that for a few seconds. Well, but if the equations always lead to accurate conclusions, surely that counts as proof. Oh, good Lord no. Accuracy of prediction is meaningless in all ways, she said. I could hear her pull on her cigarette. That cant be right, I said. Henry, you can derive extraordinarily accurate predictions of the times and locations of solar and lunar eclipses if you assume that the Sun revolves around the earth. One reason the Ptolemaic110 system was so widely believed for so long was that it was extremely accurate in predicting events. Eclipses, transits, retrogradesPtolemy could predict them all. Of course his physical model, his explanation for why it was that the objects in the sky behaved as they did, didnt match what weve learned since. How did he explain retrograde motions of planets? I asked. Planets had epicycles. Each one had a large orbit, more or less like what planetary orbits are like, only they were orbiting around the Earth. As was the Sun. But
110

Ptolemy knew himself as . He lived in Egypt, but spoke and wrote in Koin.

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planets had a secondary sort of orbit, what was called an epicycle. The planets were kind of doing this curlicue in addition to their orbital motion. Hard to imagine. Think of the path of the Moon around the Earth, orbiting around as the Earth orbits the Sun. Okay, I said. Now imagine that exact path, the path the moon is taking, only the Earth isnt there at the center of its orbit. But the Moon wouldnt trace that pattern if the Earths gravity didnt anchor it. Nobody knew anything about gravity back then. They thought that the planets and stars were attached to or moving in spheres, she said. Scientists really believed in that kind of stuff? That wasnt just popular mythology? Henry the only definition Ive ever heard of mythology that makes any sense to me is mythology is other peoples religion. Yes, it was popular mythology, but Ptolemy lived in the second century, and educated people and astrologers believed in it too. You mean astronomers? I asked. Not really. There was no distinction in the second century. Ptolemys most famous book was about astrology.111 The fact that he could predict eclipses so accurately made his astrological forecasts especially prized. This is weird, I said. Why? she seemed surprised that I was having a hard time with this. That a terracentric model could yield predictions similar to a heliocentric model. I would have thought, given orbital mechanics, which I admit I dont understand at all, would have led the Ptolemaic idea to yield results that diverge from reality. There was a pause. I could tell from the sound of her exhaling that she was taking the last drag off of a cigarette and stubbing it out in an ashtray. Dont start sounding too much like your professors, Henry, she said.
111

Ao or Astrological Outcomes.

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Yes maam. Have you ever read an article by a college professor? No, maam. You knew every word youll ever need to use the day Coach Pfieffer handed you your City High diploma, she said. Yes maam. So what were you saying? she asked. Its just odd that imagining that the Earth was the center of the Universe allowed Ptolemy to predict things so well. It goes back way further than that. People before Ptolemy thought the Earth was flat and gods were driving chariots through the sky and that sort of thing. They could all still predict eclipses. Aristotle may have thought the world was round, I cant remember, but he introduced the idea of the spheres in the heavens, and Ptolemy was considered reliable because his idea fit so neatly along with Aristotles, although astronomers of the day thought Ptolemy was a sort of amplification of Aristotle. Ptolemy made Aristotle more complex, but explained things that Aristotle didnt. Planets moving in retrograde didnt make sense with Aristotles spheres. But what I was going to say is that flat-earth people centuries before Christ were predicting celestial events like eclipses and planetary motion. All it takes to make predictions is persistence. Eventually you notice periodicity. Just because your predictions are accurate doesnt men you understand whats going on. Archimedes knew what time the sun was coming up. Gack. What, Henry? Well, Ive been operating on the supposition that what I was learning from teachers was objectively true. But it sounds like in Physics, anyway, what Im learning is an approximation that has yet to be disproved. Did I understand? Yes. Thats why I taught Math and not science. And no matter how much I can trust the predictions of my calculations, what Im taught may have foundations built on sand. Ptolemy looks good because he pretty much agrees with Aristotle, but then Copernicus comes along and blows them both out of the water. There was a pause. Close. But when Copernicus came along nobody believed him, for almost a century, she said.

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Why? Because the old system worked so well. It predicted everything to fine detail. It explained their world view. It agreed with Christianity and Islam. All the pieces fit. When Copernicus published De revolutionibus orbium coelestium112 the academic and astronomical/astrological world pretty much ignored it. He was an astrologer, too? I dont really know. Thats not clear. Theres no evidence he studied it. But he was a doctor, so most scholars think Copernicus was a doctor? Yeah, sure. And a lawyer, too. And a priest. He spent a lot of time in college. Of course there wasnt as much medicine as there is now. Or law, for that matter. But doctors were all expected to understand astrology. Oh, for heavens sake. Henry, this was the Fifteenth Century. Four hundred years ago. Four hundred years from now, everything we think is going to look just as silly. Couldnt possibly, I said. Will certainly, she answered. Gack. Is it so terrible? Things change over time. Our understanding of the universe evolves, but will never be perfect. No, I answered. Not terrible, but I just hadnt thought about science this way, before. And this may give me some insight into something that sent me to college in the first place. I thought you decided to go to college because you were loaded in Taccoa. Yeah, but what had been worrying me is this variation in the way the universe works. I perceive it as a breakdown in the rules. Youre not loaded now, are you?

112

On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres. Mrs. Wertheimer knows Henrys Latin is good enough that she doesnt need to translate.

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No, no. You know me better than that. What gets me is that you do the same thing a thousand times in exactly the same way, and three of them yield different results. Okay, she said, taking a drag. I have this working theory that the rules of the universe have imperfections, but those imperfections dont lead to intolerably divergent results, so most people ignore the exceptions, the three out of a thousand. So its odd to me that the rules of the universe have flaws, but odder that most people dont notice. When something weird happens, people chalk it up to human factors and variables that are impossible to control. People are used to a little strangeness and unpredictability so they shake it off when they see it. And thats not how you see the cosmos? she asked. Imperfect rules with unperceived flaws? I thought for a few seconds. To me it seems like the rules of the universe are a huge checkerboard, stretching off into infinity in all directions. Its regular, all perfect squares, and the sides of the squares are tiny, less than a millimeter per side. The squares are actually much smaller than that, but thats the smallest I need to imagine to understand. Thats the Universe as it should be. A plane of tiny squares stretching off in all directions. Okay. I could hear not only another cigarette being lit but the clink of a bottle on the rim of a glass. Mrs. W, are you having a drink? Yes, of course, she said. B and B. Im not a savage. Go on with your checkerboard. Okay. If you mark off a grid, several hundred squares, and then just start blackening them, checkerboard style, working outward from three or four randomly selected squares, most of the time, theyll all link up into an orderly checkerboard. Theyll all agree and your checkerboard will stretch out to infinity. Sometimes, though, one of them will be out of sync with the others, and youll get this odd pattern of darkened squares. How do you know this? My math class is really boring. I doodle a lot. Go on, she said. So what happens is that the squares that were out of sync with the rest of the grid get sealed off. Theres a little pattern of out of sync squares surrounded by like a dark circle, a sort of city wall, like cities had in the days before cannons. But the pattern

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prevails. Theres a checkerboard isolated within a checkerboard. Sometimes you get these fault line-like things, but the overall checkerboard pattern always wins out. Okay. Can you imagine my two-dimensional checkerboard? I think so. Okay now think of the irregularities and the checkerboard patterns as in three dimensions. She took a drag of her cigarette. Okay, I got it. The irregularities are encysted. Exactly. So that three-D checkerboard is a representation of life in the same way you taught me to draw a three-dimensional graph on a two-dimensional piece of paper. Inaccurate, missing a dimension, but revealing. Interesting, she said. Metaphysical, and therefore dubious, but interesting. So you think somethings going wrong with the universe, the rules dont always work perfectly, but that these errors either seal themselves off or are sealed off by the fact that the rest of the universe is working according to the rules. Its all on grid? You got it, I said. It felt good to be understood. Its interesting to think about, but youre talking about a way of organizing the universe that nobodys going to see any evidence for. True enough. Then tell me something else, she said. Made any friends? Some. There are a few guys on my floor, in my dorm, that seem like good guys. Im a little older than the other freshmen, but some of them seem okay. And I ran into Ginny earlier today, and she reminded me to call you. I was wondering if youd run into her. Peabodys right across the street. Whyd you recommend Peabody for her and not for me? Most of her family went there. Her mother went there. We came from farm people in Warren County, Tennessee. They went to get a good rural education when college was still relatively cheap. Theres a Dew Drop Inn on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere in Warren County. I won three hundred dollars there one night the summer after I got out of high school.

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Whats a rural education? I asked. Peabody used to have the worlds most productive dairy heard. They taught people how to be the best farmers in the U.S. Ginnys grandparents went there and learned that. Odd. Mainly what she talked about to me was sports. She loves tennis. But that dairy herd deal runs deep in her family. Until Gunner, she said. Gunner? I asked. Her father. A lawyer. Cant make up my mind about him. I was about to ask about Gunner, but she turned conversation back to me. So what kinds of friends? On my dorm floor? Well, theres Milton, from California, and Joel Bernstein from White Plains, New York. Brian Wilmot from Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Our R.A. is a psychology grad student from someplace in Louisiana I cant pronounce. A good mix? she asked. Yes, maam. There are lots more Southerners than people from elsewhere, but there are people here from all over. Mostly white, upper middle class. Some I would call rich. Michael Scott is black, and Jos Sanchez is Cuban. They say theres a guy on our floor somewhere whos a Viet Nam vet, but I havent met him. How are your courses? Greek is wonderful. Physics is interesting, but theyre going really, really slowly. Math is boring. History could be interesting, but the prof is letting his politics affect his analysis. Thats stupid, she said. He would say that history has always had, seen or unseen, known or unknown, a bias towards capitalism, and the fact that he admits to the influence of Marxism on his thinking and presentation merely makes him a more honest purveyor of American History than has traditionally been the case. One of those. Very much one of those. I think professors should be like journalists. Strain against their personal views. At least professionally. And judges, she said, lighting another Benson & Hedges.

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Hmmm, I mused. You dont think judges should strain against personal prejudice? she asked. No, maam, I do. Its just in my experience, they dont. Ed Morgan did paste you one, thats for sure, she said. But, really, Henry, calling yourself Leon Trotsky. Why in the world? Oh, it happened in a P.G. Wodehouse story, and so it was the first thing that popped into my head. You meeting any girls? Well, theres Toni from Physics. Beautiful but barking mad. In an exceedingly strange relationship with Rob. Both physics majors. Then theres Mary Roberts from Greek. Shes very serious about her religion, seems to be Tri-Delt material113, and seems taken with Brian. From Cherry Hill? Yes, I said, surprised she remembered. Does he have money? Seems to. A lot of money? she asked. Maybe. Theres a family sportswear business. She likes his uniform, too, I gather. What kind? N.R.O.T.C. Well, sailors do have the best uniforms. Whats wrong with math? she asked. Its just very basic. What are you studying?

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Pretty, Southern, well-mannered, most likely well-to-do, politically conservative, often snobbish, careful about hair, makeup and attire, very social.

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Today it was horizontal transformations. I could hear her whistling out her cigarette smoke in disapproval. Whos your professor? she asked. Anton Ladd, I answered. I know him, she said. Kind of a pain in the ass. Like maybe hes really constipated. Very stuck on protocol. But hes smart. Does good work. How do you know him? He was at some of the early conferences on turbulence theory. He was in the audience once when I delivered a paper on derivatives of binary sequences, then I was in the audience when he presented some number theory deal. Complimenting sets of ntuples of integers, or something like that. Mrs. W., youre full of surprises. I had no idea youd been presenting papers at mathematical conferences, I said. I could almost hear her shrug. Everybody needs a hobby, she said. Ladd kind of seemed to know who you were and almost wanted to doubt youd been my teacher. Interesting to hear how he knows you. But speaking of number theory, theres this guy in my math class. I almost never see him because he refuses to come to class except for tests. Wheres he from? Im not sure. He went to school in someplace called Lawrenceville, New Jersey, but it was a boarding school, I think, so Im not sure where hes from. Had a really good math program in high school and cant stand our professor. Calls himself Stoney on account of his name, he says. Hows he doing? Only one test so far. He and I had the only 100s. The prof is plainly irritated by this. Not by me. I come to class and all. But he really hates Stoney. Congratulations on the 100, Henry. This is stuff you had me doing junior year, but thanks. Anyway, so Stoney wants to start a math club. To do what?

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He knows these other two guys who are interested in math and he wants to start a group to take on something more challenging. I could hear her smoking and thinking about this. What would you do? My turn to shrug. Something hard, I said. Like what? The only thing he mentioned was to see if we could deduce Keplers laws from Tychos observations. Oh, gack, no. Henry, dont join. Why? Unlike her to discourage an interest in Math. They were both crazy as coots, she said. Tycho was this nobleman with a common-law wife and he had all these extremely precise measurements of planetary positions because he was rich and could spend huge amounts of money on assistants and astronomical instruments. But he had no math whatsoever. He was a nobleman. Practical skills were beneath him. So? Tychos theory was that the sun and the moon and the stars revolved around the earth, and that the five planets Five? Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn were it, back then. Uranus and Neptune werent discovered until there were really good telescopes, and Tycho didnt have a telescope. Pluto was deduced from wobbles in the orbits of other planets, and Earth wasnt regarded as a planet back then Why is Pluto a planet? Its not like the others, I said. Its out there. You leave Pluto alone. Okay. Then if Earth wasnt a planet, what was it? The center of the universe. They hadnt read Copernicus? I asked.

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Sure, they read it, but nobody believed him. Copernicus disagreed with what theyd been taught, and what theyd been taught explained everything pretty well. Plus, Tycho was really, really egotistical. He wanted his theory to be the one that explained the universe. He thought the Earth was the center of the universe, that the sun revolved around the Earth, and all the other planets revolved around the sun. Thats insane. No its not. If the universe were constructed like that, it would look exactly like it does now, for all intents and purposes, from the perspective of Earth. Think it through, later on. Imagine the Earth is stationary, and everything else is the way Tycho thought. Its more complicated to imagine, but it would look exactly the same from Nashville. It may actually be that waytheres no way to know. But, anyway, Tycho had all these amazingly precise observations, but he had no math. No way to analyze all that data. So he brings Kepler from Austria to Prague, thinks of him as a hireling, and wont share his data with him. Not really. He shows him some of his Mars stuff, because hes convinced they support his Earth-Sun deal. Then Tycho dies, and his heirs are worse even than Tycho was. Its all a mess. But didnt Kepler deduce the laws of planetary motion from Tychos observations? I asked. Sort of. Sort of? Deduce isnt the right word. Stumbled onto is better. Once Kepler finally got access to Tychos log booksTychos dead now, rememberhe made some really clever deductions. But the only reason he did was that he made a huge calculation error in the orbit of Mars. Because of that he went on and recalculated Mars orbital path a number of times, and eventually realized that it wasnt circular. But if he hadnt made a huge error in the first calculation, he wouldnt have kept calculating. All of Keplers laws came from that mistake, so its a righteous mistake. So why do you think we should avoid Kepler and Tycho as a project? I asked. They were all nuts, she said. Kepler thought his mother was a witch. Tycho complained that the King of Denmark didnt value his services enough, and complained that the emperor or whatever he was in Prague wasnt providing him a grand enough castle. They both cast horoscopes and believed in them. Crazy people sometimes have great ideas, I said. More likely they dont, she answered. Most crazy people have crazy ideas. But the reason for avoiding a club that wants to deduce Kepler from Tycho is that it

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would be extraordinarily boring. You wouldnt recognize any of Keplers calculations as Math. What were they? I asked. Arithmetic, she answered. Liebnitz and Newton and the calculus you like so much came in the next century. Kepler just sat in his little apartment in Prague and re-did the calculations over and over and over until they came out right. r2 all the way? I asked. Yes. Each guess took thousands of calculations. All multiplication and addition. No functions at all. A complete pain in the neck. You dont want to spend time on that kind of thing. Months and months of rote calculation. Okay. So, assuming theres a club, what should we do instead, then? Maybe something with Maxwell. Okay, I said, hesitantly. You dont like John Clerk Maxwell? she asked. Wasnt he a physicist? I asked. Yes, of course. Well, the rest of these guys are math guys. I may be the only physics guy. Then maybe the Lorentz transformations, she said. Whats that? Hendrick Lorentz described a set of functions

where

, she said. As best I can recall. I thought that through for a moment.

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Leaving y-prime and z-prime alone for now, that would move around a lot, I said, after a few seconds. No kidding. Im having a hard time imagining the graph. It must fold back on itself a lot. It moves. It changes from 45 degrees off the x axis to 45 degrees off the y axis and then back again. Cool. Is it good for anything? Lorentz came up with it as a way to explain the propagation of light through the luminous ther. The what? The luminous ther. All the way back to Aristotle everybody assumed there was something that filled space, in a way. Youve heard of fire, air, water, and earth. Aristotle said there was a fifth element that gave definition to space. In the nineteenth century there were a lot of discoveries that indicated that light was a wave of some sort, so a lot of physicists decided there must be some sort of medium the waves were passing through. Why does there have to be a medium? I asked. Now youre thinking like Maxwell, she said. Why? Never mind. Up until Heisenberg and Bohr and those guys, we always thought about Physics in terms of physical realities. Thats why its called Physics. Oddly enough, a beautiful but crazy girl said that to me recently, I said. Oh, yeah? Are you interested in her? No, no. To me the crazy comes through much more loudly than the beautiful, I answered. I mentioned her before. Only Rob could put up with it. So why does there have to be a medium? Well, they thought the closest analogy to the way light moves was the way sound moves through the air, and they thought that was because of regular compressions moving through the air. The compressions graph out to a wave, even though theyre not, not the way a wave on a fluid is. But if light was a wave, there had to be something for it

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to be compressing. A wave seems to need something to be moving through. So they referred back to Aristotle and called the stuff ther. All interesting. Fascinating, in fact, I said. You are always the teacher. So why are Lorentz calculations important? Im thinking people probably dont still believe in the ther. No, but people did into the Twenties.114Albert saw the Lorentz transformations as an accurate description of a misunderstood process and deduced Special Relativity from em. Albert Einstein? Yes, she said. I could hear her exhale her smoke. Ill suggest it to the guys but Im the only physics student in the proposed club. There seems to be this odd hostility between mathematics and physics. Well, that comes and goes. Look, Henry, Im sorry, but I need to get off the phone. Are you set for money? Oh, sure. Are you coming home for Thanksgiving? Geez. I hadnt thought about it. I dont know where my parents or my sister are. No, Henry, I meant are you coming to home Chattanooga? Do you want to have Thanksgiving with us? Well, sure, thanks. I dont have a car, though. So? I guess I can take a cab from the Green Ghetto to your house. And I can take the bus from Nashville to Chattanooga. Henry, for Heavens sake, dont make it complicated. You can stay with me. Call Ginny and you two come down together. Im sorry. I really have to run.

114

Dr. Wertheimer refers to the 1920s.

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Chapter 19: A Chance Encounter with Stoney; In Which the Author Hopes You Realize Here That You Dont Have To Understand Physics to Get the Joke. A few days later I was on my way to Physics when I bumped into Stoney. Odd. Id never bumped into him before, except in class. He was wearing bell-bottomed Levis, his Durango boots, a puffy-sleeved shirt that looked like it might have been intended for one of the pirates of Penzance, and his sunglasses. Whoa, he said. Fancy meeting you here. Im surprised to see you, too. For some reason I thought you werent an early riser. Yea, well, actually, Im not. For me this is more of a late night than an early morning. What are you up so early for? Stoney, its 10:00. I said. Yes? Not the crack of dawn, I said. He thought for a few seconds. So I take it youre functional at this time of day with some frequency? he asked. On my way to Physics. Happens three times a week. Far out. Have fun. Physics. Man, he said. He shook his head, but seemed happy for me. You want to come? To a class? he asked, dumbfounded. Sure. Physics. You might find it interesting. Plus, youd almost certainly meet Rob and Toni. He thought for a few seconds, as though confused. And this would interest me in some way? he asked. Theyre both completely insane, but smart. Shes gorgeous, I said. Man, I dont go to classes even when Im registered for them. Suggesting I might go to one Im not signed up for seems pretty fucked up. Are you sober? I asked. He thought about his answer before speaking.

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Sober would be inaccurate. In any sense of the word. But sober generally refers to ones interaction specifically with alcohol, and alcohol is not the largest vector of my current weltanschauung, although it is well-represented. How can you be fucked up at 10:00 a.m.? I asked. Um, like I said, this is more of a late night than an early morning. Did you take Physics at Lawrenceville? Sure. It was a little silly, said Stoney. How so? All these extremely precise calculations that dont relate to much reality. How so? I asked. Math doesnt describe reality. Reality is, like, reality, he said. I frowned at him quizzically. Physics is bullshit, he said, rocking back on his heels, as though that explained it. Explain? Physics is a bunch of guys standing around looking at cannon balls dropping from towers for a couple of hundred years, and eventually one of them invents a clock, then another one figures out how to put some numbers on a page that predict when its going to hit the ground. Later somebody calls it acceleration and gets famous for figuring out things about it. Then a hundred years later some other guy comes along and figures out a way to do the calculation thats a little more accurate and he gets famous for that. Its fucked up. He paused and fumbled to find a cigarette, eventually found a crumpled soft pack of Marlboros somewhere in his boot, extracted one, and lit it with a disposable lighter. He looked up at me after taking a slightly disorganized puff. What were you saying? he asked. You were explaining how Physics is messed up because people keep coming up with more precise formul. Oh, fuck yes. And every now and then somebody comes along and has a completely different way of looking at the problem of what is acceleration? and you Physics fuckers all look at the universe in a completely different way. And then everybody in all the schools has to teach the new deal and everybody coalesces around Einstein. Or Bohr. Or Copernicus. Or who the fuck cares. You should read Kuhn. But its not reality. The universe was always there, doing its universe thing. You physics

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fuckers are just trying to describe it. What? I was looking at him and waiting for him to finish, and he was reacting to my expression. Nothing. I just get this a lot, I said. What? Math people telling me that physics is imprecise. It fucking is imprecise. Has to be, he said. And nothing like this happens in Math? I asked. Oh, fuck no. Nobody ever came along and proved that 2+2=5. Nobody ever will. Nobody ever, since time began, came along and showed all the other mathematicians that the times tables were wrong, or that addition isnt associative. Math just isnt like that. Once something is so, its so for all time. Math just is. I gotta go. Want to come to class with me? I asked. Whats class about? Kinematics. Dynamics. Mechanics. He thought a few seconds and took a speculative,almost non-smokers puff. I want to give you shit for talking like a Physics guy, but I took it in high school so I know what that all means So? I say we blow it off and smoke some pot instead, he said. Dont smoke, I said. Oh, right. He thought for a few seconds. Okay Im game. Lead on, MacDuff,115 he said. Cool, I said. Your presence is going to surprise Toni and Rob. I turned and headed for the Science and Math Center, and Stoney came along with me. Who are they? Theyre crazy people who sit on either side of me. Shes the good-looking one. If its assigned seating, where are you going to put me? he asked.
115

Yes, I know Shakespeare didnt say this, but Stoney did.

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No, its not assigned seating, I said. So why do Rob and Toni always sit next to you? Theyre fucked up. Like, stoned? he asked. No. Like utterly insane, I answered. Im not completely stoned, he said. I should be able to deal. Shes the goodlooking one, right? Yes, as I said, but wacko like you dont often encounter. Stoney thought while he strolled and smoked. Im not sure a person who doesnt do drugs is qualified to make a statement like that, he said, after a few seconds. We were walking more slowly than I usually would but making our way to the lecture hall where Physics met. Okay, I answered. Like, once, when I was on acid, I was sure a red dragon with yellow dorsal plates and ivory teeth was licking the inside of my nose. Yuck, I said. It actually felt pretty good, said Stoney, reflectively. She, or maybe he, for that matter, what do I know about dragons? had a very soft and narrow tongue. Warm. It moved around in ... interesting ways. Odd, I said. There was a brief reverie in which Stoney seemed at a loss for words. Did you reciprocate? I asked. How do you mean? he asked. Did you lick the red dragons nose? Are you fucking nuts? Have you ever seen a dragons nose? he asked. No, I answered, patiently, pretty sure that Stoney hadnt seen one, either. Their noses are just like pigs. Runny and dirty and noisy. No way Im licking a dragons nose. Thats just gross.

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We had reached the amphitheater at the Science and Math Center. We were slightly, but not very, early as we moved into the room. I took a seat in the middle of the hall, and Stony sat to my right. So why does Physics have to be taught in such a big room? A kind of a steep room, Stoney asked. It doesnt, but this is a course all physics majors have to take, so its a big class, and this is a big classroom. The physics guys and gals are actually pretty cute, now that I look at them, he said. Right as he said that, Rob showed up on my left and Toni showed up on Stoneys right. Excuse me, youre in my seat, Toni said to Stoney. Stoney, still in his sunglasses, looked up, confused. Excuse me? he asked. Youre in my seat, she said. I stood. Oh, right, said Stoney. Youre the one Henry told me about. Look, Stoney, shes eccentric. This will go a little smoother if you sit on my left instead of my right. What did he tell you about me? Toni asked, a little more intensely than comfort allowed. Well, Stoney said, noncommittally, glancing at me. Feel free to be honest, I said. He said you were gorgeous but a little eccentric. Henry? she asked. I said you were beautiful and brilliant but crazy, I said. Stoney, move to this seat, I said, gesturing with my left hand. It will be a little easier to deal with Rob. Is this more of your sexist patronizing bullshit? Toni asked, as if addressing the world in general.

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Yes, I answered. Stoney, sit over here. Stoney stood and moved past me to sit in the seat to my left. Toni sat down with too much ado. Students around us were watching and laughing. Toni and Rob and I were dependable entertainment, and Stoney was a new addition to the act. As Stoney passed me to move to the other seat, he paused for a second. Her nipples got hard while she was yelling at us, he whispered. Thats so cool. I heard that, she said. Stoney shrugged. Hi, said Rob, sticking out his hand towards Stoney. Im Rob. Hed been standing there watching us, silently and patiently Rob-like, while we dealt with his girlfriend. Stoney said Yo. Rob. Im Stoney, and stuck out his hand. Rob looked at it, confused, then grasped it for a second. Is there a problem? Rob asked, still standing. No. Rob. This is my friend Thomas Jackson. He, like me, is a math major. You were a Physics major last time we talked, said Rob. Im a double major. Thomas I started. You can call me Stoney, he said. Thanks, said Rob and shook his hand again. Thomas I started. Stoney, both Rob and Stoney corrected me, in unison. Stoneys a friend of mine from the Math Department, so I invited him to class just to see what Physics is like. So I know you like being close to Toni, but if this once you could sit one seat further to the left, we could keep Stoney up to date on whats going on. Rob looked at Stoney carefully. Did you take high school Physics? Rob asked. Sure, he answered. Whats Newtons second law? Acceleration is proportional to force and inversely proportional to mass, Stoney answered.

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Okay, said Rob, although he didnt sit down. He was still looking for a reason not to go along with the new seating scheme. Stoney shrugged and sat down between us. Henry gets very good grades but didnt know that last class, so far as I could tell, said Rob, still standing. Prof. Dannhausen doesnt generally state first principles, Rob said, erroneously. He looked at me That is a good way of expressing the last set of problems, Rob I said. I had understood Newtons second law perfectly well but absolutely nothing would provoke me to engage in an argument with Rob. Im just glad you didnt ask me about the second law of thermodynamics116, Stoney said. That fuckers fucked. What? said Rob and Toni, simultaneously. Yeah, it just is, he answered. Why? they demanded, simultaneously. Stoney was put off by their keen attention. Okay, well, its true that if a high energy system comes in contact with a low energy system, energy will flow from the higher to the other. To the lower. Stoney looked up. He now had the attention of the students in the next row back. Take a hot marble and a cold marble, put em together, pretty soon theyre the same temperature, he said. Everyone nodded. You guys think of that as a step down. More entropic. Everyone nodded again. But look at what happens in the universe. A star explodes and creates new elements. Gases cool and form solar systems and shit. A planet cools, life emerges and crap, then evolves into fuckers like us. In thermodynamics, you physics fuckers act like each step cooler is a step towards annihilation, because were just a little bit closer to absolute zero. But each step was more highly ordered. Stars. Elements. Life. Not much order a second after the Big Bang. Just a bunch of hot quarks and shit. Now we have sex and basketball and mushrooms. Far more organized. Everyone listening applauded. Stoney stood and curtseyed as though wearing a short skirt. Hi, everybody, I said. This is my friend Thomas Jackson. Hes auditing this class today. Hes smart.

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The entropy of a system whose various parts are not in equilibrium will tend to increase over time, approaching a maximum value at equilibrium. Said differently, when something hot is placed in contact with something cool, energy flows from the hot one to the cool one, never in the other direction. Since, for thermodynamic purposes, we analyze the universe in terms of its energy states, moving from a higher energy state (hotter) to a lower energy state (cooler), in thermodynamic terms, is a move towards entropy.

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Call me Stoney. And Im not as much smart as I am totally stoned, he said. At this point the door right of the lectern swung open suddenly and Professor Dannhausen strode in with a flourish. Rob, look. Just for today, can you sit just one seat over? I know you like being closer to Toni, but I promise you shell still love you if you let Stoney sit next to me today. I never said I loved Rob, said Toni, from my right. I promise you she wont have sex with you any less if you just sit down, I said. Rob sat down in the seat next to Stoney without comment. And I sat between Stoney and Toni. Dont get pissed at him about this, Toni. This is my deal, and hes doing me a favor. We had, by this point, attracted Dr. Dannhausens attention. Mr. Baida, is class ready to begin? Dr. Dannhausen asked me. He didnt overstress anything. He wasnt an asshole, he was just accustomed to starting his class on time. Yes, sir. Sorry about the delay. And you have a new and colorfully attired student next to you? said Dannhausen. Yes. This is my friend Thomas Jackson. Yo. Call me Stoney, prof, he said. Dannhausen cocked an eyebrow at me. Hes a Math major. It seems to me like theres a lot of overlap between the two disciplines, and I thought he might be interested. He promises not to cause trouble, I said. Absolutely. Im a laid back, cool kind of mathematician, said Stoney. He still hadnt taken off his sunglasses. Okay. Welcome, Mr. Jackson. So, Mr. Baida, how about you explain to me and to Mr. Jackson what Newtons third law is. Fuck. I totally know this, said Stoney. Hush, Stoney, I said. He put his hand to his mouth in embarrassment. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, I said. Right. Give me an example.

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When I push on a brick, the brick pushes back. Right. So lets do a problem. Assume I have two canoes on a river, one with two occupants with a combined mass of 150 kilograms, and the other with three occupants with a combined mass of 250 kilos. The occupants push away from each other with a combined force of 43 newtons. Weaklings, said Stoney, under his breath. How do we find the acceleration of the two canoes? Prof. Dannhausen asked me. He didnt usually focus on one student like this. He usually stated off by describing a principle, then explaining the basic concepts of the calculations, and then gave us a few calculations. He was zooming straight through to the end. In his defense, though, Newtons third law is pretty basic. There wasnt any way to build dramatic tension about it. Well, according to the text, the acceleration is described as Fx = max for ax. According to the text? he asked. Yes, sir, I said. Do you not believe the text? Yes. Sort of. Im not sure. The text never comes out and says these formulas are approximations, but it never comes out and says somebodys sat down and tested them a thousand times and they were 100% accurate, either. Im just not sure the formula is more than a description of what we see. Stoney was smiling broadly, but all of the sudden I was back in Mr. Finchs Sunday school class and I was challenging orthodoxy and realized I was about to get verbally slapped. The other kids were pulling back from me, and I braced for it. There was a dramatic pause. Interesting, and possibly right, said Prof. Dannhausen. But lets not get sidetracked. Were talking about Newtons second law and five people in two canoes. Lets work through the problem. No slap. Weird. We talked through the problem. If youre curious the second canoe is (and were solving the second one first because it has the greater mass): a
x

F2x m2 F1x m1

46 N 250 kg -46 N 150 kg

0.18 m/s2

and the first canoe is a

x

-0.31 m/s2

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and the reason this problem exemplifies Newtons third law is that the force, 46 newtons, is applied to the formul for both canoespositive 46 newtons in the top equations (look for 46N in the numerator) and negative 46 newtons in the bottom. Notice that the same force applied to the lighter canoe caused it to accelerate more than the heavier canoe, because the heavier canoe is going in one direction at 0.18 meters per second, and the lighter one is going in the other direction at not quite twice as fast, or 0.31 meters per second. It took most of the class to go through the calculations, for acceleration, rate, and distance, and to discuss the implications of each step, but at the end, the canoes were 0.35 meters apart. So is this a realistic calculation? he asked the class. Oh, fuck, said Stoney. No, said Toni, to my right, loudly. Yes, Ms Sayers? The solution ignored friction. Exactly, said prof Dannhausen. Lord fuck a duck, said Stoney, in what he might have thought was a quiet voice. Prof. Dannhausen cocked an eyebrow at him. You think something else was left out of the solution, Mr. Jackson? Prof. Dannhausen asked him. Well, yeah, said Stoney. You said the canoes were in a river. So theres going to be current, and theres no way two different canoes of different masses would react the same to it. And canoes are really unstable, and they wouldnt react to being pushed like that. They wouldnt move in a straight line. This whole point mass concentration thing you physics guys use is a fiction. Kind of. I mean, I know Im a guest and all, and Ive enjoyed watching you and my gay friend Henry solve the canoe deal, but it doesnt really describe what would happen, does it? Prof. Dannhausen put down his chalk and made a face that communicated I wasnt expecting this, but okay. Another pause while he thought. Our visitor is largely correct. If you understood, please raise your hand. Rob, Stoney, I, and Toni raised our hands, as did about a quarter of the class. First, Prof. said, Most of the problems you will encounter this year, as all of the problems you encountered in high school, assume that all of the masses involved are concentrated into points. Newtonian mechanics almost always makes this assumption, from the simplest vectors to planetary mechanics. Newton knew this assumption was inaccurate, and seems to have figured out more accurate calculations as to planetary

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motion, but refused to have them published because the Church was unhappy with his first set of calculations, which agreed with Galileo and Copernicus. The point mass concentration idea is a sort of convention. The mass in a canoe containing two live bodies is most certainly not concentrated into a point. The center of gravity would be difficult to calculate, people move, changing things, if they spin, the centrifugal and centripetal forces would change. The canoe would react to the current. All of this would be Turbulent, said Toni. Chaotic, said Stoney. Both good descriptors. What Im teaching you here is the basics of Newtonian dynamics and mechanics. Stripped to its bare bones. So the way Mr. Baida and I worked through the canoe problem was not realistic, and if you choose to study this area in greater depth you will learn that mechanics is far more complicated than we are teaching here. But you need to understand these basics before you can develop the complexities. Forgive me if our problems are oversimplifications, but they are necessary simplifications. He paused and looked at the floor. I also want to address something Mr. Baida said earlier. I believe that the equations and formulas youre learning are accurate to a very precise degree. But no one can tell you that theyre true, because the fact that they describe the universe very accurately does not mean that there cant be a different formula out there that describes things more accurately. Its happened many times in physics that we thought we knew what we were looking at, then someone came along and showed us we were wrong. But, Im not teaching you anything I know to be untrue. He looked at his watch. I think thats all for today, he said. Mr. Jackson, come back any time. Yeah, thanks, he waved, and we all started standing up. And none of you guys are stoned for this shit? asked Stoney, to anyone in earshot. Youre gay? Rob asked me. No. Oh, he is, totally, said Stoney. This Peabody girl named Ginny was all over him and he didnt even notice. Stoney, give it a rest. Henry, is this true? asked Toni, with a hint of hostility. No, Toni, its not true. Some people just cant accept themselves for who they are, Stoney said, as we walked out.

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Chapter 20: A Brief Return to Pool, Followed by Existentialism and Cheap Wine. Plus a Kiss Stoneys mention of Ginny reminded me I needed to call her, and I did as soon as I got back to my room. She picked up after the second ring. Hello, this is Ginny. May I help you? Hey, Ginny. This is Henry Baida. How are you? Henry! she crowed. My favorite pool hustling car thief! How in the world are you? Doing okay. How about you? Doing well. Heres our plan, she said. Tomorrow, youre going to meet me at my dorm at 6:00, then were going to walk over to Elliston Place and have dinner at the Soda Shop, then were going to walk over to Ismaros down the street, and youre gong to show me how to play pool. I laughed. Okay. Sounds like a plan, I said. Im in Gillette Hall, she said. I dont really know my way around here, I said, And I really know even less about Peabody. How am I going to find Gillette Hall? Cross 21st Avenue at that light where I saw you on the sidewalk. Walk on into campus and ask anyone you bump into where Gillette is, she said. See you at six. How do I dress? I asked. Like you always do, she said. Goodbye. Okay, I know what she meant, but do I always do anything? The next night I showed up at Gillette Hall clad in a white Oxford cloth buttondown shirt, khakis, and Weejun, a few minutes before 6:00. Ginny was sitting on the steps in front of the dorm and saw me from maybe seventy yards away. She jumped up, waved, and kind of ran over towards me. Not quite a run, but faster than walking. She gave me a hug and said Henry! before falling in step next to me and turning me to walk back towards 21st. She was wearing a white cotton blouse, jeans, and dark blue flats with fabric bows built around a shiny brass buckle. You dressed up! she said.

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I did? I asked. Yes. Thank you! Okay, she said, taking my arm. Have you ever been to the Soda Shop on Elliston Place? No, I answered. Have you ever played pool at Ismaros she asked. I thought. Is there a Skee-ball table up front? Yes! she answered. Yeah, I have, I said. What do you think? she asked, as we walked. Odd mix. Mostly college kids. There are some semi-tough hombres who play there, from time to time, I said. Meaning? she asked. Well, the kids are there to be kids, and the pros are there to hustle the kids, I said. So? she asked. Can be painful, or at least expensive, for the kids, but, I guess its safe enough. Its usually just college kids blowing off steam, but Any problem for you? she asked. No. Im I tried to think how to put this. What? Well, we might bump into some serious players who are there to fleece college kids and maybe later pick off each other, I said. So? Theyre not all nice people. You go there? she asked. Ive been there, I said.

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Did you ever get hurt? No. Not at all. I guess its safe as long as everybodys sober. So maybe we should plan on clearing out before, say, 10:00, I said. Far out, she said. We were passing McTyeire. She led the way as we cut across my campus. She seemed to know her way around. So, she said, finish the Boy Scout campout hotwire story. Wow. Okay. Whered it stop? A woman was walking off in a black and white silk dress and a bunch of Boy Scouts were watching her leave, she said. Okay. Well she was really pretty, and we were all watching her kind of Wistfully, Ginny suggested. Maybe so. Teenaged boys have a way of looking at attractive, grown women thats difficult to describe. Theyre drawn to the beauty, but theyre not exactly sure why, exactly. Whats her take on this, do you think? Ginny asked. Shes older and more experienced than we were and understands us much, much better than we understand her, I said. So then what happened? She walked off, I said. We all watched her go. After a few minutes of silent staring it occurs to me that my dad once told me what a solenoid is and showed me how the engine would crank if you laid a screwdriver across its terminals. That was on a 1964 Plymouth Fury he had when we lived in Atlanta. So I pop the hood on the car in the ditch. Its a standard 1968 Plymouth Valiant and it has the same solenoid relay as my dads Fury. If you connect the solenoid with the coil you dont need a key. Your father taught you how to steal cars? she asked. In 1974 all teenaged boys in Georgia knew this, I said. Fathers played a different, more practical role than today. Keevin asked me what I was doing and I told him I could start the car Keevin? she asked. Sorry, Kevin. Kevin Magid. Our senior patrol leader.

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Then why Keevin? she asked. Some of the guys in our scout troop were in his high school. He had this math teacher who got his name wrong, and called him Keevin Magoid. They all called him that. A nickname deal. It stuck. Boys are funny about nicknames. Kay, she said. Then what happened? Snow White had some wire in his pocket and I used it to make contact between the coil and the starter solenoid, then jumped across the solenoid relay with my pocket knife, and it cranked. It didnt catch, but only because it didnt have enough gas, so Keevin jumped behind the wheel and gave me the thumbs up. I shorted the relay again, it cranked, Keevin pumped the gas pedal, and the engine started right up. I laid off the solenoid, and the engine purred. As much as a 1968 Plymouth Valiant can, anyway. Keevin shifted into reverse, backed out of the ditch, waved to us, and took off down the road after the woman in the black and white dress, I said. Did you ask say anything to him? she asked. I waved goodbye and said Write if you find work. She looked confused. My dad used to say that to me. Wow, Ginny said. What happened? Not much, I said. That was the Saturday of a weekend-long campout. Most of us were thirteen or fourteen, except for Kevin, who may have been fifteen. After he drove off we went back to police the campground and do our best to make breakfast, always a dodgy task with boys and campfires and no adults. It seems odd that no grownups were around, now that I think about it, but thats the way I remember it. So we cleaned up the campsite and ruined some breakfast food, and then just before lunch, Keevin showed back up, on foot, still in his Scout uniform, What did he say? Ginny asked. Not much. He laid down on his cot in the big tent. He folded his hands behind his head and said Miranda is a beautiful name, and kind of stared at the ceiling without saying anything. What did you do? Ginny asked. I watched him stare at the ceiling for a few minutes, then went and made myself a baloney and cheese sandwich, I said. So you werent curious what happened between Kevin and the woman in the black and white polka dot dress? she asked.

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Sort of. But I wasnt going to ask, I said You didnt ask? I take it she would have asked. No. Boys are naturally braggarts, I said. If theredve been anything he wanted to tell us, hedve said it. And you never followed up? Ginny asked. Nah. But that was one of the last times I saw him. We moved back to Eglin for a few months right after that, I answered. And after that to Okinawa. I lost track of Boy Scouts, but there was a bowling alley over in Pace, not far From Niceville she had a puzzled expression. Those are towns near Pensacola in the Florida panhandle, I said. I was wandering off point. Anyway, Keevin didnt say anything and I didnt ask. Weird, she said. Were here, she said, in front of the Elliston Place Soda Shop. Cool, I said. We had to wait a few minutes for a table, but not long. It was a blue plate special kind of place with a big chrome Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner and mini-jukes in every booth where you could pick a tune without getting up. They didnt serve beer and the waitresses all wore white. After somebody showed us to our table, ice water and silverware showed up almost immediately, and we were expected to look at the menu without prompting. We did, without much talk. Nothing on the menu cost much over three bucks. Ill have fried chicken, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, biscuits, and tea, said Ginny, when the time came. Our waitress was maybe 45, had deep black ringlets, a habit of scratching her scalp with her pencil point, and a name tag showing Miranda. She nodded at Ginny and looked at me. Chicken-fried steak, turnip greens, cole slaw, un-sweet tea, and a corn muffin, I said. She nodded, slapped her green order pad into her apron pocket, and marched off. So youve never been here before? Ginny asked. No. I usually eat on campus, I said. My kind of place, though. Thanks for introducing us. Its right down the street from Ismaros, and I like the food here. I do have some misgivings about taking a respectable young woman to Ismaros

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Why is it okay for you to go but not me? she asked, almost, but not quite, teasing. Yeah, well. Ive been to lots of places like that over the years. You might meet some impolite people there. I have. But if somebodys rude to me, its not the first time, and its not the worst thing in the world, you know? So how many pool halls have you been in? she asked. Oh, God. I dont know. A lot. But Ismaros isnt a pool hall. Its a bar with a few pool tables. The last time I was there a couple of the players were just a little rough. Then what were you doing there? she asked. Making money. Our food came. Good-sized portions and steaming hot. When Ginny took a bite out of her chicken I could hear the crisp in a muted crunch. Everything I had was good, but the best thing was the corn muffin. Just perfect. Ginny asked questions about pool and nine-ball and playing for money. Dinner for the two of us was right at eight bucks. I paid up and we walked down to Ismaros. It hadnt improved much since I was there last. One story, wall to your left, Skee ball to your right, a bar all the way back on the left. Pool tables on your right behind the Skee ball. Grimy floor, dirt accumulating in the corners. It smelled like stale beer, but not as bad as if it were carpeted. I stopped to look at the first table. Ah, shit. I said. What? Ginny asked. Sorry for swearing. I know some of these people, I said, with a sigh. There, at the first table, Jimmy Milton from my dorm floor was awkwardly lining up a shot. I couldnt tell what game he was playing, but he was playing against Tommy, or was it Hank? whom Id played back at Hixson Lanes. Melissa, the red-head everyone at Hixson Lanes called Rosie, was sitting on a stool against the wall. Next to her a lone wolf in a Texas burnt orange tee shirt, wearing custom cowboy boots and holding a glittering custom cue stick, was watching Miltons fumbling with a pros eye. Texas had one of those great big wallets secured to his belt by a chromed chain, like bikers wear. Milton, I called out, interrupting his shot. He looked over his shoulder with a glare, then recognized me and came over to shake my hand, smiling. Tommy looked up and saw me. Ah, shit, said Tommy. Hi Hank? Tommy? I said.

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Tommy, he said. Whats up? said the guy in the Longhorns tee shirt. Old friend, said Tommy. What are you playing? I asked Milton. Nine ball, he said, shaking my hand. And Im doing really good, he said, under his breath. Melissa finally recognized me, smiled and waved. She had a very sweet smile. How far are you ahead? I asked Milton. Maybe thirty bucks! he said. Milt, I dont want to burst your bubble, but whats happening is that Tommy here is going to let you win two or three more and then hes going to bet you double or nothing on the entire wad, and youre going to take it if youve got that much cash because hes been looking so frustrated at his inability to make a shot, then as soon as you double hes going stop making mistakes and youre gonna realize that Tommy is one of the best pool players in the Volunteer State. I dont know Texas, but hes a wolf in wolfs clothing, and once Tommy takes all your money, Texas will step up to play Tommy with a swagger, but then hell lose once or twice to Tommy before Tommy clocks out. Once Tommys gone all the college boys will think they have a shot at Texas, and the routine will start all over again. There was a pause. Milton looked confused, but decided offensive was better than defensive. Id given him too much too fast. Why do you expect me to believe that interpretation of events? asked Milton. Maybe I was winning because tonights my night. Tommy and I have met. Why you gotta go fucking with it? Tommy asked. Its just a calm little hustle. Now Im out thirty bucks. Ten bucks a game? I asked. Sure, said Milt and Tommy both. I want to buy your game, Milt. I dropped two twenties on the table. Melissa, hold that, please. Its for what Tommy has in so far and the next game. She hopped off of her stool, scooped up the money, and slid it into her bra.

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A short, stout waitress interrupted to ask us if we wanted anything. Ginny ordered a Lite beer and I passed. Milton was still confused, but found his beer and took a swig. Just out of curiosity, what if I dont want to sell the game? Milton asked. I dont mean to be rude, bud, but youre getting fleeced, I said, in a quieter voice. Tommy and Texas are both pros. I paid you what you put up for the first game, so youre square, and Ive paid Tommy what hes given you so far. Assuming I win, I can pay you the additional thirty you were up. We both end up ahead. If you win, said Milt. Yes. If hes such a shark, why do you think youre going to win? Ive played him before. Milt pulled a dark brown Sherman out of a pack, frowned slightly, then lit it from a book of matches he retrieved from inside the cigarette pack. You act like you think youre doing me a favor, he said. I guess I think I am, but mainly I like playing Tommy. If you want to go on and see how this plays out, be my guest, but I promise you that if you keep playing the only way youre going home with any money is if Tommy cant figure out how much youve got in your wallet. What makes you so sure Im not as good as him? Milton asked. You were holding the ass end of your stick with a closed fist. The tip was waving around like a snake-charmers flute. Tommys slicker than Vaseline. Before you play a Tommy lets go to a pool hall. Practice some. Watch some Tommys play some Texans. Practice some more. Then play Tommy. Of course, he would have to practice a lot to be ready to play Tommy, but I didnt say so. Milt smoked and gazed off into middle distance for a few seconds, then shrugged and handed me his cue. He looked around for a seat, and noticed the vacant stools on either side of Melissa. His expression changed and he made a beeline for the seat next to her. I could tell from his expression that a seat next to Melissa was a reward in itself. I looked at the cue Milton had handed me. 28 ounce. I rolled it between my palms. Almost straight. Ginny, Miller Lite in hand, moved closer to the table from her position near the door and gave me an inquiring look. She was close enough for me to talk to her without talking to anyone else.

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I know everybody at this table except for the guy in cowboy boots, and I think hes trouble, I said. She nodded knowingly then looked around again, noticing Melissa for the first time. Arent you Melissa from my Art History class? Ginny said. Ginny? Melissa answered. Ginny ran over. They smiled excitedly and hugged briefly, then Ginny took a seat next to Melissa against the wall. Melissa had Milton on one side and Ginny on the other. Are you picking up or do you want to re-rack? Tommy asked. I want to re-rack, because I havent touched a cue in three or four months, but I guess I bought the game in progress. Were playing nine ball? Yep, said Tommy. He was playing with a sleek-looking two-piece cue lacquered clear over some dark, heavy wood. It had an inlay high on the barrel, a little figure of some kind, and a fine inlaid perfect checkerboard girdling the barrel low towards the heel, right at the point where his thumb and index finger would hold the big end in an appropriately loose hinge. It looked expensive. My shot, then, I said. Since Milton had been about to make a shot when I interrupted, it was my turn. Milton took a drag off his Sherman, pointedly blowing the smoke away from Melissa. I chalked the cue and looked at the table. I looked at the wall and Melissa smiled at me. I smiled back. Back to the table. We were up to the five ball.117 The five, six and seven were going to be easy shots, but I couldnt see the eight or nine. I rifled off the five with enough stop English to leave the cue ball dead in its tracks. Or so I thought, but I was out of practice. I sank it, but the cue ball rolled a few inches past the point of impact. Fuck, I said, under my breath. I lined up the six and shot it in. Again, the cue ball ended up a few inches away from where I wanted it. Not far, and the seven was still doable, but I didnt have the precision I wanted. The seven had become a finesse shot rather than a sure thing, but I sank it, gently. Damn, said Milton. Youre good. You shoulda seen him in Hixson, said Tommy, without looking up. I studied the table. I could get the eight on a two-rail bank shot that would tap it in and leave me lined up to put in the nine any one of a number of places, but my touch
117

In nine ball, more or less, you take the balls in order. Whatever the lowest numbered ball is on the table, you have to hit that one first.

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wasnt there. The other shot was to touch it slightly and lay it up somewhere Tommy couldnt possibly put it in and hope for a better table next shot. Safer. But fuck that. Even though I was only three shots into the game, I was having a crisis of confidence. Eight months earlier, the two-rail bank shot on the eight would have been a sure thing. I was finding myself tempted to dumb down my game because I was a little rusty. So fuck it, I went for the two rail shot. I sank the eight, but only barely. There were Oooos around the table, but it wasnt as pretty as it could have been. Tommy could see I wasnt myself, even if nobody else could. I didnt look at Texas. The nine was no trouble. I rolled it in and won the game. Fuck me runnin, said Milton, dropping his cigarette butt to the floor. You can play this game. Ginny looked happy and made as if to applaud, then glanced at Melissa, who was watching Tommy carefully and with concern. Ginny quickly stifled her celebratory impulse. She looked at her fingernails. Again? asked Tommy. Sure. Stakes? I answered. You bought your friends stake, so where are we at? he asked. Theres forty on the table, thirty of which I owe Milton, if I win, I said. You sure? Milton asked. I turned to him. Milt, you were thirty bucks up when I cut in so I owe you thirty either way. You get your stake out of whoever buys the game. He looked back blankly. You were thirty bucks up. Dont let me take that away from you by buying the game for ten bucks. Blank stare. I thought about how to rephrase this for a few seconds. Dont gamble in pool halls any more, I said. Okay, he said, still confused, and torn between Melissas proximity and wanting to know what was going on. So quadruple that? said Tommy. Whats that mean? Milton asked. Tommy wants to play double-double or nothing on this game, I answered.

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So how much? he asked. $160.00, I answered. On one fucking game? Milton asked, incredulous. Sure. Ill be dipped in shit, he said. I pulled $120.00 out of my wallet and dropped it on the table. I looked up at Tommy and he laid out $160.000. I looked up at Melissa, who hopped off of her stool, stepped forward, and smoothly scooped the cash off of the table, placing it next to the earlier stake. She returned to her stool and looked at Tommy and me, still intently. Ginny looked at her, then looked at the table, as if surprised. Whos Texas? I asked Tommy, loudly enough that Texas could hear. Just a friend. Hes almost as good as you used to be, Tommy answered. I looked again at Tommys cue. There was a little goblin of some sort, finely detailed and cleanly inlaid into the barrel, sleekly lacquered over. Do I need to worry? Not as long as youre playing me. I dont know what happens if you take his money. Im not sure Ive ever done it, Tommy said. Ive beat him, but you know how it is. He may have been losing to me to set me up for some other day. Hard to say. He plays it pretty close to the vest. I nodded, then cocked an eye at Texas. He waved silently without much expression and watched the table. Tommy racked for nine ball. A lot of life is confidence, and just as much is lack of confidence. You cant always win if you have it, but you can almost never win if you dont. Not in pool, anyway. Ginny was looking at me with concern, or maybe horror. $320 was a lot of money in 1974. I chalked my cue and sighted for the break. I tried to concentrate. I couldnt feel it. I popped the break, but it didnt go as well as Id have liked. The balls scattered well, but nothing went in. Damn. Tommy was looking at the table. He lined up a shot. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ginny bite on her index fingernail, just briefly. Be good to me Max, he said. What? I asked. He didnt answer, and snapped off the two. He sighted the three. All right Max, lets do it again, he said.

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Who the fuck are you talking to? I asked. My cue stick. Can you shut the fuck up? he answered. He got the five off the three but that left him with no shot on the three, so he was screwed. You have my sympathies, I said. As I recall you know the foul rules, he said. Under the rules, if he did not make contact with the three, I could take any ball in hand, meaning I could drop one into a pocket, which, one way or another, was going to clear me for a shot on the three. Nice stick, I said, referring to his cue. Yeah, he said. I won it off a grad student who thought he could beat me and didnt have $500. He said I got a hell of a deal. Plays great. And whats that inlaid there, a goblin? I asked. A demon, he said. He held it up for me to see. There was a little demon, with a slightly bestial face and horns and a tail, made of mother of pearl, very neatly detailed. Prior owner said the demons name was Maxwell, said Tommy, so I call him Max. Luck deal. Cool. Looks good. Your shot. He took a game try at an impossible shot on the four but hit the seven first. That was a foul, so I got to take one in hand. If I moved the six I had a perfect shot on the three, so I dropped the six into the near pocket as Tommys penalty, then knocked in the four. Again, though, the cue ball didnt end up exactly where I would have liked. Damn. Another tough shot. I lined up, feeling a little shaky, but thinking with a little luck I could sink the four. I was ready to take the shot even though it didnt feel right because shooting was what I did. But I stopped. I stood up straight, cue at my side, heel down. I closed my eyes and thought about that night when Tommy and I had played in Hixson. Id beat him three times in a row. Three out of three. I thought about that. After a few seconds I decided I was still that pool player. It changed me. School was gone. I knew no Greek. My only physics was what I knew from pool tables. It was a good feeling. When I opened my eyes, I looked around and noticed Tommy and I had drawn a few onlookers. Dont be an asshole, said Tommy, spinning Max between his palms like a top. Play pool. Sorry, I said.

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I got the four and the eight, smack, smack, and then the other four were arranged around the table in a shooters buffet. Fuck, said Tommy. The bar started getting quieter. He was close enough for me to talk without anyone else hearing. I thought Melissa was with the big guy, I said, just between me and Tommy. She left him after your fight, Tommy answered. He shrugged. I always liked her. I had her address. I wrote her a few letters. She came up and visited my freshman year, then applied to Peabody. Shes a freshman there now. Seems to be a good student, and loves Art. Good kid. I think my friend Milton has his eye on her, I said. Tommy looked their way. She doesnt look captivated, and she lives with me, he said. Too bad, Milt, I said. Youre in school, too? I asked. Sure. Ive seen you in the C-Room a couple times, but were not really pals, so I never said hi. Im in Engineering, and Melissa and I live off campus. You and I arent going to be bumping into each other much. I nodded, then looked back at the table. It really was lined up beautifully. Okay, I said, after I thought through a game plan. The fiver and the seven went in together. The six was tricky, but rolled in. I could have smacked the nine in hard, but just barely tapped it in. There was a collective exhalation when I got it. I looked up and Ginnys eyes were pretty wide. Again? I asked Tommy. He shook his head. For a beer, sure. For $160, no, he said. You bounced back from your sabbatical pretty fast. I will, said Texas. Youll do what? I asked. Ill take that wager, he said. Double, or double-double? I asked. Double, Texas said. Tommy, he wants to buy your bet, I said.

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Done. $160 new money, Texas, plus $160 to cover, I said. Texas put three hundreds and a twenty on the table. Melissa promptly hopped up, gave Tommy $160, and moved the $160 to her repository. Who is this guy? Texas asked Tommy. Meet Henry Baida, high priest of the Church of Straight Lines, Tommy answered. How good is he? asked Texas. Crazy good, said Tommy. Meaning? When I played him in Hixson he was the best Id ever seen. But crazy. Tonight, for the first three shots, a little unsteady on his pins. Rusty. I thought I had him. Then he did that samurai composure deal and he was the best again. Crazy how? asked Texas. Its a universal conspiracy or something, said Tommy. He has this idea that things dont always happen like they should. Maybe the laws of science dont always apply. Engineering has holes in it. Or something. And he thinks it affects his pool game. Things happen that shouldnt happen. Shit like that. Nutty. Okay, said Texas. Your break, he said to me. Ginny got up from her stool and got close enough to me to do a loud whisper. $320 is a lot of money, she said. $640 is more, I said. Is there any chance youre doing this to impress somebody? she asked. No, no, I answered. What time is it? Id never replaced the watch I lost at Hixson Lanes. Just before eight, she said. Were doing fine, I said. Texas thinks hes good. Im not sure whats gonna happen, but well be outta here by ten. She went back to her stool next to Melissa. Melissa did this happy giggle thing when she sat, but Ginny started biting her fingertips. Milton looked on with rapt attention, and neither of them seemed to know he was there.

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Texas had racked for nine ball. I broke. It wasnt a great break but the eight rolled in. I sank the two and the three, but the only shot on the four was a paper-thin slice into the side pocket, and it just grazed the rail and settled right in front of the right side pocket. Texas shot it in like a staple gun, then got the five and the six with no trouble. That left the seven and the nine. He eased in the seven, and rifled in the nine. He looked up at me with the expression of a man whos thinking I just won $640. Again? I asked. He had to think. Sure. I took out my wallet and put six hundreds and two twenties on the table. He looked at the money and licked his lips. Melissa swooped down and collected it. The bar was quiet enough now that you could hear glasses clink, and our crowd of spectators was growing. I looked up to see what Ginny thought. She had a look of horrified concern in her eyes, back ramrod straight, staring at the table, scraping her right little finger against her bottom teeth. It was Texas break. He didnt do well. The balls didnt scatter very much, nothing went in. But oh, what a lovely table for me. It wasnt even work. The balls sank themselves. I ran the table. It was fun. I looked up at Texas. Again? I asked. Lets do something different, he said. Like what? I asked. A real bet, he said. Real money. I havent been paid on the last one, I said. All right. He looked up at Melissa. Pay up, he said. She jumped up and handed me $1,280, but some of that was mine. I handed thirty back to her. She looked at the $30, unsure what I wanted her to do with it. Its Miltons, I said. Who? she asked. Milton, The guy sitting next to you, I said. She looked around. No, back over there, where you and Ginny are sitting. Miltons sitting on the stool on the other side of you from Ginny. She turned around to look. The guy with the fuzzy hair? she asked.

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Yes. I owe him that because of the way I bought the first game. She smiled sweetly and held the bills in front of her the way a flower girl holds a flower, then turned and bounced back to her stool, handing Milton his money in the process. He was still confused. I looked around and noticed that Tommy still hadnt sat down. How much you got? Texas asked me. Enough, I said. Look. Lets you and me play him in cutthroat, Texas said to Tommy. I hate cutthroat, said Tommy. Everybody hates cutthroat, Texas answered, talking directly to Tommy. And I can see hes good. But he aint better than both of us. And we gang up on him, we split his money. N-O spells no. I am not giving Henry any more money. Ill stake you. I been watching you. You never make mistakes. And crazy people always make mistakes. Not this one, said Tommy. How much do you want to play for anyway? Five grand, he said. Oh, for fucks sake, said Tommy. Like I have that on me. Like I said, Ill stake you. Ill give you a grand of it if we beat him. If you beat me, two grand. Cutthroats an odd game. Its the only pool hall game you can play with three players. There are three groups of colored balls: one to five, six to ten, and eleven to fifteen. As with eight ball, you choose which group is yours when you sink a ball. Unlike eight ball, in which you try to sink your own balls, stripes or solids, in cutthroat the object is to knock in the other players balls. In cutthroat, the player with balls left on the table at the end of the game wins, and you keep playing until only one player has any balls left on the table. Youre telling me you have $10,000 in cash on you? I asked Texas. He thought for a second. You could see the wheels turning. The bar was getting quieter and quieter. No, but I have a check, he said.

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No checks, I said. Its okay. I promise. I have an account at the bank and everything, he said. And I wont stop payment or nothin. No checks, I said. He thought a few seconds and then looked up at me. How would you cover a $5,000 bet? he asked. I took out my wallet and counted out fifty hundreds and snapped them onto the table. Ginny looked utterly horrified. Even Melissas eyes were wide. The students all looked on in reverential, or was it excited? silence. Holy mother-fucking shower of shit, said Milton, not loudly, but easily audible. There was no sound whatsoever in the bar. You could hear noises from the kitchen of the restaurant next door, and traffic on Elliston Place. Texas looked at the stack of bills and licked his lips. I had him. He had enough cash to cover my bet, and was letting greed make the decision for him. He wasnt thinking any more. He pulled that great big wallet off his hip and hefted it in his hand before unzipping it, looking at my stack of hundreds. He knew how much was in his wallet, but still he thought for a long time before unzipping it. He counted out a hundred bills and riffed them with his fingers. There were some audible reactions from spectators as he counted again, and then laid them on the table. Hed convinced himself of something for which there was no logical basisthat he and Tommy together were better than me, as though their talent were somehow cumulative. How good they were, together or separate, had nothing to do with how good I was. As long as I was better than either of them, I stood a 50/50 chance of winning, regardless of their cumulative skill level, and I was playing at two to one odds. You never outrun the odds, and its foolish to try, but you can often outrun the other gamblers. The slowest runners always lose, and Id outrun Tommy every time wed played and just beat Texas at least once. This was a no-brainer. Of course, Texas had beat me once, but he wasnt thinking straight any more, so I figured I was probably okay. Milton lit another cigarette. Melissa and Ginny looked like they were witnessing a tragedy. Lag for break, right? I asked. Yeah, sure, said Texas. Tommy nodded. So if Melissa would do the honors said Texas. Melissa got up as if to pick up the stack of bills. It was clearly not going to fit in her brassiere.

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No, I said. Sorry, Melissa. Tommy, do you know the owner here? Its not that I didnt trust her, I did, I just liked her and thought $15,000 might attract the wrong kind of attention to her. Sure, Tommy said. My Uncle Roy. Roy Cicones. Does he have a safe? Yeah. Good idea. Angie, can you get Mr. Cicones for me? Get Biggie, too. He was talking to the waitress. She nodded. Biggie? I asked. Hes the cooler here. A little out of shape, but he was a green beret and used to be one of Elvis bodyguards. A few silent minutes later a sharp, thin, tall man in a blue oxford cloth shirt and khakis came in, followed by an enormous sumo wrestler-sized man dressed all in stylish black. They saw the stack of bills on the table simultaneously. Now Donald, you know I promised your mother I would discourage you from gambling, he said, in a mountain accent. Im not really gambling, here, he said. These two idiots are playing and I may get a part of it. All right, then, said Uncle Roy, resignedly. My girlfriend heres been holding the stakes, said Tommy, but I think Biggie might be a better candidate on this game. How much? asked Uncle Roy. Fifteen, Tommy said. Far out, said Biggie. He scooped up the cash and stuffed it into the front pocket of his black jeans. So I take the first lag? I asked. The other two nodded. This was a good sign. Either of them was good enough to run the table straight through given the chance, so it was important to win the lag. I have a good lag stroke, and the fact that Tommy and Texas were willing to let me go first meant they werent playing or thinking aggressively. The fact that so much money was at stake had them scared. I went all in. I tapped it solidly, it bounced cleanly off the head rail and sped towards the near rail. A good lag shot always looks like its going to hit the near rail, and several people gasped, but it stopped a half inch short. Hard to beat. I put the heel of my

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cue on the side rail to mark the spot. I looked up at Ginny. She still had her hand over her mouth, where it had popped when shed gasped. Shit, said Texas. Jesus H. Christ, said Milton, through his smoke. I told you, said Tommy. He lined up for a lag shot. Come on, Max he said. He tapped well, bounced off the head rail cleanly and coasted to a stop about an inch and a half from the near rail. A good lag, but mine was better so Tommy didnt bother to mark it. Tommy lit a Winston 100 from a Bic and laid it on the rail. Uncle Roy frowned at this; whether he disapproved of Tommy smoking or was worried about his table getting a cigarette burn was unclear. After a few seconds, Tommy picked it up and blew a smoke ring at the table. It bounced off of the felt but dissipated immediately. It was still quiet. Two soldiers walked by outside, and you could tell both that they were drunk and that they were talking about the girls in Saigon. Texas bent over to take his lag shot and I got a good look at his cue stick. It was the most beautiful cue Id ever seen. It had an elaborate vine and flower inlay pattern on both halves, and a phrase in French inlaid up the axis of the heel end in a flowing script. The detail was amazing. He paused and stood up, over-thinking his shot. Either you make your lag or you dont. What does it say? I asked, looking at his stick. He answered in what sounded to me like perfect French. To doubt is uncomfortable, but to be certain is absurd, I translated. Right, he answered. My mother used to say that. She was French. Said it was Voltaire. I nodded. Your shot, I said. He lined up again, got a determined look on his face, and took his lag shot. He went all in. It was the right choice, but it didnt work out for him. Maybe if hed gone first he wouldnt have had to press and could have put the pressure on me to beat his best. But now he had to do better than his best. You could hear the ball bounce off the head railit hopped a little, a sign hed hit it just barely too hardthen you could hear it roll back to the near rail, hear it rolling slower and slower and slower, then the barely audible bump against the near rail, Everyone exhaled at the same time. My break. People were taking sides. It was mainly college kids, and I think the girls were mainly rooting for Texas. He was better looking and in better shape than Tommy or me.

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Tommy racked. I couldnt remember if there was a way you were supposed to rack for cutthroat, but Tommy racked them like I would do for eight ball, with the one at the nose and the eight in the middle. Tommy stood back, retrieved his cigarette from the rail and watched. All of the smokers seemed to take a drag in unison. Youre up, said Texas. Yeah, I said. I put the cue ball slightly above and to the left of the head spot. It just works out well for me. What Ive played most is nine ball, and you dont use all the balls in nine ball. You use all fifteen in cutthroat, and if you hammer it on all fifteen balls, the break is inherently chaotic. Ive played against guys who can chip balls off one at a time in straight pool without scattering the racked set, but Ive never lost to one of them. They might take a game or two off of me, but I always come out ahead. Opening up the break lets the game start, and until you do youre not winning, youre just avoiding losing. I hit that break really hard, and was richly rewarded. The six, nine and eleven all rolled in. Fuck me in the ass with a red hot poker, said Milton. Texas looked worried. Do I need to call my shots? I asked. You can if you wanna show off, said Tommy, but I dont need it. Texas waved me off and shook his head. I looked at the table. It wasnt bad. I guess youre taking low, said Tommy. I dont have to call yet, so I wont, I said. Tommy was alluding to the fact that the one, two, three, four and five were all still on the table, but two were missing from the middle six-to-ten group and one was missing from the high ten-to-fifteen group. The object was to have balls from your group left on the table at the end of the game. Since Id knocked in balls from two different groups, I could wait to choose which one Id keep until the end of the turn. It was tricky, but I did it. The seven and ten were close to the waist pockets, so getting them in was a cinch. The twelve and fifteen were in opposite corners, so firm contact was required, but no risk as long as you made the shot, and I took them both. The eight was guarded by the two at the right top corner, and the thirteen and fourteen were in the middle of the table. What do you think? I asked Tommy. I think Im fucked, he answered. It would have been rude to have asked for shot advice, but it would have been interesting to know how he would have played it. Texas was looking at the table in placid irritation.

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The one ball was in the way of sinking the thirteen in the top left pocket, and the three might be in the way of putting it in the left side pocket, but if I sank the thirteen in the left side, I was perfect on the fourteen in the right side pocket, so I went with that. The thirteen just barely rolled in, easy, gentle, like petting a kitten. That was the last of the high balls, so one of either Tommy or Texas was out of the game. Since Texas lost the lag, it made sense for it to be him, but it was their decision. Holy nickel-plated donkey shit, said Milton. It was quiet. The loudest sound was a college boy in a pink button-down lighting a Kool. You could hear the crinkle of the cellophane as he handled the pack, the spark wheel of his Bic, and then a faint jingle of change when he dropped the lighter back in his pocket. I have to call now, right? I asked. Texas nodded. Since all of the high balls were gone, I had to say whether I was claiming high or middle as mine. Since the one through the five were still on the table, and only the eight was left of the middle, the choice was pretty obvious, but still I looked. Yeah, Im taking low, I said, after a minute. Tommy and Texas nodded balefully. So this is what he does? Takes the cue out of your hand? asked Texas. Not like this, said Tommy. Hes good, but not this good. Theres a lot of luck here, too. Or are you seeing your anomalies here, Henry? I dont like to talk much when Im shooting, I said. Humor me. Youre about to take a thousand dollars away from me. Do you feel lucky tonight? he lit another cigarette. No. But I dont believe in luck. What do you believe in? Tommy asked. I think theres a lot of randomness in pool and with enough practice you sort through the randomness, recognize what to do, and make the next shot less random, I said. I really didnt like talking while playing. None of your rule violations, here? No crumbling at the edges? So you with one ball on the table are mocking me, who has five? I asked. Mocking, no. But tell Carl what you told me back in Hixson. Carl? I asked. Texas, Tommy said, nodding towards Texas.

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I didnt tell you anything. I asked if youd noticed, playing pool, that sometimes, for no reason, outcomes diverge from expectations. Now can you leave me the fuck alone long enough to let me sink the eight? Sorry, Tommy said. I think he was worried that Texas had taken his assertion that I was crazy a little too literally and might now be mad at him, since I wasnt acting crazy, but that wasnt what had pulled Texas in. What set the hook on Texas was greed, and the strange notion that two good players are better than one good player. Chance isnt like that. Two on one doesnt change the odds. If two tigers are chasing three runners, the fastest runner still makes it. Hes not outrunning the odds, and hes not outrunning the tigers. He just has to be barely better than the other two runners. Just barely. The cue ball was far enough up that I could sneak past the two and tap it in, but I also had a shot knocking in the eight off of the two, although doing that there was a risk the two might fall in, too. I would still win, but it was perfect the other way, so I plopped the two in. I won. Oddly, there wasnt as much of a reaction from the crowd as you might expect. The kids were mostly nine ball and eight ball players, and a lot of them didnt understand cutthroat, and so didnt understand that Id won. Melissa did, as did Uncle Roy and Biggie, and maybe a few of the frat guys. Tommy and Texas looked at each other and shrugged, and started taking apart their cues. I handed my cue back to Milton. Your table, Milt, I said. Biggie, put the proceeds in the office safe, and lock it, said Uncle Roy. What about Biggie said, then stopped. Yes sir, he said, instead, and disappeared. So thats it? Milton asked, from his stool against the wall. You fucking won? I did, I said. I wanted to say good game or something to Texas and Tommy, but thought it would come through as strained or condescending. Au revoir, I said to Texas. He nodded as he slid the halves of his beautiful cue into a leather cue bag. Tommy had put the halves of his cue into a hard aluminum case that he slung over his shoulder, then gave Melissa a hug. Milton was wanting to be excited and bounded over. I put up a palm to slow his reaction down. I didnt mean to be rude but This guy just went ten large and didnt get to make a shot, I said. We need to show some respect. Milton nodded and looked at Texas, headed for the front door. But this is fucking fantastic! he whispered, hoarsely. Youll get laid tonight for sure! As Texas left, the crowd began to break up.

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Mr. .. said Uncle Roy, looking at me. Baida, said Tommy. Uncle Roy, Henry Baida. Henry, Uncle Roy. Mr. Baida, would you care to step into my office? asked Roy. Yes, sir, I said. Tommy, would you come, too? Milton would you buy Ginny and Melissa a drink, please? And one for yourself, too. We wont be long, I said. I was reaching for my wallet to give Milton some cash for the drinks, but Roy put his hand on my arm. The drinks are on the house, he said, not to me but to the waitress. Thank you, sir. I said. I need to buy one for Tommy, though. Donald? Uncle Roy asked. Scotch. Neat, he said. I gave the waitress a twenty. Glenfiddich? she asked. Tommy nodded. This way, boys, said Uncle Roy. I looked around. No one looked threatening. Milt, stay here until I get back. Itll just be a few minutes. Dont go anywhere. Just sit here with them. Are you okay with this, Ginny? She nodded. I looked at Melissa. She smiled. Henry, how long has it been since you were here? Melissa asked. A few years, I answered. Its different now, she said. I looked at Uncle Roy. I bought this place in 1976, he said. My third neighborhood tavern. In 1977 there was a stabbing here and I decided Ismaros needed more of my attention. I hired Biggie and started coming here daily. Shall we? he asked, gesturing a path to his office. It was a small office, but it held Uncle Roy, Biggie, Tommy and me as long as we were all standing. Before we started talking, the waitress showed up with a brimming glass of scotch on a small tray and extended it to Tommy. There was five dollars of change on the tray and he waved her to take it. He took a small sip of his drink. Biggie has your winnings and I will be glad to hold them in my safe until tomorrow morning, said Uncle Roy, to me. We open at eleven. Would you like to pick it up soon afterwards.?

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Not really. Sorry, I dont mean to impose on your hospitality, but Tommy, do you by any chance pass by here on your way to school? I asked. Not exactly, but its not far out of my way. How much did I cost you tonight? I asked. He thought. Well, by busting up my game with your bearded buddy, maybe three hundred, if he actually had it. But you covered that and then won it back. Ill give you half of what you would have won if Id lost the cutthroat game if youll mule the money for me. A grand? he asked. No, five hundred. He thought and sipped his scotch. Tomorrow? he asked. No, Friday, I said. Why? he asked. Biggie and Uncle Roy looked at me with interest. If Texas is going to try to steal his money back, hes going to be looking for me to come and get it. He wont be looking for you. And even if hes looking to jump me, he wont wait around three days. Tommy shrugged. Okay by me, he said. Roy? Roy looked square at me. So you trust us? he asked. Yes, sir, I do, I answered. Then I want to trust you as well, he said. I will hold your money for the next three days, but I never want to have a pool game of that nature in my restaurant ever again, he said. It was quite exciting for the boys and girls, but word will get out that big money can be had here and a different group of people will show up. I make money by selling dollar beers to boys and girls. I make no money off of pool, and I do not wish to lose my investment in this bar. Understood? Yes, sir. You have my word. Last time I played here Stumpy still ran it, and it was a different crowd. I meant no disrespect. None taken. Biggie, put the stakes in the safe and lock it.

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Hang on, I said. Mr. Cicones, may I offer you something as a token of my thanks? I asked. No, but thank you, he said. Biggie, take a Franklin for yourself. He thought about it, then laughed. Ill take a Grant. he said. I dont want Mr. Cicones to think youre spoiling me, and besides, it werent any kind of work. Thats cool, I said. He peeled off a fifty and put the rest in a small metal drawer in the top right corner of the safe, shut the door with a solid and satisfying metallic clunk, then shot the bolt and spun the dial. Two years tuition. Lordy. When Tommy and I got back to the room with the pool tables, Milton was still there. Ginny and Melissa were talking to each other, and Milton appeared to be trying to get a word in edgewise from time to time, without success. Howdy, girls, said Tommy. So which one of you ladies am I going to walk home? said Milton. Tommy! said Melissa, and stood to give him a promising hug. Hello, Henry, said Ginny. She still looked worried. Thanks, Milt, I said. No, really, said Milton. Ill be damned happy to walk either of these two ladies home. Maybe next time? said Melissa. I need to talk to Henry, said Ginny. Oh, well, said Milton, and shrugged. Milt, thanks, I said. You were a big help. I appreciate it. Milton thought about it, frowned, lit a cigarette, saluted me with the wrong hand, smiled, and left. Kids were still looking at us as tough we were important. But Ismaros had turned back into a regular college bar. It was a few minutes before ten. Shall we? I asked Ginny.

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Sure, she said. She still didnt seem happy. See you, Tommy, I said. Good game. Good seeing you again. Melissa. She smiled her pretty smile. Ginny and I left. She didnt speak at first. She didnt hold my arm the way she had on the way to dinner. Have you done that a lot? she asked, when we were on the sidewalk. Ive played pool a lot, I said. Ive never bet $5,000 on cutthroat before, and Ive never played Tommy at cutthroat before, and Ive never played Texas before. She wasnt happy with the way I answered. She seemed to assume I either knew or should know what she was getting at and was intentionally being evasive. Unfortunately, I had no idea what she was getting at. You gambled an insane amount of money, she said. But I won, I said. But you could have lost, she said. True, I answered. But I looked at the odds and decided it was worth the risk. How can you possibly have decided it was worth risking fifteen thousand dollars? she asked. I didnt have fifteen up. I said. I had five up, and Texas had ten. The two to one odds are was one of the things that sold me on the deal. You need to explain this, she said, maybe a little crossly. Okay. So I was playing nine ball with Tommy, and won. Texas doubled Thats not what Im talking about, she said. He proposed a $15,000 bet and you went along with it. Sure. How in the world can you go along with a crazy bet like that? So, I asked. You dont bet much? Not at all, she said.

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Betting is neither a science nor an art, I said. You have to think about odds in the same way that birds think about wind speed. I looked at her and could see I got no purchase on that idea. In the game youre worried about, I said, Id beat Tommy three out of three last times wed played, and Texas looked like a good player. But chances are I had him, since I had Tommy. But you couldnt possibly know that, she said. True. But look. In games of chance, the odds are a reality. In a race between me and the odds, the odds win. In a race between any player and the odds, the odds always win. But youre not really playing against the odds. Youre playing against the other player, and hes playing against the odds. All you have to do is do better than hes doing, and you take his money. Theres nothing magical about this. She thought. I cant say she looked happy. Thats too much to gamble, she said. Not really, I said. I had it in my wallet, and if Id lost, nothing awful would have happened to me. Nobody would have beat me up or anything. I had the money, so I just would have forked over. Or Biggie would have forked over for me, I said, remembering. But nobody can afford to lose $15,000, she said, troubled. I didnt have fifteen in, I said. I had five in. He had ten. That was part of what I liked about the bet. It was two to one, and I knew I could beat Tommy. How often do you get a bet like that? But think about if youd lost, she said. If Id lost Id still have had enough money to graduate college, and then some. I got all my money gambling, anyway, so history would suggest my decision-making protocol is sound. Henry, that was just insane, she said. You shouldnt have done that. But I won, I said. But you might have lost, she said. Okay. Say I think I have a particular skill. Say I think I know how to change tires. And then you have a flat tire. And I offer to change your tire, and you say no, youd rather the Auto Club come and change your tire. And I say no, we dont have the time to wait on the Auto Club, and I go ahead and change `your tire. And then you drive

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off and nothing bad ever happens to you. The changed tire is fine. Is it okay or not okay that I changed the tire? Im always glad to have a tire changed for me, she said, but why do you want to create worry? What? Im not creating worry, Im just thinking I know what Im doing. But what if you dont? she asked. But I did. But what if you hadnt? she asked. Idve lost five K, I said. Not the end of the world. I had it in my wallet. Thats just too much to gamble, she said. Really, its not, even if you lose, if you have it, I said. Were here, she said, acknowledging that we were back in front of her dorm. Henry Baida, once again youve given me much to think about. She turned and vanished into her dorm. I walked back towards my own dorm, confused. I could understand why shed think Id been taking an unwise risk if Id lost. The fact that I hadnt lost would seem to me to have insulated me from a talk about the perils of gambling. I reached the intersection of 21st and Garland under the blue glow of a mercury vapor light and there was a young woman at the corner, looking nervous. She seemed to want to avoid contact at first, so I ignored her. But then she started looking at me. Are you in my Greek class? she asked, right before the light changed. Well, Im taking Greek, I said. , , , , , , , and all that. She was peering at me in the darkness. It was Rachel Circe. Look, I hate to ask this, she said, Im not far from my dorm but I have to walk past the entrance to the emergency room of the hospital and sometimes there are some assholes hanging outside and Id just appreciate having company on the way past. No problem, I said. We waited for the light to turn. The silence was awkward. So how are you liking Greek? I asked. She seemed a little surprised that I spoke to her.

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Excuse me? she asked, putting her hand above her breast as though worried. How are you enjoying Greek? I asked again. The light turned green for our direction. I gestured towards the street and we began to walk. She wasnt carrying anything except a small purse about the size of a Gideon Bible hanging at her right hip secured by a strong-looking brass chain across her chest to her right shoulder. It was a warm night, but she had her arms crossed in front of her as though she were chilly. If a stride can be both purposeful and worried, hers was. Its all right I guess, she said. Why? Im really enjoying it, I said. Im terrible at small talk. She didnt roll her eyes, but she seemed irritated. We passed by the entrance to the Emergency Room, and there was a group of men loitering near the entrance. One, dressed like a biker, looked at us from ten or fifteen feet away, pitched his butt, registered our presence, then moved our way. Keep moving, she said. What? This is how it starts, she said. The biker came right up to us. I stopped, and touched Rachels arm to stop her, too. She stopped, but she was obviously unhappy about it. I kind of splayed my hands at her as a way of suggesting Calm down. Were okay. It wasnt unreasonable for her to be concerned. He looked pretty tough. He was looking at me, though, not her, and he seemed to want to talk. I felt like I ought to know him. Leave us alone, demanded Rachel, loudly. We didnt do anything to you. He was a little taken aback, but looked at me rather than answering her. Aint you Henry? the biker asked. Thats me, I said, warily. Man, like, I just watched you take fifteen large offn that asshole from Houston whos been cleanin everybodys plough over to Ismaros, he said. Im about to start my shift here at the hospital, but Id just like to shake the hand of the man who just won fifteen large on one game. We shook. Thanks, man, he said. And you are? I asked. Im Purliss Pettis, but everbody calls me Skidmark. You work here, Skidmark?

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Yes, sir. I am a psychiatric nurse at this here hospital. Pleased to meet you Skidmark. This is Rachel. Skidmark stretched an earnest, tattooed hand towards Rachel. She shook his hand with a worried look. Pleased to meet you, maam, he said. And he was. Skidmark, Rachel walks by here from time to time after dark and shes worried about her safety. Isnt she pretty safe around here? Skidmark looked kind of uncomfortable, reached for a cigarette, shook it out, and lit it. Shes safe from physical harm, yes, sir, he said. But since you ask, theys been things said around here that prolly shouldna been said. His response was, admittedly, not what Id expected. Id hoped to help Rachel feel safe walking home to her dorm, but I was reinforcing her fears. What do you mean? Rachel asked. Maam, when a pretty girl like you walks by, theys a lot of guys thinks its okay to call out and ask you on a date. I mean, all of us knows youre out of our league, but still we sorta ... call out. And you think I like that? Oh, Lord no, said Skidmark. We got no shot with the likes of you, so we got nothin to lose. I mean, if you acted like you was interested any one of those guys would be in seventh heaven, but that never happens. So maybe this sexist objectification ought to stop, said Rachel. Skidmark, confused, looked at me. Now that youve met Rachel, are you going to call out at her if she walks by in the future? I asked him. Oh, fuck no. Shes a Lady, he answered. I wasnt sure this helped much. Can you maybe discourage people from making women like Rachel uncomfortable as they walk past? I promise to pound the shit out of anybody who yells out at college girls in the future, he said. No pounding, Rachel said. I have a music lab at Peabody that gets out late. I just want to walk past here without being worried.

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Yo! yelled Skidmark, with a huge, bellowing voice. Get up here. He waved his arm in a big circle. The group of men by the Emergency Room entrance looked vaguely irritated but pitched their butts and shuffled up to us. This girl is a Lady, and we been worrying her, he said, to the assembled crowd. The men all shuffled their feet uncomfortably and looked down. Called to task, they were embarrassed about the way theyd been behaving. All of us is gonna be nice to her from now on, right? The guys all shuffled around and made apologetic but noncommittal answers. Skidmark, not a large man, stepped forward and grabbed a large black man in scrubs by the ear. You hear me, you sumbitch? Yeah, yeah, said the sumbitch. I got it. We gon be nice. Okay, said Skidmark. See you boys tomorrow night, said Skidmark. The boys all slid away. And theyre all gonna listen to you? I asked. Yes, he said. Why? And why do you expect them to follow orders? asked Rachel. Skidmark thought for a few seconds. Skidmark frowned for a second or two. My ol lady made me this needlepoint pillow, he said. It says Yea though I walk through the valley of the death, I shall fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker in the whole damned valley. And every one o them guys knows it. Theyll leave you alone and the othersll catch on. Okay, said Rachel, hesitantly. Look, Im late for work, so I really gotta go, but you was always safe, physically. None of these guys is criminals. And I admit we oughta work on our manners. I apologize, but you jus wave and well take care of you. Right now, I gotta run. Evenin, he said to Rachel, tipping his cap, and turned to return to the hospital. Rachel watched him walk away with her hand at her throat, like someone who was having a hard time believing what she is seeing. What was that? she asked. Hard to explain. Its a Southern deal, You have to explain, she said. We were walking again. He knows you now, so hell treat you differently in the future. Hell make sure all of his friends do, too.

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Why? Im not sure Im the best person to explain this, but Southerners have a tendency to lump people into groups. Black or white. American or un-American. Alabama or Auburn. And? she asked. Then they act like they cant understand each other. The white cant understand the black. The American resolutely cannot understand the un-American, or even what it perceives to be un-American. Those people protesting the Viet Nam war are completely different than Americans, so they must be Communists. And Alabama/Auburn? she asked. I thought for a second. Actually, that runs far deeper than black/white or American/Communist, I answered. She nodded silently. So? she asked. When Southerners see people as groups, they can be hard. The Jim Crow laws are a good example. Blacks were seen as a group, and the legislators seem to have had no trouble passing all these mean-spirited laws. But if you ask a privileged Southern man about the Black woman who raised him, hell describe her as a saint. Theres a tendency to see individual members of the group entirely different than the group as a whole. Hard to explain. We were at the front door of her dorm. You refer to southerners as them, she said. You dont regard yourself as a southerner? No. Not at all, I said. You sound kind of southern, she said. Im a military brat, I said. She nodded. But a lot of the bases were in Mississippi and Florida, then I went to high school in Chattanooga. I was thinking you were the Other to me, but you seem to think of yourself as the Other to them. Not following you, I said, still in front of her dorm. If wed been on a date, this would have been where I kissed her good night, but we werent on a date. There was a pause of a few seconds while I looked at her and she thought about what was happening. I was clueless.

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How about we have a glass of wine? she asked. This was an unexpected and, to me, hasty suggestion. I dont drink, I said. I forgot. Youre religious, she said. No, not really, I said. I just dont drink. Where would you get a drink around here, anyway? The graduate students pub is just around the corner. In the basement of my dorm, she said. Okay, I said. I wasnt sure where this was going, but to say Hey, Im tired and just won large then my geometry teachers favorite niece got mad at me about it so Im going to pass seemed an inappropriate response. I followed her around the dimly-lit sidewalk to the basement entrance on the right side of the dorm. Right side if you were facing North, anyway. Are you sure Im allowed in? I asked. Sure. Why? Im not a grad student. She thought a little, then kind of shrugged. You know, the grad students always seem to be happy to see me, so I dont expect a problem. She opened the door and led the way in. It was not well-lit, the ceiling seemed low, the furniture was indifferent, there werent many people present, all of them were male, and all of them recognized Rachel. Glasses were raised, salutations were exclaimed. There were maybe ten tables with three or four chairs each and a kind of bar where a few bearded men in their twenties sat on cushioned stools, leaning back. They all greeted Rachel as she approached. Hi, guys. This is Henry from my Greek class, she said. Were not dating or anything. They waved, I waved back. Ill have a red wine, she said, to the bartender. She may have made a slight airkiss gesture with her mouth. The bartender was happy to see her. He put down his copy of Zur Genealogie der Moral and removed the screw cap to fill a water glass from a green glass gallon jug of red wine.

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Name your poison, the bartender said, looking at me. As long as its Gallo Paisano, Rachels sedative of choice, or Taylor Lake County White from our struggling refrigerator. Hi, Im Henry, I said, extending my hand. Im Hermes, he said, shaking. How about soda water? I asked. He raised his eyebrows. Usually, the answer would be no, he said. But youre in luck. Or may be in luck. A few days ago a guy came around and gave me a bunch of cases of this water called Perrier, which he pronounced Perry Ur, and told me it was a cross between club soda and mineral water. I can give you one of those, if you like. I dont know what to charge you for it, though. We got it for free. Ive been calling it Moly. Perrier, said Rachel, pronouncing it correctly. What? asked the bartender. Shes telling you how its pronounced in French, I said. Why Moly? I asked. Because the first time I gave one to Scott over there he said Holey moley, thats weird. But hes from Wadley so there are some things in life to which he has not been exposed. Ill try a moly, and you can give me the Perrier for free and charge me a dollar for a glass of ice without offending ethics. Oh wow, thats so cool, he said, slapping his palms on the bar. With this kind of enthusiasm he had to be high. I was worried about how to deal with the conflict between giving you the Perry-err. Perrier, said Rachel. Sorry, Pear-yay, said the bartender, because the university is paying me. So even though I hate institutions, I was wondering would it be, like, moral for me to give you this soda water for free since the university wouldnt make any money off of it. I mean, if everybody employed by the university acted like that, then the university wouldnt have any money, but thats more of an Aristotelian or even Millsean question than Nietzchean. But you solved the problem for me, man. Thanks. Mine? Rachel asked looking at the glass of wine.

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am.

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Yeah, sure, the bartender answered. Mine is elsewhere. I drink therefore I Go take a seat, Ill bring it right out.

We found a table and sat. The table had a plastic tablecloth patterned like red and white plaid cloth and two of those caf chairs with curved wood backs. The bartender showed up almost immediately with two water glassesone with Rachels wine, the other filled with crushed ice119and a pale green teardrop-shaped bottle. Id never seen foreign water before. Hed uncapped it with a bottle opener before he brought it out. I looked around at the other tables and everybody else had regular-sized wineglasses that held about a quarter of what Rachels did, but then everyone else in the bar was male and none of them were wearing miniskirts. I think I understand your description of the Southern male as displaying a disjointed personality capable of seeing individuals as displaying traits that are not present in groups of those same individuals. Why do you think that is? she asked. Gack.
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Wilson, the bartender, quotes a Monty Python song popular with philosophy majors in 1974, but Rachel finds it jejune and does know acknowledge the joke. Henry has never heard of Monty Python. Immanuel Kant Was a real piss-ant Who very rarely stable Heidigger, Heidigger Was a boozy beggar Who could think you under the table David Hume Could out-consume Schopenhauer and Hegel And Wittgenstein Was a beery swine Who was just as sloshed as Schlegel Theres nothing Nietzche couldnt teach y bout the raisin of the wrist Socrates himself was particularly pissed John Stuart Mill Of his own free will After half a pint of shandy was particularly ill Plato they say Could stick it away Half a crate of whiskey every day Aristotle, Aristotle Was a beggar for the bottle And Hobbes was fond of his dram And Renee Descartes Was a drunken fart I drink therefore I am Yes and Socrates himself is particularly missed A lovely thinker but a bugger when hes pissed 119 I dont know if Ive mentioned it, but I love crushed ice.

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Im not sure thats exactly what I meant, but I think people have a tendency to think of their own lives as unique and to think of the lives of others as ordinary and average. This might encourage them to think that the others in their lives are extraordinary, as well. A bigoted rich woman may think that her Black yard-man and housekeeper are gifted and wonderful and honest but that the majority of Blacks are not, when in fact her Black employees are typical and averagethat most members of the group are as smart and gifted as her employees. I sipped the Perrier. It was good. I wouldnt prefer it to plain water on all occasions, but it was good. Especially in crushed ice. I dunno. I shrugged. I was thinking more of the nature of being, she said. The being of consciousness is a being of such that in its being, its being is in question. Perhaps the duality of perception is a failure to understand the nature of being.120 She appeared to take a sip of her wine, but about a third of the contents of the glass disappeared. Not following you, I said. The being of consciousness does not coincide with itself in a full equivalence. That kind of equivalence, such as the in-itself, can be expressed as being what it is. In the in-itself there is not a particle which is not wholly within itself without distance, without separation. When being is conceived like that there is no duality. She paused to sip another third of her glass. This dualitygroup/not groupI think is a symbol a sign, that southern men have not evolved into the in-itself consciousness that we should all strive for. Well, I agree that theres a conflicting duality there, but assuming that the group as a whole shares the traits you observe in the individual members of that group you know leads to a different group of problems, I said. I couldnt tell whether I was really out of my depth or this was utter bullshit. Nevertheless, I had managed to shock Rachel. What kind of problems could that possibly cause? she asked. It would lead to the unification, the in-itself-ness, of the southern male consciousness. Thats not what happens, I said. It leads to stereotypes, and thats part of whats wrong. I really wasnt even sure my answer was responsive. Honestly, that wasnt the thing about it that struck me the most. It was the Otherness of it. Otherness, I said. Partly it was the result of different spheres of perception, but part of it was that those guys were all so weird, she said. The bartender showed up with a green glass
120

Rachel has been reading Sartre.

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gallon jug of wine and refilled Rachels glass. She leaned her head back and smiled warmly and a little lazily at him. He smiled back. Well, you probably seemed novel to them, too. Skidmark said And what kinda name is that? she demanded. A nickname. Im betting he didnt pick it for himself. But what he said was that they all knew you were out of their league. So to them you are this Other you talk about. They dont identify with you in any way, so the manners they know dont seem to apply. She nodded silently and took an actual sip of her wine. I never met a group of men like that. Wearing scrubs, or dressed all in black with earrings, Confederate flag do-rags. Weird. You find odd things at the margins, I said. What? she looked at me crossly. Its not odd for people who live on the margins to have eccentricities. And I think that people standing outside the emergency room entrance at eleven on a week night arent far from the margin, one way or another. She thought about this and pulled back a significant percentage of her wine. So were you always religious? she asked, No, I answered, hesitantly. You had a conversion experience? she asked, No, I answered, again hesitantly. William James said that there are two types of religious people, those who have a powerful conversion experience, and those who are quietly religious from birth. That sounds right, I said. So which are you? she asked, taking a modest, and maybe slightly sloppy, slurp of her wine. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Im neither, I said. Im not a religious person. Oh, come on, she said. You dont drink. Youre taking Greek to read the Bible. You dont think Nixon is a criminal.

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Well, Amtrak is criminal, I said. I dont know if Nixon is. Talking about model trains instead of Cambodia and Watergate may be a crime in and of itself, she said, although she said it somewhat genially. So have you always been this, like, Christian Republican, Baptist kind of a guy? I grew up in Manhattan, so I dont know how you get to be that way. She finished her wine. Im really not any of those things, I said, trying to drink up my Perrier. Then what are you, Henry Baida? Im a student. Double major in Math and Physics, I said. The bartender showed up at Rachels elbow and refilled her wine glass. He placed another bottle of Perrier and a glass of crushed ice in front of me, then coughed gently. Excuse me, said the bartender, but we need to close in thirty minutes. Thanks, I said. Rachel ignored him. And what were you before you were a student? she asked. I was a gambler, I said, opening the new bottle of Perrier. Oh yeah, she said. Your buddy Skidmark was talking about that. So you won fifteen dollars off of somebody from Houston. Again, you and Skidmark seem so much like the Other to me. That hed go out of his way to shake your hand over a fifteen dollar bet. Why would a person do such a thing? Strange things happen on the margins, I said. Im wondering what these fifteen dollars mean to you, she said. The conceptual pieces of knowledge we acquire in our history with the Other, and you seem to view your fellow southerners as the Other, produce a stratum constitutive of the psychic body. So far as we suffer our physical experiences reflectively we constitute them as a quasi-object by means of an accessory reflection. Observation comes from ourselves. What did you observe when you won your fifteen dollars? That the guys I was playing had very nice pool cues. How? One of them had a little red demon inlaid into his cue. The other had an elaborate entertained floral pattern, with a line in French. She took a sip of her drink and sat up. What did the French say? she asked.

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Le doute est inconfortable, mais d'avoir confiance est absurde,121 I answered. As best I recall. Ive just got high school French. Thats Voltaire, she said. She gulped at her wine. Thats what Texas said, I said. Texas? she asked. One of the guys I was playing against. People like you speak French in pool halls? Look, its getting late, Im tired, maybe we can knock this off and go on home, I said. No, really. Guys who are really into pool speak French? Well, Texas did. Where is this pool hall? she asked. Its not a pool hall, its a bar named Ismaros down on Elliston Place. Why was it so important to you to win fifteen dollars? she asked, gulping down some more wine. To apprehend oneself as an undifferentiated transcendence is not yet to apprehend oneself as the partial structure of a We-subject. Are you that pure exemplification of the human species that Sartre talked about? I doubt it, I said. There were three fingers of wine in her glass and she bolted them, then raised her arm, rotating her hand gently as though unscrewing a light bulb. She smiled at me. Time to go, she said. The bartender arrived immediately. I was expecting a check, but he didnt have one. Five dollars, he said. Are you sure? I asked. Three glasses of wine and two glasses of ice, he said, worried in a pained way. Yeah, but those were massive glasses of wine, I said. One dollar per? Youre sure?
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Doubt is uncomfortable, but certainty is absurd.

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The rules say what to charge per glass, he said. All right, I said, and gave him a ten. Keep it. He looked utterly delighted. Thank you, sir, he said. Walk me home, Henry Baida, she said. We left, her gait seeming much more relaxed than when we came in. She smiled and waved at all the grad students in a way that suggested she enjoyed their attention. As we reached the door she took my arm. I opened the heavy oak door with my other arm and we emerged into the cool but humid night. She held my arm up the short staircase and around the short bricklaid path to the front door of her dorm. She stopped just short of the front door light, still holding my arm, and looked at me with a mysterious, inquisitive look in her eyes. Were all of those guys philosophy majors? I asked. Almost all of them were grad students, she answered, amiably. Most of them are studying philosophy, but the pub also draws in its fair share of astronomers and mathematicians. Physics, some of the time, but not tonight. The odd d-school student. D-school? I asked. Divinity school. Guys working on being preachers. Or pastors. Or ministers. Or whatever. So would you like to come upstairs? she asked. Im not sure whether I registered surprise. Thanks, but its probably not a good idea. But I really appreciate the invitation, I said. She frowned at me for a few seconds. Youre a difficult man, Henry Baida, she said. She then placed her palms on my cheeks and pulled me toward her and kissed me fully, thoroughly, soulfully, wetly, swirlingly. It was a wonderful and strange thing, that kiss. She looked at me and smiled. What do you think of that, Henry Baida? she asked. I think that strange things happen in the margins, I answered. They do. Things can happen upstairs, too, she said, then thought better of her forwardness and pulled back a bit. Good night, she said, and kissed me on the cheek. She smiled and turned and walked into the light of the lamp nest to the front door of her dorm, maybe twenty feet away. At the door she paused and waved, almost shyly. Stick to your guns, Henry Baida, and you will go far, she said, and smiled. Then she disappeared into her dorm.

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Lordy.

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Chapter 21: To Chattanooga for Thanksgiving Cisco was from Atlanta, he was driving home for Thanksgiving, and the road from Nashville to Atlanta runs through Chattanooga, and he, being a nice guy, offered to drive me back to Chattanooga. I told him I was traveling with Ginny, and he said that was cool, and that he was also going to bring his friend Walt Gwinnett from some other dorm, a friend from high school. Everybody agreed wed leave at about five on Wednesday.122 I was packed and ready to go, so when Cisco knocked on my door I picked up my suitcase and we left. When we got down to the parking lot, Walt was leaning against the car, in blue Blazer, blue Brooks Brothers button-down, khakis complete with alligator belt with monogrammed belt buckle, and Topsiders. Oh, hi, said Walt, as though mildly surprised to see us. Walt, Henry. Henry, Walt, said Cisco, unlocking the trunk. Walton Gwinnett, said Walt, extending his hand. Henry Baida, I answered, shaking his hand. Id never seen Ciscos car before. It was a big black Pontiac Firebird Trans-Am without the optional gold detailing. It was clear he liked it. After I looked at it, he looked at me and cocked an eyebrow. The gold bird on the hood would have been too much for a guy like you, I said. Damn straight, he said, smiling, and tossed our bags into the not-so-big trunk. Walt held the door for me to get into the pretty small back seat. No coin toss, no discussion, I was in the back. Cisco started the car and backed out of the parking space. It had a big V-8, Glasspack kind of a rumble. It was already dark. Cisco pulled out of the dorm parking lot onto 21st Ave., then turned right onto Broadway. Walt looked at Cisco with concern. Why did you turn the wrong way? asked Walt. Were picking up a friend of Henrys, Cisco answered. Walt nodded idly and lit a cigarette with a metal butane lighter. Roll down the window, if youre going to smoke, said Cisco. Walts expression indicated that he thought Ciscos request to be an affront, but after a pause he complied and cranked down the window. Cisco turned onto Scarritt and found the front of Ginnys dorm after a few minutes. Ginny was sitting out front, tweed jacket, knitted scarf, white blouse, blue jeans, dark blue Ferragamos, hair pushed back by a black velvet headband. Pretty girl. She didnt know Cisco or his car, so when she looked at us, it was speculatively.
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In 1974 colleges didnt schedule classes around the students convenience, and assumed theyd all be there. If you had a 5:00 p.m. class on the day before Thanksgiving, it was possible that your professor would give a test at that time, and record your grade as a zero if you were not present.

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Is that her? Cisco asked. Yeah, I answered. Jesus H. Christ, she is lights-out gorgeous, said Cisco. Shes cute, I agreed. Walt looked up for the first time to see who we were talking about. Cisco cut the engine and hopped out, approaching Ginny directly, and with a smile. He extended his hand. Ginny? he asked, extending his hand. I was sitting behind Walt, and Id expected him to get out of the car to greet Ginny, but he made no move to do so, so I slid over to exit from the drivers side. Yes? Ginny replied, shaking his hand, tentatively. Im Francis. Francis Atwater. A friend of Henrys. He was saying this as I was clambering out of his car. Her shaking of his hand became more cooperative and friendly once she saw me. She smiled at him. Hey, Ginny, I said. She looked at me speculatively and waved. It was the first time Id seen her face to face since my last pool game. She wasnt sure what she thought of me. Cisco picked up her bag, opened the trunk, made room for her bag, closed the trunk lid, then returned his attention to Ginny. He smiled and placed his hand on her back, cooperatively moving her towards her seat. He opened the passenger door, where Walt was still seated. Walt, this is Ginny, he said. Ginnys going to be sitting in the front seat, so you need to move to the back. Walt tried his best not to frown, and stood up next to Ginny and Cisco. He smiled a hollow smile. Hello, Ginny, Im Walton Gwinnett, he said, offering his hand. She shook it. He sat in the passenger-side back seat, somewhat heavily, without removing his jacket. Hi, Henry, she said. Hey. Good to see you again. She waved again and sat in the passenger seat. Cisco unhinged the front seat to allow me access to the back seat. I wish you were shorter, I said. Shes so cute, he answered, too softly for her to hear. Smart, too, I said, and got in. There just wasnt much room in that back seat. Walt frowned at me. Ginny got into the passenger seat before Cisco could get around to

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hold her door, so she was in before him. He got in, sat, put the key in the ignition, then turned to her and flashed that bandit smile. She almost gasped. Ready? he asked. Uh-huhm, she answered, nodding, captivated. That fast. Cisco eased the Firebird into West End traffic, then navigated his way over to I-24. Once on the freeway he gave Ginny another smile, not so bright as the first. So tell me about yourself, he said. She seemed surprised he asked. Oh, okay, she said. Im a sophomore at Peabody. Im thinking Ill major in Psychology or Math and get a teachers certificate and maybe be a teacher. How about you? You like teaching? Cisco asked. I dont know, but I think so, she answered. Since I was a little kid Ive been involved in sports, and Ive always imagined how I would be coaching the teams Ive been on. What sports? Cisco asked. I like them all, but I mainly play soccer and tennis, she said. So you want to teach Psychology to high school students? Thats the thing. Most high schools dont have many Psychology classes, maybe one per semester. Peabody has a really good psychology program, but Im not gonna find a full-time job as a high school psychology teacher so since Ive always gotten good grades in Math, I was thinking that I could also teach that. Anyway, thats what Im thinking now. Henry back there may be good at Math, he said. I sat up. I hadnt expected to be mentioned. Walt, who had not seemed to be paying any attention, looked at me laconically and cocked an eyebrow. Last week I asked him what pi was and he gave it to me to nine decimal places, Cisco said. Walt shook out a Benson & Hedges menthol and was about to place it between his lips. Cisco, displaying a hitherto-unknown eyes-inthe-back-of-the-head talent, said No smoking, Walt. Walt made an irritated face and put his cigarette away. Ginny seemed to think for a few seconds. Henry took Math from my Aunt Margaret, so I expect he knows it, she said. I looked up, and saw that Cisco was looking at me inquisitively in the rear view mirror. I nodded. Sometimes Math isnt the real question. But the fact that Henry can remember that pi to nine decimal places just means he has a good memory. It doesnt mean hes smart. Dont get me wrong, Henry, she said, without looking back at me, I know

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youre smart in math. What if, though, being good in math, and here she wasnt talking to me any more, but to Cisco, causes other problems? What kind of problems does Math lead to? Cisco asked. Accountancy, said Walt. Ignore Walt, said Cisco. Hes acting like old money. Ginny looked at him blankly. Careers are a bother. She nodded as though that explained something. Maybe you get to understand something better than the people around you, but still they worry about you. Or you do things that worry them, she said. Like? Cisco asked. Sometimes people do things that people close to them, or around them, or friends of theirs, dont understand. It can make you think about them differently. Walt looked at me. Im not sure I follow, said Cisco, looking at Ginny earnestly for the second or two traffic safety allowed the driver of a Firebird. Sometimes you get an idea about a person, and then they do something, so you get a different idea of them. Enough about me. What about you? Those are great shoes, Cisco said to Ginny. I couldnt see them. She smiled and looked at her shoes, then straight ahead into the darkness of I-24, still smiling. This ride is only ten minutes old, said Walt, to me, not loud enough for the front seat to hear. I know, I said. What did you do? Fuck her sister? What was that? asked Ginny. Nothing, Walt and I chimed in together. So? he asked. So what? I answered. Did you have sex with her best friend, or what?

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Gack, no, I said. Nothing like that. What are you guys talking about? she asked. Nothing, we both called out. So what? he asked. I won a pool game, I said. So? I bet a lot on it, I said. So? She was worried I was going to lose, I said. Oh, for Christs sake, he said. What are you telling him, Henry? she asked. Just guy talk, I said. Dont get distracted by the back seat, sweetheart, said Cisco. You were telling me the story of your life. Youre being very solicitous, she said, still smiling. Im just interested in people, he said. Walt rolled his eyes and laid his head back on the headrest. Well, she said, I graduated from GPS.123 I was presented at the Cotton Ball, and most of the girls in my high school class were old friends of mine, but I dont like all that society stuff. Im not a very girlie girl, but I think girls and women are important. I like sports but dont like being called a jock. Why not? Cisco asked. Oh, I dont know. Hard to say. I dont like labels. Like, Im all in favor of womens rights. I hope the E.R.A. passes. I dont think women should be second-class citizens. But I just dont like Bella Abzug or Gloria Steinem and would just rather find my own way.
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Girls Preparatory School in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

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It seems like you care pretty deeply about this, said Cisco, giving her a brief, earnest look. Not really, she said. My mom and my dad both work and I never grew up with this subservient deal. Nobody ever told me I couldnt do things because I was a girl. So maybe I didnt grow up like everybody. But the fact that I think girls should be able to do whatever they want doesnt mean I want to be Shirley Chisholm. So what do you like about soccer? he asked. She closed her eyes. The beautiful game, she said. When I was little, they played me on defense, because I was fast and didnt have those small skills, those little toe-tapping deals that the coachs kids had. But once I got to middle school and got on the all-star teams they moved me to forward and anytime a halfback could feed me a ball, I could take a shot. It really is a wicked game. You see the ball sailing through the air, you feel the people around you, and in slow-motion you see whether to head it, chest it, or kick it, and you make your choice and WHAM it slams back into real time and youre fighting for the ball. Its just wonderful. I played soccer in high school, said Cisco. Really? What did you play? she asked. I was the goalie. Walt shook his head dismissively and looked out the window. That makes sense, youre tall, she said. I dont think I was as talented as you were, said Cisco, at which Walts expression conveyed feigned outrage. Walt didnt seem to think much of Cisco as a soccer player. But you also played tennis? Walt sat up. Yeah. Love it. Were you good? Well, I was All-State in Tennessee for three years, she said. Excuse me, said Walt, all the sudden excited. Are you Ginny McColl? Thats me, she said. Jesus, Walt said. I saw you play Chrissie Evert in 1972. You damned near beat her. Yeah, well if youre talking about the Atlanta game, it was an exhibition match, and Chrissie wasnt playing at her best. She was originally scheduled to play Billie Jean

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King, but then Billie Jean got worried she might lose and bailed at the last minute, and I just happened to be there. And didnt you show up at Charlotte and play mixed doubles with Ilie Nastase? I played against him and Rosemary Casals, yes. Margaret Court had the flu, and Marty Reissen asked me to stand in at the last minute. That was a great match, he said. Youve got a hell of a ground stroke. Thanks, she said. What took you to Charlotte? I was in mens doubles. I flagged out of the junior singles in the quarter-finals. Who with? Doubles, I mean. Charlie Owens, said Walt. She smiled. I saw Charlie beat Pete Fleming. Great game. He then hit on me. Sounds like Charlie. I was sixteen. Still sounds like Charlie, said Walt. Why arent you playing now? Peabody doesnt have a tennis team, she said. Yeah, but we do, and were right across the street. The tennis courts are closer to your dorm than to mine. And several of the women on our team are from Peabody. I dont know how it works, but if youre interested, theres a way for you to play for us, and Id love to have you as a mixed doubles partner. Youre on the team? The actual S.E.C. team? she asked. Too soon to say, he answered. Im going to try out. I was Georgia All-State and All-Southeast in high school, but I dont really know if theres a place for me as a freshman. But Ive seen you play. With you as a doubles partner, Id be wed be in for sure. Thats very sweet, she said. Id love to. Well work it out on the trip back, he said. Numbers and all. Youre fit? Not really. Last time I played was over a year ago.

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Lets start running together, he said. She smiled. I had no idea you were such a star, said Cisco, and smiled at her. She noticed. I like tennis, she said. What else do you like? Cisco asked. Math, psychology, shoes, soccer, Neil Young, turnip greens, and my Aunt Margaret, she said. And what do you dislike? Cisco asked. Walt frowned and sat back, aware hed lost her, at least for the moment. Cold ketchup. Gold chains on men. Anchovies. Boiled okra, multiple choice tests, oysters, electric stoves, Scotch whiskey, and backgammon, she said. And gambling, she added, as an afterthought. Walt glanced at me. Why gambling? Cisco asked. Walt looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes people just gamble insane amounts of money, she said. Its like a compulsion. Maybe like a disease. Are you talking about Henry? asked Cisco. Maybe a little, she said. I thought he won that pool game, said Cisco. He did, but thats not the point, she said. You were there? he asked. Yes, I was, she said. What happened? Cisco asked. Henry wont talk about it and Milton seems to exaggerate. Milton? she asked. Jimmy Milton. A guy from our floor. He was there, said Cisco. Ginny craned around to look at me. He was the curly-headed guy sitting next toy you during the game. He smokes, I said. She frowned slightly, not remembering him. When Donnie and I went off with

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his uncle to work out how the money would be held, I asked him to stay with you until I got back, I said. She shook her head, puzzled. I think you must be misremembering, she said. I think it was just me and Melissa from my Art History class that waited for you boys to get done talking in secret. All right, I said. She looked through the window into the darkness as Cisco eased around a semi on I-24. We all looked ahead in the darkness as Cisco merged back into the right lane. So tell me the story, said Cisco, to Ginny. Hed scaled the personality back a few degrees and his tone was more measured. He wanted to hear the story. Ginny paused for a few seconds, twirling her hair. She crossed her legs in a funny way that put her left shoe on the dashboard, then nipped at her index fingernail with her front teeth. Well it was just odd, she said. All I could see was the back of her head. I knew Henry was a pool player, and were both from Chattanooga, and my Aunt Margaret really likes him, so a few weeks ago when this AE from Memphis I know took me to this pace called Ismaros I thought that it would be cool to take Henry there. And so we decided to go to dinner at Ellistons and then go play pool. I just wanted to see him play, if he was so good. And then when we got to Ismaros he knew people there, but it wasnt like you know people in college. These people were all hard, somehow. Even Melissa, who seems sweet as pie in class, she seemed to know this other set of rules. Henry? Cisco asked me, through the rear-view mirror. I met Melissa in Hixson, Tennessee a few years ago. I went to jail for getting in a fight with her boyfriend, a big bruiser whose name I forget. She wasnt called Melissa, then. Everybody called her Rosie. Why? Cisco and Ginny asked together. They said she was a riveter. Also she has long red curly hair. Looker? asked Cisco. Beautiful, I answered. Cisco nodded. Sorry, Ginny, said Cisco. Ginny cocked her head and I could see she was frowning a little, as though she wanted to argue whether Melissa was beautiful or not. So tell me the rest of the story. Well, the boys started playing pool, and Henry takes over for this strange little guy he seems to know That was Milton, I said.

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Who? she asked. Milton. The guy we were talking about earlier. Okay, she said, a little hesitantly. Then they started making bets. And every time they did, Melissa, who I would say was dressed a little trampy, would hop off her stool and scoop up the money, and I think maybe she was slipping it into her bra. I didnt really want to look. Cisco looked at me in the rear vie mirror. I nodded. Walt, who had given no indication he was paying any attention at all, leaned back his head and grinned at the mental image. How much? asked Cisco. I dont really remember, she said. Not much, at first. Henry? asked Walt. Milt was thirty bucks up. I bought his game for forty bucks. Interesting, said Cisco. He was playing a hustler I know from outside Chattanooga. Good player. Sooo You were doing Milt a favor? Yes, I said. Funny, he answered. Thats not the way Milt tells it. Hell play that game by himself some day, I said. I could see Cisco smile in the rear view mirror. So what happened next? Cisco asked Ginny. Odd being outnumbered by boys, she answered What? I have two sisters. I went to a girls high school, and played sports on girls teams. Its just odd to be in a conversation where everyone else is boys. You keep veering off into odd directions. Sorry. I want to hear the story, said Cisco.

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Okay. Well, at first it was really outta sight. Henry dropped two twenties on the table and Melissa came over and scooped them up and I felt like, wicked cool, because I just wanted to see him play and here we were already in a big money game, although I wasnt sure why Melissa got to keep all the money. But they all seemed to know her, for some reason, and then Henry won that first game, the forty dollar one, and Im all excited, thinking Jeez, hes really good, and he just won forty dollars, which is a fantastic amount of money for winning a pool game, and then the guy he was playing wanted to play for four times that. Her head sagged. Thats an astonishing amount of money to gamble, Im thinking, she said. I mean, thats more money than some people make in a week. Henry? asked Cisco. Yeah, Donnie wanted to bet $160, but my money was all on the table, anyway. But Id beat him three out of three at the Hixson Lanes. Sorry, said Cisco, to Ginny. Are you sure you want to hear my story? Ginny asked. Because it sounds like what you want to hear is me telling Henrys story. Yeah, fair enough, said Cisco. Walt waved his head from side to side as if to express that he understood her point. So after that Henry lost. He seemed so good, but this other guy was better, and at one point Henry forked over $120 on top of $40 so he was gambling $160 on one pool game! It was just insane. And he won that but then the guy in the orange tee shirt doubled down on him again and he lost. He lost $320. Thats just insane. Why? Cisco asked. $320 is as much spending money as Ill need for the entire semester. To bet it all on a pool game is just dangerous. Yeah, but what happened next? Cisco asked. Henry doubled down again. It was way past time to stop. But he put six hundred dollars down on the table. Have you ever seen a hundred dollar bill? Cisco smiled. Not often, he said. Well Henry had six of them. And that was only the start. The guy from Texas then said they should play this other game for $15,000. Walt sat up and looked at me. I shrugged. Milton said it was Cutthroat, said Cisco.

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I guess thats what they said, Ginny answered. But it turns out Henry had $5,000 in his wallet, and he laid it down to make that bet. I was just stunned when I saw he was carrying around $600, I mean, Ive never seen anything like that before. But then he laid down fifty hundreds. Fifty. Ive never seen that much money before. It was bad enough that he had it on him. That he was betting it nearly gave me a heart attack. Why are you so worried? Cisco asked. Its not your money. I like Henry. I dont like seeing him doing something stupid. I mean, he could have lost his entire education fund. Walt glanced sideways at me. I shook my head. So how did the game go? Cisco asked. It was awful, she said. Every time he took a shot, if he missed it, it might cost him $15,0000. Walt looked at me. I shook my head no. So how many did he miss? Cisco asked. There was a pause. I dont remember, she answered. Okay, this was fucked up. I hadnt missed any shots in that last game, and thats the game she was talking about. So who won? Cisco asked. He knew the answer, but he was talking to Ginny. Henry won, Ginny said. But thats not the point. Whats the point? asked Cisco. It could have gone horribly wrong. Some chances you just dont take. He won a lot, right? Yes, she said. From what I hear, it was like enough to pay for two years of college, Cisco said. I suppose, said Ginny. And he won, said Cisco. Yes, but he shouldnt have taken the risk, she said, primly and confidently. There was a long silence in the car. After a few minutes Walt spoke up. I have a Jeep. Yeah? asked Cisco.

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I like to ride off-road. Nobody else at Westminster seemed to go for it, so I kept it to myself. But on weekends, Id drive up just north or Atlanta and run around on dirt tracks through mud. Hell of a time, said Walt. There was a pause of a few seconds. Dont your parents belong to the Piedmont Driving Club? asked Cisco. Yes, of course, answered Walt. There was another awkward pause. Okay, Walt continued. So last year I got stuck in a traffic jam outside of Athens on 85. I wasnt sure what caused the jam, but we were pointed south and traffic south wasnt moving at all. I actually know that area outside Athens pretty well. My dad used to take me dove hunting not far from there. So I decided that waiting in the traffic on I-85 was getting us nowhere, so I decided to cut across the median, do a freeway uturn, and pick up US 79 south, which Id done many times when I was playing in lots of tennis tournaments. University of Georgia is up there and at the time I thought I wanted to go to Georgia and play on their tennis team. So whenever they sponsored a tournament, or even a clinic, I went. So I knew where I was and the median was no problem in a Jeep so I cruised across the median and headed north. Ginny was silent. Okay, I said, not sure where he was going with the story. I was dating a girl named Janie at the time, Walt said. Beautiful girl. Met her at a tennis tournament. She played for North Springs, third starter for singles and lead on womens doubles. Gorgeous and smart. Ginny looked at him as though she wasnt sure she liked this story. So I was driving my CJ, although you could have crossed that median in any passenger car. It was flat and grassy and dry, and so we headed back north on 85. Janie got wide-eyed and freaked out when I got on the median and said she couldnt believe Id done that. I didnt get it and asked Did what? and it turns out she was upset because I drove across the median! I resented this cause I knew what I was doing, I mean Id driven through mud flats and deep swamps and over big rocks so I was tres qualified to drive across a median strip, or to decide whether it was safe to drive across a median strip, in a Jeep, but I just pointed out to her hat I didnt even have to shift to four wheel drive, that it was perfectly safe, and that Id spent millions of hours driving through swamps and mud and dirt and wouldnt have done it if I thought thered been any risk at all. She asked me what woulda happened if wed gotten stuck? She kept asking that over and over. She couldnt accept that I actually knew what I was doing. She didnt think the fact that Id been right, that we gotten across the median with no trouble at all, meant anything. She was stuck on the fact that Id taken a risk that she wouldnt have taken. Because she woulda been uncomfortable driving like that herself, she didnt think I should, either. The fact that I had more experience and was actually right cut no ice. Ginny had her back to me but I could tell she was scraping her index finger across her incisors. There was a pause. But Henry could have lost fifteen thousand dollars. I shook my head. Lordy.

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Henry? Walt asked me. The most I could have lost was 5K, I said. It was like a fifteen thousand dollar bet only in one sense. And thats not the way you think about it, I said. Explain, said Walt. Im not sure how he got appointed moderator, but he did seem to be good at it. To me it was a five thousand dollar bet on two-to-one odds. I had to risk $5,0000 to maybe win $10,000. When I made that bet, Id beat Donnie several times and Texas once. Two-to-one is pretty strong odds against people Ive beat. For me not to make the bet, I figured either I needed to have a less than one in three chance of winning, which I didnt, or it had to be more than I could afford, which it wasnt. Ginny opened her mouth as though to talk but Walt cut her off. So you only had five grand up? Walt asked. Yeah, I said. Only five grand? Ginny asked. Who has fifty hundreds in his wallet? Walt looked at me. Yeah, well. Usually I dont, I said. But you wanted to go to Ismaros, and Ive played it before. Good-sized money changed hands last time I was there. Its a lot cleaner now. Frat boys and sorority girls. So youre used to having five thousand dollars in you wallet? she asked, as though I must be lying. Yeah, sure. Not all the time, but, really, you know, Im a gambler. Betting is what I do. And the most I ever won in a card game was at a party in New Orleans and I had to go back to my car for openers. I felt like I kid buying in to the grownup table. From then on, if Im going somewhere I might play cards or pool, I take along some money. Okay, so how much money do you have on you now? she asked. I hesitated. Some, I said, after a pause. Do you have five thousand dollars on you again? she asked. No, I said, carefully. I was aware that this answer, while accurate, was misleading, and might lead to trouble.

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Thank God, she said. Carrying around that kind of cash is just insane. She shook her head in disbelief. Wait, she said, How do we know youre telling the truth? I dont have $5,000 in my wallet, I said. Prove it, she said. This is not going to go well, you know, I said. Youre lying? No, Im telling the truth. Youre just asking about things that are none of your business. Yean, I probably am, she said, after a few seconds thought. She chewed her thumbnail more earnestly than was her habit and stared at the lane markers in the headlights. Ive never had much money, she said, after another pause. My parents are okay, money-wise, but they say they were determined not to spoil me. So I never had any. We lived on Lookout Mountain but I never had enough change to buy a Coke. So maybe I get worried about money faster than some people. If thats the problem, Im sorry. Thats not the deal, said Walt. I looked at him, surprised. Youve played tennis your whole life, he said. And soccer, Ginny nodded. But Im guessing youve never bet on a game on either sport. No, of course not. Nobody bets on tennis, she said. Sure they do, he said. Bobby Rigs won a hundred grand betting on himself at Wimbledon. I saw him play a game against somebody in Savannah where he wore a dress, used a frying pan instead of a racket, and had a dachshund on a leash in his left hand the entire game. I heard the bet was for $1,500. He won. But thats not the point. When you show up at a tennis tournament, you play whoever they tell you to play. When Henry shows up at a pool hall, he can decide whether he wants to play somebody or not, and if so, whether to bet, and if so, how much. Its a different way of looking at a game. He had a point. I dont gamble much at pool, but I seem to do okay, said Cisco. Why do you think that is? I asked. He shrugged.

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Its just luck, he said. Im going to guess youre lucky at poker, too, I said. As a matter of fact, it seems like Im pretty lucky at cards, too, Cisco said. Yeah, Ive seen it, said Walt. I shook my head. Theres no such thing as luck, I said. You really believe that? Walt asked. Yes, of course, I said. Lookit. Ciscos lucky with that is to say, hes lucky in other ways, so people think of him as lucky. But the reasons hes lucky at cards are the same reasons hes lucky ... in other ways. Hes pleasant and affable, and smart, but he doesnt give much away. He smiles a lot, but you never know what hes thinking. Hes good at reading all sorts of nonverbal cues. He picks up on subtle things that everybody else misses. He distracts people with his charm, but hes always aware of his opportunities. In the rear-view mirror I could see Cisco flash that pirate smile at Ginny. Just playing hunches, he said. I imagine she smiled back. But what about pool? He usually wins at pool, too, Walt asked. As you so astutely noticed, winning at pool is mainly deciding when to play, I said. Every game of chance is also a game of skill. You can play pure chance, but nobody really does. Nobody bets on one cut of the cards, or one roll of the dice. We bet on things where some skill is involved. And once that happens, youre not playing against the odds. If I were betting against the odds, Id never bet, because long-term, the odds always win. But Im not betting against the odds, Im betting against the other guy, and the odds may be harder on him than they are on me. Ive spent a lot of time playing pool, and its been a long time since I saw somebody I was sure was better than me. But if I see that kind of player tomorrow night, I wont bet. And I think what Ciscos doing is just putting down the cue when he sees somebody else whos good. Hey, theres always something else to do, said Cisco. I dont play any game unless I think Im going to win. Never? asked Ginny. Why? You play a game, Cisco answered. Play is supposed to be fun. Its not fun to lose. We cruised on down the interstate towards Chattanooga. I thought about games and play and risk.

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I had $12,000 in my wallet. Id been thinking I might borrow Mrs. Ws car and drop by a pool hall while I was in Chattanooga.

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Chapter 22: A Day of Thanks To foreshadow a bit, Thanksgiving at Mrs. Ws house was very, very nice, but her house wasnt my home at that point. I wasnt averse to it being my home, but when you move around as much as I did when I was a kid the concept of home has a more diffuse connotation than it would if you lived in one place, say, Wadley, Alabama, or even Chattanooga, for your entire life. I was more rootless than anyone in Mrs. Ws family, not as closely tied to the culture or the institutions or the people of Chattanooga as anyone else there. I was there not because I thought her house was home, but because Mrs. W was nice enough to invite me, and because I liked her, and because there wasnt anyplace else where somebody was expecting me. Ginnys dad was waiting for us when wed arrived at Mrs. Ws house. He collected Ginny and her luggage and left pretty fast. Walt lit a cigarette as soon as her car door closed, then he and Cisco pulled off into the night, the shiny Pontiac disappearing into an unusually warm November night. Standing outside, I couldnt see much of Mrs. Ws house, but it seemed large and vine-covered, with a frame and shingle exterior painted some dark olive or brown. She greeted me warmly, of course, then when the others had left led me to a bedroom. The interior of her house was mostly warm varnished mahogany, with intricately cut mortise and tenon joints and carefully carved accents. It smelled like shed just cooked cornbread. She had dark Oriental carpets on most of her floors, which seemed to be beautiful quarter-sawn oak. Id never seen anything quite like it. She showed me to a spacious upstairs bedroom with two twin beds. Mission furniture.124 It was nice. Spare. Neat. Clean. Henry, Mrs. W said, lighting a Benson & Hedges off of her Gates Zippo, Theres nobody else with a claim to this room. I know you have family, but this room is open for you whenever you need it. An amazing offer. Now Id love to catch up, but Im tired. I had a glass of wine while I was waiting up for you guys and its put me right to sleep, so Im going to go on to bed, although this is a little early for me. It was about 10:00. Well talk in the morning. Im right across the hall. Your bathroom is behind me, she said, from the bedroom door. Good night, Henry. Good to have you here. A few seconds later I could hear her door close across the hall. I hadnt brought anything to read except textbooks to encourage myself to study when the occasion arose. I found I wasnt in the mood to study but it was too early to go to sleep. I opened the drawer to the night stand, and found two books: A leather-bound red-letter edition of the King James Bible and a smaller volume titled Nestle-Aland Novum Testamentum Graece. The Greek New Testament. I opened to John. K . I tried to read the first verse: ,
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I know now, but did not know then, that all of the furniture in that spare bedroom was from L. & J.G. Stickley.

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, . Even with just a few months of college Greek I could read that much, but the next sentence was harder. I put it aside and picked it up in English. Strange book. Pastor Leslie. It doesnt tell the same story as he rest of the Bible at all. As I have done before, I fell asleep reading it without getting up to brush my teeth. When I woke up the next morning it was early. The house was cool and quiet. I wasnt sure what I was supposed to do. On the road, I would have made coffee, if there was a pot in the room, or gone looking for it. At college, I would walk up to the dining hall and eat bacon and drink coffee and look over my subjects until time for class to start. In Mrs. Ws house I had no idea who else was up at 6:30. I found the bathroom and brushed my teeth. As is the case with some old houses, none of the upstairs bedrooms had its own bathroom but all of them exited into a hall from which they all shared access to a common bathroom. Not modern, but not odd. I put enough clothing to present myself to the household and went downstairs. The house was quiet and still, and I didnt know my way around. I found my way through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, partly aided by the aroma of coffee. Mrs. Wertheimer was seated at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, looking at several three by five cards on the table in front of her. The floor creaked slightly as I came to the kitchen door and she looked up. Hey, Henry, she said, happy to see me. She glanced up at the source of the coffee aroma, a 12 cup Hamilton Beach percolator.125 I followed her gaze, and you could see the coffee surging into the glass knob on top. Still not ready. Looks like the coffees still got a few minutes to go, she said. Howd you sleep? Great, I said. What are you up to? Not a lot. Looking at recipes and waiting for the coffee. I like to cook, but I dont do it too much, so I look over the recipes before I start. She looked down at her cards and took a drag. Are you a dressing person or a stuffing person? she asked. I dont know. Whats the difference? I asked. Theyre the same thing cooked differently. Were going to have cornbread and bread stuffing. Or dressing. Stuffing is the mix of breadcrumbs and vegetables and all stuffed into the turkey and roasted with it, dressing is the same mix cooked in a casserole dish. Both are good.
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A coffee percolator was a specialized coffee pot in which a small amount of waster was heated to a boil and the consequent steam and hot water was funneled up a tube to drip down over the coffee grounds. On many percolators you could observe the color of the heated liquid through a glass knob on top of the lid. Mrs. Ws percolator was automatic and turned itself off when the coffee temperature reached 200, but on a stovetop percolator you had to watch the color of the coffee in the glass knob and pay attention to the smell. Percolators were supplanted by drip coffee machines, first introduced in the U.S. by the Mr. Coffee machine in 1972. Drip coffee tastes much richer, but uses a lot more ground coffee per cup than perked. Prior to 1972, all American coffee was perked, and in the 1970s, all coffee drinkers could look at the hot coffee coursing through the glass knob and tell how close it was to being done.

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I guess we always had dressing, then, I said. Were going to have both, but if youve never tried stuffing you should have some, she said. Nothing like it. She looked at her cards and smoked her cigarette. Yams? she asked, looking up. Of course. Candied or whipped? she asked. I think Im a candied guy, I said. I mean, I like whipped sweet potatoes, but candied yams are a real treat. Good man, she said. She shuffled the cards again and took a drag. Do you prefer mashed potatoes or rice as a starch? she asked. The dressing, or stuffing, is plenty, I said. Are you thinking of rolls? I asked. Yeah, thats why Im up early, she said. I think Thanksgiving needs to have good rolls, so I got up and started a batch of Parker House Rolls. There was a large glass bowl filled with dough, covered with Saran-Wrap, near the oven. Dont know Parker House Rolls, I said. Lots of butter. A little sweet. Like the rolls for lunch at City High? I asked. Almost, she said. The Citys yeast rolls were made with margarine, but they were good. They were good. Sure they were, she said. Ive got broccoli. Can you make Hollandaise? No, maam. Can you follow instructions? I think so, I said. Her eyes shot up to look at me over her glasses, then they softened speculatively. She took a drag from her cigarette. You dont have much experience at that, I guess? she asked.

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Maybe not. Its not so bad, you know, listening to what other people think. I thought about that for a minute. I listen to you, I said. Sure, she said. I appreciate it that you trust me. But maybe you could be more trusting of people around you. Have you been making friends in college? I thought for a minute. Well, theres Stoney. I tried to be nice to Milton, but I think he took it the wrong way. How did you try to be nice to him? I bought a nine ball game. Kept him from being fleeced by a pro I know named Tommy. She looked at her recipe cards for a few seconds. The coffee was done and I got up hefted the pot. There were several mugs in front of the percolator. Coffee? I asked. She looked up. Sure, she said. Black. I poured her a mug, put it down near her, poured one for myself, and sat down again on my stool. Thanks, she said, absent-mindedly. She took a sip. Okay, heres the plan, she said. Turkey, stuffing, dressing, candied yams, mashed potatoes, gravy, broccoli with hollandaise, corn souffl. Parker House rolls, pumpkin pie, mincemeat pie. Good? More food than Im used to even on Thanksgiving, I said. So Im about to start cooking, and if Ginny shows up whats going to happen? What do you mean? I asked. Henry, dont be obtuse, she said. Last time I saw you together she was hanging on your every word. Last night she was staying as far away from you as possible and mooning over that snob from Atlanta. Yeah. Okay. Its odd. She saw me play pool for some money. Maybe a lot of money. I know it seemed like a lot to her. She didnt like it that I risked so much. Mrs. W. nodded and thought for a few minutes. Her moms that way, too. Her dads been offered a job as general counsel of this railroad. The Union Pacific. Big company. Great job. Could make him, or them, millions of dollars. Winnies worried because hes got a good job now and she doesnt see why hed consider giving it up. Whats his job now?

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Hes a partner at Miller & Martin. A lawyer deal? I asked. Yes. And he does well. But being general counsel of the Union Pacific would be a much bigger lawyer deal. But the job is in Omaha. Nebraska? Yes, she nodded. A long train ride from Chattanooga, especially as Chattanooga doesnt have passenger rail. Good point. She smiled. Anything I can do to help with the Thanksgiving meal? I asked, sipping my coffee. Maybe. Do you cook? Not at all. Never? she was surprised. Sometimes I fried eggs for myself on Saturdays or Sundays, I said. Because your mom was away? she asked. No, because I liked them fried really, really hard, with a tough skin, and Mom thought that was wrong. Id fry my eggs and shed make toast. Well, Ginny usually comes over a little before noon and helps. She stood and handed me a black iron skillet with red and white hounds tooth dish towel over it, then located a large Pyrex bowl. I lifted the dish towel and found a large, cool wheel of cornbread with one narrow slice missing. I looked up at Mrs. W. Your job is to change that cornbread into tiny little crumbles in that bowl. I shrugged and got to work. While I was crumbling, she took celery, onions, parsley and some other kind of green leaves out of the refrigerator and began to chop them, cigarette dangling from her lower lip. Chopping onions didnt seem to bother her eyes. So what were you going to do with Ginny if you got her? she asked. I thought for a few seconds about how to respond.

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I I dont mean to be disrespectful, but I like her, I think shes great, but I wasnt looking to be her boyfriend, I said. Mrs. W. thought about this for a few seconds. Shes pretty. Smart. Vivacious, athletic. Nice figure. Shes absolutely delightful in every way, I said. Henry, she asked, with a surprised tone in her voice, are you homosexual? No, maam, I answered, crumbling my cornbread with a sigh. Its completely okay with me if you are, she said, earnestly, looking at me and stubbing out her cigarette. No, maam. I dont seem to think about women as much as most guys my age, but I dont think about men. Not in that way, I mean. She frowned a bit. Ive never had a girlfriend and dont miss having one. I cant say why. Im just not motivated like that. She went back to turning her onions into tiny little cubes. Its true Ive never seen you with a girlfriend or even chasing one. I guess I just assumed it was going on somewhere else. No, maam. Its not that I dislike girls, Im just not motivated to pursue them. What religion were you raised? she asked. Disciples of Christ. No religious guilt overlay? No, maam. We didnt talk about sex in church and I never got the idea that there was any part of it was wrong from what I heard on Sunday. One of the few times I made out with a girl was with the preachers daughter here in Chattanooga. What brought that on? she asked. Cant tell you, I said. We were the only people in the balcony for the Christmas Eve candle-light service. She suggested we move to the back row and then all of a sudden we were kissing. Dont know what was going on. She was a couple years older than me and was already off at college. And you didnt like that? she asked. No, I did. It was great. Im just not motivated to seek it out.

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What an odd man you are, Henry. The cornbread was reduced to a bowl full of tiny crumbles. Mrs. W. noticed this and handed me a half loaf of French bread and another glass bowl. Turn this into little chunks. It doesnt have to be as fine as you got that cornbread. It just needs to be small enough for the blender to grab it. This meant nothing to me. I tore off a few small chunks. Like this? I asked. She looked. Thats fine. Even a little larger would be okay, she said. Ever had sex with a man? I was a little surprised. No maam, I said, in what I must admit was an amused way. Youre sure? Yes maam. Because its really okay if you have. I really couldnt care less. Thanks. Im just not gay. No gay sex. No vices of any kind. Henry, youre a professional gambler. Other than gambling. I know this shows me to be limited and parochial but I dont understand a redblooded young man whos not chasing girls. Or even boys. So youve never wanted to chase girls? Hmm, I said. I thought. Who was she? There have been two I thought were really attractive. Both were attached to other guys. One you may know because she was a student of yours so I probably ought not to talk about her and the other is this red-head I run into in pool halls from time to time. Both seem like good company. Okay, fair enough. She pulled a heavy glass Oster blender from under the counter and took my French bread chunks from me. She put a small portion of them in the blender and pulsed it a few times. The chunks became smaller and smaller crumbs each time she pulsed. Molly? she asked. She was guessing which one of her prior students Id been interested in.

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No, maam. I answered. She pulsed the blender again then poured the crumbs into the cornbread crumbs. Gwen? she asked, as she added more coarse bread chunks to the blender. No, maam. Sandy? No, maam, I answered. Unless I was mistaken, she was naming pretty, smart girls she could remember from my graduating class. Cherry? No, maam. No, of course not. How about another cheerleader, though, Cindy? No, maam. She was smart, though. You know, my idea was to protect the identity of somebody you taught. Linda? she asked. Mrs. Wertheimer, I am uncomfortable with this line of inquiry. All right. She returned her attention to sauting her chopped onions and celery. Chop this, she said, handing me a bunch of parsley, dropping a very large pat of butter into the skillet that had earlier held the cornbread. You want to clip off the leaves but not get any stem, then chop it pretty fine. I did my best to follow instructions. She had an enormous stockpot she filled with water and brought to boil while I was separating parsley leaves from parsley stems with a kitchen knife that was larger than Id used before. She looked down at my cutting board and grabbed a handful of parsley stems, excuse me, she said, and dropped them into the stockpot along with two celery sticks, some carrots, and some bay leaves. She handed me a large brown onion, saying Quarter this, which I did, dark brown skin and all. She then dropped what looked like a bunch of chicken necks into the water and took a large, maybe 35 pound, turkey from the refrigerator. She sat it on the counter and reached up inside it and pulled out a turkey neck and a small plastic sack of organs. You like giblets in your gravy? she asked me. I dont think so, I said. Chopped heart? And gizzard and maybe even liver, she said. No, thanks, but if you like it

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No. Never liked gizzards or heart either one. This liver, though, she said, looking at a dark purplish mass that more or less filled her hand, It always seemed I should be able to make a good pate our of that. I could hear the front door open and Ginny call out. Aunt Maggie, she called out, cheerfully, as though calling across a canyon. Were in the kitchen, Mrs. W. called back, looking up expectantly. Ginny showed up in a few seconds and embraced Mrs. W. on her chair with a big hug. Ginny had a dress of some sort in a dry cleaning bag in her right hand. They smiled warmly at each other for a second and hugged again. I sipped my coffee, now lukewarm. Hello, Henry, said Ginny, still hugging, without opening her eyes. Aunt Margaret is the best aunt in the world. I bet, I said. Shes sure good at everything else. Why dont you put that in my closet, said Mrs. W., gesturing at her dress. Ive put Henry in the guest room, so you can use mine. Ginny nodded, then thought. But youll need it, Ginny said. Ill use it when youre done, Mrs. W. replied. You can be hostess if anybody shows up while Im making myself beautiful. Ginny smiled and gave her another one of those quick girl-hugs, then ran off. So this is all going to be okay? Mrs. W. asked me. Yes maam. How much did you gamble in that pool game? she asked. I put up $5,000, I said. She looked and laughed. So you won $5,000 on one game? She was happy for me. No maam, we were playing Cutthroat, a three person game, so each of us put up $5,000. She smiled even broader. So you put up $5,000 and won $10,000? Yes, maam. If I dont find a pool game this weekend Im leaving $10,000 with you.

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Well, Hell. Good job. Youre a very improbable college student, Henry Baida. You know, that pays for pretty much a year at college.126 Ginny made this point pretty forcefully, but she misunderstood the wager. How so? People who dont gamble or who dont really like math mistake the amount you win with the amount you bet. Ginnys convinced I bet $15,000. Mrs. W. nodded and lit another Benson & Hedges. Theres a lot of that in my family, she said. We were shopkeepers from Potsdam who opened a delicatessen in Chattanooga. So my grandfather took that big risk by moving to the U.S., but then he went into the family business and sent back to Germany for a teenaged wife. Some risk, but some running back to the old ways too. But youll like Gunner. Gunner? I asked. Ginnys dad. Great trial lawyer once. Clarence Darrow back at the Public Defenders office. Then went to the big, old firm and seems to mainly concentrate on railroads. Whats he gamble on? I asked. Hes a trial lawyer. So? She thought. I think Gunner feels capable of judging the odds in pretty much any situation, she said. I could hear Ginny bounding down the stairs, and almost galloping towards the kitchen. Whats to do? she asked, sitting on the stool next to me. Want some coffee? Mrs. W. asked. Sure! she said, and hopped up to pour herself a cup. Henry? she asked, looking at me. She looked me in the eye as she asked. The look was pleasant, but not interested, so shed made up her mind about me. Yeah, thanks, I said. I think once a girl decides shes never going to have sex with you she finds it easier to be around you, but Im a guy and so have little insight on what women think, and I might have even less insight than most guys. Ginny unplugged
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In 1974, tuition and room and board at a top-notch Southern liberal arts university was just under $10,000 per year.

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the percolator, filled my coffee cup, then warmed up Mrs. W.s, then put the percolator back on the counter and plugged it back in, to keep it hot. So where are we? Ginny asked. Well, we have cornbread crumbles. Ive sauted onions and celery. Henrys turned French bread into pieces the Osterizer can handle. Ive got a turkey stock, or turkey and chicken stock, working. What do you think? Yams? asked Ginny. Sure. Although Ive used the biggest pot for the stock. Ginny got off her stool and started looking around in Mrs. Ws shelves and cupboards and found a large pot, although not as large as the stock pot. Ginny piled all of the yams127 on the countertop next to that pot and frowned at them. She searched briefly and found a paring knife and trimmed the small ends and protuberances from the yams, placing them in the pot as she did so. Trimmed, they all fit so she removed them, filled the pot half-full with water, put it on the burner and turned it to high. Salt? she asked Mrs. W., without looking at her. A little, Mrs. W. answered. Ginny retrieved a carton of Mortons from a cabinet, poured a small mound on her palm, then brushed it into the water with her other hand. Then Ginny was looking for something to do. She noticed my bowl of bread chunks, took them from the table in front of me, and put a handful into blender, and pulsed them several times to turn the bread into crumbs. All of them? she asked Mrs. W. Well, most of them, Mrs. W. answered. Ginny nodded. She poured out the crumbs in the blender into the cornbread crumbs, then put two more handfuls into the blender and pulsed it several times, until the bread chunks were bread crumbs. She looked at the water in the sweet potato pot. Not yet boiling. She pored the French bread crumbs into the cornbread crumbs then put another few handfuls of bread chunks into the Osterizer and pulsed them into breadcrumbs. The water had started boiling so Ginny dropped in the trimmed yams, one at a time but without any delay between. Mrs. W was looking off to the middle distance and smoking her cigarette. Just before the silence became awkward, she asked me a question. Schools going okay, Henry? Yes maam. Pretty much. I have this odd sense that the Math Department and the Physics department dont get along. She looked at her coffee cup for a few seconds, then looked at me as though wondering what to do with me.
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Purists will tell you these are sweet potatoes, not yams. For some reason, in the south theyre called yams. No one seems to know why. Mrs. W., Henry, Ginny, and I all know that theyre really sweet potatoes, but we all call them yams. I have no explanation for this.

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Yeah, well. There was a time when the Math people and the Physics people all got along. Then, all of a sudden, everything changed. Why so? She took a last drag off of her cigarette and stubbed it out. Youre new to Physics? Well, Im taking it for the first time. But you dont know particle physics or special relativity? No, maam, I answered. The divide had more to do with Physics than it did with Math, she said. We were all together until this odd thing that happened in 1935. Albert published this paper with Dr. Podolsky and Nathan Rosen about the entanglement problemyoull get to it and if you dont Ill explain itbut to really understand you need to know quantum mechanics and special relativity so ask me in a couple of years and Ill tell you. Its weird. Okay. It wasnt like her not to explain things. Ginny and she were working together to make food. They seemed to flow together as though they had rehearsed cooking Thanksgiving cooking. Neither seemed to need to talk, it all just seemed to flow. Every now and then one would stop to ask the other a questionHow long for a 35 pound turkey? or Is that Aunt Leahs skillet? but mostly they communicated without saying much at all, the way sisters sometimes do. At about 3:00 Ginny excused herself and disappeared upstairs. Go clean yourself up, Henry, said Mrs. W. Companys coming. I only have jeans, I said. Thats fine. Shave and put on a clean shirt. I went and did as told. I came down and returned to the kitchen, where Ginny was stirring pots and looking at things, but looked like she was dressed for church. I was wearing Levis, a white button-down Oxford that may have been my fathers but was starched and pressed, and Weejuns. Id never worn them before college but the kids at school were wearing them and I dont like to stand out. Hey, she said, looking over her shoulder. Did Aunt Maggie mention hollandaise to you? Yes. But I said I dont know how to make it.

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Okay, I really, really like to cook but every time I try to make hollandaise it clabbers, so dont be surprised if she asks you to make it. I have no idea how to make a sauce, I said. Shes already melted the butter, squeezed the lemons and beat the eggs. Shes going to tell you all you have to do is follow instructions. Okay, I said. Shes funny. She knows everything, but she has these quirks. Shes always trying to get somebody to work on hollandaise and gravy for her. I think she doesnt think she can make them, so she wont try and shes always looking for somebody else to do it for her. You look like a pretty good cook. You move around the kitchen like you belong here. I do like to cook. But with sauces or roux Im no good. I look away for just a second at the wrong time, and its ruined. Look, when she starts telling you what to do with the sauce, just follow her instructions. The doorbell rang and Ginny jumped up. Proly my rents, she said. She smiled briefly and ran to the door. Mrs. W. wasnt present. I felt ill at ease but was aware that manners required that I greet her family, so I rose and followed Ginny towards the door. They were all hugging when I got there, although surely theyd already had the opportunity to greet each other since shed retuned to town. After a medium-number of seconds of embrace, Ginny turned to me and introduced me to them. Henry, this is my mom, dad, and younger brother. Family, this is Henry. He seems to be Aunt Margarets favorite student ever. They all smiled at me, except for little brother, who looked at me speculatively, the way an old man would a young stripling. They were all well-dressed. Ginnys mother was wearing a broadly-pleated navy skirt with a matching brass-buttoned jacket over an ivory silk shell blouse, gold jewelry that was a little too much for me to take in on one look and high heels of some sort. Her father was in a navy suit, white buttoned-down Oxford cloth shirt like mine and a red striped tie of some sort. Little brother was wearing a blue blazer, bright red shirt, grey and red plaid wool pants, and some sort of tie. He was obviously looking for a friend and looked at me earnestly. I shook all their hands. I was woefully underdressed. I was in Levis, a white shirt, and Weejuns. At least Id shaved. At this point Mrs. W. came down the stairs. She was dressed like what? In the seventies we all knew how to dress. How would you describe that sense? High school teachers all dressed like they were going to church, but Sunday best was different then. Mrs. W. was wearing a nice black suit and a snow-white silk blouse she didnt wear every day, but she was still smoking a cigarette.

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Everybody greeted everybody, and I felt severely underdressed. Even Ginnys little brother, for whom Ginny obviously had low regard, was better dressed than I was. Okay, we still have a few things to do in the kitchen, said Mrs. W, and everybody seemed to know that she meant to drift off. Ginny and Mrs. W. left. Mrs. W looked back at me as she left the entrance hall. Henry, youre with us, she said. In the kitchen, she steered me to the stove and put me in front of the melted butter, lemon juice, and beaten eggs Ginny had pointed out earlier. She handed me a fork, poured all the ingredients into a waiting sauce pan, and lit the gas to low. Beat it up, she said. I did. She dipped a finger into the mix and tasted. I think were okay, she said. As the heat comes up, the eggs are going to cook in this sauce. If you stop stirring for a second, were going to have lemony scrambled eggs. But if you pay attention to your stirring, well have a nice sauce for the broccoli. I started beating rapidly, as though whipping cream or scrambling eggs. Not so fast. Just keep it all moving, she said. Slow and gentle with the heat and with the fork. I slowed to a fast stir. Good, she said. Keep the fork scraping the bottom of the pan. Otherwise the eggs will stick and make lumps. I did as told. She went off and finished gravy, steamed broccoli, and mashed potatoes. Ginny cut dressing into squares, arranged the turkey on a platter, removed yams and rolls from the oven, and transferred rolls to a silver bread basket lined with a linen napkin. They looked at each other and nodded without saying anything, then moved it all out into the dining room in fewer trips than I would have thought possible. I kept stirring. My sauce was now pretty well thickened, a nice warm yellow color. It looked like it was about to start bubbling, which seemed like it might be a bad thing, so I turned off the heat but kept stirring. It looked like pretty much everything that was going to be served had been removed to the dining room, but there was an antique-looking oval bowl with a sauce ladle on the counter that was about the right size for the hollandaise, and the sauce looked done, so I poured it onto the bowl. I was just finishing scraping the sauce into the pan when Mrs. W came bustling back into the kitchen. Sorry, Henry, I forgot all about you. Then she stopped short when she saw the sauce in the bowl. She approached it cautiously, looked at it suspiciously, then opened a drawer, pulled out a teaspoon, and dipped the back of the spoon into the sauce. She looked at how it clung to the back of the spoon, then put the spoon in her mouth. Henry, thats perfect, she said, with a worried look. And you say you dont cook? No maam, not at all. Well, I think you do now, she said, taking the sauce from me and scraping it into a bowl. Come on. She marched into the dining room with the sauce and I followed. The table was splendidly set, with sterling flatware and cut crystal water and wine glasses and serving plates of food everywhere. She sat me to her left and Ginny to her right. Ginnys father was at the end of the table to my left, her mother was more or less across the table from me, and Ginnys little brother was next to his mom (to her left and my right) across from Mrs. W and Ginny. A well-dressed woman with an enormous sapphire ring with lots of little diamonds on her right ring finger was at the far end of the

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table to Ginnys right, facing Ginnys dad across the length of the table. I hadnt seen her come in and wasnt sure who she was. The turkey, no longer steaming but hot enough to emit a strong and delicious turkey aroma, was on a platter in front of Mr. McColl. As we sat, Ginnys father held the chair for her mother, so I did the same for Mrs. W. She smiled at the unexpected courtliness but said nothing. After we were all seated, Mrs. W looked at Ginnys dad and said Gunner, if youd do the honors, and we all bowed our heads. Lord, for that which we are about to receive we thank You. Please bless this food to our bodies and our bodies to Thy service, Amen. Everybody looked up and all of the steaming serving plates began to move. Mr. McColl began to slice the turkey with what must have been a very sharp knife, because the slices fell off neatly and perfectly. In my family growing up the turkey had generally been shredded more than carved, but Ginnys dad seemed to have a real talent for it. Ginnys mom, without asking, added food to his plate and passed each dish on to me across the table. There didnt seem to be any question about what he wanted. Cranberry sauce in a molded shape was among the dishes rotating the table, and I didnt remember seeing under construction. Mr. McColl neatly placed slices of turkey onto a smaller serving platter, arrayed as white and dark meat, with a drumstick and a wing, then passed the smaller platter to me. Ginny got up and removed the platter with the turkey carcass to a side table. Hed removed about half of he meat. Oh, my gosh, Aunt Margaret! We forgot the stuffing again! and everybody at the table laughed. Happens every year, Mrs. W smiled. Ginny returned to the kitchen and came back with a bowl and a long-handled spoon that my mother and sister would have referred to as a rice spoon, then scooped out five or six cups of stuffing from the bird and put it in the bowl. Her Father waited patiently, knife and carving fork in hand, while she did this. She handed the bowl to Mrs. W as she returned to her seat. Okay, Henry, you have to try this, she said. I looked down at my plate, by now filled with turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, dressing, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, cranberry sauce, and a buttery roll. There wasnt much room. She took the spoon and nudged my broccoli towards my turkey to make some room and put a heaping steaming spoonful of stuffing on my plate, then plopped some on her own before handing it to Ginny on her right. Give it a try, she said. I did, and I have to say theres nothing quite like it. One of the nice things about her dressing, which I already sampled, was that it was moist but almost dry and a little coarse. The stuffing had the familiar cornbread, onion, celery and sage flavors but was much wetter, with a texture like grainy mashed potatoes, and a much meatier taste. It was wonderful, but of course so was the dressing. So, Henry, tell me about yourself, said Ginnys dad. Everyone around the table perked up a little bit without wanting to seem like they were doing so, and Mrs. W smiled to herself. I couldnt see Ginny. Ginnys mom looked up at me with a vague look of

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interest and a half smile. I would much rather have been concentrating on the food while it was hot but couldnt be rude. Im in college. Mrs. Wertheimer was my favorite teacher at City High. I spent a couple of years between high school and college travelling around, and she was nice enough to help me with some things while I was doing that. Shes still helping me with my finances now that Im in college. My mom and dad are in the military and are overseas right now, I think, so she was nice enough to invite me here for Thanksgiving. Ginnys mom frowned at Ginny. I was hoping her father had asked just to be polite and would now talk to somebody else before the mashed potatoes and gravy got cold. What are you studying? he asked. Damn. Math and Physics, I answered, holding my cooling forkful of gravied mashed potatoes. As soon as I answered I got some mashed potatoes into my mouth and shoveled in more while he was formulating his next question. They were really goo mashed potatoes. Buttery and faintly salty without being either watery or heavy. What are your electives? he asked. It didnt seem menacing, exactly, the way he was questioning me, but it seemed oddly focused for a holiday meal. I think lawyers sometimes get stuck on a line of questioning and find it hard to let go. The only one thats not standard is Greek, I answered, slicing off a piece of cooling turkey and gravy. Why Greek? he asked. I want to read the New Testament in the original. Plus I like Aristotle, I answered. Mrs. McColl glared at Ginny, who didnt seem to notice. What are you going to do with your math and physics? asked her father, with a slightly different tone. Ginny, have you had a conversion experience or something? asked her mother. No, Mom, she answered. She rolled her eyes the way young women do when their mother asks them a question. Henrys not religious, and were not dating. This comment brought me up short. I looked up, but no one was looking at me. I dont really know, I answered Mr. McColl. I wasnt even planning on going to college at one point, but decided to enroll because I got interested in Physics. Everyone seemed to frown slightly at this. Henry was a professional pool player until recently, said Mrs. W. He got interested in subtle variations in the way the balls bounce off each other, and the table.

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As did Albert Einstein. As did Neils Bohr, at least early in his career. As do most physicists who arent completely caught up in quantum mechanics. Ginnys father smiled. Whats your game? Straight pool? Eight ball? he asked. I can play those, but most guys who play for money these days play nine ball, I answered. The sweet potatoes were still warm. They had brown, caramelized edges and an almost crystallized sugary surface. Not sweet enough for dessert and oddly appropriate between bites of turkey and gravy. Now thats surprising, said Mr. McColl. When I was in the service all the pros played eight ball or straight pool. The old-timers in pool halls say Texas express nine ball took off in the sixties as the money game. Actions faster, accuracys more important, I said. The broccoli was lukewarm, but the sauce was slightly tart and very creamy. Despite the fact that the hollandaise sauce was mostly butter, it didnt taste buttery at all. The roll, on the other hand, tasted a lot like butter. Mrs. W, I said, Are these City High rolls? She smiled. Henrys always been frugal, she said to the table. I used to notice that all he had for lunch was four of the yeast rolls from the school cafeteria.128 These are good, said Ginnys mom. Whats the recipe? Make Parker House Rolls and leave out the egg, she said. And Henry, these are the City High yeast rolls you liked only with butter instead of margarine. Can I have another one? I asked. She smiled and passed the basket. Henry also plays a game called rainbow, Ginny announced. I saw him play it one night. I gave her a puzzled look. Rainbow? I asked. Yes, she said, confidently. I dont think I know a game called rainbow, I said. You played it at Ismaros, she said. No, I didnt, I said. I played nine ball and then one game of cutthroat. Ginnys father laughed, and Ginny blushed.

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The yeast rolls cost ten cents and came two to an order. So for twenty cents you got pretty much a full loaf of fresh hot bread.

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I knew it was some kind of trout, she said, a little meekly for her. We used to go fishing in Montana every summer, said her father. Trout fishing. Ginnys good at it. Rainbow and cutthroat are two different types of trout. Ah. Well. That game made quite an impression on Ginny, and Im sorry for scaring her, but it came out all right, I said. So you usually win? Mr. McColl asked me. Usually. Enough to make a living at it. He lost one to Texas right before the cutthroat game for all that money, Ginny said. True enough, I said. I lose some games, but thats not exactly what I mean by lose. I think Ive won if I go home with more money than I came with. Sensible, said Ginnys dad. Daddy, theres nothing sensible about it, Ginny said. Gunner smiled contemplatively and reached for another roll. Why did it make an impression on Ginny? he said to me. On you? he said to Ginny. She thought. I dipped a bit of my roll through the detritus of my dinner, which included both good gravy and good hollandaise sauce. Delicious combo. I would prefer to have concentrated on the food, but had to snap to to answer her fathers question. Ginny was frowning at her plate and was obviously tired of discussing this particular subject. I was playing for money against a couple of hustlers, I said. But you won said her father. Yes, sir. Ginny looked up. But he risked more than was sensible, she said. But he won, said her father. Doesnt matter, she said. Yes, it does. Somebody who wins at a game of chance may have been just been unusually well informed, said her father. I laughed. I take it you agree? he asked me.

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Yes and no, sir, I said. Thats a good way of thinking about some forms of gambling, but I dont think of pool as a game of chance. How do you think of it then? he asked, finishing the last of his mashed potatoes and the last of his turkey in a single forkful that left his plate completely clean. Very efficient, very tidy. Its a game of skill, and if I do my job right, I can tell whether Im more highly skilled than the other guy. And if I am, Ill come out ahead. And you were? That night I was, yes sir. I knew one of them and the other had an illogical idea, I said. How much? he asked. I won fifteen, I said. Fifteen dollars? he asked. No. sir. Fifteen hundred? asked Ginnys mother. Oh for heavens sake. Mrs. W looked at me and smirked a bit. I see Ginnys point. But he won, said Mr. McColl and the mystery woman, in unison. No one should gamble more than he can afford, said her mother, and no college student can afford to lose fifteen hundred dollars. Mrs. W cocked an eyebrow at me, amused, Before I was a college student I played pool for a living, I said. I did okay at it. This was three to one against a guy Id always beat and another guy I was pretty sure I could beat. I shrugged. Mrs. McColl frowned, shook her head, and looked down. Ginny was frowning and looking into the distance. The mystery woman was smiling at me with her fork poised in the air as though it were a magic wand. So has the protector accepted you? asked Ginnys little brother, out of nowhere. Everybody looked at him. He was focused on me. Not so far as I am aware, I answered, after a pause, while finishing the last of my second roll. But youre familiar with the Yaqui way of knowledge? he asked.

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No, I said, deliberatively. So you say, he said. But you talk as one who is thoroughly familiar with the teachings of Don Juan. I had no idea what he was talking about. No, I said, after a pause. Is this one of your strange Carlos Castaneda trips? Ginny asked him. Yes, it is true that I refer to the Yaqui way of knowledge, little brother said. Mrs. W looked concerned, mystery woman looked amused, Ginnys mother looked confused, and Ginny looked irritated. Some cretin gave him a copy of The Teachings of Don Juan last year and he just wont shut up about this Mexican mystic deal, she said. Everybody looked at him for a few seconds. Time for pie, said Mrs. W. Who wants coffee? At that everybody rose to start cleaning the table. Mrs. W had a pot of coffee set to go, and the whole process of removing most of Thanksgiving from the dining room just took a few minutes. The pies were already in the dining room, one pumpkin and one mincemeat, and Ginny placed them in front of Mrs. W with a stack of dessert plates, a beautiful silver pastry server, and a porcelain bowl of whipped cream. Ginnys father got up and left the room for a few minutes then returned with four small snifters of what was looked like brandy. While Mrs. W was cutting the pies he placed one snifter each in front of each of Mrs. W, his wife, and the mystery woman, then held one aloft as if to offer it to me. After I shook my head he sat down and put the glass net to his own fork. Mrs. W took orders for pie. I got a slice of mincemeat with a dollop of fragrant whipped cream on top. Without anything being said, Ginny got up and served coffee to her mother, father, and Mrs. W. She didnt ask me if I wanted any, but then I didnt. Once Mrs. W had her coffee, she picked up her fork and had a bite of pumpkin pie, which was everyone elses cue to begin on desert. Aside from saying how good both pies tasted, no one said much. My mincemeat pie was perfect, with a slightly crisp rich crust and whipped cream that may have tasted faintly of sugar and brandy. I have a love of mincemeat pie that surpasseth all understanding, and this was a distinctly wonderful mincemeat pie. If youre not on board, you cant understand. As we finished our pie everyone looked around the table contentedly. Mrs. W finally sipped her brandy. She looked startled by it. Gunner, what is this? she asked. Armagnac, he said, smiling. I brought it over Labor Day and hid it in your liquor cabinet.

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Its wonderful, she said. Without saying anything, Ginny got up went in the same direction as her father had gone. Bring me a Scotch, said the mystery woman. Ginny returned a minute later with a tiny thimble-sized glass of brandy for herself and a beaker of Scotch for mystery woman. Ginny sipped at her thimble and seemed to like it. Everyone seemed happy, but no one said much. Well Margaret, youve outdone yourself again, said Ginnys father. Why thank you, Gunner, she answered. Thanks for this excellent brandy. The French know their brandy, he said. Everyone sat around in a kind of stupor for a few minutes, not saying much, sipping drinks, hot and cold, and falling into a kind of reverie. It was both comforting and strange. I tried not to move around too much. Ginnys little brother scowled a bit and looked around at the rest of us as though he had a hard time believing what he was seeing. He kid of raised his hands and opened his mouth as if to speak but then Okay, time to clean up, said Mrs. W. Gunner, you and Henry go straighten out the television in the other room and well figure out what to do with all this food. Mrs. W. stood, then the rest of us followed, me a little tardily, except for little brother, who scowled. Ginny smacked him on the back of the neck and he stood, unhappily. Okay, then, said Mrs. W, and people began to move. Ginnys father moved through the door towards the living room and kind of gestured towards me, so I followed. He went trough the living room and down part of a hall to a family room. By the time I got there he was turning on the TV, a big Magnavox console model. The Lions were playing the Bears. You sure you dont want some of this? he asked. Its good. He was gesturing with his drink, but more interested in the television. He bent down to change the channel129 every few seconds before he found a football game. I was about to say no sir when he found what he was looking for. Here it is, he said. Lions and Broncos. Both of them stink this year and have for years but Ive watched the Lions play on Thanksgiving every year since we had a television. He looked at me and smiled. Tradition. Even if I dont care about either team and dont even much care about professional football. Ive done it so long I dont want to stop. He looked back at the game. So you arent a fan of either team? No. I kind of followed the Lions for a few years after George Plimpton wrote that book130 but I never really cared about them. And the funny thing about this game is that it almost always never matters. The Lions often seem to find a way to lose, and even when they win, the game usually doesnt matter. But its always played on
129 130

In 1974 almost no televisions had remotes. Paper Lion: Confessions of a Last String Quarterback. Plimpton, G. (1966).

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Thanksgiving, and my whole life, women have been shooing me out of the kitchen as soon as the meal was over. So I always go and check in on the lions. You really ought to try this Armagnac, he said. No, thanks, I said. Scotch? No, sir, I dont drink. Is this a religious thing? he asked, a little earnestly. There was a commercial on, and he wasnt distracted. No, sir. Im not religious. Are you in AA? he asked. Am I in what? I asked. Alcoholics Anonymous. Whats that? I asked. Youd know if you went to their meetings. Alcoholics are volunteering for something? I asked. Sort of. Its complicated, he said. Theyve formed a club? Not exactly, he said. So why dont you drink, if youre not a Baptist? Yeah, well, Ive been making money playing pool since I was much too young to be in pool halls. And a lot of the places Ive played pool in also served alcohol. So Ive played pool against a lot of people whod been drinking. Some a little, some a lot. Ive never met anybody who had consumed any amount of alcohol that I thought it improved their game, and of the people Ive played drunk and sober, all of them played better sober. Ginnys dad watched the Broncos waste a few downs. Landrys just not a class quarterback, you know? he said, as he watched another Lions incomplete pass. He looked over at me. If you dont want to drink, thats fine, but people are going to make assumptions about it all the time. So Ive noticed, I said.

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And I dont need to question you as a possible suitor after my Ginny? he asked, watching the football game. Mr. McColl, you have a wonderful daughter. But Im really good friends with Mrs. Wertheimer. She helps me out a lot in all kinds of ways. If I dated your daughter, it might affect my relationship with Mrs. W. I dont know, said Mr. McColl, without taking his eyes off the game, Margarets a pretty smart old bird. You behave like a gentleman, shell forgive a lot. But it sounds like you pissed Ginny off with that pool game. Yeah, I said. I was a little surprised at that. Her mother and I didnt want her to be just another snooty stuck up Lookout Mountain GPS girl like all the Luptons and Probascos. So we gave her a really small allowance and encouraged her to play sports. We may have overdone all that. She seems to think that to be a good girl she has to be a jock whos cheap as hell. We watched the game in silence. The Bronco, bad as they were, were pulling ahead of the Lions. Still and all, he said, after a few minutes, $1,500 is a lot to gamble on a pool game. You can maybe see how a girl of modest upbringing would think that an extravagant wager, he said. Yes, sir. The Broncos beat the Lions, the McColls all hugged at the door, Ginnys little brother asked me something incomprehensible about seeing visions in the desert, and everyone went home. It was about 10:00 when everyone left. I looked in the kitchen and it was surprisingly clean. Glad you were here, Henry. You fit right in, pretty much, she said. Ginnys wary of me, her little brother Thats Clarence, although Ginny has been known to refer to him by nicknames. Seems to be interested in hallucinogenic drugs, despite the fact that hes in grammar school, I continued. Her mother Thats my younger sister Winnie, she said. Has concluded that Im a born-again Christian, I said, and she nodded, smiling, And the father

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Thats Gunner, she said. Nickname? I asked. Yes. His real name is Angus, but hes been called Gunner since Ive known him. Yeah, well, its not going to be appropriate for me to use a nickname with an older man, so hes going to be Mr. McColl or Ginnys father to me, I said. Fair enough, she said, But if you want to call him Gunner for shorthand, I wont care, and he wont know. Thanks. Anyway, he thinks the most Ive ever bet on a pool game is $1,500. What do you care about that? she asked. I thought for a few seconds. I guess its like grownups dont like being treated like kids. I dont get you, she said. Grown-ups dont like being told what to do. If I were to come into your house and start telling you how you should run it, you wouldnt like it. It would certainly be presumptuous, she said, lighting a Benson & Hedges off of her Gates lighter. She paused a few seconds. Do you have advice for me that youre withholding, Henry? Oh, good Lord no. You have a very orderly, warm, good house. Bad example. Give me a better one. Okay. It was my turn to think about things for a few seconds. This is an abstraction, and Im not good with those. So imagine youd just finished grad school, or med school, or law school, or something, and youd bought a house or rented an apartment. And youd managed to set it up just like you always wanted. Because its your first place, youve thought about everything thats in it. How would you know what that feels like? she asked. My dorm room, I said. Id never really had a place of my own before, except for my Valiant, and I lost that. Okay.

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And so everything in your house or apartment is something you put there because you thought it was exactly what you wanted there. And youre happy with it. And then somebody comes in and starts telling you youve done it all wrong. Nobody like that kind of thing. Nobody likes being treated like a child. How is that like being treated like a child? she asked. Were very presumptuous with children. Dismissive. We think its okay to laugh at them to their faces. Nobody likes having their ideas treated dismissively. If you start telling me about whats wrong with my house without an invitation to do so, its rude. Presumptuous. I think the reason it bothers us so much is that were being treated like children, and the only people who have leave to treat us like children are our actual parents. And you havent talked to your actual parents in years? she asked. True. Did somebody come into your dorm room and tell you it was all wrong? she asked. No. Well, yes. Milton does, but I dont pay any attention to him. Thats just the way he is. He also lights up cigarettes in my dorm room and complains if I dont have an ashtray. So your example of something that really bothers you is something that doesnt really bother you? Maybe. I just dont think people like being treated like children. I was trying to think of a situation where a person might feel like hes being treated like a child. But I dont have a lot of experience, Ill admit. People dont usually treat me like a child. They kind of never have. Whys that, do you think? she asked. I dont know, I said. Luck of the draw. I was tall for my age in grammar school. I dont talk much. Lets do a different example. Supposing you and some chance-met stranger got into a discussion of how to factor a quadratic equation. As so often happens. And so the guy youre talking about assumes you know nothing about algebra and insists on explaining in tedious detail how its done. That wouldnt bother you? I might find it a bit tiresome to listen to but Im actually pretty secure in my knowledge of the quadratic formula.

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So being lectured by the ignorant doesnt bother you? Not especially. You? she asked. I had to think. She stubbed out her Benson & Hedges into a dark brown glass ashtray seated in a red oak holder with a brass musket ornament. Yeah, again, I guess that doesnt happen to me too much. Theres not so much stuff that I know so well that Id have a platform on which to build my resentment. The only thing Im really good at is pool. I remember back in Soddy-Daisy I started to tell this other pool player I met to avoid the cons and he got kinda irked with me because he thought I was getting on my high horse a bit. And I guess people dont do that to me too much. But what I was doing to Hank, or maybe his name was Tommy, was the same as what Im trying to talk about here. He thought I was talking down to him, and he didnt like it one bit. I wasnt, of course. I was imparting the wisdom of my time on the road, but he didnt like it because I was being presumptuous. So your example of something you really dont like is not something that someone has done to you, but something you did to somebody else? she asked. Odd, that, I said. I like that about you Henry, she said. I think one more piece of pie, she said, and served us both another piece of mincemeat. Coffee or milk? she asked. Milk, I said. The rest of the weekend passed without incident. Mrs. W and I ate leftovers and turkey sandwiches for the rest of the weekend. She frowned at my calculus textbook and smiled at my physics textbook. I ran through my math and physics assignments through the end of the semester and the first several assignments of the next semester, to decide if I wanted to stick with them. And this holiday set a pattern. Im always welcome for any holiday at Mrs. Ws house, and I get there whenever I can. Im hoping to get back there for Christmas this year.

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Chapter 23: Math Club at the House of Pizza Okay, said Stoney. We were on our way to the first meeting of Stoneys math club, which was to convene at an establishment called House of Pizza on White Bridge Road. Id never been there before. So the other invitees are Leah Bromberg, Raheem Washington, and Cecil Murray. Stoney was driving his Volvo 1800E131 which I could identify because my older sister had been a faithful watcher of The Saint.132 Stoney had seemed relatively sober when we met outside McGill, his dorm, so I wasnt worried about him driving. It was early December so it was cold and already dark by dinnertime. Stoney was wearing a military-issue overcoat of some sort, blue double-knit pants, and his cowboy boots. Leahs from Memphis. Parents run a jewelry store. Shes smart. Senior. Maybe a junior. Math major. All these people are smart. Raheem and Cecil are good friends. Dont know much about them. I was in Rand one day having lunch and I heard them arguing about how to differentiate a hypothetical problem about how fast water would descend across an irrigated hillside onto terraced farmland. I think they got the math all wrong, but butted in on their conversation and they didnt seem to mind at all. Theyre both smart. Both s, both juniors, I think. I think Raheems from DC and Cecils from Los Angeles, but I could be wrong. Okay, so what are we doing? I asked. I dont know, man. Something fun. When I was in high school, I looked forward to math class. Didnt you? I did like my teacher. Stoney got to White Bridge Road and parked and we crossed the street to House of Pizza. It was a nondescript place in a white stucco building with plate glass windows across the front. A copper cowbell attached to the door rang as we came in. A semi-large sweet-natured woman whom Stoney addressed as Beverly showed us to our table. Stoney told her that three other people were joining us, and she seated us at an appropriately-sized table. We were early. The place was semi-dark and maybe three-quarters full. The tables were brown wood-grained linoleum. Each table had a candle in a patterned red snifter-shaped glass, but none of the candles were lit. The walls were probably painted some eggshell off-white color, with dark wainscoting. There were a two or three Black133 couples in the crowd.134 We sat. A young-ish waitress showed up immediately. Hi, Robin, said Stoney. Whos in the kitchen today?

131 132

In the early 1970s Volvo tried to manufacture a sports coupe. A television show starring Roger Moore as European adventurer with spy-like qualities, produced by some British network. He drove an 1800E. Roger Moores first series, Maverick, was much better, but the episodes with James Garner were better than the episodes with Roger Moore. 133 Nobody said African-American in 1974. Caucasians were barely five years past Negro. 134 It was unusual in 1974 for a restaurant to be truly integrated. In 1974, integration of schools was mandated and discrimination on the basis of race was prohibited, but it still was not common for blacks and whites to eat together, at least in the Old South.

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Ellis and George, she said. Cool, he answered. Were waiting on a few more people, so why dont you start us with a pitcher135 of Schlitz. Yeah, sure. Cool! she said. Can I have a glass of water? I asked. Oh, wow. Sure, she said, and hopped off. Two tall black guys opened the front door, jangling the cowbell. Stoney waved to them and they came over. I stood when they got to the table, but Stoney didnt. Hey, Raheem. Hey Cecil. Henry Stoney started. Stoner, my man! said the taller of the two. He extended a big hand to Stoney and gripped Stoneys hand in an elaborate, multi-step handshake Id never seen before. It was cold out but he wasnt wearing an overcoat over a yellow sweatshirt with stitched in large, silky-looking purple letters on both the front and the back. He had a gold chain with one of those Italian good luck charm horns hanging outside his sweatshirt and wore his hair in a large natural. His handshake with Stoney took several seconds to complete. Henry, meet Raheem Abdul Washington. Raheem, Henry Baida. We shook hands but it was a brief normal handshake. I turned to his friend and extended my hand. Henry Baida, I said. Cecil Murray, he answered. He shook my hand and smiled. He was lean and even I could tell he was handsome. He had darker skin than Raheem and close-cropped hair with one of those shaved lines on his scalp like his hair was parted that black guys sometimes sported in the seventies. He had on a well-worn but quite serviceable A-2 flight jacket that could have actually been from World War II over a white Oxford cloth button-down shirt and slightly faded Levis. He was one of those people who, when he smiled, he meant it, and it seemed to make the world a better place. We all sat as the waitress showed up with a pitcher of beer and four glasses. Are we all here? she asked. No, were still waiting on one, said Stoney. Okay. Ill get another glass, she said, and turned quickly and started to leave. Hey. Robin, I called after her. She turned warily and looked at me.
135

In 1974 a pitcher of beer held 64 ounces. There were no exceptions.

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How do you know my name? she asked. Stoney used it when we came in. And who is this Stoney? she asked. Him, I pointed. His name is Tom. Tom Jackson, she said, frowning. Yo name Tom? asked Raheem. Thats my real name, Stoney said. Raheem, trying to help me out, pointed at Stoney and said Das Stoner. Robin looked at us in confusion. Stoney is a nickname, said Cecil. He has the same name as Stonewall Jackson, so we all call him Stoney. She still didnt like it, but shrugged and turned to go. Robin! I called again as she left. What? she spun and answered crossly. Can I get a glass of water, please? Oh, sure, she answered. So was dis? asked Raheem, pouring himself a glass of beer.136 Schlitz, said Stoney, and poured himself a glass. Thats cool, said Raheem, taking a sip.

136

Im not going to try to reproduce the way Raheem talks with any precision from this point on. Theres almost no word he pronounces the way my American Heritage Dictionary says it should be pronounced, but this is because Raheem is choosing do so as a way of self-identifying himself as African-American and damned proud of it. Within a few years of the first meeting of Stoneys math club, the Ebonics movement would propose identifying urban African-American speech as a separate dialect of English, but Raheem is unaware of the conference on cognitive and language development of the black child held in St. Louis the previous year in which this idea was first proposed. Henceforth I will try to communicate the sense of Raheems diction, but if I were to accurately transcribe it Id come across as racist. He has, for example, a way of pronouncing the th sound that starts so many words as a d, so that that becomes dat and this becomes dis. But accurately transcribing all of that makes him sound unintelligent, and hes brilliant, the way most of Stoneys friends are.

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Stoney poured himself a glass. Cheers, he said, raising his glass to Raheem. Cecil poured another glass and placed it in front of me, with a quick nod. One guy at the table with manners. Thanks, but I dont drink, I said. He smiled and took it himself. The cowbell at the door rang again and a young woman with long curly hair spilling out of a rainbow-striped woolen cap stepped in. She had on a navy blue puffy down-filled coat that came down to her mid-thigh and gold-rimmed glasses the shape of Stoneys aviator shades, but with clear lenses. She spotted Stoney before he spotted her and came over. Cecil, Raheem, and I stood up. Hiya, Stoney, she said. Is this the group? Yep, he said, still seated. She unzipped her down coat and hung it on the back of the empty chair. Raheem and Cecil watched the process of her removing her coat with keen interest. She was really, really short. Maybe 49. But quite noticeably female. Stoney introduced us all, she was Leah Bromberg, and she sat down. The waitress showed back up. Cecil poured Leah a beer from the pitcher and she took a sip. You guys ready to order? Robin asked. I want an Ellis special, said Stoney. Cecil and Raheem quickly picked up a menu and started looking at it. What size, Tom? she asked. Yeah, well, large, so I wont have to think about food tomorrow. And we want separate checks. Im not paying for all these guys, Stoney said. You? she looked at Leah, who had been brought up right and was surprised, as the only woman at the table, that her order had not been taken first. Leah looked up at me. You eaten here before? she asked me. No, I answered. Are you okay with anchovies? she asked. Everyone else around the table made a face. Love em, I said. Okay. I, like, promise, that if we split a medium Pizza With Everything it will be more than we can eat and will be one of the best pizzas youve ever had in your life, she said.

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Im game, I said. Cool. Got it, Robin? she asked. Yeah, man, she answered. And could I get a glass of water? I asked. Oh, yeah, sure. Keep forgetting. Sorry, man, said Robin. Okay, we wans a I-talian sausage, pepperoni an shroom deal, said Raheem. Big un. Got it, said Robin and skipped away. Okay, so wheres everybody from? Leah asked, after Robin was gone. Raheem reached into a pocket and pulled out a pack of Kools. Hed opened the pack from the bottom, so that when he shook one out, the tobacco end came out first. He lit it with a Bic disposable. Im from Grosse Point, Michigan, said Stoney. I thought you were from New Jersey, I said. No, Michigan, he answered, placidly. You said you went to high school in Lawrenceville, New Jersey, near Princeton, I said. Yes, he answered, smilingly unaware of any contradiction. Yo. You boarded at Lville? asked Raheem. Yeah, sure. There werent many day-dogs, Stoney answered. Lookit. Stoner boarded at Lville. He from Motor City, said Raheem. I had no idea what this meant. There were blank stares around the table. Raheem means that Stoney went to Lawrenceville School, but thats a boarding school. Stoneys home is near Detroit, said Cecil. Like I said, said Stoney. Im Cecil. Im from Los Angeles, and I agree with Leah. Hey. Im Henry. Im from Chattanooga, just down I-24.

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Okay, so, the only thing all you heads all have in common is that you know me. Well, that and you all like math. He paused and thought for a second. And I think youre all smart. He thought a second more. And now that I think about it, youre all good-looking. Get on wit it, Stoner, said Raheem. So I got stuck in this math classMath 140last year that was all simple stuff Id done in high school Stoney looked around, and Raheem and Cecil were nodding, but Leah was not, Junior year, he looked around again and Cecil and Raheem were nodding. So I thought maybe a few like-minded heads could get together and rap about math in an intelligent and cool way, and ignore the academic bullshit of it. There was a pause in which most of us bobbed our heads in different directions in agreement with Stoneys logic. Leah cocked a quizzical eyebrow. Do you do crossword puzzles? she asked Stoney. He looked baffled at the question. Nah, he answered. All those words. I wish there was something like a crossword, but with numbers, he said. A little square puzzle like that. Crosswords are so tidy-looking. She looked at me. You? she asked, looking at me. Yeah, sure. Crosswords, Cryptoquotes, Jumbles, Mensa questionnaires. I love puzzles, I said. You? she said, looking at Cecil, who was removing his flight jacket. House of Pizza was warm as long as no one opened the door. Im okay with puzzles, Cecil said, and every now and then Ill do a crossword puzzle in the newspaper, if I dont have something to read. But Im like Stoney. Crossword puzzles are all words. I take English because its required, you know, and, you know, I know thats a good thing, but left to myself, man, Id be all math all the time. How about you? she asked Raheem. I loves them NYT crosswords, he said. How often do you do them? Leah asked. Ever day. I ain no savage. How long do they take you? she asked.

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Good day, fo minutes. Bad day, eighteen minutes, said Raheem. I, Henry, have done the Times crossword hundreds of times. I love it, and buy the Times more for the puzzle than for the news. The news is always focused on New York garbage strikes or weather conditions, which doesnt speak very loudly to me. When I get to do the New York Times crossword puzzle, it usually takes me ten or fifteen minutes. If Im lucky if I can do it in eight or nine minutes, but there was one three years ago when I was stuck outside Wadley that took me over 20 hours to complete. I am proud enough of my crossword puzzle skills that I keep track of how fast I can do them but here I was being summarily bested by a man who did not, so far as I could tell, speak English. Youre good, said Leah. Im from Memphis. Went to an all-girls high school. We took math, and I took pre-calc, but it wasnt like they were an enlightened crew who thought women of all ages could storm the battlements. It was like they thought math wasnt an important skill for women to possess. When I got here I took that same Math 140 class you guys are complaining about, thats where I met Raheem and Cecil, but my reaction was different that you guys. I thought my high school math wasnt that strong, and I thought that class with Dr. Wolfe Stoney, Cecil, and Raheem all groaned, really toned up everything I learned at St. Marys and got me ready for college math. And Ive been having a really good time. I have to admit that I didnt enjoy that class, said Cecil. But all of us had to take it, so we all have that in common, too, Stoney. No, we dont, said Stoney. Henry here is a freshman, and in 150. Single variable calculus? asked Leah. Yeah, I answered. Stoney and I are in it together. What did you take last year? she asked. Im a freshman, I said. I wasnt here last year. Oh, for the love of Christ, said Cecil. Motherfu,said Raheem. How? asked Cecil. Its not what you think, I said. Dr. Ladd, the department chair, is my faculty advisor. Luck of the draw. Hes fucking with me. He approved me for 150 because he doesnt think Im ready for it. He thinks Im pig-headed, and that approving me for a course Im not prepared for will teach me a lesson. He thinks Ill get a bad grade.

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Hows it goin wit dat? asked Raheem. I looked at Cecil. How am I doing in the class? I asked. He nodded. Okay. Im doing okay, I guess. Hes gotten perfect scores on all the tests, Stoney said. Everybody nodded, impressed. Of course, Henry goes to class. I have perfect scores in all the tests, too, and I dont go to class at all, so some might say I have the more impressive scholastic achievement. Leah rolled her eyes and shook her head, but Raheem raised his hand for a high-five, a gesture I had never seen before. You da man, Stoner, said Raheem. Okay, so I thought we could work on math stuff that theyre never going to assign us at school, Stoney said. Like what? Leah asked. Okay. Like, in 1602 Johannes Kepler finally got access to all of Tycho Brahaes incredibly detailed astronomical observations. Stoney Leah started. No, let me finish, he said. How cool would it be for us to go back and find, somewhere, a copy of Tychos observations, and see if we can deduce Keplers laws of planetary motion from them. Stoney I asked Mrs. W. about this Who? asked Raheem. Henry here, who is really cool, has this semi-mystical friend named Mrs. Wertheimer who comes up in conversation every hour or so. She knows everything about math and physics and somehow controls all his money, said Stoney. She taught me Math in high school, I said. They all nodded. So? Whats she say about my Tycho-Kepler deal? Stoney asked. She said that Kepler didnt know anything like calculus. Integral calc didnt come along until Newton and Leibnitz a hundred years later. Kepler worked all of that planetary mechanics stuff out using simple arithmetic, which took thousands of calculations to figure out each hypothesis, and he went through a bunch of hypotheses before he figured out Mars. How many? asked Stoney. I shrugged.

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Forty, said Raheem. He took a deep drag off of his cigarette and blew a cloud of blue smoke that smelled of nicotine and Vicks Vapo-Rub over the table. The cigarette was getting short, so he stubbed it out in the black plastic ashtray on the table. He refilled his beer. Leah, too, knew Kepler. He started with the assumption that the orbits were oval for religious reasons. He also couldnt believe that if planetary orbits were as simple as ellipses, nobody would have noticed before. But once he settled on ellipses, he figured it out pretty quickly. But still, each set of calculations took months and months, she said. Why are ovals better than ellipses for religious reasons? asked Stoney. Im not sure, but Kepler thought the Sun was the emanation of Gods goodness or power or some such crap, so its end of the orbital focus points got to be bigger than the other. Or something. Anyway, Im not sitting down doing months of tedious calculations to derive something we already know. Besides, I think if we knew somebody who could program a computer it could do all those tedious calculations in a few minutes. The waitress came back with three pizzas balanced precariously on two arms. Ellis Special? she asked. Stoney raised his hand. She placed a pie with an improbable mix of ingredients in front of him. Everything? Leah her hand. That just left one, and Robin placed it in front of Raheem. What else can I get you? Another pitcher of Schlitz, said Stoney. Charge these guys for this one, he said, pointing at Cecil and Raheem. Can I get some red pepper flakes? And maybe some plates? asked Leah. Sure. Anything else Can I get a glass of water? I asked. Yeah, all right, she answered, and walked away. She returned just a few seconds later with the pepper flakes for Leah and plates for all of us. Stoney, whats that youve got? Leah asked, handing me a slice on a plate and then serving one for herself. Everyone else was digging in. I sprinkled some of Leahs red pepper on my slice. Ellis Special, said Stoney, chewing. Ellis runs the place. I think. Whats on it? asked Cecil, mouth full.

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Robin had shown up with a frosty new pitcher of Schlitz. An Ellis Special is a pie with hamburger meat, green olives, and hot peppers, she said. And bacon. Lots of bacon, said Stoney. Tell Mr. Ellis its great. George made it, she said. Im not sure where Ellis is. Anything else? Can I get a glass of water? I asked. Yeah, sure, she answered, and trotted off. So no go on my Kepler deal? Stoney asked. I finally took my first bite of my pizza. It was absolutely wonderful. The best pizza in the universe. It had all of the classic pizza ingredientssausage, pepperoni, onions, black olives, anchovies, mushrooms, and probably lots of others I couldnt distinguishon a perfect light crispy thin crust that tasted faintly of olive oil, was nice and hot, with just the right amount of perfect tomato sauce and covered in lots of hot, stringy, rich mozzarella cheese. I ate the tip bite, then folded it slightly for the second bite, then looked at Leah through widened eyes. I told you, she said. People from Chicago and New York are extremely fond of their hometown pizzas, and, when a group of Chicagoans or New Yorkers gather, will get into protracted and tedious arguments about which of the pizzerias in their respective hometowns prepared the best pizza in all history. But really. House of Pizza in Nashville, Tennessee circa 1974 may be the best of all time. Kepler thought his mama was a witch, said Raheem. What? I asked. Keplers mother seemed to have strange powers, said Leah. She was raised by one of her aunts, and the aunt was burned at the stake for witchcraft, often the fate of a wise woman in olden days. You men just cant seem to take the idea that a woman might have an alternative view of reality. Anyway, because her aunt was a witch, Keplers mother was always viewed as kind of suspect. And then later when Kepler was off in Prague, his mother started doing things that caused the whole witch trip to come up again. Shes accused of touching people and making their limbs stop working. Cool, said Stoney. No, its not cool, said, Leah. Eight women were executed for witchcraft during this time in Leonburg. No, I meant its cool she could do that, said Stoney. Do what? Leah asked.

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You said she could touch people and make their limbs stop working, said Stoney. No I didnt. I said she was accused of that, Leah answered. Yeah, of course where theres smoke theres fire. So lets concentrate instead on pizza and math, said Stoney. Leah was about to say something but Raheem interjected And beer, and everybody laughed. I had another excellent slice of the pizza with everything that Leah had ordered for us. I was on my third slice, she was on her second. Nothing had changed my opinion that this was not only the best pizza I had ever eaten, it was the best pizza in the universe. The waitress showed back up, chipper and happy. How are you guys doing? she asked. Everyone at the table made complimentary noises Can you do me a favor? I asked. Sure! she answered. Can you tell the bartender that Ill come over and give him a five dollar tip for a glass of water? I promise. She frowned at me. Yeah, sure, she said. For a few minutes, we were caught up in a pizza reverie. I dont mean to go on about it, but really. Okay, so no Kepler, said Stoney. Maybe his mama was a witch, said Raheem. Ya never know. So no Kepler, no matter how fascinating it might have been to have applied modern calculus to the calculations that Kepler performed with mere arithmetic, and the possibility that Tycho Brahes incredibly precise observations might have some further, as yet undiscovered, Nobel prize-worthy principles in them. Maybe later, said Leah. What are our other options? Another pause. Beers were poured. Pizza was consumed. No water was brought. Anybody heard of the Lorenz Transformations? I asked. There was a pause.

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Uh-huh, said Raheem, putting an enormous amount of pizza in his mouth and swallowing without seeming to chew. He took a swallow of beer, too. Dis be goooood, he said. How do you do that? asked Cecil. Do what? Raheem answered. Inhale food like a Great White Shark. Stoner know, said Raheem. Yeah, sure. If you go to a boarding school, unless you eat fast, youre always hungry, said Stoney. So you went Leah began, but she was interrupted by Cecil. And what in the fuck do you know about the Lorentz Transformation? Cecil asked. Raheem swallowed his pizza and took a swallow of beer, then said

where

. I dont know how he does this, said Cecil. As far as I could recall, Raheem had recited it exactly as Mrs. W had done. Say it again? said Leah. He did. She frowned. She turned her placemat over and took out a mechanical pencil. She wrote it down and tapped the pencil point on the paper. So obviously this expresses a matrix, she said, and started scribbling. Don like no matrix, said Raheem. Graph betta You do it your way, Ill do it mine. Her pencil raced across the back of the placemat in tiny, perfectly-formed letters and digits. Okay, I think it solves to

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but Im going to need lots more time with this sucker to plot it out. It must revolve a lot. I agree, I said. Turns inside out, said Raheem. How the fuck do you know this? said Cecil. Raheem smiled and finished off the last of their pizza. Aside from being an elegant and complex equation, has the Lorentz transformation led to anything else? asked Leah, still scribbling with great precision. Well, according to Mrs. W I started. Everybody looked up. Henrys mystical math teacher, said Stoney, and refilled his glass. Everybody nodded and refocused on math, beer, or pizza, as the case may be. Well, she said the Lorentz transformations were Einsteins gateway to Relativity, I said. Leah put down her pencil and looked up. Physics? she asked. Well, Lorentz was trying to explain the propagation of waves through something that we now know doesnt exist, but the math is still math, I said. What is it that we now know doesnt exist? she asked. I had to think. Ether, said Raheem. I prefer pure math but I gottta admit this suckers fun. So lets all play with it and meet back here in, what, two weeks? Everybody nodded. Leah was staring intently at her placemat. Why does she call you Tom? asked Cecil. Oh, wow. I think its because the first time I came in here, like, last year, I used a credit card, and it had my real name on it, said Stoney. Cool, somebody said.

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Chapter 24: The Rest of Freshman Year Id like to have lots of good stories to tell you about the rest of freshman year, but I just dont. I went to class. I stuck with Greek, Calculus, Physics, and the American History deal. Coach Duke had been my American History teacher at City High and it turns out he did a pretty good job with it, even if he did say kindly when he should have said kind of. I had the distinct impression that Professor Wolff was hoping I would screw up in some way, but I couldnt ever figure out why. Prof. Wolff decided to invoke a little known rule of some sort that required attendance, and allowed the professor to fail any student who had missed some magic number of classesI forget what it was. Stoney bitterly resented this rule and believed its enforcement was directed at him personally, as it may well have been, since Wolff seemed to like Stoney even less than me. The result was that Stoney sat next to me in class every day, without notebook, pencil or textbook, pointedly reading Moby Dick, reeking of marijuana. and paying no attention whatsoever to class. Wolff asked him questions a few times at the beginning of second semester, but Stoney could always answer them off the top of his head, so he eventually stopped asking the questions. I spent my holidays with Mrs. W (she doesnt put up a Christmas tree, but she does put a wreath on the front door) but otherwise didnt get to Chattanooga too much. In physics class I sat between, and out of class ate occasional meals with, Rob and Toni, whose interaction didnt change. One night when he was very, very high Milton developed the odd and quasi-mystical notion that improbable events were more likely to occur when I was nearby than when I was absent. Unlike most of the brilliant insights he experienced when stoned, he remembered this one the following day, and so he started wanting to hang out with me. He had no rational basis for his belief, he just said that was how the universe waseven if the odds were the same for everyone, the bell curve137 meant that some people saw lots of improbable events and others didnt, luck of the draw.
137

More properly called the Gaussian Curve, after Carl Friederich Gauss, who first figured it out, can be expressed as a function:

but is more familiarly recognized as a graph, although fully graphed it is slightly more complicated than most people are aware of:

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His reasoning in wanting to hang around with me was that since improbable events were more likely in my presence, that his chances of getting laid were better if I was around. I couldnt tell that it was working out so well for him, but so far as I could tell, the only freshman who was getting much notice from attractive young women was Cisco, who seemed to get a lot of it. His dorm room was right across the hall from mine, and although I didnt see many women come and go, lots of mornings when I opened my door to walk down to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I could hear a feminine voice laughing or murmuring inside. Between having Stoney actually attending class second semester and Milton thinking I upped his chances of getting lucky, I was out and about more second semester than I was first. I went to fraternity parties and stuff I never would have found on my own. If youre a drinker, just so you know, those parties are really not so interesting if you dont drink. I was at a rush party for one of the big frats, across the street from Landen House, when one of the brothers, thinking, mistakenly, that he had identified a young woman of his acquaintance as my cousin, asked Do you think shell take her clothes off for me? which I thought was an odd question to ask about a guys cousin. Math Club met every other week, generally, although every now and then Leah would decide138 that we needed a longer or shorter time between meetings. We always met at House of Pizza, Leah and I always shared a Medium With Everything, and it was always perfect. Beyond perfect. Delicious. After we went through the Lorentz Transformations, Raheem with his intricate graphs and Leah with her elaborate matrices, and the rest of us with cruder or simper combinations of the two, a process that took several meetings until we all understood the elegant way that the equation folds back in a way that introduces the function to itself, in a way, we werent sure what to do. Okay, whats our next project? said Leah. This ones been fun. And weve had lots of great pizza. We all looked at each other around the table. I found a copy of Tycho Brahes observations, Stony said, and I think I understand them, although the books in Danish and I dont speak a word of Danish. But I think Ive figured out a way of using two-variable differentiation to plot out the orbits. I think it may confirm Keplers laws. Stoner, said Raheem. What? The rest of us arent so keen on the whole Kepler deal, said Leah.
It expresses in very detailed terms the commonsense notion that apparently randomly distributed attributes will fall into a pattern, with the majority being in an average or normal range with increasingly fewer attributes distributed the further one gets from the median point. Every college student knows (or knew in 1974) that there will be more Cs in a large class than any other grades, but few, even in 1974 understood that under Gaussian analysis there ought to be as many Fs as As and as many D's as Bs. 138 Somehow everybody accepted that Stoney was in charge of membership and Leah was in charge of everything else.

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But look, what he did with these stupid little plus and minus and times calculations we can do with calculus, he said. We could figure it all out in a completely different way. And who knows? We might see something no ones ever seen before. All in favor? she asked. No one raised his or her hand. They all took sips of beer. Fermats last theorem? asked Cecil. Considered insoluble, said Leah. Thats not the problem, man, said Stoney. Everybody looked up at him. I figure it out every time I take purple blotter, but Im always too fucked up to write it down. Last year right before I barfed I dictated it to this weird tall girl with long hair who twitched a lot but when I woke up she was gone. One wonders why, said Leah, looking away. Of course when I woke up my memories of the preceding night were a little cloudy and I couldnt work out the middle sequence. Bt it can be done, he said, refilling his beer glass and waving to the waitress, who was not Robin, for another pitcher of Schlitz. So whats our problem? asked Leah. Shit, thats kind of deep, Leah, said Stoney. Our math problem, said Leah. Oh. Gotcha, said Stoney, draining his beer. Everybody was quiet for a few seconds. We said no on Kepler, right? Stoney asked, looking around, as if it were possible the subject had never been broached. Leah and Raheem both answered. There was another pause. Okay, so theres a thing that happened in physics, but its really a math problem. John Clerk Maxwell I started. Who? Cecil asked. Scot, said Raheem. lectromagnetism.

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He kind of figured out electromagnetic force, said Leah, nodding, but youre talking physics again. This is a math club. Yeah, sure, I answered. But this is sorta both. After years of looking at his experiments and all, Maxwell reduced everything he knew about electricity and magnetism and the relationship between them to twenty different differential equations that described everything about electromotive force. Everybody paused. I know Maxwells equations, said Raheem. They only four. How the fuck do you do this, man? asked Cecil, glaring at him. Every time anybody brings anything up, you already heard about it. I only know four, said Raheem, ignoring Cecil. Thats what Henrys getting at, said Leah. Maxwell died before he figured it out, but a friend of his named Oliver Heaviside, who was more of a mathematician than a physicist, in my humble opinion, looked at Maxwells equations and eventually restated them as just four equations that have all of the information you need to analyze electromagnetic forces. Somehow he digested all of Maxwells equations and managed to divide them by five without losing any of the predictive or calculative impact of Maxwells twenty. This may be the place in the history of science when the idea of a field first took root, Im not sure. Newton understood gravity as a force acting at a distance, said Cecil. True enough, said Leah. Not sure thats the same as a field, though. Another pause. So our project is to look at Maxwells twenty and see how we can reduce them to just four? asked Cecil. There were some speculative nods. Naw, naw, naw, said Raheem. Lets look at Maxwells twenty and see what we thinks they should be reduced to. Maybe we comes up with somethin different. Cool, said Stoney, Cecil, and Leah, in that order. Im in, I said. One night several weeks later a guy I recognized from my visit to the graduate pub as a physics and astronomy grad student was sitting next to us with a buddy and he heard us trying to reduce one of Maxwells convoluted differentiations regarding the amount of force exerted by a field surrounding a copper wire. Excuse me, but are you guys talking about James Clerk Maxwell? he asked, from the next table over.

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Yeah, sure, I answered. Robin was waiting our table, so I was drinking club soda. And youre reducing Maxwells equations on your own? he asked. Well, were trying to, said Leah. Do you know how its done? It was obvious that he liked the way she looked, and she was playing to that a little bit. Fuck no, he said. I just go with the four they lay out in the book. Tol you they was fo, said Raheem. Youre Henry Baida, right? he asked me. Yeah. I heard about you. Whats your take? he asked. I think I just figured it out, I said, but this is tentative. Stoney, Leah, Raheem and Cecil all looked at me quizzically. Spill, said the grad student. I think Maxwell was trying to express everything in a kind of scalar way. If you go back and look at them as vectors, instead, the way we do in, say, first year physics, I think it will all sift out. Okay, man, said the grad student, and shook his head, smiling. Stoney, Raheem, and Cecil were all staring at the ceiling, as if in a daze. Leah looked quizzical for a few seconds, then started writing furiously on her pad. The grad student left. Mothafucka, said Raheem, still looking up. I think you got something, said Cecil. Lord fuck a duck, said Stoney, to the ceiling. Gimme a minute on this, said Leah, scribbling intensely. Raheem and Leah led us through working it all out. Heaviside had reduced Maxwells equations as far as they could be reduced, we agreed, and had done a good job of it. Leah researched pure math more thoroughly as the Math Clubs next few projects came up, and she steered us through various math problems that seemed to be chosen in a teacherly fashion. Nevertheless, it was fun.

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Greek continued to be my most challenging and fun class. Its as though each language has its own way of thinking, and Koine is very simple and direct. It reminds me of me, although it expresses the teachings of Christ, and I do not. The weirdest class in my entire academic career happened a few months later, just before exams, in my math class. Stoney was in the desk next to me sound asleep in his aviator shades, head resting on his copy of Moby Dick. Dr. Wolff was addressing us on some tedious point and for some reason, Dr. Ladd, the chairman of the Math department and my academic adviser, was present, seated in a chair behind Dr. Wolff. Wolff called on me to ask me about something that seemed complicated but wasnt if youd read ahead a chapter or had Mrs. W as a math teacher, and I answered in a way that I thought the next chapter would approve of, and Wolff got all cross. No, Mr. Baida, I want you to focus very clearly on the methodology of this chapter, he said. Do you think you can do that for me? Yeah, sure. I mean yes, sir, but next class youre going to teach us a much simpler way to address the same problem. All you need to do is get really close to the limit, and the limit here is zero. Mathematics is a rigorous discipline, Mr. Baida. Each thing I teach you is a building block for what comes next, he said. I guess, yeah, I said. You guess? You guess? I mean, the way the next chapter addresses this same set of limits has a really different methodology. And its lots faster, at least for me, I said. I know you dabble in Physics, said Wolff. But in math, once things are true, they are always true. Always settled. Every few years physicists change their minds about the fundamentals of their discipline. Physics changes. Math does not. Okay, I said. Stoney woke up, sat bolt upright, and looked surprised at to be in these particular surroundings, as though hed never been there before. He looked at Wolff, who was obviously cross with me, then at me, then a wary expression settled on his face. You disagree? asked Wolff. Maybe, I said. If A is greater than B and B is greater than C, A is always greater than C, always and everywhere.

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Okay, I said. You disagree? Wolff asked. Now that Stoney had realized he wasnt about to get in trouble, he was following the conversation with a contemplative expression, so far as I could tell from the part of him that wasnt covered in sunglasses. I understand that you believe that the laws of mathematics are universally true, I said. And you do not? Not exactly. If A is greater than B and B is greater than C, A is always greater than C. You disagree with that? he asked. Not exactly. Its not like I think its wrong. I just dont think that any precept is universally true. Why not? How can you not? Wolff asked. I just dont think that anything is always true. Rules all have exceptions. Beliefs and laws all have holes in them. I really didnt like being in this semi-confrontational conversation. You cant agree with me that if A is greater than B and B is greater than C, then A is always greater than C? Im sorry, Dr. Wolff. I dont mean to be disagreeable or difficult, but I just dont think that anything is universally true. I just dont. Realitys not like that. There was an awkward pause. The other students, except for Stoney, were shifting nervously in their seats and trying to not make eye contact with anyone else. Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants, name me one place in the entire universe, in Physics or Mathematics, where if A is greater than B and B is greater than C, A is not greater than C. In Rock, Paper, Scissors, I said. Stoney immediately threw back his head and cackled so loudly that the faint smell of residual marijuana smoke filled the room. He coughed and caught his breath and cackled some more. Oh, thats fuckin perfect, he said. The other math students were looking at me in frank horror. Oh, for heavens sake! said Dr. Wolff, primly.

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John, said Prof. Ladd. Im asking a serious question and you answer with a childs game? said Wolff, to me. John said Prof. Ladd, to Wolff. Yes, sir, I said, to Wolff. John! said Prof. Ladd, to Wolff. But began Wolff. I know, said Prof. Ladd. I asked you to make this class your most rigorous, and to make sure Mr. Baida was possessed of the mind of a mathematician. But you have challenged him and he has answered your question deftly, with insight and ingenuity. He is absolutely right. There was a pause. Far fuckin out, said Stoney, in a conversational voice, staring at me. Those few words reoccupied the air between us with the rich dark smell of marijuana smoke. John, lets move on. Mr. Baida, if youd come have a word with me after class? Thank you. Stoney took off his shades and looked at me in frank admiration, gesturing in some odd, high way. Other students looked worried, as though Id done something improper that was going to get everyone in trouble. Wolff turned his attention to some other student. He (Wolff) was discombobulated for a minute or two but soon reassumed his air of supercilious punctiliousness and class reassumed its normal rhythm. At the end of class Stoney looked at me, as usual, with a lunch question. Rand or Campus Grill? Your pick, but Ladd wants to pow-wow first. Oh, right. I stood and walked the few steps to the front of the classroom. Dr. Ladd and Dr. Wolff were talking, and I stood a few paces away and waited for them to be through. Stoney followed along, standing right next to me with his copy of Moby Dick, as though he, too, had an appointment with Dr. Ladd. Mr. Baida, Ladd said, frowning slightly, when hed finished talking to Dr. Wolff. I believe we got off on the wrong foot. He paused. Its not uncommon for people I dont particularly like to pause as though Im supposed to help them along with the conversation. He looked at me. I looked back. There was an awkward pause. I guess I assumed that the policies of the department were based on years of experience, and that assuming that someone who had not taken the prerequisite courses was doomed

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to failure was reasonable. Dr. Ladd looked at me again as though he wanted me to say something. I looked back. There was a pause. Even Stoney started to look at me as though I was supposed to speak. And so I was wrong, said Dr. Ladd. JohnDr. Wolff, that is, has been showing me your grades, and it appears youre in first place in your class for both semesters. Never a wrong answer. Well, youre tied for first place. Theres somebody else Oh, cool, thats me, said Stoney, stepping forward behind his sunglasses. And you are? asked Ladd. Thomas Jackson sir, said Stoney, proud of himself for remembering to say sir. Is this correct? Ladd asked Wolff. Yes, sir, he said. They both shook their heads ruefully. Would you mind standing a little further away, Mr. Jackson? Im trying to talk to Mr. Baida. Stoney took a step backwards. Okay. Mr. Baida, I am worried that through departmental limitations I have unduly restricted the development of a sound mathematical mind. He looked at me. I looked back. There was a pause. Did you really take math from Dr. Margaret Wertheimer? My high school math teacher was named Margaret Wertheimer. I dont know about her educational background. Tell Dr. Wertheimer that if she tells me youre okay with complex integration and differentiation, Ill approve you for any math course you want to take, whether youve taken the pre-requisites or not. Theres a book I think she has, Introduction to Complex Analysis, by Zeev Nehari. I know hes a friend of hers, so I assume shes got his book. Its a little more engineering-related than I like for a math student, but the math is acceptable. Tell her I said if you can read it, you have the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. Yes, sir, I said. I hadnt actually made any plans for my summer, but now it appeared I had some. How about me? asked Stoney. How do you mean, Mr. Jackson? If she teaches me, too, do I get the same pass?

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You, too, know Dr. Wertheimer? he asked. No, no. But Henrys my best friend in the whole world, and Im sure he can get me in. I looked at him and frowned. Stoney all day every day might be a bit much. There was a pause. Are you two . Wolff asked. Oh, no, said Stoney, shaking his head. Henrys gay, but Im totally straight. Oh, for Christs sake, I said. Okay, Mr. Jackson. If Dr. Wertheimer signs off on you, you get the same pass. We smiled and shook hands. Dr. Wolff cocked an eyebrow at me as we left. So you really want to spend the summer in Chattanooga studying math? I asked, outside. Yeah, sure, he said, firing up a joint right outside the doors. Grosse Pointe is kinda boring. Gotta be lots of good weed in Chattanooga. We did Campus Grill for lunch. Roxie was our waitress. She didnt do any magic tricks, but my bill came out to exactly $4.00, including tax. Later that day, Milton knocked on my door and asked if Id decided where I wanted to live the following year. I hadnt, and he said hed decided we should be roommates, or at least suite-mates. I was floored. Whys this? I asked. He was trying to straighten out a cigarette from a pack that had been in his back pocket when hed sat down on it several occasions. Its part of a larger plan, he said, studying his cigarette with a degree of scrutiny that might accompany the examination of fingerprints from a crime scene. If I get both you and Cisco into one suite, I may have my best year ever. Hows that? I asked. I needed a place to live, and his plan was fine, I was just curious about his reasoning. Well, improbable things are always happening around you. And me getting laid could easily be filed under improbable things. All these really attractive women are always circling around Cisco, like moths circling a moderately intelligent, handsome, morally compromised, extremely Southern porch-light. So I figure when the improbable happens because Im around you it will be with a beautiful girl because Im around Cisco, which is good all around, no? How high are you? I asked. It was about 3:00 in the afternoon.

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Hardly at all, he said, taken aback and a little wounded that Id asked. He selected another, slightly less broken cigarette and lit it, then gazed at it speculatively. I smoked part of a joint after lunch, but nothing since then. Im fine with rooming with you and Cisco, I said. You said four. Whos the fourth? Yeah, I dunno, said Milton. I kinda dont think most of the guys on the floor are right for the vibe Im tryin to set up. Do you know my friend Stoney? I asked. Stoney who? he asked. Thomas Stonewall Jackson. Stoney Jackson? You know Stoney Jackson? Oh, man, that would be so cool! He has the best drugs on the planet! I called Stoney, and he was okay with the roommate plan. I called Mrs. W, and she was okay with teaching him math over the summer. I had been aware from the time Stoney had suggested he accompany me on the Summer of Math that it would involve her putting us both up for the summer. If she minded, it didnt show. Tell Stoney no marijuana or other illegal drugs over the summer, she said. Not in my house. Yes, maam. Just out of curiosity, what made you think that Stoney might be interested in recreational pharmaceuticals? I asked. There was a pause. That nickname was a good start, she said. Hes called that because he has the same name as Stonewall Jackson, I said. I could hear her lighting a cigarette and savoring that first deep drag. Uh-huh, she said. No, really, I said. I could hear Mrs. W thinking and smoking for a minute. Ive heard it said that a good symbol is one that can stand for a lot of different things. Different people can see it different ways. Makes it enduring. Maybe a nickname is the same idea. I heard her take another drag off of her cigarette and conversation moved on to something else. So we were set for the summer.

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Chapter 25: Traveling to Summer School After exams Stoney took a few days to get himself together to pack his possessions and get ready to drive down to Chattanooga. I had planned to call Ginny to offer her a ride, but before I got to it Cisco told me he was taking her, at Walts request. You know, hes, um, pretty set on her. Tennis deal, Cisco said. Hed dropped by to flip a coin to decide which one of us was going to get the inside and which the outside room at McTyeire. That was our dorm for the next year, and it had originally been set up as a dorm of four room suites in which two men shared four rooms and a bathroom. Each resident had a sitting room and a bedroom, on either side of the bathroom, which seems very genteel, even by 1974 standards. By the time 1974 actually arrived, though, times were considerably less genteel, so when we inhabited it, it was up as four bedrooms sharing one bathroom, with the sitting rooms converted to bedrooms, which meant that the person who lived in what had once been the sitting room had to put up with the other resident at his end walking through his room every time he needed the bathroom. I think they have this whole country club background they share, I said, about Walt and Ginny. I hadnt seen either of them since Cisco had driven us all back to school following the Christmas holiday. Yeah, youre right, but its more than that. Theyve been playing tennis together a whole lot and apparently theyre pretty good as a mixed doubles pair. Theyre going to spend the summer going to tournaments everywhere. Walt thinks they may be the number one mixed doubles pair in the SEC next year. That sounds like something good, I said. Im picking that up too. Lets do this, he said, pulling a quarter out of his soft khaki pants. He flipped it high into the air and said call it! tracing the quarters arc with his eyes. Tails, I said. He caught the quarter in his right hand and smacked it over onto his left wrist. Before we look, lets talk about this, he said, without revealing the coin. Weve resorted to a traditional conflict-resolution process, but perhaps this is unnecessary. Perhaps there really is no conflict. Which room would you prefer to have? The outside one. Why? he asked. I dont like to have other people going through my room.

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Which room do you think I want? he asked. The same one, the outside. Why do you think that? We were standing in the door to my dorm room at Hemmingway, him still with his right hand covering the quarter on his left wrist, right next to his steel Rolex. Cause youve always got girls in your room. Id imagine youd value your privacy. I do, he said, and smiled at me. My impression is that you go to bed relatively early, he said. True, if you judge me as compared to this lot, I gestured to our hall, left and right. I get tired around midnight. You also dont seem to gossip much, said Cisco, hand still on wrist. About what? I asked. Whos Jos fucking? he asked. Yeah, well. Who knows? You do. You saw Roz Martin and him leave his room together at 7:00 a.m. last Wednesday. Yeah, well, I dont spend a lot of time thinking about that kind of thing. I have deep respect for this aspect of your personality, he said. Why thank you. And it is one of the factors that makes the inner room more appealing to me. No shit? I asked. None. Its possible that any friends I bring to my room will be joining us after youre asleep. And your taciturn nature will be handy. And guests from my room will not need to pass through yours to have access to the bathroom. Are we agreed? Yeah, well, sure. Excellent! Its a deal, then?

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Im outside, youre inside, and I dont talk? I asked. That sums it up. No need to look at the coin, then. Its tails, I said. How can you know that? I never lose a coin toss. He lifted his right hand from is left wrist and revealed the spread eagle tails side of a Washington quarter. He smiled that smile, then flipped it with his thumb so that it spun through the air and I caught it in my right hand. Youre the man, said Cisco and headed out, topsiders, khakis, alligator shirt and all. At the door he stopped and turned around in the middle of lighting a Marlboro red. About the Ginny and Walt deal, theyve been playing tennis together. Thats cool, I said. A lot. Okay He told me last month that hed given up smoking, he said. Yeah, well. Hes getting in shape for tennis, I said. He said hed given it up because she didnt like the way it tasted. A very specific comment, I said. Thought you should know, he said. Well, look, for some reason people think theres more going on between Ginny and me than there is. This is not a problem, but thanks for keeping me informed. Later, dude,139 he answered, and left. The phone rang a few minutes later. Hello? I asked. Okay, so, Im almost all the way packed. If I get all my stuff into the trunk will you be able to fit yours into the back seat? asked Stony, without preamble. Yeah, sure. All of my stuff fits into a steamer trunk.
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Ciscos favorite band is Steely Dan, and Any Major Dudell Tell Ya had just been dropped, so dude has been working its way into his vocabulary.

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Not sure what that is man, but as long as itll fit in the back seat, were cool. And youre okay with having my aquarium at your feet? You have an aquarium? I asked. Of course. Oh, shit, you dont have one too, do you? No, of course not. Okay. Thats cool. Its just a ten-gallon one and youll get used to having it at your feet pretty fast. Ill be over in about ten. Wait. Youre in the one thats closest to Tex Ritters? My dorm was across the street from a fast-food hamburger place called Tex Ritters. Yes, I said. O.K. Thats cool. That might come in handy. I havent eaten anything today and its past lunchtime. At least I dont think Ive eaten anything today. Anyhow Tex Ritters bein right across the street is pretty cool. Oh, wow! And then theres IHOP right down that one-way street. And Jesus! Macks Fine Foods and Fresh Vegetables Daily is right across the street from that! Stoney? Yes? Just get here. Then Ill drive you to wherever you want to eat lunch, Ill buy your lunch, then Ill drive us to Chattanooga. But then Ill have the aquarium down between my feet, he complained. Yes, you will. I could hear him sigh as though he was resigned to this onerous condition even though he knew it to be patently unfair. Two hours later, Stoney knocked on my door. He was wearing bell-bottomed Levis, his cowboy boots, the vest from a navy blue pinstriped suit, an Oxford cloth buttoned down shirt much like my own, and his aviator shades. Cool. Ready to go? he asked. Yeah sure. He helped me negotiate my steamer trunk down the stairs. That was pretty easy because Id sent all my books to Mrs. W, parcel post, just like when I was on the road. Once my trunk was loaded into his back seat, he looked at me and said burgers? We walked across the street to Tex Ritters. Both of us had the Chuck Wagon Special, a good double cheeseburger with fries and your choice of soda.

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I think I should drive, I said, when we got back to the parking lot. Really? he asked. Ive driven this car for so long. To feel comfortable having you drive me through steep mountain passes, Id want to know everything youd ingested since yesterday, I said. Oh, God. Who takes notes? And more to the point, what have you ingested since yesterday, Henry Baida. Answer me that! Food and water, I said. There was a pause during which he looked puzzled. Yeah. Sure. No beer or whiskey. I bet. I dont drink. I know you say that, but I mean really, said Stoney. I really dont drink. Youve gotta be shitting me. Everybody drinks. Except these weird religious fanatics you have down here. Are you one of those? No. Let me have the keys, please, I said. Why do you want the keys to my car? he asked suspiciously. Im offering to drive you to Chattanooga. Cool! he said, and threw me the keys. We moved to get in. Ah, shit. I forgot about the damned fish, he said, after opening the passenger side door. Lemme drive. No. But theres no room for my feet, he said. There would be no room for my feet, either, I said. He seemed confused by this information. Lets go Stoney, I said. We both got in, him placing his feet carefully alongside the aquarium. It contained a single, blunt-looking palm-sized fish, a combination of goldfish-gold and silvery white that faded into river green. Once he was seated I started the car and pulled into traffic. Why are you driving, again? he asked right before we got on the freeway. This is my car. Because youre completely fucked up, I answered.

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Yes? Yes. Yes, well. You know what they say. What do they say? I asked. Realitys for people who cant handle drugs, he answered. Ive heard that before, I said. But I made it up. No, you didnt. Okay. In a little over two hours youre going to meet my friend Mrs. Wertheimer. She has little patience for drugs. Why? Partly because intoxicated people are only interesting to other people who are also intoxicated. Recall that one condition of you staying in her house all summer, and so getting a pass to take the math courses you want, is that she said no drugs are allowed in her house at all. Oh, she didnt mean that, said Stoney. Yes, she did, and if she catches you with anything illegal in her house, my guess is that shell send you packing. Shes tolerant, but she enforces rules. Oh, for Christs sake. Surely she suspects that you smoke reefer when youre home for holidays. But I dont. Not at all? he asked, baffled. Nope. Why not? he asked, suspiciously. I shrugged. Just not interested. He shook his head in a troubled, baleful manner. This is a total bummer, he said.

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Which part? That you dont smoke. Whys that? I asked. I ran out of reefer just before lunch and I thought I could bum some off of you. No. Stoney, you have agreed not to do drugs all summer. Oh, thats one of those summer romance promises. Nobody expects you to keep those. Yes, she does. Seriously? he asked. Yes. She doesnt occasionally take a toke herself? No. Well, what am I supposed to do? he asked. Sober up? I asked back. No, no, Ill think of something, he said. He was lost in his own thoughts for maybe an hour. He never seemed to fall completely asleep, but I couldnt monitor him very carefully because I was driving. He was quiet until I got to the top of the Monteagle Pass. Okay, so, hypothetically, if I were to smoke some weed off by myself in my bedroom and she never knew it happened, Stoney asked. Could I do that? Not in her house, no. Her deal is no drugs in her house. Okay, he said, and thought for a few minutes.No smoking in her house? he asked. Yes. And thats it? I may be able to work with that. Well, no. No possession of illegal drugs in her house would be more accurate, I said.

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Ah, shit. Now thats just unreasonable. What does she care whats in my pockets? Stoney, she disapproves of drugs. But why? he asked, beseechingly, mystified. Shes never done drugs She doesnt drink? Yes, of course she does. Not much, but she does. She also drinks coffee and smokes cigarettes. A lot. And Im sure she takes aspirin and drinks tea. But all of that is different. No its not. Yes, it is. If Mrs. W has a glass of wine with dinner, it may affect her mood, and if she has a lot of wine with dinner, hypothetically, she might become intoxicated. But no cop is going to show up at her door with a search warrant telling her they suspect her of having a glass of wine and haul her off to jail on suspicion that she did. Its not fair, said Stoney, looking in his pockets for a cigarette. I hear the only place you find justice is in the dictionary. Good line, said Stoney, meditatively, nodding and lighting his cigarette. Mrs. W disapproves of drugs. Shes had some bad experiences. Really? Like bad acid trips, or what? he asked. No, no. Students whose drug experiences worried her. Needle and the Damage Done140 shit? he asked, speculatively. No. The only one shes mentioned to me was this classmate of mine, Ed Bork. Ed was a weird guy even before he started eating acid, and acid put him kind of over the top in a major way. He started quoting Aleister Crowley about devil worship and that kind of crap. He had these pamphlets and tracts hed hand out to us as we filed into school, him wearing a black velvet robe, with a hood, talking about Satanism. It was all stupid. He had bad hair, too.
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The Needle and the Damage Done is a song from Neil Youngs Harvest album, released in 1972. To the extent that it has a focus, it talks about how hed known musicians whod become addicted to heroin. This was a bigger problem with musicians in the seventies that it is now. It sounded like every other Neil Young song.

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What kind of bad hair? Stoney asked. Kind of helmet shaped. What did he look like? Five ten, bony. Smiled too much, but that was the drugs. I said. What did he do to your math teacher? He claimed to put a hex on her. Wed come through the pass and were on the flatlands that lead into Chattanooga. What kind of hex? asked Stoney. He didnt even attempt to answer the exam questions because hed placed a powerful curse on her so that she would be dead before grades came in, or something like that, so that she would be unable to fail him, try as she might. She gave him a failing grade on the exam, which should have failed him for the class. The school administrators overruled her and gave him a passing grade just to get rid of him. Witchcraft is powerful, said Stoney. Mrs. W is still alive, I said. True, he said. He took a drag off of his cigarette. Why are we talking about that? he asked. Dont remember. Okay, so, no drugs in the house, but what if there happened to be a stash outside the house but hidden nearby, say, in a car parked nearby, for example, where a man might stop by and refresh himself? This is a gray area I am not equipped to address. Or what if I found legal drugs of some sort? I could bring them into the house, right? Like codeine? I asked. Like you talk some Chattanooga doctor into giving you something you want to take? No. Like psilocybin mushrooms. Nothing illegal about them.141
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Stoney was right when he said this. The Psychotropic Substances Act of 1978 had yet to be enacted.

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I dont think they grow in Tennessee, I said. Who would know? he asked. A mycologist, I said. Henry, please be serious. Im trying to work out a plausible strategy for surviving the next ninety days. I have no idea. He was lost in his thoughts for a few minutes. Booze? he asked. She wont mind drinking, I said. Well thats something. What about advanced, graduate-level drinking?142 Its not illegal, I said. Is there a liquor store on the way? Yeah, sure, I said. Thatll help until I can come up with a real solution, he said. The wheels were churning, and he had a troubled expression. Once we got to Chattanooga I took him to Nicks liquor store, across the street from the shuttered Union Station, and he bought a half gallon of Jack Daniels black label143, a half gallon of Smirnoff hundred proof vodka, and a fifth of something called grappa. He distributed them amongst his possessions in various areas of his car, and then pronounced himself ready to go. We were just a few minutes from Mrs. Wertheimers house. Okay, bud, I said, in Nicks parking lot, just before putting his car in drive. Mrs. W is very important to me. Ive asked her to invite you into her house. I need you to respect her rules. I will, said Stoney, Incomprehensible as they may be, but you shouldnt fault me for seeking to understand their limits. Lawyers, priests, penitents, all need to understand what the rules are, and they all interpret them, I guess Im more used to seeking forgiveness than permission. That is a practice that I, as a Catholic, am accustomed to. Unfortunately, you are telling me, in essence, and I apologize for reducing your elaborate, elegant argument into a catchphrase, that I cant transgress. This is new territory for me. I can tell you that Ill comply, but I cant promise that I wont explore the boundaries of this rule business.

142 143

In Tennessee in 1974, the legal drinking age was 18, and had been for maybe five years. For those of you outside the South, theres a Jack Daniels green label thats almost as good and cheaper.

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No dope of any sort in her house, I said. Got it, man. But you cant fault a man for wanting to get high. Yes, I can, I said. Not unless youre a Baptist, he said. Thats like faulting a man for wanting to get laid. Whats the attraction, anyhow? To getting laid? No, no. To drugs. Oh, man, until you try it, youll never understand. On acid, you think in poetry. Listen! Listen! The radio was on and he turned it up as I left Nicks parking lot. Magic! Jimi is a genius. The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow, and shine in emptiness down on my bed? Did I hear that right? I asked. Yes! You see? Genius! Stoney, it makes no sense whatsoever. Since you understand it and youre still stoned Im guessing that people on drugs say things that other stoned people understand, kind of like stoners are more interesting to other stoners than they are to straight people. And by straight, you mean . he said. Unstoned. Youre missing the point, he said. Jimi was on acid when he wrote that really cool lyric to The Wind Cries Mary. Im just a teeny bit maybe high from some reefer I smoked hours and hours ago. I may not even be high at all, he said, glumly. Okay, I said, pulling into her driveway. The rules are, no drugs of any sort in her house. Thats not what you said before! he said, distressed. Before you said no illegal drugs in her house. Youre absolutely right, I said. She smokes and drinks.

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Its a starting point. We got out of Stoneys car. Both of us stretched. I grabbed my trunk and Stoney grabbed his fish tank and we walked to the front door. I rang the doorbell, and Mrs. W answered the door within a few seconds. Hello, Henry! she said, and she might have hugged me had I not been holding an enormous steamer trunk. Mrs. W, may I introduce Stoney Jackson, I said. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wertheimer, Stoney said, trying to reach a hand out under his fish tank. She reached under the tank to shake his hand, parking her cigarette between her lips while she did so. And what have we here? She adjusted her glasses and took a drag from her cigarette while Stoney was getting ready to answer. Mr. Jackson, do you have a piranha in there? Yes, maam. What do you feed it? Fishing minnows, when I can find them. Goldfish, when I cant. So you have to keep two aquariums going to own one fish? she asked. Yes, maam. All right. You boys show yourselves upstairs. Henry, show Stoney to the room upstairs thats neither yours nor mine. Stoney, leave that aquarium on the floor for now. Well put some kind of rubber mat on the desk tomorrow so you can put your aquaria on it without worry, but thats a Stickley desk and I dont want anything bad to happen to the finish. Yes, maam. We made several trips up and down the stairs taking heaps of his belongings upstairs, then he wanted to fill up his aquarium, and turn on the pumps and filters. This took a few minutes, not least because its not as easy as it might seem to find a container in the upstairs of a suburban house that will hold several gallons of water. And then we were home.

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Chapter 26: Summer School, and an Exchange with the Tappet Brothers The next morning I woke up at about 7:00. I got up to brush my teeth and as I crossed the hall I noticed that the house already smelled like coffee and bacon. I performed a few morning ablutions and descended to the first floor, where I could hear that Stoney and Mrs. W were talking. I walked through the dining room to get to the kitchen, and there was a large green chalkboard set up in front of the buffet at the end of the dining room. I pushed open the door to the kitchenone of those two-way doors that would swing in either directionand found Mrs. W drinking coffee, looking at the Chattanooga Times and smoking a cigarette, and Stoney at the stove. There were maybe sixteen rashers of bacon on a piece of newsprint next to the stove and Stoney was frying something in a skillet. Hello, everybody, I said, as I entered the room. Hey, Henry, said Mrs. Wertheimer. Yo, Stoney called out. Whats up? I asked. Not much, said Mrs. W, taking a drag off of her cigarette, still looking at her paper. Im reading about Vice President Gerald Ford, our third in almost as many years, and regretting mightily that I voted for Richard Nixon, although I freely admit that he seemed like the better candidate over that chump George McGovernplease dont judge meand Stoney is making me some French toast. Stoney can cook? I asked. In the background, I saw him spatula two squares of French toast onto a plate, cut them into triangles with the spatula, rearrange them on the plate, then serve them to Mrs. W with four slices of bacon. She had a tin of Vermont maple syrup at the ready. Why thank you, Stoney, she said, and laid a napkin in her lap. Mrs. W, you know, if you got a microwave oven, we could heat the syrup, which you might like, said Stoney, pouring her a glass of cold milk. She looked at her plate with great pleasure. It almost seemed like tears were welling up as she stubbed out her cigarette. Stoney, this may be the prettiest breakfast I ever did see, she said. Why thank you! Stoney said. Mrs. W poured syrup, cut off a wedge of French toast, and smiled happily as she chewed. She added bacon and milk to the mix, and seemed utterly delighted. Hes good, she said.

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Want some? Stoney asked, looking at me. Ill have some bacon, if theres extra, but I dont like sweet stuff for breakfast as much as I ought to, I said. Thats cool, he said, handing me two slices of bacon on a salad plate. Ill cook me some, he said, and proceeded to dip first one, then another, slice of bread into what I assumed was a mixture of eggs and milk, and dropped them into a very large frying pan. Stoney, this is wonderful, said Mrs. W. Cool, he said, and cooked his own French toast. Anybody else want bacon? he asked, and when nobody responded he piled eight or ten pieces of bacon on his own plate, arranging his French toast in triangular slices as hed done Mrs. Ws. He sat down at the breakfast table and poured himself a glass of milk, then drenched his French toast in maple syrup. I refilled my coffee cup. The food all smelled really good, and I regretted passing on Stoneys French toast. I ate my bacon and we passed different parts of the paper around. Stoney was looking at the sports pages. Fuck, he said. I looked up, wondering how Mrs. W was going to take this. What? she asked. Detroit just sucks, he said. Youre a Tigers fan? she asked. Sure, he answered. Not gonna be a good year for you, Im thinking, she said. I had no idea she was a baseball fan. Whos your team? I asked. Eh. You know. I get the Braves on the radio. Ive always been a Giants fan, though, and I just cant root for the Braves against San Francisco. You? she asked me. Dodgers. There was a slight pause. Interesting choice. Howd you end up there? She asked. Stoney finished up his French toast and the last little piece of bacon, scraping the bite through the last of the maple syrup, which he wisely finished with a swallow of whole milk. He smiled a happy smile. Yeah, well, the Dodgers and the Yankees were the big teams in the sixties, when I was watching them on TV every Saturday. Dizzie Dean and Pee Wee Reese. Pee Wee

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had been a Dodger, and Dizzy was always playing tricks on him. Hed wait until Pee Wee was taking a bite of his hot dog to ask Pee Wee a question, and Pee Wee would get all ticked off about it. But he knew those Dodgers. That was the time of Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax, when the good guys might win on one run, any day. Maury Wills would walk, then steal second. Hed get to third on a bunt, get home on a sacrifice. And the pitching was so good that it was enough Who are the good guys? Stoney asked, pouring himself coffee. This is how the Dodgers faithful refer to their team, Mrs. W said, after a brief pause, without looking up. Theyre unaware they do it. Gotcha. Say on, MacDuff, he said. Yeah, well, I said. So youre a Dodger fan, said Mrs. W. Yes, of course. Mrs. W shook her head, baffled, and Stoney looked at the ceiling in embarrassment. Whats so wrong with the Dodgers? I asked. Mrs. W took a drag from her cigarette and looked at me critically. Im a life-long Giants fan, she said. This goes back to the Polo Grounds and Ebbetts Field. Now its an L.A, versus Bay Area thing. Different mentality. Hard to explain. There was an awkward silence. So I noticed that theres a blackboard in the dining room, I said, after a few minutes silence. All right, top off your coffee mugs. Lets go start our first math problem, she said, and rose to move into the dining room. The morning light was streaming into the dining room but she turned on the lights anyway. Stoney and I took seats at the dining room table. Shed thoughtfully placed a coaster at each place, plus she had one of those dining room table covers. Okay, she said. Youve seen diesel trucks? We both nodded and sipped at our coffees. They have these cylindrical tanks. She looked at us and we both nodded. She drew a diagram of a cylinder, then struck a diameter across one end, then traced a diametrical rectangle across the perimeter of the cylinder. When theyre half-full, they look like that, she said, pointing with her chalk. What do they look like when theyre a quarter full? I need you to strike another rectangle that will define the plane that the surface would occupy if the volume of the cylinder was one quarter full. She took a drag off her cigarette. Cool, said Stoney.

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Any questions? she asked. No, maam, I said. I can tell you this will solve lots easier in two dimensions than in three, said Stoney. Its a volume problem, I said. Yeah, but if you solve it in two dimensions to find a chord that divides half of a circle into two areas of equal area youve also solved the cubic question, and youre dealing with square roots, not cube roots, said Stoney. Lordy. Youre right, I said. Mrs. W smiled and cocked a wry eyebrow at Stoneys observation, and gave each of us a short yellow legal pad, a stack of plain white typing paper, and some pencils. Theres a pencil sharpener in the hall closet, she said. I have an appointment with my hairdresser and a lunch appointment with some friends. Ill be in and out. Good luck with it. Stoney frowned in mild frustration as she left. I have no idea how to do this, he said. After a few minutes he picked up a chalk and started doodling in formulas. We have to divide a semi-circle into two portions of equal area with a chord parallel to the diameter. Well, thats one way to state the problem. I drew a large circle on the blackboard and added an x and a y axis that met at the radius. Okay, so this is geometry, said Stoney. He wrote x2+y2=R2. How so? I asked. He wrote x =
R2 y2

below it. Okay, I said.

Thats just Euclid144 translated into Leibniz,145 he said. How do we turn that into a chord? Hed drawn a circle divided into quadrants. I took my chalk and drew a thin rectangle across a segment of the lower half. He looked at it and nodded. He thought a minute, then wrote dy next to my rectangle, so that we had

144 145

Surely you know who Euclid is. Gottfried Leibniz and Isaac Newton came to understand the ideas that we now call Calculus at about the same time shortly after the Revolutionary War. They used different notation to describe the same functions, and all mathematicians everywhere now use Leibniz notations. Not sure why, but then I dont know how Newton would have expressed A =

y'

dA = 2 R 2 y 2 dy .
R

y'

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Okay, said Stoney. So if we make those almost-triangle shaped pieces really small and slice our half of the pie into incredibly small rectangles well get close to determining the area of the lower half of the pie. Which, you may know, we could do with high school algebra, leaving college calculus completely aside, so we must ask ourselves whether we are going the long way around to a simpler, more elegant solution. So youre not stoned? I asked. No, not at all. Slightly hung over. I drank grappa and consoled myself with Kuhn after lights out. I may have mentioned that I have no dope. Or anything else. A tragedy of immense proportions that I wish you could grasp. Why? Because then you would understand the keen and urgent need for a solution. You seem different. How so? he asked. Youre wearing jeans and a tee shirt. Topsiders.146 No odd pieces of suits. No color. No sunglasses. Youre focused. Perhaps so, but being high would be much, much more fun, he said. You would not be more fun to be around were you high. Dont be selfish, Henry. It would be much more fun for me. So if we take the number of the rectangles to the limit and yank out the little almost triangles, we get I started.

146

In 1974 all Topsiders had white rubber soles and brown leather tops.

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No, no, Ill do it, he said. Youre right. I can figure this out. He thought for a minute, placing the chalk at his lips like he was taking a drag off a cigarette while he did so, leaving a chalk mark on his lips. He was startled by the chalk. Jesus! Its just chalk, Stoney. True. He pulled a 100 millimeter Winston out of a gold pack and lit it onehanded with a book of matches. He took that first drag that smokers take, inhaling deeply, and looked at the board. I went into the kitchen, emptied the ashtray there into the garbage can under the sink, and placed the emptied ashtray next to him. He didnt seem to notice, but he put his cigarette down in it a few seconds later. Okay, so we get length = 2x = 2
R2 y2

Yeah, you said that before, I said. Dont be impatient, Henry. If youre impatient youll never get laid. What? And height is dy, he said. Youve said this before. We need to lay out the function. What was that about getting laid? Okay. So I think we get dA= 2
R2 y2

dy, he said.

So now we have to express that as a function. I am un-stoned, not stupid, he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. He looked at the drawing for a minute. Im used to solving puzzles. Im not used to making them up. What do you get? I think A = seconds. Say it again. A =

y'

dA = 2 R 2 y 2 dy , I answered. He thought a few R

y'

y'

dA = 2 R 2 y 2 dy . He wrote it down and looked at it as a R

y'

museum curator might look at an artifact of unknown provenance. He eventually started nodding at the blackboard.

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You have to be right. Fuckadoodledoo. I need to look at this a minute. He smoked his cigarette in silence. I returned to the kitchen for more coffee.147 There were two pieces of bacon left and I snagged one. When I came back he had flipped the blackboard over and was writing speculatively on the clean side. Hed write a few figures then erase, then write a few more. So youre trying to integrate? I asked. Sure, he said. Its a bitch. After about an hour we hit on

. It was preposterously difficult to solve. Stoney decided to graph it on plain paper and it solved to a disappointingly straight line. We then worked out the calculations for actual fractions and came up with a chart for percentages of diameter that allowed us to strike chords across the circle that described area in terms of eighths. We divided the volume of a cylinder into eight wafers of equal volume. It was kind of a way of doing Mrs. W one better, and we were feeling slightly smug about it. By the time we were done it was time for lunch. Stoney had thought ahead and boiled some eggs for egg salad. He looked at the mayo in her refrigerator, Hellmanns brand, and thought for a minute. How hungry are you? he asked. Hungry but not starving. Take out the trash. I want to make my own mayonnaise, he said, beginning to search through Mrs. Ws cabinets. You can make mayonnaise? I asked. Sure, he said, pulling an avocado green Mixmaster brand stand mixer from a cabinet with a clear glass bowl and the beaters. My moms Mixmaster had been yellowish-brown, like a combination of Frenchs mustard and Guldens. I always thought of mayo as something like motor oil or yogurt, I said. How so? Things that cant be made at home.
147

It took Stoney much longer to write these functions on a blackboard than it does for you to read them. Over twenty minutes passed between this cup of coffee and the last one. This kind of calculus is hard work, at least it was for us.

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You can totally make yogurt at home, he said. Take out the trash. Stoney, when was the last time you were sober? Not on any mind-altering substance at all? I dont know, man. Like, Im smoking a cigarette and buzzed from coffee now, he said, shaking his head. That doesnt count, I said. You straight people are so weird when it comes to drugs, man. And in this case straight means . I asked. Non-freak148, he said. So when do you think the last time you were this sober was? I asked. I dunno. I went off to Lawrenceville in 1968. So its been six years since youve been sober? I asked. Sober might be too strong a word for my current status, he said. What are on? I thought it wise to steady my nerves a bit through this ordeal, so I may have added a dollop of Jack Daniels to my coffee. I didnt see you go upstairs, I said. Not of my Jack Daniels, of Mrs. Ws Jack Daniels. Stoney, I began. Oh, dont get your boxers in a bunch. Im pretty sure Mrs. W is on to me, anyway, and it was just one dollop. Or maybe two. Or lets just say some. Take out the trash and Ill start lunch. He cracked an egg into the Mixmaster bowl, then added Frenchs mustard, sugar, and salt, then turned the beaters on. Hed also found a bottle of Wesson oil. I retrieved the trash from under the sink and took it out the back door.

148

Up until 1974 or early 1975 but not at all thereafter, freak meant a person with long hair, colorful clothing, countercultural political views, bell-bottomed Levis, and personal experience with the effects of smoking marijuana.

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The back door exited onto a large screened-in porch that was at a slight angle to the part of the house where the kitchen was, and overlooked a very nice garden. I didnt seem to be closer to the garbage cans. I looked around without finding any clues. Two doors down, two girls in very revealing bathing suits were sunning themselves on their own back porch, which was not screened.149 I put the trashcan down on the porch and opened the back door to see if there were any trash cans out back. There was a lovely garden with occasional large metamorphic rocks protruding from a thick green noisier carpet. There were willow trees towards the back. There were no garbage cans. I held my right hand over my eyes like the bill of a cap to shield them from the sun to look at the two girls. They had noticed me, and waved, smiling. They were lying on redwood porch recliners. One was tall and angular with short sandy blonde hair and the other shorter and slightly plumper with shoulder-length brunette hair and bangs. Both attractive, both wearing sunglasses. We spent a few seconds waving back and forth and they both smiled as they said something to each other I couldnt hear because they were maybe 200 yards away. I waved a last time and returned to the house with the trashcan. I re-entered the kitchen, and noticed a second exit, which I tried carrying my trashcan. Stoney waved as I passed through, cigarette hanging from his lips. The second door opened to the garage, oddly a one-car garage, but there was a door to the left of the garage door, and there were trash cans right outside that. I dumped the kitchen trash into the outside, steel trash can and then rinsed out the kitchen trash can with water from an exterior spigot next to the door.150 When I got back to the kitchen, Stoney was squeezing a lemon and appeared to be frying bread cubes in olive oil. I was about to sit down, but Stoney had a question for me. Do you know what basil looks like? he asked. You mean the herb, in a jar? I asked. No, on the hoof, he answered. I had no idea what he meant by this. I noticed when we came in last night that Mrs. W has it planted in the ornamental beds near her front door, along with some other herbs. Basis is the tallest plant in those small square bed and has the broadest green leaves. Go pick me ten basil leaves, distributed across as many different plants as possible. Is this some strange mystical deal? I asked. No this is lunch. Hurry.

149
150

I much prefer screened porches, especially in the South. In 1974, plastic garbage bags were not used in Tennessee. Trash was placed directly into a kitchen (or bathroom, or bedroom) trash can and these were emptied directly into a metal trash can somewhere in the back of the house. Municipal workers then moved the refuse from the large metal cans into garbage trucks, an aromatic process for them, to be sure. Because you placed kitchen refuse directly into them, you washed them out every time you used them, or, if you had children living in the house, you made your children do so.

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I went, found some basil leaves, and when I got back Stoney had just emptied some fresh hot croutons onto paper towels. There was a bowl of fresh cubed tomatoes hed salted and drizzled with olive oil which he then tossed with the fresh hot croutons. He quickly rinsed then minced the basil leaves and stirred them in. He placed small piles of the tomato salad next to each of two egg salad on white bread sandwiches151 on two plates, which he then placed on the breakfast-area table next to two tall glasses of milk, previously poured. Lunchtime, he said. His egg salad was excellent. His home-made mayo, which Id meant to observe being made but had not, added an excellent zing, and he added thinly-sliced green olives, which Id never before had in egg salad but which I have to admit were delicious. Same for the tomato saladthe combination of flavors was excellent and the croutons added a delicious crunch. Stoney, this is great, I said. Tomatoes need more salt. Feel free, he said. Where in the Hell did you learn to cook? I asked. He frowned. You dont learn, he said. You either can or you cant. As we ate we tried to talk about baseball, but because he was an American League guy and Im a National League guy, we didnt have much common ground, although we both hated the Yankees, as do all right-thinking people. I gathered our dishes and took them to the kitchen. I tried to keep Stoney from helping clean up, since hed now made two meals for me and I should do something, but he insisted on helping. There was a surprising lack of stuff to clean up, though. All traces of breakfast and lunch preparation was gone, everything neatly washed and put away. Howd you do this? I asked. Do what? Cook two meals and leave a clean kitchen, I said. Its just easier if you clean up as you go, he said. Try it, youll see. Okay. I put our two glasses, two plates, and two forks in the dishwasher as he rinsed out the tomato salad bowl. No leftovers, no mess. We heard the sound of the front door opening, then Mrs. W called out Anybody home?

151

Wonder Bread has changed in the last few years. Its stiffer and doesnt taste the same. Theyre trying to convince us were eating whole wheat bread, but they can make it white because theyve found some albino wheat. They should give this up and go back to making seventies-style Wonder Bread, and market this toast theyre manufacturing now as health-food albino bread or something. Health food Wonder Bread satisfies no one. You only buy it when you forget how bad it was last time.

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In the kitchen, I called back, and turned to go meet her. I found her in the dining room, looking at Stoneys calculations on the chalkboard. Lordy, this is clever, she said. How in the world did you get here? Stoney came in and flipped the blackboard over to show our original functions. She took several puffs off of her cigarette as she looked it over. Her hair was very neatly coiffed and slightly darker red than it had been at breakfast. God almighty, you guys are geniuses, she said, smoking and shaking her head. We both smiled proudly. Also compete idiots, she said. But thats just wonderful. She stubbed out her cigarette. Thank you, said Stoney, pleased. He returned to the kitchen and returned with a celebratory drink of some sort, while she re-examined both sides of the chalkboard. The aroma of Scotch whiskey wafted into the room. Thats not the Laphroaig, is it? she asked, without looking at Stoney. No, maam. Cutty, said Stoney. You leave my Laphroaig alone, she said. Yes, maam, said Stoney, taking a sip, or maybe a gulp, from a large-sized beaker. What was this about idiots? I asked. This is an extremely elegant solution, she said. Thank you, said Stoney. Also preposterously difficult, she said. Thank you, said Stoney. Can you get to the idiocy part? I asked. Do you mind if I clear some space? she asked. Im sorry. This is all so pretty and so complicated and you did such a great job with it. Ill call Dr. Henry as soon as were done and ask him to send over two more of these chalk boards so I wont I have to erase your calculations next time. I really didnt know you two could come up with such convoluted, yet elegant ideas. But can I erase the back nine? She was referring to Stoneys iterations on the back side of the blackboard. It was Stoneys stuff, so I looked at him. Sure, he said, reluctantly. Mrs. W erased the blackboard until it was clean. She drew a new diagram. It took a few minutes.

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She cocked her head and looked at it a minute, frowning. Well, Ill be damned, I said. What? asked Stoney. We screwed up by going with two dimensions. I said. This will be simple by comparison. You can get there with geometry and trig. How so? he asked with a puzzled expression. Mrs. W wrote

V=

LD 8

( sin( ) ) on the board, then lit up another Benson & Hedges.

Stoney looked

up at her diagram. She looked at him, then cocked an eyebrow. She knew I already had it and wasnt going to engage in flattery. Stoney looked at it, frowning, for maybe forty seconds, then the I see it now expression lit across his face. Well, damn, he said. And with that, you can tell the area of the surface, too, cant you? That caught me off guard and I snapped back to look at the diagram. Mrs. W smiled and took a drag off of her cigarette, but waited until I figured it out before she ) . wrote down. T = 2 y ( D y ) = D sin ( 2 Ill be dipped in Stoney began. Mrs. W and I looked up sharply. something or another, said Stoney, with a look of surprise at our reaction. Thats the area of the rectangle at the top of the cylinder, isnt it? He shook his head and lit another Winston. Lets talk about language and manners, Stoney, she said, placing the chalk firmly between her lips and trying to take a drag off of it. She yanked the chalk from her mouth and frowned at it, then retrieved a cigarette from her nearby purse and lit it with her Zippo. Yes, maam, he said, apprehensively. Im not a prude and dont really care what language you use. I cuss like a sailor. Yes, maam. 371

In the South, though, there are words we use in polite company and words we dont, she said. I realized at that moment that Id never seen her blow a smoke ring. Yes maam. As an older woman and a teacher I qualify as polite company and youre not allowed to swear around me unless I give you permission to do so. I find Southern manners to be very complex, he said. If youd been raised at home instead of at boarding school youd be more at ease with this, but you have good instincts. It helps that youre polite by nature. Did you tell her I went to boarding school? Stoney asked, with a quizzical expression. She laughed at that. One thing I can tell you about Henry Baida, she said. He doesnt talk about people. An odd quirk, but its him. How did you know I went to prep school, then? Deduction. The fish shows a high degree of adaptation to dorm life. Plus youre wearing Topsiders, a Marthas Vineyard tee shirt and a navy blue belt with little green whales on it. Mid-day drinking with no self-consciousness. I hadnt noticed the belt. Stoney looked down at himself, confused. So? You didnt pick up any of that in Detroit. He pondered this a moment. Exeter? she asked. No, maam. He smiled slightly and put out his cigarette. Andover? No, maam. His smile broadened a bit. Lawrenceville, she said, and they smiled. Of course. So you leaned math from people over at Princeton. Yes maam. An interesting world, Stoney. Yes maam.

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Back to manners. One way you show respect for people is by respecting their customs, and in this part of the country men, especially young men, are expected to show respect for women, especially older women, by watching their language. Yes, maam. I apologize in advance for any lapses. A nice thought, but you still have to apologize when you lapse, as well. Yes, maam. Can you blow smoke rings, Mrs. W? I asked. No, Henry, she said, frowning in slight exasperation at the interruption. I can, said Stoney, and shot one at high velocity towards the ceiling. It slowed before it got there, but just barely bounced off before it dissipated. Weve learned a lot today, Mrs. W. Thanks. Im a teacher Henry. Not really. Ive had lots of teachers. You make me learn. Somethings different here. Thanks. Henry, just remember, the essence of math and physics both is to pare things down. And Stoney, since you dont like physics, remember that the essence of math is to pare things down and also that the essence of manners is being aware of whos present. Yes, maam. What do you want for dinner? Stoney asked. She looked up at him and thought. Beef Stroganoff? Can do. Vegetable? Brussels sprouts or salad either way. Well, we can do both of those. What kind of bread do you like? Stoney asked. New Orleans French bread, she said. Can do, but itll take several weeks. What about tonight? Something ciabatta-like, she said. I havent had good Italian bread in years. We can do that. You have flour?

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Buckets. Yeast? Buy new. Whatever I have is going to be years old. May be helpful with the sourdough starter, though. You understand that once we get the New Orleans French started well be needing to eat it every day? Sounds wonderful, she said. Where did you learn to cook? I asked. Henry, Ive told you. You either can or you cant. One day when youre seven you realize that the au pair who has brandy on her breath is trying to feed you Frosted Flakes for the fifth day in a row and you offer to make her breakfast instead and it becomes a routine. My sister claimed she learned how to cook, I said. That means she knows how to follow recipe cards, he answered. True. She always had a card in front of her. I should probably buy some minnows. I havent fed Hank in over a week. Hank? Mrs.W asked. My fish. Your piranha? Yes, maam. Hey Mrs. W, who are the two girls on the back porch two doors down? I asked. Girls? Stony asked. They were sun-bathing at lunchtime today, I said. What were they wearing? Stoney asked. You know, bathing suits, I said. One piece or two piece? he asked. Two.

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How small? he asked. Stoney. Lets revisit the manners issue, said Mrs. Wertheimer. You are about to engage in a conversation about young womens bodies in the presence of a more mature woman. I guess that might be a little inappropriate, huh? he asked. No, no, she said. It is extremely inappropriate. Ah, shit. Im sorry, Mrs. W. Stoney Oh, yeah, right. Im soooo sorry. Stoney, understand. Im not teaching you right and wrong. Im teaching you manners. Theres nothing wrong with the way you talk, but youll go farther in the world if you learn to modulate your tone. Yes, maam, She fired up another cigarette and stood. Do you need another problem for the afternoon? No, maam, we need to go to the grocery store. Do they sell wine in grocery stores here? Yeah. Sure. Its not great but its okay. Thanks, he said. About minnows, have Henry drive you out to Hixson Marina. Its not that far, and as I recall they sell live bait. Yes maam. Somehow the world always becomes more ordered around Mrs. W. She gathered her cigarettes, her purse and her keys, and waved goodbye. I looked over at Stoney, who seemed lost in thought. Modulate my tone, he said. Cool.

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Chapter 27: June 3, 1974 The next day when I got down Stoney was making blueberry pancakes and sausage links. Mrs. W was having a smoke and reading the paper. I got a cup of coffee, refilled her cup, and sat. She thanked me and passed me part of the paper. I had figured he was going to make pancakes because when were at the grocery store the day before hed bought the blueberries and so Id asked him to buy enough for me to have blueberries and cream for breakfast. He had something that looked like motor oil boiling in a small saucepan. It smelled sweet. Two days in and we already had a routine. I got through the front page of the Chattanooga Times and had some questions. So who is Charles Colson? I asked. She was about to answer when Stoney placed a plate of blueberry pancakes and breakfast link sausages in front of her, with a glass of milk. He returned a few seconds later with a small china pitcher of hot syrup for her. The butter on top of the pancakes was just about completely melted. It looked good. A few seconds later he placed a double ramekin of blueberries and a small pitcher of cream in next to my coffee cup. A silver sugar bowl was already on the table. You guys go ahead, he said. Im right behind you. Mrs. W smiled at her plate as she picked up her fork. Stoney, this is just beautiful! she said. She poured some of the syrup on her pancakes and then took a bite. Her eyes rolled up as she shut her eyes in pleasure. Oh, my God, where did you get this syrup? she asked. I dont know. Where were we? he asked me. At the Red Foods store over on Dayton Boulevard, I said. What brand is it? she asked, surprised. Its that same Vermont stuff you like, he said. I just thought it was a little watery so I boiled it down some. Maybe by a third, he said. Oh, my God, Stoney! she said, and ate some more. Stoney joined us with his own steaming plate and tiny pitcher of maple syrup. Cheers, he said, smiling, and began to eat his own breakfast. I poured some cream on the blueberries and then sprinkled some sugar on them, then had a spoonful. They were very good. What were you saying, Henry? she asked. I forget.

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Something about Charles Colson, said Stoney. Oh, right. Hes in the paper this morning. Hes pleaded guilty to something. Going to cooperate with prosecutors on the Watergate deal, I said. So whats the question? she asked. Whats this Watergate deal? I asked. Stoney looked up quickly from his pancakes. Yeah! he said. People talk about it all the time, but I have no idea what its about. Oh, for heavens sake! she said, exasperated. How can two boys who are so good with math be so completely stupid? Stoney looked at me with a worried expression. The most important news story of our generation and you two dont know anything about it. How can you vote if you dont keep up with the news? Stoney and I exchanged glances. I wasnt registered to vote, and Stoneys expression suggested that he wasnt either. Your duties as a citizen extend beyond chasing love interests and playing pool and drinking whiskey. You need to stay informed. You look at the paper every day Henry, how can you not know about this stuff? Well, I said, taking a spoonful of blueberries to give me a second to compose my thoughts, Often I scan the headlines. What are you doing with the paper then? she asked. She was still savoring her pancakes, but talking while she did so. Well, theres the sports pages, during baseball season. And sometimes the basketball tournament in March. And thats it? No maam. Im also deeply involved in crossword puzzles and the Cryptoquote. No news? Well, I do look at the headlines on the front page. And, as you just saw, ask intelligent questions about them. Intelligent, my ass, she said, finishing her pancakes and taking a swallow of milk. Stoney had finished his breakfast, at about the same time. You? she asked him. He stood to get the coffee pot to pour Mrs. W and himself a cup and warm up mine.

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Um, I must admit, my schedule at school is often a bit different from the one we follow here. Im often not up as early as I am here, and scrambling to get to class on the days when I have tests occupies all of my attention. Here, I find myself encumbered only by mild hangovers of a morning and I have much more time than I am accustomed to having on my hands, and so its possible Ive not been keeping up with the news as much as a citizen might. You guys remind me of George Dantzig, Who? I asked. Whoa, Stoney. He was this German guy in one of my math classes in grad school. Actually, it turns out he wasnt Germanhis father was German but he was born somewhere on the West Coast. This was in the thirties and things werent looking so good in Germany, so we made lots of assumptions about people with German names. Where did you go to grad school? I asked. This would have been at Berkeley in 1939, said Stoney. How do you know that? I asked. Hush, said Stoney. I thought this story was a myth. I want to hear it. He took a sip of his coffee and propped his chin on his hands. All right, so youve heard it, she said, looking up at us and lighting a cigarette. I shook my head. I certainly hadnt heard it. Say on, said Stoney. I figured George was just another German high school math teacher trying to stretch out his education until the war started and the borders closed and he couldnt go home. I was wrong, like I said, but in the thirties all the famous math and physics goyim in Germany were pledging to stay in Germany and support the Reich but all the Jews and young men were looking to get out. Anyway, George is this slightly dorky married guy who was in one of my advanced statistics classes. I didnt like statistics much, but I thought it might help me some with Bohrs quantum mechanics, which it didnt at all all statistics are not the same, either numerically or theoreticallybut it was interesting, in its way. Remind me to show you Gaussian principles before the summer is over. Its not hard, but its slightly more complicated than they present it in undergrad math books. Anyway, George was nice and pretty smart but wasnt really a standout. He looked a little disorganized and was always getting to class late. So one day Professor Neyman came in and before class got started put two equations up on the board. Once class began he explained that they were classical statistical theorems which, while quite useful, could

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not be proven. He told us what they might be useful for in making conjectures in the weeks ahead, but warned us that they could not be cited for proof of anything, then went on to talking about the days lesson. George wanders in, making a clatter, takes out his notebook and copies down the equations. According to the way Dr. Neyman told the story, George mistook the two equations as homework problems and worked out proofs for them, and then apologized for handing them in late, saying they were a little harder than most of the homework problems.. Eventually both of Georges solutions got published as brilliant solutions to supposedly insoluble problems. It seemed to me unfair that both times he was published as a co-author, first with Dr. Neymann, then with some other guy who also hit on the same solution. That really happened? asked Stoney, lighting a Winston. Yes, Stoney, it did, she said. I was there. Wow. I love that story, he said. Always have. You guys are a little like George. Out there, but really clever. But thats not what we meant to talk about. Stony and I sat up. Your knowledge of current events is appalling and deplorable. So we are adding Civics as a course for summer school. Okay, I said. Cool, said Stoney. Did you take Civics at City High? Mrs. W. asked me. Yes, maam, I answered. Who from? Mr. Cronk. Good teacher, she said. Were you one of his favorite pupils? I liked his class, but I did not smoke marijuana with him, no maam. People smoked dope with their teachers? That is so cool, said Stoney. No, Stoney, it is not. Yes, maam. Civics. From here on out, were going to read the paper every day at breakfast, were going to talk about the news over lunch, and were going to watch the national news every day at six.

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Yes, maam, we both said. Which network? asked Stoney. I had no idea what he was talking about. She took a drag off her cigarette and a sip of her coffee, nodding. You know, we should look at them all and pick one, I guess. I like Cronkite152, but a case could be made for Howard K. Smith.153 I like Chancellor154, but I have to admit its like NBCs not really trying any more, Stoney said. Okay, so well alternate between ABC and CBS until we figure out whos better. Cool, said Stoney. You guys really need to be more aware of whats going on around you, she said. We passed the paper around and drank our coffee. She returned her attention to the newspaper. Mrs. Wertheimer, may I ask you a personal question? Stoney asked, after a few minutes. This worried me. Se looked up and took a drag off of her cigarette. When Dr. Ladd was being rude to Henry, if I understood what happened, he didnt seem to believe that Henry knew you. She thought about her answer, and tilted her head one way then another as she thought. I guess that sounds like Ladd, she said. Stoney paused for a few seconds, mindful of his manners. I wasnt sure where this was going. He referred to you as Doctor Wertheimer, Stoney said. Well, he would, said Mrs. W, still looking at the paper. Whys that? he asked He and I have only bumped into each other at math conferences, she said. I like to go to a few every year to keep my hand in.

152 153

The anchor of the CBS national news broadcast each evening. The co-anchor, along with Frank Reynolds, of the ABC national news evening broadcast. Hed been a reporter for CBS, who closed a report over the civil rights struggles in Birmingham by quoting Edmund Burke to the effect that all that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing, which CBS wanted him to remove, which he didnt, so he quit CBS and landed at ABC. Note also, though, that he was a firm supporter of President Johnsons policies with respect to Viet Nam. 154 John Chancellor, the anchor of the NBC news nightly national news show. Note that in 1974, the only news shows on the air were from ABC, CBS, and NBC. There was no such thing as cable.

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So you have a doctorate? A Ph.D.? he asked. Oh, of course, she said. I have two, both issued in 1940 by the University of California at Berkeley. One in Physics, and the other in Mathematics. I must admit it seemed like cheating at the time, because it was essentially the same thesis submitted to both departments, but expressed with slightly different how do you say nomenclature. But that was right at the time things changed. What changed? I asked. How strong is your quantum mechanics? she asked. Anemic. It makes no sense whatsoever. I can do the calculations, but theyre inane. No grounding in physical reality. Henry, youre going to have to let go of that to succeed academically. I have no goals regarding academic success, but isnt it called Physics because it relates to the physical world? Okay, you two, to get to the point I was leading to a minute ago before the conversation went off on a tangent, said. Stoney, So you have two Ph.D.s from Berkeley? Yep. And if you like rock star details, I knew Albert Einstein. Yeah, well, I figured that, said Stoney. How so? Well, Ive heard he had an eye for the ladies, said Stoney. She smiled, blowing smoke through her nose. He did indeed. Time for school, she said, standing. Stoney and I grabbed out coffee cups and followed her into the dining room, which now contained three chalkboards, all blank. She then proceeded to introduce us to complex variables, conjugate coordinates, and started on analytic functions. Stoney had never heard of cream cheese and olive sandwiches, so she showed him (and me) how to make them at lunch, and Stoney accompanied them with a cantaloupe and prosciutto salad that was to die for. Analytic functions are pretty interesting, once you get into them.

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Chapter 28: Nadia and Kiki A few days later we were in the middle of an afternoon of integration of analytic functions and Mrs. W was explaining the nature of simply-connected domains when she looked at her watch in alarm in the middle of a sentence. Ah, shit, she said. Stoney, whats planned for dinner tonight? The veal didnt look good so I fell back on spaghetti Bolognese, he said. I hope thats okay. Have you started the bread? she asked. No, maam. The sourdough starter is still a day or two away, so Ill be working with Mr. Fleishmann, and I can start that in, maybe an hour or two, as hot as it is. How do you do this? I asked. Do what? he answered. Cook anything that comes up in conversation, I said. You could, too, if youd get off your dead ass and give it a try, said Stoney. Hush, boys. First, Im going to be late for a garden club meeting, so Im leaving. Stoney, wont those spaghetti ingredients keep to tomorrow night? Yes, maam, he answered. Second thing is, tomorrow night were going to be joined for dinner by my sisters son, Clarence. Ginny is playing in tennis tournaments and such and Winnies going to take her around. Im a little surprised that she wants to go along. Ginnys part of a mixed doubles pair, I said. Oh, with whom? she asked. Ciscos friend Walter. That snobby boy from Atlanta? she asked, Yes, maam. Well, that explains it, said Mrs. W. Shes trying to protect Ginny from Walt? I asked.

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Its more complicated than that, she answered, lighting a cigarette. You said he was from Atlanta. Do you know if his parents are in the Piedmont Driving Club? Yes, maam, I think they are, I answered, after thinking a second. I think Cisco mentioned it on the way down either Christmas or Thanksgiving. I didnt understand what it meant. Its a posh kind of country club in Atlanta. It used to be outside of town, so you had to drive to it, but the towns grown. If Walts nice and his parents are rich, Winnies been waiting for this, she said. Hmmm, I said. Is this that Peabody girl that was all over you outside the Campus Grill? asked Stoney, somewhat awkwardly. Later, Stoney, I said. Mrs. W cocked an eyebrow at me and took a drag off her cigarette. I am late for Garden Club. After that I may have dinner with a friend. You boys should take yourselves out to someplace to have dinner and a beer. Yes, maam, said Stoney. What time will you be back? Hard to say, said Mrs. W. Well leave the porch light on, said Stoney. With that she departed abruptly. Usually when she left she gave us a problem to work on, but she didnt this time, so Stoney and I looked at each other and shrugged. It was a few minutes after four. We looked at each other briefly, then returned our attention to the problem on the blackboard. Shed posed it without letting us know where she was headed, and we soon realized we didnt know as enough about multi-variable differentiation to solve the problem once wed stated it. We could state it as let f :Rn R, and let a Rn and then let u Rn be a vector such that |u|= 1. So we figured that the directional derivative of f at a in the direction of the vector u would be defined to be
Du ( a ) = d dt

(a =tu )

t= 0

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which we could not solve. Clueless. Completely empty. Translating Linear A to Urdu. We shook our heads at it, then shrugged. Okay, said Stoney. Time for a beer. Where can we get a good burger around here? The closest place on this side of the river is over on Frazier, just down from the Oddfellows Hall. Whats it called? Cant remember. It changes hands about every six months. Sometimes they have a pool table, sometimes they dont, but whoever buys it seems to hire the same cook. A guy named Rocky. Good burgers, good fries, good chili. A good muffaletta, if you like them. Sounds promising. What are the chances of scoring some dope there? Couldnt tell you. What are the chances that there will be a television in the bar showing a baseball game? High. What are the chances they will be showing the Tigers play the Angels tonight? Slim to none. This anti-Detroit bias must be stamped out, he said. Not that. The Braves will be playing the Expos.155 Rank regionalism. Lets go, he said. We got there just before 5:00, a little earlier than I would usually have dropped in. The pool table had been removed from the back room in favor of a few more tables. Petey and Rex, two guys who were in this same bar the last time I came in, when I was in high school, were at the bar and had obviously been there for some time. Petey was wearing a summer Navy uniformwhite crackerjack and bell-bottoms with those really shiny shoes sailors wore in the Cold War.156 I waved as Stoney and I took seats at the bar.
155

In 1974 the Montreal Expos were a National League baseball team, named for a worlds fair of some sort that happened in Montreal sometime in the sixties. More at footnote 6. 156 The Cold War was so christened, oddly enough, by George Orwell, the author of the semi-classics 1984 and Animal Farm, well-written books about the zeitgeist of the 1950s and 1960s that are doomed to join the collected works of J.D. Salinger on the scrap heap of undergraduate literature as books that, while brilliantly written, capture perfectly something that no longer matters. Where was I? Oh yesthe Cold

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They lurched over. I knew Petey from playing pool and knew Rex from somewhere vaguer than that. Church? Our mothers were friends? Anyway before Id left town Id bumped into them in bars all the time. Yo, cuz, said Petey. Long time, no see. Where ya been? Out and about. Hey, Rex. Rex was maybe six foot five and solid like a brick wall. Petey was reedy and flexible, like a drunken willow sapling. You still play pool? Petey asked. Not too much. Ive been in college, I said. Wow. Thats outta sight, said Petey. Why are you dressed like a sailor? I asked. I enlisted, man. I am a Seaman Apprentice in the United States fucking Navy man. What do you think about that? he took a swig from his Budweiser longneck. Last time we talked you were dating a flower child, I said. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cindy. Sandy, I said. Yeah, yeah, right. Sandy. Yeah, well, like, it didnt work out. You were opposed to the Viet Nam war. Yeah, well, thats over, man, didnt you hear? he said. Are you a Turtle? Rex asked, looking at Stoney. What? Stoney asked. Ignore him, Stoney, I said. Rex and Petey have this whole stupid shtick about being a member of a club called the Turtles. They usually do it on girls, but Rex must be bored. Its stupid. Why you gotta go fucking with it? asked Rex. Petey signaled for another beer and laid his head on the bar. How we gonna pay for this? he asked Rex.
War. What Orwell meant to capture with the phrase Cold War was the idea of a war of ideology between the U.S.S.R. and the U.S.A. in which the two countries did not do battle directly, as the U.S. and Britain had done against Germany in World Wars I and II, but indirectly, through proxies and client states. Even to this day, neither the U.S. nor Russia seems to be able to let go of the bad habits they developed during the Cold War: propping up dictators because theyre friendly.

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I think I know his routine anyway, said Stoney, knocking back a shot and taking a sip of beer. Is this name a word that starts with f and ends in u-c-k? he asked. Rex looked deflated. The bartender, a pretty, trim woman in her thirties or forties whom I recognized as an alumnus of the Frosty Mug, cocked her head in bemused concern. Firetruck, Stoney told her. The other question is What sticks out of a mans pajamas? She shook her head as she refilled his shot glass. His head! bellowed Rex, too loud by half. Stoney knocked back his shot and took a pull of his beer. Rex was cackling to himself at the richness of the riddle. Club soda, please, I said. Thought it was you, said the bartender. I used to work weeknights over at the Frosty Mug. I thought I recognized you, I said. Petey had started snoring. It wasnt yet six. You boys eatin or just drinkin? she asked. Oh, eating, most definitely, said Stoney. Ill get menus, she said. Petey? asked Rex, jostling him. What the fuck? said Petey, sitting bolt upright. He looked confused for a minute, then took a swallow of his beer. Jesus, he said. Youre supposed to be in uniform? I asked. I am in uniform, he said proudly. The uniform of the United States Navy. Wheres your hat? I asked. Petey smacked his right hand on his bare, crew-cut head, then looked around, a look of panic on his face. My Dixie cup! Oh, shit! exclaimed Petey, and scuttled off of his barstool, beer in hand, to search the seats theyd had before they came over to talk to us. Rex followed. After much pawing around on the floor, they decided he must have left his hat at the Brass Register, the last bar theyd attended. Stony watched them flee, beers in hand, impassively, then pushed his shot glass towards our bartender for a refill. They just stiffed you, he remarked, as she filled his shot glass with bourbon. Thankfully, at this point I remembered the bartenders name, Grace.

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Not really, she said. Rex forgot his credit card. When I cash him out hes gonna to give me a big tip. Hell figure it all out tomorrow. Is that ethical? Stoney asked, knocking back another shot, and placing it within easy reach of a refill. Yes, she said. Rex is an asshole. Speaking of which, I said, Grace, do you have Stoneys credit card? If he passes out from all these shots youre feeding him, I dont want to get stuck with the tab. Stoney smiled, retrieved his wallet, handed her a BankAmericard157, and pushed his shot glass forward for a re-fill. It was going on 6:30. I was about to suggest that we move to a table and order dinner when two young women came into the bar. They looked familiar, much as Rex and Petey had, but I couldnt quite place them. The taller, blonder one took the stool next to Stoney, and the shorter, brunette one took the next stool down. They looked really familiar. Whatll yall have? Grace asked them. I think well have two Cokes, said the shorter, brunette one. The taller blonde seemed to look at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar longingly. She may have licked her lips. At this point Stoney stopped staring at Grace and looked at the newcomers to his left. Christ on a crutch! he said, under his breath. The taller blonde one smiled. She still looked familiar. What was that? the brunette asked. Hello, my name is Stoney, he said. This is my friend Henry. He specializes in being gay and making sure sailors remember where their hats are. Who are you? Nadia, said the blonde, and already there was an accent. Something eastern European. Kiki, said the brunette, and there was an accent there, too. Georgia or Alabama, and not close to a big city. Grace gave them Cokes and was about to ask if they wanted to run a tab when Stoney volunteered that their drinks should be on his tab. They smiled, but they were drinking Coke, so the limits of his largesse were in plain sight. I have it, I said. The three of them looked at me. Stoney motioned for another shot. Youre the two girls who were sunbathing on your back porch two days ago. I waved at you and you waved back.
157

BankAmericard became Visa in like 1975.

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Oh! Yes! said Kiki, then they went through one of those excited acknowledgements of recognition that young women do that young men dont. Within a minute Stoney had established that Kikis grandmother lived two doors down from Mrs. W, that they were visiting her for a few weeks, and that they were from Colquitt, Georgia. Stoney was unfamiliar with Colquitt, and Kikis explanation that it was near Albany158 didnt help Stoney much at all. He looked at me. South Georgia. You have no landmarks for this. If you drove to Florida on I-75 youd get within 40 miles, but youve never been there and youre never going. How do you know about it? he asked. The Southside Pool Hall is there. Close, anyway. Nice place, I said. And what is Colquitt? Thats where theyre from. Its down 91 from Albany a few miles. So why did they even mention Albany? he asked. Kiki knew you wouldnt know where Colquitt was, so she mentioned Albany, because she thinks of it as a big town. Why? Theres an airport in Albany. And why in the fuck do you know about Colquitt? He gestured for another shot. Well, like I said, Southside Poll Hall is there. And head on down 91 to Donaldsonville and you find Eds Pool Hall. Stoney knocked back a shot and thought for a minute. Youre no help whatsoever, he concluded, and turned to face Nadia. So Nadia, he said. Where are you from? Boolgaaria, said Nadia. She means she used to be from Bulgaria, but now shes from Colquitt, said Kiki. And Colquitt is in Georgia? Stoney asked Nadia. Yes, of course, Kiki answered.
158

Albany, Georgia. Its pronounced All Benny.

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And whats Colquitt famous for? Stoney asked, looking directly at Nadia. Why our mayhaws, of course, answered Kiki. Nadia frowned at Stoney intently. Mayhaw? Stoney asked. Mayhaw iss small froot in middle of bolshoi swamp, said Nadia. Locals make syrup from fruit. She means a fruit that grows wild in Georgia, said Kiki. What you call indigneous. We make them into jelly, not syrup. Nadia rolled her eyes and sipped her Coke. Well, so if your jelly is coming out too runny, maybe you should cook it longer, said Stoney. Get it hotter. Or maybe add some pectin. Ive had good results he began. Nadia said something I couldnt understand but it sounded unhappy and bitter. I need to run to the ladies room, said Kiki. Are you joining me? she asked Nadia. Nyet, she answered. Fine where am. Kiki looked a little provoked at this but went off towards the restrooms. Nadia watched her leave, and as soon as Kiki was outside of earshot, urgently beckoned Grace the bartender, who showed up immediately. Yes ma'am? Grace asked. Must haff largest shoot vodka, pliss, fast, said Nadia. Excuse me? asked the bartender, not sure what shed heard. Nadia wants a triple shot of Stoli, said Stoney. Neat. Can I see your I.D. please? asked Grace. No. Iss in tiny little town in South Georgia, not same Georgia I thought. Crazy Baptistses seized my wallet when my madre ran off and left me with thiss pipples to follow crazy artist with big how you say there was a pause. Bank account? asked Stoney. She shook her head. Car? asked Grace. No, no, said Nadia. How you say cook? Ah, said the bartender, smirking. I still need an I.D.

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Half no ID, she said. You no been listen? Whats your name? Stoney asked the bartender. Grace, she said, smiling. Hi, Grace, he said. Nadia appears to have mislaid her wallet, but Im ready for a drink. Id like a double shot of frozen Stoli. Id like to order one for my friend Henry, too. I dont I started. Thats okay, Henry, said Stoney. Actually, make Henrys a triple. And put it on my tab. And Id like another beer. The bartender cocked an eyebrow at me as she left to fill our orders, and my expression may have conveyed a shrug. My triple shot and Stoneys double shot arrived before Kiki returned from the restroom. Stoney took a sip of his vodka, and as soon as Grace turned her back Nadia downed mine in a single gulp, then took a big swallow of her Coke. She grinned a stylized grin at Stoney, then turned to me. Me am sex starved, she said. Ah, I said somewhat nonplussed. So you want to give sex from me? she asked. Im afraid youre barking up the wrong tree, there, said Stoney. Henrys gay. Grace showed back up just in time to hear this, and looked at me. I shook my head. She nodded, then frowned at the empty glass of Stoli shed served me. I think my gay friend Henry needs another round, said Stoney. I was trying to avoid eye contact with Grace so as to avoid making her complicit in our crime. As soon as she was gone, Stoney nudged his glass towards Nadia, and she bolted it back, then smiled again at Stoney. She looked at me again, and leaned towards me a bit, then remembered to rinse out her mouth with Coke. So, Nadia said, stroking my shirtsleeve. What iss this gay? I was about to answer when Grace showed back up. Stoney raised his glass for a refill, and asked for another beer as well. I avoided eye contact with all concerned. It means Henry isnt interested in girls, said Stoney. She frowned at me as she took the Stoli in front of me and drained about half of it. You are ? she asked me.

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I doubt it, but I dont speak whatever language you just said, I said. Iss Bulgarian, she said. You am ? ? ? I still dont speak Bulgarian, I said. We know. So I gift you Russian. Dont know that, either, I said. So he iss ? she asked Stoney. Yes, said Stoney, taking a sip of his new drink before she snatched it from his hand and downed it. Really, really gay. Once I saw him Howdy, all, said Kiki, returning. Miss me? Doess this man seems to you? Nadia demanded of Kiki. Kiki thought for few seconds. Our Lord says that for a man to lie with another man is an abomination, said Kiki. Nadia rolled her eyes. You? she demanded of Grace. Henrys always been a little hard to figure out, said Grace, taking away various empty glasses for refills. If you are a homo, I implore you in the name of Jesus to rebuke your sinful ways and return to the bosom of Christ, said Kiki. Thanks for your concern, I said. Jesus has cured friends of mine who were completely sinful. There was this cheerleader at Miller County High who was deeply digging the lusts of the flesh. In a far out, over the top kind of way. She was letting boys do things to her that violated Georgia law, from what Ive been told. Dy-no-mite! said Stoney. But she found Jesus and turned her back on her sinful ways. If it could work for her, whose lusts were normal, I guess, even if they were unusual, maybe, and revved up too much, it can surely work for the abnormal, homo temptations youre experiencing, Henry.

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Oh, for Christs sake, I said. Grace returned with various drinks, plopping a triple shot of Stoli down in front of me. Ive been listening, said Grace, smiling. You may actually want this drink. This is on Stoneys tab, right? I asked. The drink? Sure. Good luck with the Baptist. She smiled and left. Stoney managed to place his drink near Nadias elbow, then took mine as his own. You cant really hold it against Henry, said Stoney. Sinful as he may be, Henry was born this way. Look! said Nadia, pointing. Iss Aquila chrysaetos! she was pointing out the window as if at a bird. Golden iggle. Look! everybody turned to look except me, and she downed Stoneys drink. I cocked an eyebrow at her and she shot me the bird, although she was smiling. Didnt see it, said Stoney. Neither me, said Kiki. Oh, look, theres Louanne from Mrs. Simms Bible study group. I think Ill go say hi. She excused herself and left to go talk to a young woman at another table who seemed to have a very un-Baptist beer in front of her. As soon as Kiki was gone, Nadia drained my triple Stoli and grabbed Stoney by the collar. Thiss pipple iss driving me lunar, she said. All day long Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Church Sunday, Sunday night, Wednesday night, with all this how you say awkward food. You life down street from me, yes? Thats what Henry tells me, yes, said Stoney, lighting a cigarette. Nadia immediately took it from him and took a drag. Then you call me, we make date. You sex for me. It seemed a little voyeuristic to eavesdrop on this, so I took a swallow of my club soda and turned to my left. And there was Ed Bork. It took me a minute, because his beard was gone and his funnyshaped, possibly dyed hair was much shorter. Mormon missionary short. Ed? I asked. Hi, Henry, he answered. Long time, no see, I said. Ive been sent here to save your soul, he said. God has a plan for your life. Ed? I asked.

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Yes? Ed Bork? Yes? The last time I saw you I think you were wearing a black velvet robe and handing out pamphlets about Satanism, he answered. The Lord tells us that when we come to Jesus, we are washed in the blood of the lamb. All past sins are forgiven. Didnt you convert Jessie Longworth to Satanism? And Mildie Pinzey? And maybe a couple of other friends of theirs, too? Yes. But I have no shame in my former sinful ways. St. Paul says Wait, so after converting them to one religion, you just cut them off and converted to another one? I asked. Yes, but certainly anyone could see that worshipping Satan was sinful. Why? Because hes, you know, Satan, said Ed. Yet you were convinced. I dont honestly know, he said. There were certain aspects of what we called Sabbaths, not to be confused in any way with a real Sabbath, that I found very enticing. Jessie and Mildie seemed to find black Sabbaths entertaining, too. But thats not why So you found Jesus, just like that? And turned your back on pagan ritual? Yes. The power of Christ is profound. This is just too weird. I need to talk to you about Gods plan for your life, said Ed. No you dont. You need to talk to me about why I should believe you now any more than I did three years ago. But this is completely different. Im with Jesus now.

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Leave Jesus out of it. Why should I believe the you thats pushing Jesus any more than the you who was pushing Aleister Crowley? Good recall, said Ed. Thanks. But Ive got Jesus now, Ed said. Its not about Jesus, its about the messenger. Im not eating acid any more. And you should be able to rise above my flaws, if God can reach you, he said. Why? What reason in the world is there for me to believe you? The Truth is revealed on every page of the Bible. If youd just read it, and accept Jesus, you would achieve everlasting life. At this point Kiki showed back up. Grace was just refilling the glasses because Nadia had downed the first round singlehandedly. Another club soda, please? I asked. Nadia took a mouthful of Coke and swished it around to de-Stoli her breath on Kikis behalf. Kiki, meet my high school classmate Ed, I said. Pleased to meet you, said Ed. Can I ask if youve accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior? Oh, yes! Totally and completely, she said. Nadia rolled her eyes. I respect and honor your choice, said Ed. I have been talking to Henry about his spiritual journey. Oh, are you saved, too? Kiki asked me. Not sos youd notice, I said. Henry has yet to repent of his sins, said Ed. Ed, I have to say, given our respective backgrounds, seeing you on your high horse is a little hard to take, I said.

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I think Im going to show Nadia the view, said Stoney. He and Nadia stood, each taking a vodka. Stoney also picked up his beer, but Nadia ignored her Coke. View? I asked. There was no view at this bar. See ya in a few, Henry, said Stoney. He and Nadia left for the back of the bar, drinks in hand. Id like to invite you to the Vine Street Christian Community, said Ed. Ive been living there for the last six months and its really changed the way I look at Jesus and Christianity and Christian service. Which church is that associated with? Kiki asked, Were kind of Jesus freak non-denominational, he said. But Baptist? she asked. A busload of our fellowship went to services at First Baptist Church last Sunday, he answered. Where did the rest of them go? she asked. I dont know about all of them, but I went to First Pres. A Presbyterian church? she asked, obviously irritated. Yes. Pastor Ben Haden is quite highly regarded around here. We at the Vine Street But hes not a Baptist, said Kiki. At the Vine Street Christian Community, we dont think pastors are the essential ingredient of Gods message. We strive to live like the first Christians. Sharing, singing, loving. Gene tells us But youre not Baptists? No. But were not not Baptists, either. And Dr. McEwen at First Baptist is very nice to us, he said. We think the particular denomination is not as important as the Truth of Gods message. Whos that? she asked. Who?

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Dr. McEwen. Hes the pastor at First Baptist. Hes really smart, if you havent met him. We go to First Baptist while were in town, but of course I havent met the pastor. Hes a really keen guy. He really knows the Bible, said Ed. Well, of course he does, if hes a Baptist minister. Thats not as much true as I thought. I asked the pastor over at East Ridge Baptist Church a question about the difference about the Old Testament Passages referring to Elohim and the ones referring to Yahweh and all I got was a nasty look. Dr. McEwen was all excited about that kind of sh stuff. So why were you going to a Presbyterian church? And where has that long-hair Stoney taken my sister Nadia? Youre sisters? I asked. In the sense that my family has taken her in as a foster child, and I am also a child of the same family, we are sisters, yes. Plus the Lord has charged me with seeing to her wellbeing. Where is she? Stoneys showing her the view. Theyll be back in a minute, I said, hoping this to be true. Jesus came to earth to establish the Baptist Church. Why are you going over to the Presbyterians? she asked Ed. Why dont you ask him? Ed asked, pointing to me. I think you and me are on the same side. He doesnt claim to be born again, she said. Being born again means youre Baptist. I heard a chuckle over my left ear and turned to find Grace, the bartender, pretty as ever, smiling at the discourse between Ed and Kiki. Ready to take up drinking yet, Henry? she asked me, with a semi-flirtatious smirk. Maybe next time. If theres still no pool table, I said. At this point Stoney and Nadia showed back up, paying attention to each other in that way that people who are dating do, but with empty glasses. Another round, please, said Stoney.

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Ill still need to see some I.D. from Miss Romania, Grace said. I mean, another round for me and Henry, said Stoney. And its Bulgaria. Maybe you better try this on a different bartender, she said. Is there another one on duty? he asked, hopefully. Not tonight. Ah, shit. I think we need to be going anyway, said Kiki. I think your long-haired friend is a bad influence on Nadia. Nadia rolled her eyes. Nadia, lets boogie, she said, and marched off. As she did, I noticed that Nadia had left her purse. I started to call out, but Stoney silenced me with a hand. Grace? said Stoney, theyre gone, so could I get a big Stoli, please? She filled his glass with vodka without measuring shots. Stoney watched the door without touching his drink or saying anything. A few minutes later Nadia came running back into the bar. Without any greeting between her and Stoney she bolted back his Stoli, drained his beer in three gulps, gargled with the remains of her Coke, grabbed her purse, and French-kissed Stoney in a desperate, deep embrace. Your undersands me needs, she said, kissing him again. Then she sprinted to the door, purse in hand. Stoney smiled as he watched her go. Shes a keeper, he said, and waved the empty glass at Grace. I think Ive been brought up to date on the subject of vodka and feel like branching out a bit. How do you feel about Jack Daniels? he asked, earnestly. Green or black? asked Grace. Green Jack Daniels? he asked. I never heard of such a thing. Lets try that. While Grace went to get a clean glass and pour the drink, Stoney sighed and looked at the ceiling. Grace brought the drink. He looked at it with a quizzical expression. I may have neglected to mention that I require a beer. Perhaps a draft beer. A Lowenbrau, unless you have Guinness. They didnt have Guinness, of course, so Stoney had a Lowenbrau in a few seconds. I dont drink, but I have to admit that the sight of a draft beer in an ice cold glass looks like it ought to taste really good. Stoney looked up from his whiskey at Grace as she brought his beer. Its not green, he said. Yes it is, she said. No, its amber. An agreeable nut-brown, perhaps.

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Green is the color of the label, she said. Aha! he said. Now were getting somewhere. Why dont you leave me to my researches, then, and I will divine the mysteries of green label. She left, he sipped it, and made a noncommittally agreeable tasting face. So how do you know, he asked me, a little over-dreamily, when youve found the one? The one what? Whiskey? No, no. The love of your life, he said. Oh, for Gods sake, Stoney. What? Shes a thirsty teenager you met in a bar. You spent a half an hour with her, ten minutes of which you were alone, feeding her vodka. Okay, guys, I gotta go, said Ed. Id like to invite you to the Vine Street Christian Community any time you have some free time. Its a far out, happenin kind of Jesus place. Well feed you, put you up if you need a place to stay. Thanks. Good luck with the Christian deal, I said. Where are you off to? My shift is about to start at the Yellow Deli, he said. You have a job? Ed, even saved, did not look to me to be employee material. Its not so much a job, as a way to serve Jesus. At a Deli? Stoney and I asked together. The Vine Street Christian Community, as a way to integrate ourselves into the community and to give us a productive, happy way to serve the Lord, has started several restaurants where we serve wholesome food at a reasonable price. Stoney looked at me, dubious. Ive been to Yellow Delis a couple of times. Foods decent. Not expensive. Clean, smells good. I said. I didnt know they were owned by a church. Beer? Stoney asked. No, of course not. Jesus doesnt like alcohol, said Ed. Stoney crossed it off of his places I might eat list.

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What about Jesus turning the water Stoney started. Dont start, Stoney, I said. They always have an answer for that one. And it takes a long time to explain. Stoney frowned. Anyway I have to go now, to catch the bus to my job, but I invite you to join us at the Vine Street Christian Community any time. Or come to one of our Yellow Deli restaurants and introduce yourselves. Everyone working at each Yellow Deli is imbued with the grace of Christ. Goodbye now. He smiled and weakly grasped each of our hands in turn, kind of bowing and smiling shyly as he did so. He left and Stoney sipped his whiskey again. This stuff is pretty good, he said. Grace came by to check on us. She refilled my soda, and squeezed lime in it, which she hadnt been doing earlier. Stoney watched her leave, then drained his double shot of Jack green impassively. She seems to like you, he said. Were old friends. She used to tend at the Frosty Mug. You dont think shes cute? He waved his glass for a refill. She came back pretty fast, then looked at Stoney with her hands on her hips. Do I need to administer an FST? she asked. A what? I asked. Field Sobriety Test, Stoney said. No, Im fine. I promise. Just two or three more, he said to Grace. She frowned a bit but got him another drink. Give me your car keys, Stoney, I said, after he took his first sip. What is it with you and my car? he asked. You always seem to be wanting to drive it. Look at it this way. If you give me your keys, Grace will continue to serve you until you pass out. Otherwise, shes about to cut you off. That would be rude, he said. He was getting a little foggy, but I wouldnt have been able to recognize it if he hadnt been sober for the last few weeks. He polished off his glass and waved it for a refill. Grace frowned at him and shook her head from about twenty feet away. He sighed, then demonstratively pulled out his key ring and made a show of handing it to me. I put the keys in my pocket. Grace brought him a new Old Fashioned glass brimming with sour mash. She patted me on the cheek before she left. See, she seems to truly love you, said Stoney. Like Nadia loves me.

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Stoney, the Venn diagram of you and Nadia overlaps at areas marked vodka and hormones. It does not overlap in any way with the set labeled true love. No, I think shes the one for me, he said, draining about half his bourbon. He followed it with a swallow of beer. Sometimes you just know. You met a pretty teenaged girl and got her drunk, I said. Oh, no. Im sure she was of age, he said. Grace, who was hovering nearby waiting for him to finish his seventh drink, cocked an eyebrow at me. And youre sure of this because she had a strangely concocted-sounding story about the whereabouts of her passport, or because in your experience nineteen year-olds generally dont have drivers licenses? I asked. Why would she lie? he asked, draining his whiskey glass. He gestured for another. Show me the keys, said Grace. I pulled them out and jangled them and she refilled his glass. I put them back in my pocket. Stoney, shes a teenager. She wants to party and have fun. One need not dissemble to party. Or to have fun. There was lots of fun and partying at my high school and we didnt have to concoct stories to go about it, he said, taking a somber sip of his sour mash. Did we eat yet? he asked. No. Grace, how are the burgers? Good. Rockys in the kitchen. Sale old same old, but he knows what hes doing. Bacon cheddar cheese for me. I like mayo, I said. Fries. She nodded and smiled. Stoney discussed his burger options with her and eventually settled on a mushroom burger with bacon and Guldens mustard with German potato salad rather than fries. And another beaker of this excellent green whiskey, he added. And perhaps another beer as well. This guy has a hollow leg, she said, and left to place the food order. I thought you said this place had a TV, said Stoney. It does, its just not on. Stoney looked up, surprised. Ill be damned. Grace showed up with another glass of bourbon. Do you mind if I call you Grace? he asked.

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Not at all. And you are? she asked. Stoney. Of course you are, she said. He extended his hand and they shook. Miss Grace, I notice you have a TV mounted right up there and that its dark. Can it be activated? Stoney asked. Of course. What do you want to see? The Detroit Tigers, he said. I dunno, she said, picking up the remote and turning on the TV. We get the Braves on TBS and the Cubs on WGN, but theyre both National League teams. I dont think we get any American League channels.159 She flipped to the cable companys schedule screen, and no American League games were listed. The Braves were playing the Expos160 and the Cubs were playing the Padres. Cubbies or Braves? she asked. Why does this always seem to happen in the National League? Stoney asked her. What? she asked. The four worst teams in all of baseball are playing each other, he answered, and those are the only games on TV. Name your poison. Atlanta. And another beer. And perhaps some more green whiskey. On the way home, after burgers, lackluster pitching by both teams, middling offense by Henry Aaron and Davey Johnson, and a confused discussion about who was driving home, I brought up Nadia. What are you doing with that Bulgarian girl? I asked. Nadia? I expect well marry and settle down somewhere. Grosse Pointe, maybe. Or someplace near Princeton.

159 160

Aside from spring training, there was no inter-league play in 1974 except for the World Series. Les Expos de Montral played in Montreal, Quebec from 1969 until the end of the 2004 season, after which the they moved to Washington, D.C. and became the Washington Nationals. They have sucked ever since, but then they sucked in Montreal.

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Stoney, she may be underage. You could get in trouble over this. He frowned and thought and thought about it. He was remarkably coherent for someone whod consumed enough alcohol to kill you and me both. He shook his head. No, no. She was very clear on this point. Shes nineteen and enrolled in some junior college down there. Did it occur to you that she might be lying? Why would she lie? he asked. So you would buy her booze and have sex with her, I said. Id get her drunk and fuck her anyway, said Stoney. No need to lie for that. I decided to try a different tack. Much of what you hear in bars isnt true, at least in my experience, I said. Several pool players have told me they were All-State basketball players, in their prime. Men who were five foot one. Six men in three different states have told me they know a woman whose maiden name was Fonda Beavers but whose married name was Fonda Cox. Thats kinda funny, said Stoney. But not at all true. Yeah, well. Nadias this nice sweet country girl from south Georgia. No, shes not. Shes a gymnast from Bulgaria who grew too tall to compete. Im sure Colquitt is a nice place. No, its not. Its a wide spot in the road in Miller County, which is a slightly larger hole in the ground, although as farmland goes, its pretty. Theres nothing in Colquitt except a Baptist Church. The closest pool hall is in Donaldsonville, across the Georgia line. Colquitt is part of a very agricultural part of a pretty agricultural state, and its as much Alabama or Florida as Georgia. Why are you so resistant to my dream of true love? Shes perfect in every way. Because she drinks? That is quite a turn-on, he admitted. And shes very pretty. You have to admit that. He was right, I guess. He wasnt, say, in Melissas league, but she was cute.

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Pretty girls are good. But Stoney, she wasnt just throwing herself at you, she was hurling herself at you like Mike Marshall161 throwing to Rod Carew. Rod Carew is at Minnesota. He wont ever face Mike Marshall, said Stoney. And my larger point was I asked. That Nadia was easy? he asked. Very good, I said. Well, we dont know that yet, do we? he said. She certainly seems cooperative, and engaging, but many girls seem cooperative and then turn out not to be so, he said. So your position is that she threw herself at you but might now withhold? Its certainly happened before. Once I dictated Fermats last theorem to this tall, hot math major and then I never heard from her again. And you thought that dictating a theorem to a woman would somehow engage her libido? I did. Bu now that I hear it put that way, I see my approach lacked finesse. And were you drunk, high, tripping, or otherwise loaded? He frowned for a few minutes. Thats a very complicated question, he said. But I remember blacking out shortly after finishing the theorem, so the answer is more than likely yes. I hear that girls are not keen on this, I said. Why not? They like company.

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The Dodgers have had two important Mike Marshalls. Henry refers to the first. A pitcher named Mike Marshall won the Cy Young award as a Dodger following the 1974 season, and an outfielder named Mike Marshall, a man who wouldnt play when he had a sore toe or an aching thumb, or because he had a wart in a funny place, played in Los Angeles in the late 1980s. I complained about him all year, but then I was there with my wife in game two of the 1988 World Series when Marshall hit a towering shot, a three-run homer that gave ace Orel Hersheiser all the cushion he needed. The 1988 Series, which included Kirk Gibsons pinch-hit homer, is my favorite Series of all time. It was the kind of baseball that usually exists only in the mind of God.

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Well, fuck, I gave her Fermats last theorem, he said. Isnt that worth something? He nodded to himself several times. You know, that Nadia, shes really hot, he said. I think shes underage, Stoney, I said. No, no. You worry too much, he answered. Why are you driving? Isnt this my car?

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Chapter 29: Nadia and Clarence Interfere with Stoneys Hangover The next day when I woke up I could see through the window that it was overcast but not raining, although it looked like it might. I did my morning ablutions then went to the kitchen, where Mrs. W was having a cigarette and a cup of coffee and reading the Chattanooga Times. It was a little after seven. Im not an early bird. Morning, Henry. Wheres your running mate? He usually beats you down, she asked, taking a drag from her Benson & Hedges. If Stoney wasnt up yet, I had a chance to do the Times crossword. He may be a little late today. He had a few drinks last night. Ive seen him have a few before lunch, she said. There were these girls, said. Stoney likes girls? she asked, as though this were something of a surprise. I had assumed that Stoney was interested in she took a drag off of her cigarette, then took a sip of her coffee. Well, never mind. So you boys found some girls you like? Where was this? At that bar over on Frazier down from the Odd Fellows Hall. She thought. Down near the Little Theater? she asked. Yes, maam. Cant remember what that place is called. Anyhow, who were the girls? Nadia and Kiki, and no, we wont be double-dating. Stoney is very taken with Nadia, a Bulgarian migr and former gymnast who now resides in Colquitt. Kiki, her foster sister, is very, very focused on her church. Which flavor? she asked. Baptist. I filled a coffee cup for myself and topped off Mrs. W.s. Big church or hard shell? she asked. Id guess big church. Since Stoneys running late, why dont you make breakfast this morning? said Mrs. W. My civics class is getting off to a slow start anyway. Not much world news today.

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I have no idea how to cook, I said. Kind of like I hear that dirt and seeds and rain turn into beans, somehow stuff in a kitchen turns into food. Farmers and cooks amaze me. Your ignorance is highly descriptive, Henry. Take a Biology course and all that would be answered. But you dont have to know how to cook to make oatmeal. I really have no idea how to make oatmeal, Mrs. W., I said. Henry, you poor pitiful foundling, the instructions are on the box. Look for something with a picture of a Quaker on it. Where? I asked. In such a place as food may be found, she said, without looking up. Youre in a kitchen, which is generally a good place to start. Okay. I looked through her cupboards, got a sense of how they were organized, and finally found a cylindrical cardboard container of Quaker Oats. The instructions were, indeed, on the box, if box is the right word for a cardboard cylinder. The instructions suggested that I would need a device for measuring the volume of water and a cooking vessel. I kept looking and found a measuring cup and a pot. Make enough to feed six, she said. You boys eat a lot. I multiplied out the number of cups of water from the portions given on the label and poured that number of cups of water into the pot, which almost filled it. I turned on the heat. After a few minutes the water started to boil and I added the appropriate volume of rolled oats. The results of the experiment deteriorated from this point onward. As soon as I stirred in the oats, carefully following the instructions, the pot foamed up and boiled over. This aspect of cooking oatmeal was not mentioned in the instructions at all. Mrs. W was focused on her paper. I kept turning down the heat and stirring and it kept boiling over. Mrs. Wertheimer didnt look up. After a more than a few minutes of stirring and turning the heat down, eventually as low as it would go, the oatmeal began to thicken. At this point Stoney showed up, wearing a purple silk bathrobe over jeans and a Ziggie Stardust teeshirt and, in an unusual sartorial touch, his Ray-Ban Aviator shades, with a cigarette dangling from his lip. He poured himself a cup of coffee and trudged into the kitchen, in apparent pain, to look at what I was doing. He shook his head. Use a bigger pot next time, he said. Oatmeal boils up. When it looks almost done, stir some milk and butter in and let it reduce. Did you add any salt to the water? No. It needs just a pinch. I looked down and saw that he was wearing cheap blue rubber flip-flops like you buy on the street in Panama City.162 He sat down and smiled
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The one in Florida. I have no idea what they sell on the street in Central America.

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blearily at Mrs. W. She looked up at him, then without saying anything, she got up and disappeared for a few seconds, then returned with two packets of BC powder. Stoney got up and poured himself a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator and returned to the kitchen table, then emptied the two BC Powders163 into his orange juice, stirring the mix with his index finger. He then drained the glass in a few continuous swallows. Mrs. W took no notice. Youre a godsend, Dr. W. Stoney youre lucky the news is light today, she said, after a few seconds. Stoney was straining, extending his tongue to its limit, to lick the BC residue from the bottom of his juice glass. After a minute of watching this spectacle I felt compelled to comment. Your tongue is like a prehensile tail, I said. Impressive, no? he asked. Its grotesque, I answered. Tigers? he asked Mrs. W., putting his orange juice glass aside and taking a sip of his coffee. They lost to the As, Im afraid. They only had three hits, and Oakland had four. The Giants beat the Cards and Gibson was pitching, and if they can hit Gibson thats a good sign. Henry, your Dodgers clobbered the Pirates, she said, disapprovingly. Pirates will bounce back, Stoney said, lighting a cigarette. They look bad now, but with Stargell and Parker theyre going to get some hits, even though their pitching is pretty lame. Who was pitching? he asked, taking a drag. For whom? Mrs. W. asked. Motown,164 Stoney answered. He frowned and adjusted his sunglasses. Mickey Lolich, she answered. Dont know him. You National League people. Hes been around forever. Past his prime, like most of the Tigers rotation. The oatmeal looked done, to me, so I found an appropriately-sized spoon and dipped out a bowl for Mrs. W. and put it in front of her. Stoney looked at it and took off his sunglasses, making a noncommittal back and forth wag of his head.

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BC Powder is an analgesic that is especially popular in the South. Motown was a contraction, of sorts, of Motor City, a nickname Detroit gained when most American automobiles were manufactured there.

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She needs butter, milk, sugar, salt, a spoon, and a napkin, said Stoney. I collected those things, thinking ahead and getting him a glass of milk, spoon, and napkin, too. When I put a steaming bowl of very pretty oatmeal in front of him, he thought about it and asked for some of the reduced maple syrup and if there were any blueberries left. I found some, rinsed them again, and gave them to him in a small Pyrex ramekin. He mixed them all together and it looked so good I followed suit, as did Mrs. W. A good breakfast. When we were done I cleaned up while they smoked and drank coffee and passed the paper back and forth. So who is Nadia? Mrs. W asked him. The most beautiful woman in the word, he answered, earnestly, but without looking up from the sports pages. Wheres she from? she asked. He took off his sunglasses and cleaned them with the hem of his purple silk bathrobe. Cant remember. Henry will know, he said. Someplace swampy in south Georgia. Colquitt, I said. Wheres that? she asked. Nearest big town is Albany. Its in Georgia. Near Florida and Alabama both, I said. Is there a pool hall there, or something? she asked me. No, maam. Closest pool hall I know is in Donaldsonville. Theyre good farm people in Colquitt. They have a nice-looking high school. But town-wise, not much more than a post office. And you met a teenaged girl from there? she asked Stoney. No, maam. A hard-drinking, hard-partying grown-up of a woman from the Peoples Republic of Bulgaria. Mrs. W. frowned slightly and returned her attention to the newspaper. Stoney finished with the sports section and finished his oatmeal. As each of them finished with a dish I took it away and put it in the sink. It seemed more efficient to wash them all at once, so I was waiting. Stoney suddenly looked up at me with a cross expression. Hey. Last night. What were you thinking? he asked, indignantly.

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About what? I asked, refilling his coffee cup. All of us took our coffee black. Making me drink all that vodka, he said. Nadia drank the vodka. You were drinking Jack green, I answered. He thought about this for a few seconds. Well why did you let me drink so much Jack Daniels, then? Where were your manners? he demanded. Am I my brothers keeper? I asked, and immediately regretted it. Your friend Ed Bork would say yes, Im guessing, he said. Mrs. W. looked up and cocked an eyebrow at me. Ed was there, yes, maam, I said. She took a long drag from her cigarette. And? she asked. Eds found Jesus, I said. Pretty thoroughly. She nodded and smiled to herself. Ill be damned, she said. Good for him. I was surprised, I said. Why? Because he tried to hex you into a heart attack, I said. Yeah, sure. So praising Jesus is going to be less obnoxious than that. And lots of the people who focus on Jesus do good in the world. I know a woman, Gini, who runs a camp for kids who wouldnt be able to go to camp if she wasnt there. And a man, Paul, whos the chairman of the board of this abused womens shelter. He also works with handicapped kids. Hes an asshole, and I cant tell that he actually believes in God, but hes a good Christian whos doing his best to work out the Jesus deal. Any more coffee? asked Stoney. He had folded the paper over to the crossword puzzle. I refilled his coffee cup. And Im feeling better after the oatmeal, but how about a gallon of ice water? he asked. I found the largest glass and filled it with ice and water. The front doorbell rang. Stoney and I looked at Mrs. W in confusion. This had never happened before. Stoney pulled his pack of Winstons from the pocket of his robe and shook out a new cigarette.

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You boys can stay put, she said. Thats my sister dropping off Clarence. Ill be back in a second. She got up. Stoney looked at me, expecting me to explain. He had the crossword puzzle in hand. Mrs. W. has a nephew named Clarence, I said. Twelve, maybe? Thirteen? And? he asked. Weird kid with eccentric interests and keenly in search of a friend. Projects himself into others a lot. Fixated on Carlos Castaneda. After the cool kids shun him in high school he may develop into an asshole. Stoney nodded contemplatively, sipped his coffee, and looked down and completed the crossword. Damn. It took him two, maybe three minutes. Boys, this is my nephew, Clarence McColl, said Mrs. W, entering with an obnoxious-looking and obviously unhappy pre-adolescent. She was happier about, and prouder of, him than appearances warranted. Clarence looked at Stoney and me seriously. Stoney extended his hand and Clarence shook it morosely. Clarence turned to me and said, quite intensely, Has your Datura root seeded? Excuse me? I said. Please tell me you have not abandoned the Yaqui way of knowledge, he said. Youre into Carlos Castaneda? Stoney asked me. No, of course not, I answered. Who? Mrs. W. asked. Later, Stoney said. You? Stoney asked Clarence. Yes, I pursue the Yaqui way of knowledge, said Clarence. And youve found mushrooms? asked Stoney. Henry, whats he talking about? Mrs. W. asked. Stoney, knock it off. Hes like eleven, I said. Thirteen. No mushrooms here, said Clarence. The Datura, though, is plentiful, if you know where to look.

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Little buddy, you may have just solved a problem for me, so lets talk later. You are on the Yaqui path of knowledge? Clarence asked. No, but Im willing to learn. Tell you what. Ill give Henry my Kuhn and you give me your Carlos Castaneda, and what will we give you? Sports Illustrated? asked Clarence. Can do, said Stoney. Whos your team? Braves, of course, said Clarence, as though this point, at least should be obvious. Sorry, little buddy, said Stoney. Im from Michigan and not yet acclimated to the local customs. Of course youre a Braves fan. Well get you an SI next time we go out. Okay. Im going to assume some generational communication deal is going on here that I dont understand so Im going to go look at the blackboard, boys, said Mrs. W. She got up and moved towards the dining room. I gathered my coffee cup and followed, feeling slightly guilty because I still hadnt finished washing the dishes, which Stoney would have done by this time. Stoney refreshed his coffee and shepherded Clarence into the dining room, where Clarence looked around at the different blackboards in disapproving bewilderment. Stoney, apparently refreshed by breakfast and BC, explained to Mrs. W. how wed formulated the problem wed abandoned the previous day. She nodded, Clarence frowned. Hey, little buddy, later today, Ill explain some things about this to you. What were doing is called calculus, which is a slightly more complicated form of something called algebra. Youll learn all about it in high school. This symbol here just means change, and this symbol here just means function, and all function means is were gonna treat all of the numbers over here in this same particular way. Mrs. W. smiled one of her broadest smiles at this, but Clarence frowned and Stoney didnt see it. So now we all looked at the problem Stoney and I had written on the blackboard before wed abandoned it to go to the bar the preceding evening. Wed been able to express it, but had no idea how to solve it. After looking at the way wed formulated it for a few minutes, Mrs. W. lit a cigarette and looked at us, frowning. I got the feeling that she wasnt keen on the way wed expressed it, but even still she explained how to deal with this particular kind of multi-variable equation, covering most of one blackboard. At one point Stoney jumped up and took the chalk and worked out the solution himself. Stoney really liked performing calculations.165Working through the problem, she decided we needed more work on the existence and uniqueness of the
165

Stoney liked to calculate square roots longhand, like we learned in eighth grade.

154

solutions to n-th order equations. After she showed us how to solve it, she flipped one of the blackboards over and cleared what little was written on it. Stoney, I know youre not as keen on physics as Henry is, but lets look at our friend y = f ( x, y ) , which youve worked with many times, where f is some continuous function, and its hard to find an exact answer, and Henry noted the special case of y = g ( x) y + h( x) where g and h are continuous on some interval. Remember this?
g (t ) dt I said. Q( x) = x
0

Exactly! she looked at Stoney, and he nodded, lighting a cigarette. He and Clarence were playing Thumb War. So jump forward, and assume there are some theorems for this that I could provide that prove its true, so that you have a system of = f1 ( x, y1 yn ) and y these equations such that y1 2 = f 2 ( x , y2 yn ) and so on. Fuckadoodledoo, said Stoney, at which Clarences face lit up in delight. Language, Stoney, she said. You know Newtons second law? Yes maam. Say it, she said. Verbally or in math? he asked. Were doing math, here, Stoney, she said, perhaps a touch exasperated. Stoney thought a minute, then said mx =
x y F (r ) , then mx = F ( r ) where, r r

oh, something about r. Maybe r = x 2 + y 2 . And I guess F (r ) is the force on the mass. Id just finished a course called Physics for Physics Majors, and Im not sure I could have dialed that up. Stoney was calling it in from high school. Right! said Mrs. W. After reminding us about ellipses and their relation to the other conic functions she eventually got to r =
(h 2 / k ) . 1 + e cos( )

Ill be damned, said Stoney, taking a drag from his Winston. Then he smacked me across the backside of my head, not hard, but it was still startling. Whats that for? I asked. Remember how I tried to talk the Math Club into analyzing Tycho Brahes observations?

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Sure. Mrs. W told me it would be boring, I said. Doing it the way Kepler did it would be boring, he answered. But Mrs. W has just shown us the music of the spheres. The doorbell rang. Mrs. W., Stoney, and I all looked at each other in confusion. The doorbell had never before rung in the morning and here it was ringing a second time before lunch. Mrs. W got up to answer the bell, and while she was gone, Stoney explained, bewilderingly quickly, how what shed just taught us overlapped with planetary mechanics.166 I tried to follow but he was moving too fast for me to follow.
166

He was interrupted, but heres what he told me later that day: All right. Dr. W. told us that 1 v ((t )) = r (t )

so

r (t ) =
and you can see that

1 dv dv ( (t ))(t ) = h ( (t )) v ( (t )) d d
2

r (t ) = h

Right? So really it boils down to

d 2v d 2v 2 2 ( (t )) (t ) = h v ( 9t ) ( (t )) d 2 d

if I have it right. If you assume, as Newton tells us, that the force is inversely proportional to radial length squared, and you ignore for now the fact that mass isnt concentrated in points at the centers of spherical objects, you end up at

1 F( ) d v + v = 2v 2 2 d mh v
2

F (r ) =

km , or F (1 / v ) = kmv 2 r2

right? And that long fucker we did before lunch becomes

Simpler, no? And Dr. W. would tell you that linear equations that look like that one have solutions in the form

d 2v k +v = 2 . 2 d h

v( ) =

k + B cos( ) , where B and are constants. It was about this point that I began to think h2

that I was more of a Physics major than a Math major. I still planned to double major, but still and all. So, Stoney continued, if you drop back four or five steps, the elegant simplicity of 1 v ((t )) = r (t ) remains reliable, and if you think about it, t is related to as

r=

(h 2 / k ) , as long as e = Bh2/k. 1 + e cos( )

Stoney, are you doing all of this in your head? I asked. Yeah, but I dealt with these equations a lot in high school, and I still think about them a lot. Youd see it if you wrote it down. This is as close as I come to being interested in physics. Its also why Im interested in Kepler and Brahae. But most of the unsolved Math problems are lots more fun. Dont

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Mrs. W. appeared a few seconds later with Nadia in tow. She says she met someone who lives here named Stono in a bar and that he was generous enough to buy her lots of vodka, said Mrs. W., with a slight frown. Nadia was wearing a semitranslucent tee shirt and not much else. It was possible that she was wearing the bottom part of a two-piece bathing suit under her tee shirt but it was clear to all present that she was not wearing the top. Far too much of her was available for view for a bra of any sort to have been involved. Clarence sat up alertly, smiling, eyes the size of cue-balls, like Christmas at the orphanage. Hello, Nadia, said Stoney, smiling and taking a drag from his cigarette. Clarence and I stood, and when Stoney didnt, I grabbed the back of his collar and pulled it up, encouraging him to stand. He did, but looked at me in some irritation as soon as he did so. What the fuck? he asked me, in a stage whisper. Local custom, I said. Miss Nadia, I think the only gentleman present you dont know is Clarence, said Mrs. W. Clarence, delighted, extended his hand. Wow, he said, shaking her hand. She smiled sweetly. She seemed slightly bashful, or at least as bashful as a woman whose nipples are plainly discernable can seem. We were just going over the rules of orbital mechanics, said Mrs. W. Hows your math? I looked over at Stoney, who seemed surprisingly nonchalant, with his Winston 100, and Clarence, whose eyes had not left Nadias breasts since she entered the room. Wow, he said, every thirty seconds or so. No Sanka, she said. Simple drooped by to say hello to handsome Stono. Mrs. W. cocked an eyebrow at Stoney, who paid no attention.
interrupt. If you make h2/k greater than zero and e greater than or equal to zero then I think that last fucker describes a conic with the focus at the origin and with eccentricity equal to e. What kind of conic depends on whether e is lesser than, greater than, or equal to one. For an orbit in stasis, its going to solve for an ellipse. Well, for planets it will. I cant possibly follow this, I said. You could on paper. This isnt my first time through this. He lit a cigarette. Where does this string end? I asked. Id want a blackboard to show the next few steps, anyway, he said, but if Keplers right it ends at T 2 =

4 2 3 a . But Keplers third law is the squares of the periods are proportional to the cubes of the k

major axes of the ellipses, and that just makes no sense whatsoever. I mean, its possible, but I dont know why that would be so. It was silent for a few seconds while he smoked his Winston. So what do you think? he asked. I understand why you have good grades, but I no longer understand why I have good grades, I said. There are different forms of intelligence. I think Im pretty good at recognizing patterns. I have a spatial ability. But I would never in a million years be able to run with Stoney in terms of If A+B=C, lets deduce the values of D, E, and F.

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My might own cigarette? she asked. Sure, said Stoney, shaking her out a Winston. Gracisas, she said. Stoney gave her a light from a paper book of matches with the logo of the Black Angus, something of a mystery since we hadnt been there since wed been in town. Mrs. W. frowned. Perhaps she disapproved of high school students smoking. Nadia took a deep drag from of her cigarette the way people do when they havent had one for what they think is a long time. . ,167 she said. She smiled shyly at Stoney. Clarence continued his study of her breasts. Meet Stono and at tinny bar at river, she said. Much fun. What time is it? Stoney asked. Id never noticed before, but he didnt wear a watch. A quarter to noon, said Mrs. W. Nadia, would you like to have lunch with us? Oh, , she said, smiling and nodding vigorously in a way that caused abundant movement inside her tee shirt. Clarence looked as though he might faint. Wouldst be much nice, said Nadia. What are we having? Mrs. W. asked Stoney. I was thinking B.L.T.s and the rest of the vichyssoise, said Stoney. Theres not a lot of the soup, but we can make plenty of sandwiches. Sounds good to me, said Mrs. Wertheimer, looking at Clarence. He nodded at Nadias tee shirt, captivated. I think Nadia and I can take care of this, said Stoney, and led Nadia into the kitchen as though he were leading a debutante to her presentation. Mrs. W. cocked an eyebrow at me as she lit a Benson & Hedges. Shes awesome! said Clarence. He insists shes enrolled in a junior college down in Georgia, I said. Henry, she said, after a pause, taking a drag off of her cigarette, you know what the worst thing about being a teacher is?

167

Excellent. Thanks, in Russian. But a Russian would never say here, he or she would say X (good!) or maybe O (very good!). Nadia knows four languages but cant really speak anything but Bulgarian. Even so, she is waaaay ahead of most Americans.

158

No, maam, I answered. So often you have to wait on students to think for themselves. They have to get hit over the head with a club of some kind and before the light goes on. I told him not to believe everything he hears in bars, I said, after thinking a few seconds. She shook her head and took another drag. The smell of bacon started to overpower the smell of cigarette smoke. So you two met her last night at a bar? asked Clarence. Yep, I answered. Can you guys take me to that bar sometime? he asked. No, said Mrs. W. and I simultaneously. Hes a smart young man, said Mrs. W. Yes, maam. Hes awesome, said Clarence. Well, hes a good cook, said Mrs. W. Yes, maam, I said. Well, so far as I know, hes observing the rules of the house, she said. Yes, maam, he is. I understand we are privileged to be guests here, and have stressed this to him. He understands. She nodded, then looked at one of the blackboards. After a few minutes she got up and changed a symbol that she didnt think was right. How much Relativity do you have? she asked, without looking at me. Clarence, bored, looked up, with a frowning, snarky expression. Eight pounds, he said. Clarence, go figure out how to convert eight pounds into kilograms, said Mrs. W., without looking at him. How? he asked, with a scowl. There are lots of books in this house. Youre smart. Henry? Clarence left, sullenly.

159

Not much Relativity, no maam. General principles, but no math, I said. Well, I want you to have more than that when you go back to school. Lunch was good. Stoneys vichyssoise was wonderful. Clarence didnt want his, so I ate it, and the B.L.T.s were excellent. The tomatoes were not quite as sweet and ripe as theyd be in the hottest part of the summer, but they were tasty, and Stoney had used his home-made mayo. Excellent sandwiches. At the end of the meal, I grabbed Stoneys collar again and pulled him over. Mrs. W. will expect you to walk Nadia home, I said. No shit? he looked at me, surprised. None. Okey-doke. Nadia, can I walk you home? he asked, when he returned to the room. That was be much happy make, she said, smiling shyly. She stood and turned, and her tee shirt bunched at her back a bit, so that it almost, but not quite, covered her bottom. Stoney stood. Take off your bathrobe, Stoney, said Mrs. W., shaking out a cigarette. He reacted as though startled, then removed his robe and draped it over his chair, and smiled at Nadia through his sunglasses. They left, Clarence staring intently. Mrs. W. lit her cigarette and looked at me disapprovingly, as though this were my fault. God Almighty, said Clarence. Knock it off, Clarence. You boys clean up, she said. We got to work. Apparently cleaning up was a new chore for Clarence. He didnt mind, but he didnt know what he was doing.

160

Chapter 30: Civic Affairs, an Unexplained Absence, and Armed Drunkards at the Brass Register, or June 13, 1974 Things returned to normal, or as normal as they could be while Clarence was around, the next day. A few days later I came down for breakfast, last as usual, as Stoney was preparing waffles with Mrs. W.s World War II-era waffle iron. Mrs. W. was sipping coffee and looking at the first section of the paper. Clarence had a glass of orange juice, apparently untouched, and was puzzling over something on a sheet of quadrille paper. Hey, Henry, said Mrs. W., without looking up. Stuff to talk about in morning civics class so read up. Stoney sort of waved at me. Neither Mrs. W. nor Stoney was smoking, which was odd. Stoney placed two small pitchers in front of Mrs. W., one white like cream and the other looked like his reduced maple syrup, then put a glass of whole milk next to her coffee. She looked up and smiled and handed me the first section of the newspaper. She turned her attention to sports. A few seconds later Stoney plopped a perfectly-formed round waffle in front of her, liberally smeared with butter, now melted and drooling towards the edge of the waffle. Okay, this is a pretty standard American waffle, which is what I can make with this waffle iron. Itll be a little chewier, little crisper, a little eggier than a Belgian one, I hope in a good way. You have your choice of reduced maple syrup or this highly experimental yogurt-cream-vanilla sauce I kind of made up this morning because I thought it might be good on waffles, because I made some pretty good yogurt, although I tasted it and the sauce might be better on desert crepes. Oh, and there are these. He placed a bowl of sliced, sugared strawberries on the table, with a serving spoon. Mrs. W smiled warmly at her plate. She divided the waffle into two halves, drizzled yogurtvanilla sauce over the right half, and sprinkled sugared strawberry slices on top of that. With her first bite she smiled and rolled her eyes like a six year-old tasting her first ice cream cone. Wonderful, she said, and cut off another bite. Usually Id want some kind of protein with breakfast but I couldnt figure out what kind of meat or egg deal would go with this. Once I got fixed on the sauce, I mean. He watched the indicator light on the waffle iron and sipped his coffee intermittently. Youre next, little buddy, he said, to Clarence. I looked at my paper, Mrs. W. enjoyed her waffle, and Clarence looked at his graph paper. According to the paper President Nixon was in Cairo, where President Sadat had welcomed him as an important world leader without whom the problems of the Middle East could never be resolved. After these solemn pronouncements were complete, President Sadat had feted President Nixon with a performance by a belly dancer.168 After a few minutes the light on Mrs. W.s ancient waffle iron turned red and Stoney turned out another perfect waffle. He plated it in front of Clarence, after which he gave Clarence a glass of milk and a bottle of Log Cabin syrup. Bud, youre welcome to
168

I am not making this up. Not one whit.

161

yogurt vanilla sauce or reduced maple syrup if you like, but youre welcome to Log Cabin if you prefer, he said, handing Clarence the small glass Log Cabin bottle. Cool! said Clarence, and poured at least six fluid ounces of Log Cabin syrup on his waffle. Hungry? Stoney asked me. I dont usually eat breakfast, I said. Ill split one with you, he said. Mrs. W. had finished her fist waffle half and had cut the other half into two quarters. She covered the one nearest to her in yogurtvanilla sauce and strawberries. She ate a few bites. You know, this would be good with blueberries, too, she said. Good call, Dr. W., said Stoney. Well have to try that. But sugared strawberry slices bleed a lot of juice out, and that helps the flavor of the sauce. Thins it a little, too. A final waffle was ready. He split it between us on two plates. He poured a generous dollop of yogurt-vanilla sauce on his then sprinkled it with strawberry slices. I followed suit. Clarence finished his waffle. Mrs. W. still had a quarter of hers left, which she drizzled with still-warm reduced maple syrup and consumed with an emotional cast to her expression. While Stoney and I were eating our
waffle s Clarence unceremoniously 2

dumped the remaining strawberry slices onto his plate and then spooned lots of yogurtvanilla sauce over them. He had unsatisfactory results consuming this mixture with his fork, so adopted the strawberry serving spoon as his own. I expected Mrs. W. to object, but she didnt notice. Another triumph, Stoney, she said. It was pretty tasty. Clarence had cleaned his plate as thoroughly as he was able without licking it, which he would have gladly done had no one been looking, then turned his attention back to his quadrille paper, which seemed to have sparked an unusually studious streak in Clarence. What are you working on? I asked Clarence. Mrs. W. lit a cigarette and waited on his response. Its some games Stoney made up for me, he said. Yeah, I figured hes probably bored with pretty much everything around him, so for the past week or so Ive been setting up some puzzles for him, said Stoney. He should have something interesting to do, too. So? Mrs. W. asked Clarence.

162

I like the crosswords and the Cryptoquotes best. Jumbles are too easy, said Clarence. Mrs. W. looked at Stoney. Honestly, thats been pretty closely based on whats available in the Chattanooga Times, he said. But Clarence has done the Cryptoquote in less than five minutes twice. So word puzzles? Mrs. W. asked Clarence. The math ones are harder, but kind of more fun, he answered. What kind of math problems? she asked. At first it was like addition x + y = 5 and that kind of stuff. How youd graph that. Here, he said, shuffling his papers, and handed up a list of about six graphs of linear equations. I gotta say, that was pretty boring. But this week he added little numbers and the puzzles are a lot more interesting, he said. Little numbers? she asked. Yes, maam. Like Okay, well, we started with x 2 + 2 xy + y 2 = 0 . 169 Stoney writes the power numbers as little numbers above their variers. And? Theyre fun. He shrugged. Stoney showed me how thats the same as x plus y times x plus y, and its like multiplication only with letters. Kind of like the Cryptoquote substitutes one letter for another, he thinks up these puzzles where he has letters instead of numbers, and you have to figure out what the letters could be. Then to get the curves all you have to do is plug real numbers into the key. Its keener and cooler than the word puzzles, but I think the word ones are more fun, somehow. More Yaqui. Mrs. W. turned to Stoney. Mr. Jackson! she said to Stoney. Yes maam? Stoney asked, hesitantly. Youre a teacher! she exclaimed. I dont know, he said, after a pause. I just thought if he was stuck with us he might as well have something to do.
169

He pronounced it X to the power of two plus two XY plus Y to the power of two.

163

What made you think of this? she asked. Well, that first night we forgot to get him a Sports Illustrated and I felt so bad I wanted to make it up to him so I made him a game sheet of stuff he could play with while you were talking to us. And youve got him to quadratics already? she asked. Hes pretty fast. Well. Clarence, Im going to leave you to Stoneys tutelage, and you boys let me know if I can help. She paused and thought and lit a cigarette. She looked at Stoney, contemplatively. Sometimes you connect with a single person, and thats great. Happens a lot with parents, as it should. Sometimes you connect with a larger group, but not with everybody. Ministers, Rabbis, Boy Scout leaders, singer/songwriters. Sometimes you connect with almost everybody in the room. Those people all need to be teachers, because nobody else can do the job as well. Clarence and I are just buds, said Stoney. So do you think youre learning a lot, Clarence? she asked. Oh, sure! Stoneys like Don Juan, he said. Who? A character in Clarences favorite book, Stoney said. What have you learned? she asked. Well, a needle case is called an etui. The Hawaiian word for goose is nene. Theres a college in North Carolina called Elon. The easiest place to start with a Cryptoquote is to look for patterns, like there or that. All kinds of stuff. How are there and that patterns? Mrs. W. asked. If you have a five-letter word where the third and last letters are the same and nothing else matches, thats almost always there, he said. If you look around and the first three letters match up somewhere else, youre sure, because thats the. And if the first and last letters of a four-letter word are the same, thats usually that, he said. Could also be else, said Stoney. Be careful. Sons, twit, hath, barb, kink, dead, fief, gang, maim, pimp, rear, roar, sips, I said.

164

Dont show off Henry, said Stoney. Whats he saying? asked Clarence. Hes giving you examples of other four-letter words that fit the pattern. But for the purpose of doing a Cryptoquote, ignore him. If you have a four letter word that begins and ends with the same letter, its almost always that. And if its not, its usually else. And after that, all of those words Henry said are equally likely. Whats a tutelage? asked Clarence. It means Dr. W. thinks Im teaching you stuff, said Stoney. His fastest time on the Jumble is less than two minutes. But what about factoring quadratics? she asked Clarence. He immediately drew his face into a quizzical frown. What? Clarence asked, confused. Behind Clarence, Stoney waved his hands back and forth, like an umpire signaling safe, to wave her off from telling Clarence he was doing ninth grade math. Know your pupil. Thats what your Aunt Margaret calls that kind of number puzzle, Stoney said. Oh, he nodded. Theyre just puzzles, he said to Mrs. W. Theyre fun, but once Stoney shows you the trick theyre lots easier than the word ones. I dont think Im really, like, learning anything from the number puzzles. Theyre just fun. He shrugged. Okay, she said, smiling. So whats in the news? Dodgers lost to the Cards 6-3 with Sutton on the mound, I said. You think hes going to last? asked Stoney. Seems solid. Torre hit a homer for St. Louis and the good guys just never caught up. Brock hit a triple to seal the deal.

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We never should have traded Torre, said Clarence.170 He was my favorite player ever. What was the Braves score? They beat the Mets one zip. Both pitchers must have done well but I didnt recognize either name. Aaron homer? RBI? asked Clarence.171 Nah, Davey Johnson172 singled in somebody from third, said Mrs. W. Nobodys asked about my Tigers, said Stoney. They didnt play, said Mrs. W., Clarence, and I in unison. Tough room, said Stoney. All right, so anybody noticed whats going on in the world? she asked. Stoney lit a cigarette. Clarence concentrated on some puzzle on Stoneys sheet. She looked straight at me. Well, Nixons in Egypt, I said. Good. Why is he there?
170

Clarence is a Braves fan and alludes to the fact that Torre came up to the majors in Milwaukee and came with the Braves when they moved to Atlanta. As is the way with catchers his knees went before his arm or his bat so the Braves tried playing him at first base and third and even in the outfield as a way to rest his legs. Unfortunately he played first like he was still a catcherhed stand up straight as though blocking the plate and catching a throw from the cut-off man rather than stretching towards the infielder to get that fraction of a second break like a first baseman does, and he just wasnt fast enough for third. The Braves ended up trading him to St. Louis (this was before free agency, so players played where they were told to play). Torre would go on to manage the Angels, Yankees, and Dodgers, and in between stints as a manager was the best color announcer of my lifetime, except for maybe Joe Garagiola, also a catcher. And of course there was the hilariously mismatched team of Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese in the sixties, but which of them was the color man and which was play-by-play would be hard to say. And then of course theres Vin Scully, the standard by which all other sports announcers are judged. Hes known as a play-by-play guy, but since he works alone he also provides his own color. 171 Henry Aaron is the Braves all-time leading scorer in most categories and is Major League Baseballs alltime leader in non-juiced career home runs. 172 Davey Johnson, then with the Braves, would go on to manage the Mets and the Dodgers both. Odd fact: Davey Johnson had been in the on-deck circle a few weeks earlier on April 8, 1974, when Henry Aaron hit his 715th homer, the one that broke Babe Ruths lifetime record, unfortunately off of the Dodgers Al Downing. A few years later Davey was playing in Nippons Professional League, Japans MLB, where he played for the Tokyo Giants (whose uniforms are obviously stolen directly from San Franciscos). Johnson was also in the on-deck circle on September 3, 1977 when Japans greatest player ever, Sadahaaru Oh, hit homer 756 to surpass, theoretically, anyway, Aarons lifetime record of 755. In those days Japanese pitching didnt have the velocity that American pitchers did, but opinions vary as to whether harder pitching would have meant more or fewer homers for Oh. Japanese pitching improved, of course, and in 1995 Hideo Nomo jumped from the NPL to the Dodgers to become the first of many Japanese pros to find success in the American major leagues. Nomo had a wicked fast ball and a delivery that baffled hitters for a number of years. One last note about the Aaron/Oh rivalry: after the 74 season Aaron agreed to appear in a home run derby against Oh and Japanese pitching in Tokyo. Aaron won, 10 to 9.

166

I paused to think before answering. Because there are fewer American reporters there? I hazarded. Oh, for Christs sake, Henry, she said. This is a state visit. What is the purpose of the visit? There was a pause. Mrs. W., Im going to have to have to side with Henry here, said Stoney. Yesterdayor maybe sometime in the last day or soone of our coffee chats was about how Henry Kissinger was going to resign if people didnt stop pestering him about all the criminal investigations going on about White House stuff. But thats not the purpose of a state visit, she said. We both looked at her quizzically. Clarence had lost interest. She rapped her knuckles on the table. Clarence? He looked up. Yeah?173 he answered. Why is President Nixon in Egypt? she asked. He put on his game face, as though he were answering a question in class. To achieve peace in the Middle East? he answered, after thinking. Yes! she said, happily. Yes maam, and so how long has this middle east deal been going on? asked Stoney. Several thousand years, she answered. Shaking her head and lighting a cigarette. And you think Nixon is going to work it out? he asked. Well, no, but hes trying. It says here that there was a parade in which Nixon was cheered by throngs, Stoney said. Yes, she answered. This was in Egypt. Is there any place he might get a similar response in the US? There was a pause. Clarence frowned and looked back down at his puzzle sheet. Maybe Wadley, I said.
173

Both Henry and Stoney, separately, pulled Clarence aside later in the day and told him that he should address his aunt as maam.

167

Wadley? Stoney asked. A little town in Alabama. They like their president. A lot, I said. I do get your point, Stoney, she said. Peace in the Middle East is important, though, and Im glad theyre thinking about it. What else is going on? Ehrlichman can be tried with the rest of the plumbers, said Clarence, without looking up from his puzzle sheet. That he can, said Mrs. W., smiling at him. That he can. All right, lets get to work. We moved into the dining room and she took us through a pretty intricate double integral that had integrations over some regions that were more general than polar rectangles.174 It branched out a lot, and we drew some diagrams on the blackboards to reason through it. Mrs. W. observed that the notation had changed a little from when she was in grad school, but it all meant the same thing. For lunch we had gazpacho and tuna salad sandwiches, but that makes it sound a little more generic than it was. Stoney made a special olive oil mayonnaise to bind the tuna salad, although he used his standard Wesson oil mayo on the bread, which he had baked the day before. I think we had a cool meal because Stoney didnt like to heat up the kitchen too much in the middle of the day when it was hot outside. After lunch we were still working on the double integral problemwell, Stoney and I were, and Clarence was working on a second problem sheet Stoney had whipped out right after lunchwhen the phone rang.175 It didnt usually ring. We all looked at each other, then Mrs. W. got up to answer it. She returned after a few seconds. Its Nadia, she said, Asking for Stono. Ah, Stoney said, and got up to take the call. Mrs. W. took a contemplative drag from her cigarette and looked at the beautifully framed unsolved problem on the blackboard.176 This is the girl who came over for lunch wearing ... a tee shirt? she asked. Yes, maam, I said. She was awesome! said Clarence.

174

As I recall, after we got through the preliminaries, it was

f (r , )dA =
R

h ( )

g ( )

f ( r , ) rdrd

and for once I got it before Stoney did. 175 Mrs. W. had just said if the disc R has a density (r,)=r, then, symmetrically, the mass of the disc is

M = 2 dA = 2 rdA = 96.
R+ R+
176

Greenboard would be more accurate, but you get the point.

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And he thinks this girl is a college student? Mrs. W. asked, to no one in particular. She says shes enrolled at a Junior College in Colquitt, I said. Shes absolutely gorgeous, said Clarence. Okay, Clarence, Im going to tell you something about men, she said. I want you to remember this ten years from now. Clarence looked up with a quizzical scowl. Men are mysteriously unable to detect or deduce the ages of females they find attractive. Im telling you, remember this. The fact that you find her attractive doesnt mean shes eighteen. Got it? Yeah, sure, he said. He was trying to appear earnest, but Mrs. W. saw through it and shook her head in annoyance with men in general. Stoney returned. Mrs. W., if its okay with you, Im gonna go pay a visit to Nadia, he said. Wont be long, he said. Have fun, she said. He smiled and lit a Winston. You know shes underage, so be careful. Oh, no maam. Shes enrolled in Colquitt Junior College. Twenty years old, he said. Uh-huh, said Mrs. W., without looking away from the blackboard. Okay, see you again in a few minutes he said, and left. I could hear the door close behind him after a few seconds. Well, what to you gentlemen want to do? she asked Clarence and me. I got my puzzle sheet, said Clarence, and shrugged. We could take a walk, I said. Mrs. W. frowned and smoked for a minute. I know, she said. Henry, tell me again, how much Relativity do you have? Philosophical principles mainly. He showed us some of the math but we werent tested on it. I looked at your book over Christmas. The way they presented it is not the same way Albert did it. Let me show you Alberts original thinking. Itll make a lot more sense. She flipped over a blackboard. Didnt you tell me you knew the Lorentz transformation?

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I think so, yes maam. We did it in Stoneys math club. On your recommendation, I might add. Okay. So here we go. Place a rod one meter long in the x axis of K in such a way that the beginning end coincides with the point x=0, while the other end coincides with x=1. What is the length of the rod relative to the K system? And with that she was off, scudding across principles vast and small, demonstrating on the blackboard from time to time. It was though shed been hungry to talk Physics, as though dealing with geometry and pure math for so many years had starved her for something. She galloped. I could follow, but not really absorb. It was exhilarating, but frightening, in a way. I am by nature skeptical, and to inhale so much so fast didnt brook much analysis. But it all came in so right. She went on for about three hours. By the end, general and special relativity had been planted in my brain, but I couldnt have said I grasped it. I understood it, in a way, but I hadnt been able to think it through. What do you think? she asked. Clarence had wandered off. Im kind of stunned, I said after a pause. It makes sense, but Jesus. I knew that mass and energy were supposed to be related. But damn. Where are you on gravity? she asked. Thinking it through. Everything you said makes sense, philosophically. And the math? she asked. Not sure yet. I need to think all this through. I understood it when you said it, but it wasnt all math. Fair enough. The doorbell rang. What the hell? she asked. Its Stoney, I said. Why would he ring the bell? she asked. Hes a guest. Oh, for heavens sake, she said, rising to answer the door. When she came back, she had Stoney in tow and was explaining that he was part of the household now, like it or not, and did not need to ring the bell to come inside. Well, thank you, Dr. W. Thats so sweet of you. He looked exhausted, in a way that doesnt care that its exhausted. I know I planned to cook something tonight, but I cant remember what it was, he said.

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You said red beans and rice, said Clarence, wandering in. Oh, Jesus! Youre right! Ive got nothing like the time to cook red beans and rice! What was I thinking? Well, I guess we know what I was thinking about. But still, Ive let down the team. He lit a Winston in exhausted despair. I dont know what Im going to do, he said. What do we think? Omelet? Quiche? Oh, Stoney, dont worry about it. Its time for me to repay the favor. Lets go to the Brass Register. Im buying, she said. Whats that? he asked. A bar downtown, on Fountain Square. Good burgers and omelets. Dark, with drinks and beer. Youve been, Henry? A couple of times. My friend Dennis Plumlee used to hang out there, I said, but he was pretty much everywhere. You didnt like it? she asked. Good burgers, but no pool table, I said. Will Nadia be there? Clarence asked. No, said Stoney. The Baptists are all back, I think. Damn, said Clarence. Language, Clarence, said Mrs. W. Sorry, said Clarence. Stoney, what does this mean? he asked, pointing at something on his quadrille sheet. Oh, thats something well get to in a week or two. A different kind of puzzle. For now, just treat it like its x or y or a or b, he said. But how do I say it? he asked. Sin? Its an abbreviation, said Stoney. Sine. Sign, said Clarence. You got it, buddy, said Stoney. So maybe a drink before Brass Registering? He made Mrs. W. a massive martini, himself a gin and tonic, and brought Clarence a Coke. We retired to the living room to watch the news. Nixon and Sadat had looked at

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the pyramids. Things could be better in Viet Nam. Prince Charles had invited Laura Jo Watkins, the daughter of an American admiral, to hear him address the House of Lords. Thats just not right, said Clarence. It was odd for him to volunteer anything. We all looked at him, surprised. How so? asked Mrs. W., taking a sip of her martini. For that prince to go siphoning off American girls. He should stick to Brits. Why so? she asked. Thats a really pretty girl. Whats she going to do? Say No, Ill take a pass on being maybe the queen of England? Its not fair. Well, maybe he likes her, said Mrs. W. There was a pause. Much as I love you, Dr. W., Im going to weigh in with my little buddy on this one, said Stoney. Isnt the Prince of Wales required to marry an English citizen? No, no. Under the Royal Marriage Act as long as the reigning monarch approves, he can do what he likes. How about under the Settlement Act? Clarence asked. All of us looked at him in surprise again. Well? he asked, when none of us answered. That just says that no monarch of England can be Catholic or be married to a Catholic, Mrs. W. said. Where did you pick that up? I go to school, Clarence answered, sullenly. Stoney gave him a thumbs up and Clarence brightened in response. The news came back. The world monetary fund had agreed on some changes. Nixon said Sadat would be coming to Washington in a few months. It was inextricably dull. Stoney refreshed his and Mrs. W.s drinks halfway through. All right, lets go, said Mrs. W. after the news was done and we all piled out towards her car. She handed me her car keys without comment. It was maybe 6:00 or 6:30 and it was still light. I hadnt spent much time in the Brass Register before, although Id been. My high school classmates had all spoken of it as a destination of some importance, but it didnt have a pool table and I dont drink. It was clean and neat, though, and the hostess, who may have been behind me a year or two at City High, showed us to a nice table near the windows up front. Clarence was checking out the new and interesting environment, focusing intently on whatever pretty girl walked by. We all ordered various kinds of cheeseburgers and different drinks.

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The front door opened and Rex177 walked in, alone, looking for someone. He scanned the bar several times before he noticed me, then waved and came over. Something about his bearing suggested he had been drinking for some time. Yo, Henry, he said. Hello, Mrs. Wertheimer. Henry have you seen Buster in here tonight? Buster Wilhoite? I asked. Rex paused for a few seconds to think about this. Is there another Buster? Rex asked, confused. He was a little unsteady and he was moving his lips in this odd way that made his handlebar moustache look like it was moving across his face like a caterpillar. Havent seen him. Why? I asked. Buster has a skeet machine for sale and I was going to look at it tonight. If I see him Ill tell him youre looking for him. Cool. Rex wandered off, more towards the bar than in search of Buster. Did he say Buster Wilhoite? Mrs. W. asked. You remember Buster, I said. He went to City. Buster didnt take much math, she said. Stoney was waving at the waitress, who showed up with a smile. Hey freak, she said, to Stoney. Hi, Janie, said Clarence. Oh, hey, little fella. Hows your Coke holding out? Oh, its fine, he said. He stared at her in a way that manners would have forbidden if he had any. Okay. So this was a gin and tonic, Stoney said, pointing at his now empty drink. So what Id like is another gin and tonic, only this one with like three or four shots of gin in it. Make it four. And so for there to be any room for tonic water, you need to do this in a Collins glass. Lime? she asked. Yes, but just one wedge, Stoney said.
177

You remember Rex.

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Got it! she said, smiling, and walked off. Clarence watched her leave longingly. Knock it off, Clarence. You boys have to talk to him about the way he looks at girls, Mrs. W. said. What? asked Clarence, confused. Whats he doing? Stoney asked, oblivious. Ill explain it to Stoney and Stoney will explain it to Clarence, I said. Youll do what? Stoney asked. Ill explain later. Yo-ho-ho! said a loud voice to my right. How in the hell are you, my badass dog Henry? It was Buster, bellowing. Hey, Buster. Rex is looking for you, I said. Fuck Rex! he yelled. No, thanks, I said. What in the fuck have you been up to, Henry Beta? he demanded. Im in college, I said. No shit? he asked, obviously uninterested. Wheres Rexie? I got a machine I gotta unload. He was headed for the bar a few minutes ago, I said. Cool. Buster headed towards the bar and I lost track of him. He, too, looked as though he might have been drinking. A lot. Janie brought Stoneys second drink as Mrs. W. sipped on her first. After a few minutes our burgers came, and we all enjoyed that first few minutes you get with hot cheeseburgers and hot, salty fries. As we were doing so, Rex and Buster, who certainly did not seem less intoxicated than when I first spoke to them, left the bar together. Theyre looking at a skeet machine? Mrs. W. asked. Yes, maam, I said.

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Oh, dear, she said. We continued working on our burgers. Mine, with bacon and cheddar cheese, was good, but then how could a hamburger with bacon and cheddar cheese not be good? Mrs. W. had a worried look on her face. Stoney drained his gin and tonic and ordered a pint of draft Lowenbrau.178 So what Clarence began but was interrupted by the booming sound of a shotgun blast coming from the street. Clarence jumped, terrified, and Stoney appeared to be considering taking refuge under the table. Its okay, boys, Mrs. W. said to Clarence and Stoney. They said skeet machine, after all. She looked at me and shook her head. Yes, maam. Ill go see whats up. I took another big bite of my bacon cheeseburger and went outside, still chewing. It was about 7:30. The sky was a little dark, but you could still see. Buster had parked his pickup next to the fountain for which Fountain Square was named. The skeet trap machine was in the bed of his pickup, and Buster had flipped down the gate so the clay pigeons wouldnt graze it on their way out. There was a 100 foot orange extension cord running from the skeet machine to an outlet in front of the Brass Register. Both Buster and Rex were armed with shotguns. I observed all of this from about twenty yards away and was not interested in getting any closer. Jimmy Pelfry, Busters running buddy, was standing near Rex and Buster but did not seem to be otherwise participating in the evenings events. Pull! yelled Rex. Buster yanked something and a clay pigeon sailed off into the darkening sky off towards the Hamilton County sheriffs office. Rex shot and reduced it to dust. Pull! yelled Rex again. As the clay pigeon sailed through the courthouse lights Rex fired and missed, so Buster quickly sighted and shot the bird right before it got tangled in the large oak trees in front of the courthouse. Hey, Jimmy! I called out. He looked over his shoulder at me and waved, and then as Rex and Buster launched another clay pigeon and commenced shooting at it, he left them to come talk to me. Hey, Henry, he said, approaching and shaking my hand. Hows it going? Its okay, I said. The skeet machine hurled out another clay pigeon, which Rex rendered into dust with another shotgun blast. So whats going on here? I asked. Theyre both drunk, Rob said. Yeah, Id say so, I said. Another clay pigeon went flying, both Rex and Buster shot at it at about the same time, and then began to argue about who had hit it.
178

Heres to good friends. Tonight is kind of special.

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Theyre shooting pretty good for bein as drunk as they are, he said, watching them. Another clay pigeon. Rex missed, Buster got it. It was far enough downrange that he shot some leaves off of one of the stately oak trees in front of the courthouse. Okay. But doesnt the idea of shooting skeet with 12 gauge shotguns on a city street in the dark seem like a bad idea in many ways? Oh, sure. Its a terrible idea. And you left out the fact that the sheriffs department is right over there, he said, pointing. Any minute cops are going to show up and arrest them both. Arent you and Buster friends? I asked. Buster and Rex were arguing about something. Rex took a clay bird from the machine and threw it into the air, and they both shot at it. You could hear the bird shot raining down around us a few seconds later. Oh, yeah. Been pals since junior high. We were in Little League together. We roomed together when we were in college. And youre not trying to stop this? I asked. There was a pause while we watched them shoot at another clay pigeon. Neither hit it this time. Busters practical joking has got to stop, Jimmy said, eventually. What? Busters always been bad about practical jokes, he said, as they reloaded. Theres a connection between practical jokes and this skeet tournament? Yeah, okay, he said. In high school and college if he put Dinty Moore Beef Stew in the pockets of my tux or hid all my underwear before we went to play a road game.179 Id just beat the snot out of him and hed stop it for a few months.

And you no longer feel comfortable beating the snot out of him? Oh, hell. I can still beat the snot out of him and am willing to do so at the drop of a hat. Its just gotten out of hand, though, so I suggested he bring his shotguns. I brought an extension cord so they could test that skeet machine Buster stole. Made sure Buster got good and drunk. Hes pretty stupid when hes drunk. And of course Rex is an idiot. And?

179

Buster played safety for the University of Tennessee football team. He tore an ACL in the Auburn game in his junior year on a block that should have been called for clipping but wasnt. In those days knee ligaments could not be repaired, so that one clip ended his athletic career.

176

Well, you can see, he said. I also told them I wasnt aware of any law against firing shotguns inside city limits. Im surprised the police are taking so long, he said, glancing at his watch. May I ask about the nature of the practical joke? Buster picked up a case of the crabs from this Russian girl he met at that bar he goes to down by the river. Before he used the de-lousing shampoo pulled some of them off and put them in a jar and then put them in my bed, said Jimmy. I take it you did not see the humor in this, I said, as a police car pulled up, lights on but no sirens. Buster was now showing Rex how to operate the machine. Pull! Buster called out. Rex yanked the cord and a clay bird sailed out into the indigo sky. Buster shot just as two uniformed police officers emerged from their car, one with a shotgun aimed at Buster and the other with a pistol aimed at Rex. No, I found no humor in it, said Jimmy. But what I failed to get Buster to grasp was that Carrie found no humor in it, either. Buster was trying to explain that it was all okay, that they were just shooting skeet, as it was their right to do. He cited the Second Amendment. The police did not seem to see it that way, and were instructing Rex and Buster to lay down their weapons. Rex, the more experienced criminal defendant of the two, was complying, but Buster was refusing on the grounds that this was his good shotgun and he didnt want to scratch it. And Carrie is a girlfriend? She was at the time, yes. Unfortunately, she and her mother share clothes from time to time, and her parents are happily married, so it was only a matter of days before the entire Kershaw household, Carrie, her mom, and her dad, were all crawling with crabs. Unfortunate. I said. Rex was now lying on the street face down with his hands cuffed behind his back. Buster was clutching his shotgun like a five year old girl clutches her favorite doll, pointing at Jimmy, apparently trying to explain that Jimmy had told him that it was okay for him to fire his shotgun downtown on a June evening. Jimmy waved. Really, really, unfortunate. Given the nature of the crab louse and how it spreads, Carries parents eventually came to question her on the specifics of her pledge to stay a virgin until marriage. Another police car pulled up. Buster was pleading for permission to return his favorite shotgun to the gun rack. The police advised him not to move. He began stroking the shotgun, a two-barrel with an elaborately carved stock, the way drunks and stoners do with objects they decide they like. A third police car pulled up as an officer emerged from the second one, shotgun aimed at Buster. Rex tried to say something but the officer accompanying him placed his shoe on the back of Rex neck to

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encourage him to exercise his right to remain silent and refrain from exercising any others. Alas, I said. Yes. A great girl. Pretty as a picture. Sweet-natured. Took the Pill. She was even a Baptist. My folks loved her. Now my chances of seeing her naked again are as good as my chances of becoming pope. Buster had negotiated some kind of deal with the policeman that had been talking to him. He broke the double-barrel, which shucked both shells, at which point officers seemed to converge on him from all over, tossing his shotgun aside and forcing him to the street, cuffing him. In not too many seconds, he was in the back seat of one police cruiser and Rex was in the back seat of another, but on the way, Buster called out to Jimmy Bail me out! to which Jimmy called out No! Buster looked confused and hurt. Why? Buster demanded. Crab lice! Jimmy called back. Buster shook his head as they handed him into the back seat. Hell have to call his father for bail, said Jimmy, so hell remember this one. Jimmy unplugged the extension cord from the outlet and began coiling it up. This isnt going to go well for Rex, either, I said. Jimmy shrugged. Rex is an asshole, he said. Good catching up with you, Jimmy, I said. Same here, Henry, he said. I loaned him this extension cord and dont want to lose it. All of the police cruisers seemed to turn off their flashing lights at once and silently roll off into darkness. About the girl Buster got the crabs from, I said. Any chance she was Bulgarian rather than Russian? You think Buster would know the difference? Good point. See you later, I said, and returned to the Brass Register. A crowd had apparently been watching at the window and looked at me nervously as I came back inside. I rejoined our table. Mine was the only plate left on the table. Mrs. W. and Stoney both had cigarettes lit and brandy snifters filled with brown liquids, and Clarence had another Coke. I still had a third of my burger and half of my fries.

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Anything odd? Mrs. W. asked. It was more elaborate than it looked but just as stupid. She nodded. I took a bite of my not-entirely-cold burger and followed it with a few entirely cold fries. I poured ketchup on the fries. So do people, like, fire shotguns into the air all the time around here? asked Stoney. Its rare, said Mrs. W. Not in a town as big as Chattanooga, I said. Sometimes, said Clarence. Cause in Detroit we only do that sh that stuff on New Years. We all looked at him curiously. Shouldnt there be some limitations? he asked. Whys New Years a good time? Clarence asked. Mrs. W. looked at him by way of acknowledging that hed asked a good question without giving much else away. Better than June, Stoney answered, draining his snifter and waving to the waitress for another. Why? Mrs. W. and Clarence asked, simultaneously. In Detroit in January its like zero degrees outside, said Stoney. So? So everybodys inside. Fewer targets. We all nodded.

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Chapter 31: In Which Clarence, Stoney and I Demonstrate that the Amount of Entropy in a Closed System Increases Over Time The following week Mrs. W. and some of her friends had signed up to play in a duplicate bridge tournament at Callaway Gardens down in Georgia and Clarences mom still hadnt returned to town so Stoney and I were slated to take care of him for the weekend. Mrs. W. was a little worried that wed do something stupid while she was gone but she had a hard time articulating what that might be. She wouldnt admit it but it sometimes seemed as though she harbored suspicions that all men were capable of turning into idiots on short notice so leaving Stoney and me in charge of Clarence might lead to trouble. She left at about two that afternoon, a Friday. She left some problems for us on the blackboard, and looking at them right before she left I figured wed need to collaborate extensively to work through them. She said her farewells with a vague look of concern and had just somewhat hesitantly closed the front door behind her, but then just a few seconds later she re-opened it and looked back in. Stoney. I forgot to tell you, she said. I ran into my neighbor Weezie Long yesterday. I was getting the mail while she was walking her dog Rocky. She said those girls you met have gone back to Colquitt. Nadia and Kiki? he asked. Thats it. She said Nadia turns sixteen next week and wanted to be home to take her drivers license test on her birthday. Thought Id let you know. Bye! she waved. Bummer, Stoney said, after a pause. Sixteen, I said. I heard. I prefer to believe that theres been some kind of mistake, he said. There has been, I said. I mean some other kind of mistake, he said. Which other kind of mistake? I asked. Any other kind of mistake, he said. What other kind of mistake could there be? I asked. Can we change the subject? he asked. Some kind of non-criminal mistake? I asked.

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So Clarence, what do you want me to cook for dinner? Your call, he said. Why do we always have to cook? asked Clarence. Because cooking is part of life, said Stoney. Clarence looked at me. Stoney likes to cook and we like to eat. Ask him what the word statutory means, I said. Can we go to McDonalds? asked Clarence No, said Stoney. Why not? asked Clarence. There are usually lots of underage girls there, Stoney, I said. Your kind of scene. Because McDonalds is evil, Stoney said, ignoring me. Evil how? asked Clarence. Like the Yankees are evil, Stoney said. Just because something draws large crowds and everybody knows their names doesnt diminish their evilness. Can we go pick up a take-out pizza? asked Clarence. Impossible, said Stoney. Why? I asked. Because we have no beer, he said, matter-of-factly. We could go to the store to get some beer, suggested Clarence. Wow, said Stoney, slapping his forehead. The simple elegance of your logic has won me over. Let me enhance your paradigm-shifting idea with another: since were going out to get Lowenbrau anyway, and Henry will insist on driving even though Im completely sober, we could also pick up tomato sauce and pepperoni and mushrooms and anchovies and make our own pizza. A good coping skill for a young man on the threshold of life. Cant we just go pick it up at Pizza Hut? he asked. Girls love a man who can cook, Stoney said.

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If were going to Pizza Hut, lets eat it there, I said. If we carry it home from the one on Hixson Pike itll be cold by the time we get back. Besides, there might be a high school freshman who captures your interest. High school girls love that place. Okay. Pizza Hut sounds good, Stoney said. Little buddy, we now have a plan for dinner so my heart is at rest but its too early to eat so why dont you show me the plants you know in your aunts garden? This surprised me. Id assumed Stoney and I were about to start working on the problems Mrs. W. had left on the blackboard. She was gone, but it was still a school day. Its hot as Hell out there, I said. Since when are you interested in botany? My buddy here noticed an odd plant or two in the garden, he said. I just asked him to show them to me. Suit yourself, I said. They left. I started looking over the first of the problems Mrs. W. had left us. It, and the others, were all more multi-variable deals. I began to piece together an approach to the first one, then the second, and the fact that I could do so by myself felt a little odd. A few weeks ago Stoney had known lots more pure math than me but by this point I might have caught up. Maybe. But Id been used to being part of a problem-solving team, and it was oddly exhilarating to be thinking through something on my own. It was like a mini-return to my pool hustling days. Then it was just me and the cue against the cosmos. Now it was just me and the pencil against Math. I got most of the areas mapped out in my head on the first one, and the first several problems were so similar that mapping one was figuring out how to map them all, but then I got to scribbling down the values so fast I broke the point on my pencil. I looked around but there were no other pencils so I got up to sharpen mine at the sharpener in the hall closet. On the way I passed a window with a view of the garden and was surprised to see Stoney, barefooted, clad in white bell-bottomed Levis, his aviator shades, and a red I-Zod180 shirt, and Clarence, clad in short cut-offs, a striped tee shirt and his Braves cap, both jumping up and down, or maybe dancing, depending how flexible your definition of dancing is, not quite rhythmically but not randomly. They made occasional erratic vocal expressions that conveyed no information whatsoever. Maybe they were dancing in a circle in the garden. Maybe not. There was a low plant with white flowers at what appeared to be the center point of their circle. After about a minute of semi-leaping, Stoney paused in his leaping, or dancing, whichever it was, panting, and lit a cigarette. Clarence stopped at the same time. They looked at each other as though they werent sure what was supposed to happen next, then shrugged and
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In 1974 I-Zod manufactured tennis shirts with little alligators on them that had labels inside saying Chemise Lacoste, which Walt, Ginnys doubles partner, once told me was named for Renee Lacoste, a one-time French tennis player who was known as the Little Crocodile, so Walt found some irony that the shirts were known in the U.S. by the name of a different species altogether. I do know that the sizes on the labels were given in French. The I-Zod tennis shirts of 1974 were much more comfortable and much better made than the I-Zod shirts of today. I also dont know what happened to the small reptiles stitched to the front.

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began leaping, or dancing, again. This time they seemed to grasp the absurdity of what they were doing and enjoyed it and so were skipping faster and jumping higher than theyd been doing before, which only made them look stupider. After a few minutes they exhausted themselves and collapsed on the garden grass, Stoney panting mightily and perspiring heavily and Clarence maybe a little out of breath. Youth. Stoney took a drag off his cigarette, which set off a coughing fit, but this did not induce him to pitch the butt. He and Clarence smiled at each other as Stoney began to catch his breath. After a few minutes they were still sitting in the hot sun and doing nothing. I got bored, so sharpened my pencil in the closet and returned to the calculus problems in the dining room. Maybe ten minutes later Stoney and Clarence returned to the house. I heard them open the back door then go to the kitchen and put ice in glasses. A few seconds after that they came looking for me in the dining room, tired but smiling. Clarence was carrying a glass of ice and a can of Coke. Stoney had a glass of ice, a can of coke, and a fifth181 of Ron Rico rum. It was brown, like whiskey, which Id never seen before. What were you guys doing out in the garden? I asked. It looked like white guys imitating Soul Train with no music. They both laughed a little and cracked open their soda cans, dropping their pop-tops182 into the ashtray. Nothing, said Stoney. Ritual preparation for the Datura, said Clarence, filling his glass with CocaCola. Excuse me? I asked. Just blowing off steam, Stoney said. Stoney filled his glass mostly full of brownish rum then topped it off with a little Coke. Its a Yaqui thing, said Clarence. How come your sister smacks you every time you say that? I asked Clarence. She seems to find Carlos Castaneda irritating, he said. Im not sure why. Maybe because, like so many pupils, but unlike Don Juans dog, she has not found her place. I dont want to go sit on the front porch, little buddy, said Stoney. Too hot.

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In 1974, the most common size for a bottle of liquor was one fifth of a gallon, which is really, really close to 750 milliliters. 182 In the 1970s, canned beverages of all kinds were sold in aluminum cans with ring-pulls. You pulled on the ring and a small rounded Isosceles triangle of the top popped and then peeled out of the top of the can so you could drink it. These small, curved, surprisingly sharp bits of metal were casually thrown aside like burning cigarette buts, which led to many a foot injury among a population of young people that prided itself on its bare-footedness. Jimmy Buffet cut his heel on one while blowing out his flip-flop and had to cruise on back home.

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Perhaps your place is at this table, solving problems with Henry, said Clarence. With a great big ol rum and Coke, said Stoney, nodding. I showed Stoney what Id done with the first problem, and then he handed Clarence the crossword puzzle, the Cryptoquote, and the Jumble from the Chattanooga Times. The originals? Wow, said Clarence. He acted like hed been given some special privilege. I looked at Stoney in puzzlement. I think youre ready, buddy, he said to Clarence. Usually I change em around a little before I give em to Clarence, he said to me. Clarence pulled a stopwatch out of his shirt. It was hanging around his neck by a long thin piece of leather that may have originally been a bootlace. Call em out, bud, Stoney said. Clarence nodded, punched the stopwatch, and got to work. I noticed he was working in ink. I looked at Stoney with a cocked eyebrow. Hes gonna tell me his times as he completes each one, Stoney said. Where did he get a stopwatch? I asked. I gave it to him, he said. Where did you get a stopwatch? I asked him. I ran track in high school, he said. You ran track? I asked, surprised. Sure. I believe I still hold the Lawrenceville record for best time on the 440183. I was also the anchor leg of our mile relay team. When did you start smoking? I asked. At thirteen. And youre right, thats why I wasnt a miler in high school. Cross-country? I asked. Oh, Christ, no, said Stoney. Fifty-two! sang out Clarence.

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440 yards, or a quarter of a mile. In the 1970s all American track and field events were measured in miles, yards, feet and inches.

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Thats great, buddy! Stoney said. I looked at Stoney in puzzlement. He just did the Jumble in 52 seconds. Thats great. Anything better than a minute is pretty commendable. My own best time on the Chattanooga Times Jumble puzzle was 45 seconds. I looked at Stoney with an inquisitive expression. Cryptoquote next? I asked. Of course184. What time are we looking for on the Cryptoquote? I asked. He usually does it in less than eleven minutes, Stoney answered. He looked at what Id done on the multi-variable non-planar problem and didnt say anything. He nodded a few times and circled a few things he wanted to ask about, then looked up. My own best time on the Cryptoquote was a few seconds over two minutes, and I generally did it in about six minutes, so I felt good about myself. Stoney finished looking over my calculations and looked up. Actually, Clarence always does better than eleven minutes. Eleven is his outside. Id take the under on that bet. Hes usually in the six to eight range. Damn! Thats good. Whats your time like? I asked. Stoney remembered he had a drink and drained it, then poured in, again, a massive amount of rum and a little Coke. I dont know, Stoney said. I never saw a Cryptoquote before I came here, and I do them while Im cooking breakfast, so I dont really time them, and if I did, the times wouldnt be, like, accurate, because Im looking at breakfast most of the time. Ive been trying to get to where I can solve them in my head. You know, like those guys do who play chess without a board? Ive always thought that was so cool. So today I could do the Jumble and the Cryptoquote in my head, and a lot of the crossword, but I couldnt do the whole crossword in my head. So I dont know. He asked me a few questions about steps Id taken on Mrs. W.s problem and nodded as I explained what I had done. He stared at one step, then exclaimed Fuckadoodledoo! and began scribbling furiously on his pad. I got this! Six minutes and 23 seconds! Clarence called out. Good time, buddy, said Stoney. It was a good time. I generally did better than that, but damn. Whats got you so excited on the multi-variable? I asked Stoney. Hang on, he said, and returned to scribbling. Ah, shit, he said, after a few minutes, disappointed. What? I asked. Clarence, focused on his crossword puzzle, paid us no mind.
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I cant tell you why, but in a newspaper that offers the Jumble, the Cryptoquote, and a crossword, it just makes sense to do them in that order.

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Yeah, well, I thought Id found this great insight into this fucking equation and so I tore off into this magnificent, elegant solution that took fifteen steps and basically just proves your step four. So I agree with you. Fuck. Its possible that you may have noticed that I like to be the clever one but all Ive done this time is prove you right. A bitter tear to swallow. Perhaps some more Ron Rico will ease my troubled soul. Dont you mean a bitter pill? I asked. What kind of pill are you suggesting I take? Im not. Hmm. What kind do you have? he asked. None, I said. Then why did you divert conversation onto the topic of pills? Surely you know how cruel it is to get a mans hopes up like that. Five thirty-two! said Clarence. Excellent, little buddy! said Stoney. On the crossword? I asked. Yep! he said, proudly. Good time. I tried to beat six minutes every day, which hed done. And he was an obnoxious ten year-old. So how smart was I? Well, in Dr. Ws absence we still need to watch the news, Stoney said. We all agreed, so they grabbed their beverages and we all dutifully filed into the living room to watch the news. We went with Peter Jennings, and in Mrs. W.'s absence our commentary on the current administrations activities were perhaps a little more raucous and crude than usual. None of us could have been entirely sure what Mrs. Ws politics were, though. She usually seemed to approve of Dems and disapprove of Repubs, but it was hard to tell. Stoney and Clarence were clearly Democrats and assumed Mrs. W. was as well, but she was critical of Dems as often as she was of Repubs. Id never thought much about politics until that summer, but at that time particular point in time the main difference between Democrats and Republicans was that more Republicans were either in

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jail or on their way to jail185 than Democrats.186 But back then I really didnt understand politics.187 Which one is Stans again? Stoney asked. The level of the rum bottle was dropping pretty fast, and he was still on his first Coke. He looked at me for an answer to the Stans question and I shrugged. Couldnt tell you. Without Mrs. W., we were rudderless. He looked at Clarence. Hes an accountant. He was secretary of something. Maybe Secretary of Commercials. Resigned to become some big deal. Put money in a flush fund. Or was it a slush fund? Slush. Under indictment? asked Stoney. Yeah, sure. Perjury and obstruction of justice, Clarence answered. Stoney nodded as the news came back on. Clarence understood most of it, and Stoney had a general idea of what was going on, but it didnt make much sense to me. Something was up with New Yorks budget.188 Wholesale costs were up. Stoney made yet another rum and Coke. There was more trouble with tapes in the Watergate deal. Same old daily news routine, but it wasnt the same without Mrs. W. After the news we went to Pizza Hut. It was the same as the last time Id been there. Anchovies still werent on the menu. Stoney ordered a pitcher of Schlitz.189 The
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Former Vice President Spiro T. Agnew (he was Greek, so . , which would be more Hagnew than Agnew) may not have been in jail but he pleaded to something pretty bad that required that he resign as Vice President of the United States, and Nixon aides Ehrlichman, Haldeman, Colson, Hunt, LaRue, Liddy, Magruder, McCord and Attorney General John Mitchell all went to jail. 186 As Ive aged Ive become aware that its the rare politician of any stripe that doesnt have some mud on his or her shoes when he or she first treads across the national carpet, but having an Attorney General, the nations chief law enforcement officer, go off to jail in Montgomery for engaging in some kind of criminal conspiracy is a kind of high-water mark for the executive branch being badly off-track, at least in my lifetime. I know this kind of thing happens all the time in other countries, but the reason people move her from those places is to get away from that kind of crap. 187 Im not sure I do now, but I do better. There are always competing ideas, but mainly political discourse seems to be absorbed with was saying the other side is wrong. Wheres the utility in that? 188 Why is what goes on in New York City national news? They dont treat what goes on in Los Angeles as national news unless theyre mocking California. What goes on in Chicago, Seattle, Miami, San Francisco and Wadley is not national news. I could give a shit whats going on in New York. Why do we all have to hear about it? 189 In 1970 Schlitz was without a doubt the best domestic beer in America, but then they began tinkering with the recipe, I assume to make more money. In 1974 it was still better than anything else in the United States, but it had dropped from the most popular beer in the U.S., The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous, to number two, behind Augie Bushs second-best beer, Budweiser. They tinkered with the recipe enough (and came out with the truly wretched Schlitz light) that they lost lots of customers to European brands like Lowenbrau and Heineken that were grabbing market share for the first time and even to Miller. (Miller High Life. The champagne of bottled beer.) Their efforts to improve profits had a disastrous effect on taste, so by the early eighties Schlitz was out of options and got purchased by Strohs in 1982, which started turning Schlitz into a more Stroh-like product that was awful. Schlitz abasement was complete in the late nineties when it and everything else Strohs was purchased by Pabst, which has to be the ultimate

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waitress, a pretty teenager who did not look old enough to work in a bar, assumed our beverage order was complete and left immediately, returning a few minutes later with the pitcher and three glasses, one for each of us.190 I asked for water, and she left immediately again. After she left Clarence redirected his earnest, intense stare from her tight, low-cut pink tank top to stare, not quite as intensely, at the pitcher. He nonchalantly took one of the three glasses and placed it close to himself, as though no one would notice.191 The waitress returned a few seconds later with my water and Clarence returned his appreciative gaze to her tank top, although he was not so captivated with her breasts that he didnt try to nonchalantly reach for the pitcher as Stoney put it down. I batted his hand away, and he looked deflated but not surprised. Could you bring him a Sprite, please? I asked. Sprite? Why do I have to drink Sprite? he demanded. What do you want? I asked. Coke, please, he said to the waitress breasts. Caffeine is bad for you, I said. What? said Clarence, Stoney and the waitress, all at once. It will stunt your growth, I said to Clarence.192 Clarence looked at me as he might look at someone who was providing how-to advice from the Dark Ages. Coke, please, he said to the waitress breasts again, whereupon she smiled and disappeared. She returned within a few seconds with his Coke, and we ordered. We each ordered an entire pizza for ourselves, roughly twice as much food as we needed. I ordered pepperoni, black olives, mushrooms, and sausage. Stoneys was some similar combination of standard pizza ingredients, but then Clarence asked for ham and pineapple on his, neither of which belonged on a pizza. I looked at the waitress in horror. Thats allowed? I asked. Called a Hawaiian, she said, nodding. Whats next, broccoli pizza? I said.
embarrassment for any self-respecting beer. 190 Clarence was ten. 191 Well, Stoney didnt. 192 My mother told me coffee would stunt my growth. In the mid-seventies, we still believed that kind of thing. On the other hand, the other things that my mother thought would stunt my growth included cigarettes, chewing tobacco, Coca-Cola, and all forms of alcohol. As is true of some things your mother tells you, she was right even if she wasnt correct.

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We can do that! she said. Its not on the menu, but they have broccoli back there for some kind of salad nobody ever orders so they can put it on a pizza if you want. No! I said. Yeah, we can, she said. My friend Margo comes in Saturdays after she gets off at Pennys and orders a white pizza with anchovies and broccoli. Stoney and I both picked up our menus. That actually sounds pretty good, Stoney said. Oh for Christs sake, Stoney! I said. Broccoli on pizza? You said the same thing about Clarences Hawaiian deal, said Stoney. Ive had it and its not so awful. Query whether heavy tomato sauce and/or olive oil work with pineapple under any circumstances, but I didnt gag. Now that I think about it, mine was prosciutto, not American ham, and I dont mean to be elitist but that may matter. I still dont see anchovies on the menu, he said. Theyre not, because people, like, think theyre gross, and they make, like, these waaaay inappropriate references to what they taste like, but they have some back there, if you want them. Sardines, too, she said. No, no, no. Sardines is just wrong, said Stoney. But Im changing my order to a white pizza with broccoli and anchovies. How could I resist? Heavy on both. You worry me, man, I said. Do you want to change your order? she asked me. I want to add anchovies as a fourth ingredient, I said. Fifth, she said. You already have pepperoni, sausage, black olives, and mushrooms. Do you want to take one off? No, no, I said. Ill have a five topping pizza. She smiled, flipped her order pad shut, and left. Stoney refilled his beer glass for maybe the third or fourth time since shed brought the pitcher and drank off about a third of it in one gulp. Shes pretty cute, said Clarence. Stoney, tell him to stop ogling girls, I said. Stoney looked confused. Why? he asked.

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Mrs. W. thinks his way of staring at girls is too obvious, I said. I told her Id explain it to you and that youd explain it to him, I said. This approach seems indirect, he said. Clarence, oblivious, was staring at some high school girls at a nearby table. He ignores me and he listens to you, I said. Thats probly true, Stoney admitted. Okay, little buddy, lets talk about girls, he said. Cool, said Clarence. Okay, so girls all want you to think youre interested in them, said Stoney. And I am! said Clarence. Particularly girls with big hooters! They want you to be interested in what they think, said Stoney. What? asked Clarence, confused. Girls all want you to be interested in what theyre thinking about, he said. Cant be, he said. Is, said Stoney. No, really. Theyre always talking about David Cassidy and Donnie Osmond. David Carradine. Hair and fingernails. What kind of shoes Belinda is wearing. Nobody could be interested in that kind of stuff. If they wanted people to be interested in what they were thinking theyd talk about Viet Nam and Watergate and say they voted for McGovern. There was a pause while Stoney lit a cigarette. David Cassidy? Donnie Osmond? Dont know those guys, said Stoney, and then he paused again. Singers? he guessed. Donnie Osmond is the little brother of those twerps who used to be on The Andy Williams Show, I said. Stoney frowned. Dont remember them. What did they do? he asked. Sang. Smiled. Climbed ladders. Wore sweaters. He shook his head dismissively. David Carradine? Stoney asked.

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Hes this Kung Fu guy who wanders around the Old West. Hes actually pretty cool, said Clarence. I just think its weird that these girls in my school are all crazy about a guy whos two or maybe three times their age. There was a pause in which Clarence looked back and forth between Stoney and me. How old? Stoney asked. Hes at least in his twenties, said Clarence. What do you mean? I asked. He said Old West, Stoney said. How old? Id guess Civil War era, I said. Clarence nodded. And the actor playing him is named Carradine? Stoney asked. Yep, Clarence and I both said. So there was a round-eye who knew Kung Fu in the 1860s? he asked. There was a pause while Clarence and I thought about this Well, they play him as Chinese, I said. Totally, said Clarence. They cast somebody named Carradine as a Chinese guy? asked Stoney. Clarence and I thought. Well, yeah, we said. And you guys watch this? Stoney asked. Its not quite as stupid as it sounds, I said. Its totally cool, said Clarence. Stoney seemed mystified. But hes a round-eye? Stoney asked. What? asked Clarence. Round-eye is Asian slang for Westerner, I said. Clarence still looked confused. It means non-Asian. Stoneys not sure an American was a convincing cast as an Asian martial artist. Clarence shook his head, confused. This had never occurred to him before.

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Our pizza came and we all partook. Conversation immediately turned to baseball,193 but then I realized I hadnt finished one of Mrs. W.s assignments. We never finished explaining to Clarence why he cant stare at breasts, I said, in the middle of my second slice. She generally asks me about homework problems. Oh right, said Stoney, wolfing down his third slice of white and green pizza and washing it down with a large swallow of beer. Ok, so buddy, there are some things you need to know about girls. Okay, said Clarence who, hoping no one would notice, had nonchalantly taken a beer glass and was reaching for Stoneys pitcher. Stoney didnt react, so I smacked him on the back of the head. Ow! said Clarence. What the fuck are you doing? he demanded, glaring at me. Keeping you away from the beer, I said. Your Aunt Margaret wouldnt approve. No, I mean smacking me in the head like that! he said, unhappily. Your sister does that all the time, I said. Not that hard, he complained. Stoney refilled his beer and looked contemplative. So we, he began, then paused, by which I mean us men, are not supposed to look directly at womens breasts even though those particular body parts are of exceedingly keen interest to almost all of us. Men, I mean . But even though were are all really, really interested in breasts, and women all know were all really, really interested in their breasts, were not supposed to let on. I honestly dont know why this is, but assure you it is so. Were not supposed to ever let them catch us looking at them, even though hey know we do whenever we can. Often times they want us to do so. Its weird. Inexplicable, even. But thats how it goes. Clarence scowled. What is it, little buddy? asked Stoney. Clarence pondered for a minute. Its just weird, said Clarence. I agree. But what exactly do you have in mind, little buddy? Stoney asked. It just seems that theyre proud of them, said Clarence.
193

Stoney was going on and on about Denny McClain. Who was an asshole, by the way.

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Of what? asked Stoney. Of their hooters, said Clarence. Yes, of course they are, said Stoney. So if theyre proud they have them, and they know we like them, why am I not supposed to look at them? asked Clarence. Im just liking something theyre proud of already. They jus dont like it when you stare at them, answered Stoney. This is weird, said Clarence. No, no, said Stoney. If you want to touch one you cant be caught drooling over it, he said. I think thats the only rule. Simple. You know, your Aunt Margaret would have a different take on this, I said. How so? both Stoney and Clarence asked. She might say that staring at a womans breasts is rude because it will make her feel uncomfortable, and manners requires that we do what we can to avoid making those around us feel ill at ease, I said. She also might mention that reducing a woman to an object of sexual interest demeans her in a way you do not understand. Stoney and Clarence looked at each other, then back at me, and shook their heads. Thats not the way the issue presents itself, said Stoney. Clarence nodded in agreement. How so? I asked. Okay, man, said Stoney. So hypothetically, say this really attractive waitress with really nice knockers whos wearing a tiny, thin pink tank top happens to be serving Clarence his pizza. Her hooters are pretty much on display. He cant glance at them? I think thats the point Clarence ha trouble with. Stoney managed to consume another slice of broccoli anchovy pizza in three bites. Not when she can tell, I said. It would be bad manners. If shes putting them out there where I can see, why cant I look? Clarence asked. Shes probably not much interested in you, Clarence. Even if shes advertising, shes advertising for somebody, shes not advertising for everybody. Stoney and

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Clarence frowned at me but neither said anything. Okay, I said. Just imagine for a minute that youre a really pretty girl. Cool. I love this kind of deal, said Stoney. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Clarence tried to imitate him but was opening his right eye every few seconds to see what Stoney was doing. I really hadnt anticipated this response. I was just trying to make a point. So Im a really pretty girl, said Stoney. Do I have really nice hooters? Stoney, I said. No, really, Stoney said, what about my hooters? Theyre fine, I said. Large and firm? he asked. Stoney, this angle really wasnt my point. But Im wearing a tight pink tank top? Look, the idea of all manners is that you dont want to make anyone else feel uncomfortable, I said to Clarence. Are you sure? he asked. Yes. I answered. Stoney gave up his reverie and refilled his glass. Clarence nonchalantly pushed his glass forward as if to be refilled, too. Stoney moved as if to refill it and I waved him off. Clarence sighed. Its just not right, Clarence said. How so? I asked. With my real friends, the most fun thing in the world is to make them as uncomfortable as possible, said Clarence. How so? I asked. You know. Standard kid stuff. Kick them in the nuts. Blow snot on their book reports. Fart in their faces. Put dog shit in their lunch bags. You know, just stuff. And? I asked. And theres this whole other deal I have to do for girls?

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Yep, I said. Its not just for girls, though. Theres this whole manners deal that applies to everyone whos not a thirteen year-old boy. Grownups. Teachers and parents especially. You agree with this? Clarence asked Stoney. Stoney was re-filling his beer glass for the umpteenth time and Clarence tipped his glass forward expectantly. This time Stoney either didnt see or ignored him. Sort of, he said. Um, I may not be the best guy to ask, because I grew up in allmale prep schools. And Im not sure about some of what Henry just said. I mean, it made sense when he was saying it, but if we have the same standard of behavior for parents and teachers that we do for girls, I think the world will be a dreary place in which to live. So I cant explain with any rationality why I think Henrys wrong, I certainly hope he is. Stoney poured the last of the Schlitz into his glass forlornly Nah, hes not right. Nadia was nothing like my mother, said Clarence. Whod want a girlfriend like a mother, anyway? Stoney asked. They clinked their glasses together and looked at me as though theyd just won a point. Stoney paid for dinner, which was nice. We had ordered way too much pizza, so each of us went home with a box.

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Chapter 32: Coffee, Trouble, More Trouble, Unexpected Visit, Leftover Pizza, a Reduction in Household Entropy Level The next morning I assumed Id be last down as usual but no one was in the kitchen. There was no newspaper. Usually by the time I came down somebody had already brought in the paper, but since this had always happened before I got there I was unclear on the process. Maybe today I was first up. I started a pot of coffee in Mrs. W.s ancient percolator then retrieved the paper from the driveway. As I was returning to the house I thought I heard a coyote but shook it off as a misperception. There were no coyotes in Tennessee in 1974.194 When I got back to the kitchen, the coffee was perking and Clarence was pouring himself a bowl of cereal. Wheres Stoney? I asked. In the garden, he said. Why? I asked. Stoney wasnt much of an outdoorsman. Don Juan said a man must return to his plants, said Clarence, somberly. What kind of plants? I asked. The Datura will become his friend, said Clarence. Datura? Yes. It will teach Stoney to fly, he said, ladling maybe half a cup of sugar onto his Cheerios and cracking open a Coke. Fly? Like a bird? Don Juan refused to answer this question. Is this the guy from that Carlos Castaneda book you talk about all the time? I asked. When a man has been enlightened he seeks others that share his path, he said, between mouthfuls of highly sugared Cheerios. Yes and no are your options on answering that question, I said. You Americans are so limited in your outlook, he said, slurping back his Coke so fast that he coughed with his mouth closed and a lot of it sprayed out of his nose.
194

There are now.

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Thank you for the insight, professor, I said. He was looking at the mess hed just made and thinking through whether he wanted to eat his Cheerios, now bathed in Coca-Cola and snot. He decided not, and moved his current breakfast to the sink, took out another bowl, and started afresh. Again he put at least half a cup of sugar on his Cheerios. I looked out the window and Stoney appeared to be hopping around the garden like a frog. He tried to hop off after a squirrel but hit his head on a hardwood tree, which caught him up short. He looked at the tree in some confusion, as though it were not supposed to be there, then hopped off in the other direction. What have you done to Stoney? I asked. Following the example of my own tutor, I have instructed Stonewall in the ways of the Datura. Whats that? I asked. A tool of enlightenment. A friend for Stoney, he said. I had no patience for this. Okay, so what Im going to do is Im going to grab your ear and hold it really hard and tight so you cant get away and then Im going to beat the living daylights out of you until you tell me whats going on with Stoney. Youd never do that, he said. Yes I would. I said. Stoney came back in from outside, holding his hands in front of him in a chipmunk-like way and sniffing at everything. Where is he? Stoney asked. Who? Clarence and I asked. The bearded dwarf in the wheelchair, he said. He was here just a few minutes ago. Before I went outside. He was singing Free Bird. Would you like to sit down, Stoney? I asked. Oh, fuck no. I need to fly. Clarence said something about that, I said. Stoney darted off and I could hear him gallop up the stairs. Okay, I said, grabbing Clarences ear. He stood. So Stoney is non compos mentis but has no drug dealer here. I had his ear pretty tight. So? Clarence asked, worried. So you have introduced him to something weird, I said.

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This is a journey for Stoney, said Clarence. None of your bees wax. Also a journey for you, I said. How so? he asked. I pulled up on his ear a little bit. Ow! he said. I looked down and he was standing on his tiptoes. I pulled up the tiniest bit more. I wasnt actually going to hit him, of course. The longest journey starts with a single step, I said. Don Juan said something like that, he said. I lifted his ear a fraction of an inch higher. His tippy-toes rose a bit. I wasnt really hurting him, nor would I, but Id had enough of adolescent mysticism. What did you give Stoney? I asked. Its just jimson weed! he said. I let him go. Don Juan gave it to Carlos Castaneda lots of times. Where did you find it? Its growing in the back yard, he answered, exasperated. Stoney, barefoot, came bounding down the stairs, hopping from a crouch, more kangaroo than frog now. Frogs land on their front legs, kangaroos dont, and he was managing to hop around using only his legs despite the fact that he lacked a kangaroos tail for counterbalance and stability. He took the last six stairs in one hop and landed on a throw-rug that immediately slipped out from under him, causing him to fall flat on his back with an enormous crash. Clarence and I hurried over to see if he was okay. That was fucking amazing, he said, to the ceiling. Are you okay? I asked. I will never be the same again, he said. Move your toes for me, handsome Stono, I said. He did. I must have been flying for hours, he said. No, you hopped down the stairs and fell on your ass. It lasted at most four seconds. He looked up at me quizzically.

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Your reality is so he began. Reality-based? I asked. Constipated, he said. Still lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, he retrieved a crumpled pack of Winstons from a pocket and tried to shake one free. Three or four fell out but he only seemed to notice the one that made it to his mouth. He had difficulty with his lighter and never got it to flame but thought hed actually lit the cigarette, taking long drags from it and making like he was blowing smoke rings. Wowthat one bounced of the ceiling, he said. Ive never seen that. It happens, I said. After a few seconds of contemplating imaginary smoke rings he appeared to pluck something invisible out of the air and put it in his mouth. What was that? I asked. One of them turned into a Life Saver, he said, then looked at me and smiled shyly. I knew you thought I was handsome, he said. I left him to his reverie and looked up the Poison Control hotline phone number in the Yellow Pages. Somebody picked up after two rings. Poison Control Hotline, said a low voice. Whom I speakin to? He had a very East Tennessee accent. Henry Baida, I said. What can I do you for, Mr. Baida? he asked, then made a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a burp. I have a friend who may have eaten some jimson weed, I said. Ah, shit, he said. How much? I have no idea, I said. It doesnt195 really matter. It wouldn tell me much even if you knowed. So hes been readin that Carlos Castaneda? asked Poison Control, then made that noise again. Well, hes got a friend who put him up to it whos always quoting that damned book. Whats he doin? asked Poison Control.

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Like many Southerners, poison control pronounced doesnt as duddn. How do I write that?

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Hallucinating. Hopping around like a kangaroo. Seeing things that arent there, I said. How long agod he take it? asked Poison Control. Hang on, I said. Yo. Einstein, I said to Clarence. How long ago did Stoney eat that stuff? Maybe two hours? he answered. My sources say about two hours ago, I said to Poison Control. Really, that doesnt196 much matter, either, he said. If you was to catch it real early you might could get him to puke it back up, but by the time you starts seein pictures, theres nothin to do but ride it out. How long will that take? I asked. Well, assumin its not fatal, four to eight hours, as a rule, but a guy once tol me hed tripped for two whole days on that shit. He hiccupped again. Is there an antidote? I asked. Nope. I could almost hear him sadly shaking his head. What are the effects like? I asked. There was a pause while Poison Control considered his answer. Well, it reminds me of taking a bunch of Benadryl and then drinking a bottle of codeine cough syrup, only wif shimson weed you get hallucinations kindly like that blue blotter acid that was around in 1970, he said. I see. Ifn it dont kill him, tell him that theres some good acid out there that wont fuck him up nearly as much as that Datura shit. It looks like a Anacin tablet with a pink dot on it, but its a king-hell acid and you dont do crazy shit like you do on the Datura. Its lots safern eatin shit outta the back yard. Plus, when you eat weeds off the ground, how dya know a dog didn just piss on it? I heard the sound of something falling in the living room. Hang on, I said. I need to go check on something. Dont hang up, I have some questions. I put down the phone and ran over the living room to find Stoney, flushed and red, trying to balance a ladder-back chair on his chin. Clarence was looking on with something between concern and alarm. I took the chair from Stoney.
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See footnote 2.

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Talk to him when hes doing something stupid, I said to Clarence. About what? Anything except Carlos Castaneda. Try baseball. I ran back to the phone. Okay, so how many people die from this? I asked Poison Control. Oh, wow, man, not sure. Not lots, I don think. Some. What was he doing when you checked on him? He hiccupped. Scuse me, he said. He was trying to balance a chair on his chin, I said. Oh, thats not gonna go well, he said. Youre real uncoordinated and clumsy when youre on that shit. Drop stuff all the time. But you think youre Superman and you dont understand why you keep fuckin up. Any tips on how to get him through this? Not really. Jush gotta live through it. Dont let him pick up anything expensive, cause hell fuck it up. Okay, I said, preparing to hang up. I can tell you what not to do, he said. Okay, I said, hesitantly. I got this friend Junior down in Wadley. You know Wadley? he asked. Yes, I said, unsure where this was going. Well oncet when Junior did jimson weed he got so crazy I decided to start feeding him tequila figuring it would calm him down a little and thinkin he might get so drunk hed pass out and sleep it off. But after maybe a pint of tequila he decided to go for a motorcycle ride. We stopped him, but hes a big guy and was pretty determined and I think he may have broke a couple of Earls fingers in the ensuin melee. And then we went back to the house to watch the Alabama/USC game and nobody was watching Junior and then not ten minutes later we seen him sailing off down the back yard in his colors and motorcycle helmet on his little sisters teeny pink Barbie bike and damned if he didnt go straight into the fish pond helmet and all so we had to run down there and pull him out so we missed most of the second half. It was one of the Bears last games, too. Okay. So no tequila, I said.

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No liquor of any kind. Maybe some beer. Or white wine, he said. But no red wine? No, no, no. Red wine would be a big mistake, said Poison Control. Why is red wine a mistake but white wine is okay? I asked. Because red wine will stain the carpet. Okay, bud. Gotta go. I hung up. Good luck. I returned to the living room. Stoney was sitting on the couch, sunglasses on, with a cigarette that was actually lit. Clarence was looking at Stoney with rapt attention. Which brings us to doggie style, said Stoney. What are you guys talking about? I asked. Stoneys explaining the birds and the bees, said Clarence. Oh, for Christs sake, Clarence. I told you to talk about baseball. But the Tigers lost. Havent been the same since Denny McClain flamed out, said Stoney. Dont wanna talk about baseball. The doorbell rang. Oh, Lord. What now? I asked no one. Stay here. Watch Stoney. Keep him occupied. Okay, so you were saying doggie style? Clarence asked, as I left the room. No. Stoney, talk about anything else in the world. I walked the few feet to the front door and opened it. There on the front porch were Ginny and her mother. Hello, Mrs. McColl. Hello Ginny, I said. Come in! Were just returning from a tournament at the University of Georgia and thought wed come by and collect Clarence, said Mrs. McColl. Were going to be in town for a few days and Im sure hed like to see his friends on Lookout Mountain, she said, smiling. How have you all been getting along? At this point Clarence wandered into the entrance hall. He did not look especially happy. Clarence and Stoney have become fast friends. Clarence can do the crossword in less than seven minutes, I said.

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Hi, Mom, he said, sullenly. So what do you say to spending a few days at your own house? she asked, beaming and obviously happy to see him. I actually kind of like it here, he said. Stoneys been teaching me stuff. Whos this Stoney? she asked. My friend Thomas Jackson from college. Mrs. Wertheimer is teaching us higher math this summer, I said. Like tutoring? asked Mrs. McColl. Sort of, I guess, yes maam. At this point Stoney came into the hall. He was doubled over, arms wrapped around his shins and hands clasped to his ankles, face between his thighs, lit cigarette between his lips, walking backwards, so that both his ass and his upside-down face were advancing in the same direction. When he reached us in the hall, he kind of tilted over backwards so that he rolled over his shoulders and ended up standing, in a graceful, gymnastic motion, cigarette still between his lips. He bowed slightly and smiled. Hello Clarences mom, he said, and politely shook her hand. He looks just like you. Good kid. You should be proud. He turned to Ginny. Hello pretty Peabody girl from near Campus Grill. Nice to see you again. He still had his sunglasses on and a Winston dangling from his lips, but was otherwise almost courtly. Then he turned suddenly and ran out the back door like a scalded cat. What a strange young man, said Mrs. McColl. Hes pretty cool. Hes just having a Yaqui visionary experience, said Clarence. Ginny reached over and smacked him on the back of the head with a frown. Whens Margaret going to be back? Mrs. McColl asked. Yes, maam. Shes at a bridge tournament in Callaway Gardens, I said. Oh, she told me. I just cant remember when shes supposed to be back, said Mrs. McColl. Sunday or Monday, depending on when they play Sunday, I said. Well, I think were in town until Tuesday, so thank her for me and tell her if she doesnt mind Ill bring him back then.

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Yes, maam. Its really okay if you want to leave me here, said Clarence. At this point there was the unmistakable sound of a coyote from the back yard. What was that? asked Mrs. McColl. Ive been hearing coyote sounds the last day or so, I said, which is odd, because I dont think we have coyotes here. Come along, Clarence, said Mrs. McColl. Really, Mom. Im fine here, said Clarence. No, you should come home, she said. All right, he said, glumly. There were smiles all around except for Clarence as the McColls made their good-byes and left. In the back yard, Stoney was crouched like a dog and was yip-yip-yipping like a coyote. The back door was still open. It was oppressively hot outside, and Stoney was perspiring heavily. I crossed the yard to talk to him as he barked. Come inside, Stoney, I said. But Im hungry, he said. I need to catch the squirrel who lives in this tree. What in the world would you do with a squirrel? I asked. He stood and pitched his cigarette butt contemplatively. Well, we could get a chicken and some beans and tomatoes and corn and make a Brunswick stew. Or add some pork to that and we could make Kentucky burgoo. Come back inside, Stoney. But what will we eat? Cold pizza, I said. Oh man, thats like, wow, like, so cool. He flopped straight onto his back. I cigarette popped out of his pocket. He held it at arms length and contemplated it carefully before lighting it. He then carefully inserted the coal end into his mouth and blew through the cigarette backwards so that a column of blue smoke rose straight into the air before developing chaotic curlicues about six inches up. Jesus, Stoney, be careful! He replaced his cigarette to his normal, yellowed smoking fingers, raised his sunglasses and winked, something Id never seen him do.

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Its cool, he said, and knocked out a smoke ring that seemed to sail up at about seventy miles per hour. He smiled beatifically at it and seemed to contemplate the beauty of the universe. So on a non-logarithmic scale of one to ten, how handsome do you think I am? Stoney No, youre right. I should go first. I think youre he seemed to scan me up and down for a few seconds. Oh shit! he exclaimed, leaping to his feet and pitching his cigarette butt. What? I forgot about the yogurt! He squared his sunglasses resolutely and sprinted towards the back door. I followed at a walk. I found him in the kitchen, stirring a halfgallon sized plastic pitcher of what looked like buttermilk, only without the flecks of butter. Youre making yogurt? I asked. Oh sure. You ever been to Greece? he answered. No Well, they have this way cool, far-out, kick-ass, take-no-prisoners yogurt thats parsecs197 better than the jelly-sweetened stuff they sell here in the good ol U.S. of A. Its just fantastic. Okay I said. By experimenting with buttermilk cultures, temperatures, and times, I found I could make it pretty well even though there was nothing like it in the store. But until it stiffens you need to keep it pretty well-stirred or it will clabber. Which is cool in one way because you can make some pretty good cheese out of it then, but you have to start over on the yogurt. He stirred patiently for several more seconds, then seemed to freeze up, staring at some odd place in the middle distance. Holy shit! What? Stir this for four more minutes, gently, not the way Ive seen you beat pancake batter, then replace it in the warming compartment of this fine old stove. He handed me the spoon and left the kitchen towards the dining room.
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A parsec is a unit of length equal to about 3 light-years, or just under 31 trillion kilometers, or about 19 trillion miles. It is the distance from our Sun to a hypothetical object which has a parallax angle of one arcsecond. Its long.

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Okay. I did as told, listening for strange noises or indications that he was going outside again, but didnt hear anything. After stirring for the requisite time I put the yogurt in the stoves warming compartment198 and went looking for Stoney. He wasnt anywhere to be found, but there was a new diagram on one of the blackboards:

I wasnt sure what he was up to. There were some formulas written underneath, but I didnt stop to look at them because I was worried about where he might have gone. I found him lying on the living room floor, drooling on a beautiful Persian rug that Mrs. W. later told me was a silk rug from Qum. His arms were outstretched and his legs were spread, so he looked like that pentagram drawing of Man by DaVinci. You okay? I asked. No response. Is this due to the figure you just wrote on the blackboard? He lit a new cigarette off the old one even though the old one was only half gone. I brought him an ashtray from one of the end tables. He didnt ditch the old cigarette, but held one in each hand, puffing quietly, alternating between them for his drags, but taking two drags from the long one for every one drag on the short one. Whether this was intentional only Stoney could say. I watched him in silence for a few minutes. You are one perceptive rectangular asshole, he said, after a while, without looking at me. Excuse me? Yes, yes, of course that figure reminded me of Leonardo, so I had to come outside and try it. Im glad I did. He took a drag off his left cigarette. Youre in the living room, Stoney, I said. He ignored me. And the oddest part of the trip is my clean, warm, soulful recognition that no one else in the world would have noticed that resemblance. Plus, I think youre handsome, too, in a wiry, medium-sized kind of way.
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She had a white OKeefe & Merritt no. 16.

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Stoney I began. He waved me off with his right cigarette. I know. It embarrasses you to talk about your feelings, especially about The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name. I understand. That isnt what I was going to say, I answered. What were you going to say, mon petit chou? Did you just call me a Brussels sprout? I asked. Mon lapin, then, he answered. Im a rabbit? Of course. A cute, medium-sized bunny rabbit who has an amazing predilection for math and recognizing patterns. I had no idea you knew French, I said. Naturellement je sais le Franais,199 he answered. In der Tat spreche ich Deutsch, auch.200 That sounded like German, I said. Ja, Schatzi. I dont know any German, I said. Sie dont sprechen spanisch, irgendein, das ungerade ist. Aber Sie kennen Latein und Griechen, den ich nicht tue. Ich wei, dass Sie, mein Schatz intelligent sind, he answered. Not following you, I said. Oh, never mind all that, Schatzi, he said. You were about to explain your feelings for me, but you were being reticent. No I wasnt, I said. He took a long drag off of his left cigarette.

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Of course I know French. I didnt speak German at the time and had no idea what he was saying.

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If this Datura shit Clarence made me eat wasnt so gonzo over-the-top mindblowing I might be just as reticent as you. But fuck a frog on the Fourth of July, this stuff is insane. So what were you saying? Lets eat lunch. We still have pizza. He propped himself up on his elbows. Theres pizza? he asked. Yes, of course. Remember? We went to Pizza Hut Last night? Is there beer? he asked. I think if he hadnt been wearing Ray-Ban Aviators his expression could have been recognized as intense. Theres a six-pack in the pantry, but its not cold. I caught Clarence trying to filch one last night. Stoney leapt to his feet and pitched both buts with a simultaneous flick of the index fingers of both hands as though he were outdoors. I scrambled to retrieve them. Luckily they landed on the hardwood floor and I got them to the ashtray before they did any harm. Lead on Macduff.201 But Ill hear naught of this eating cold pizza. The only logical way to deal with pizza leftovers is to manfully re-heat them in an oven, my gay friend Henry. Lets get to it. Portez-moi cette pizza que vous parlez de et je traiterai elle immdiatement.202 He marched off towards the kitchen and I followed. He got progressively calmer as the day went on, although after lunch he claimed to be a bloodhound named Amos Moses and went sniffing through the closets upstairs. I settled in in the dining room to work through the problems Mrs. W. had left us. They were all multi-variable problems and they were tough, but theres something inestimably appealing about working out the details of an infinite series. Its always interesting to think about infinity. The problems all seemed similar until I realized that some of the series had sums and some did not, which was of course her clever way of teaching us to recognize the difference. After about an hour Stoney, still claiming to be named Amos Moses but now walking upright came downstairs with a box labeled 2000 piece puzzle and a picture of Van Goghs Starry Night on the front. He smiled at me and dumped the contents onto one of the tables and busied himself with turning them all right-side up and smoothing them out. After that was done he got himself a beer. I worked through the first three of the six problems Mrs. W. had left, and he steadily built the perimeter of his jigsaw puzzle. Neither of us said a word. By around midnight Id solved all of Mrs. Ws problems and Stoney appeared to have solved about a third of his jigsaw puzzle. He had the rectangular outline al the way around, six or seven sun-like yellow objects, and a broad wavy stripe of yellow put together, but it was unclear how theyd fit together even though Id seen the picture on the box just a few hours before.

201 202

I know. Im quoting Stoney, not Shakespeare. Take me to this pizza you speak of and I shall deal with it immediately.

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Stoney I began, in a conversational tone of voice. He jumped, startled, as if the creature from Alien had suddenly leapt out of its egg and through his visor. Fuck! he shouted. Sorry. Youve seemed pretty calm for the last few hours. I have been! But thats because I havent had fuckers yelling at me every few seconds! So youre still not okay? I asked. He pondered his answer for a few seconds. Your question reveals a deep prejudice, nay hostility, against those who use drugs. You will never understand what it is like to be an oppressed minority in a nondrug-using society. Ah, shit, I said. What, my little cabbage? he asked, returning his attention to his puzzle. Im tired and want to go to bed. Then bring me a bourbon and soda and go, he said. Youre still fucked up, I said. No, I dont think so, he said. I was tres clumsy when I was on the Datura, and I dont seem to be having any trouble handling these little puzzle pieces. My perceptions are a little off but I dont seem to be having any trouble lining up the lines and colors on them. The yellows are a little intense but my reasoning appears to have returned to nonDatura levels. He fitted a small blue and white piece into a larger group of similar pieces that appeared to be one of the swirls in Van Goghs night sky, then suddenly wheeled back to me. Where did that dwarf come from? he asked. What dwarf? The bearded dwarf in the wheelchair. You said something about that, but I assumed it was the drugs, I said. He thought about that with a semi-dubious look on his face. No little person of any sort in a wheelchair? he asked. None. He frowned and thought a minute more. Did anyone small, or with a beard, come over to sing Free Bird? he asked.

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No. It was just you, me and Clarence until about eleven, then his mother and Ginny came by to pick him up I started. Fuck! Thats right! Clarence is missing! I never even noticed! Gack, what a terrible parent Id be! Did you just say gack? I asked. You and Mrs. W. use it all the time, he said, a little defensively. Is it some kind of personal code? he asked. No, no. You used it perfectly appropriately. Ive just never heard anyone but Mrs. W. use that word. You use it all the time. Really? Are you sure? I asked. Positive. Okay. So youre not going to go galloping out into the night to chase squirrels? I asked. No. He smiled and returned his attention to his puzzle. I am unaware of any species of nocturnal squirrels. He matched two puzzle pieces and looked back up. And there was nobody over here in a wheelchair, or with a beard? No. Weird, he said, looking back down. Why? Because it seems like the experience was all drug. Usually drug experiences are part drug, part reality. Each informing the other. (A), from my experience of you over the last ten months, I get a keen sense that drugs influence your reality experience, but no sense at all that reality influences your drug intake, and I began. Harsh, Stoney interjected. (B), the guy on the Poison Control hotline indicated that people die every year from this stuff, I sad.

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Who called Poison Control? I did, I answered. Whats the lethal dose? he asked. No way to know. Apparently all parts of the plant are toxic. Impossible to determine what amount will kill you. Next time you take a tiny nibble and I could be singing hymns at your funeral. What will you sing? he asked. Whatevers in the service. He nodded. Oh, well. Go on to bed. And dont worry, I wont run off and do anything fucked up. It was an interesting trip, but as Im coming down Im remembering it wasnt much fun. Did I at any point climb up a tree thinking I was a cat? Not that I could see. So it goes without saying that I didnt turn into a coyote. No, but you really, really sounded like one, I said. Thats reassuring. Go on to bed, but not before you bring me a bourbon and soda, he said. Why does your drug experience lead to me serving you bourbon and soda? I asked. Oh, it doesnt, not at all, he said. So why do I need to do it? I asked, confused. Because I want a drink, Im lazy, and Im interested in this puzzle, he said. Particularly the pieces with yellow. I got him a drink and went to bed. The next morning when I came down the whole house smelled like biscuits and coffee. Still-warm bacon was draining its excess grease onto newsprint on the counter next to the stove, and Stoney was reading the Sunday Chattanooga Times sports section, resplendent in his sunglasses, jeans, kelly green boxer shorts, and his purple bathrobe. Hi, bud, he said. Bacon biscuits and coffee comin up. Actually, coffees done. Help yourself.

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We had bacon and biscuits for breakfast. Hed made two-inch wide biscuits, which we split and buttered and turned into bacon sandwiches. Really good stuff. At the end I cleaned up, then wandered into the dining room. Stoney was sitting there staring at the blackboard where Mrs. W. had set out our six homework problems. The Starry Night puzzle was complete. These fuckers are hard, he said. They look hard, but its just new limits, and then dealing with convergences and limits that increase or decrease. It kind of builds from there. So if and I began talking him through my solution to the first problem. He stood at a blackboard and reasoned out each step without any help from me as to the calculations, although I suggested the process at each step. It took about three hours to work through the problems this way, although it had taken me two days to work through them by myself. It felt odd. I was almost Stoneys teacher, and Id always been his collaborator before. He didnt seem to notice. We were done by about one p.m. and Stoney made us bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches with some of the breakfast bacon. I went up and read the Novum Testamentum Graecae. About five I heard the front door open and came downstairs. I found Mrs. W in the dining room staring at the blackboards. Hello, Henry, she said, without looking at me. She was looking at the figure Stoney had drawn on the blackboard when he had been at his craziest the day before:

Underneath was written a formula: Area ACBA = distinctive handwriting. Damn, hes good, she said. What am I looking at? I asked.

r 2 ( sin ) in Stoneys 2 180

Stoneys given us an elegant new solution to the volume of a cylinder problem we started with at the beginning of the summer. Hes turned it upside down, for some reason, but the math is easy enough to apply to the other part of the circle. She then

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turned to the blackboards on which Stoney had worked out all of the homework problems. She looked back at me with a frown. What happened? Did you have something else to do? No, maam, I said. Honey, this is strange. Its not like you to let somebody else do all the work. What happened? Have you reached the end of your string? she asked, looking at me, worried. Hey, Mrs. W., said Stoney, walking into the room with what appeared to be a fresh gin and tonic which he immediately handed to Mrs. W. I think I heard most of that. Henry figured all of that out while I was messing around with Clarence, then he walked me through it yesterday. Its in my handwriting, but its all Henry. Another drink? Ive made a decent gazpacho and really, I think if we have some cheese and bread with that, well be good. Wine? Where is Clarence? she asked. His mother and Ginny came to puck him up yesterday. She said they would bring him back here Tuesday, if thats okay. She nodded. We had a fun night, but about a week later Mrs. W pulled me aside and said Henry, all of the upstairs closets have been re-organized. All of the fragrant objects in each closet have been gathered together. What happened? My sister said you and Stoney were acting really oddly when she came to pick up Clarence. Im sorry, but this makes no sense to me. Fragrant objects? Like what? Cedar blocks, lavender wands. An old box of Constant Comment tea. All kinds of stuff. But the closets have been tidied and everything aromatic gathered in one corner. I suspected this had to do with Stoneys canine impulses while he was on the Datura, but couldnt make sense of it. I tried to think it through but got nowhere. While I was at the bridge tournament, were the rules of the house violated? No, maam, I said. Not as I understand them. Nothing illegal took place. I was thinking this through. Henry? No, maam, not at all, but next time we do this Ill suggest a refinement to the rules. She thought, then she smiled. Fair enough.

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Chapter 33: June and July, 1974: a Level of Political Strangeness Not Re-Attained for 27 Years The rest of the summer passed without further household incident, albeit with an increasingly ominous aura of weirdness that seemed to me to be associated with the national news, although pure math can be pretty weird all on its own. Pure math organizes itself around concepts not rooted in anything related to physical reality. Most of what were doing in July was calculus, and most of the concepts of calculus have strong utility in figuring out real-world problems, but not all of them do and she didnt teach any of them as though they had to. I like physics and the problems that interest me most are always the parts of the real world that are difficult to explain, plus I think best by analogy, so my approach to problem-solving relies a lot on memory and pattern recognition. Problems and procedures that resemble things we see in the physical world or problems that resemble in some way ones that Ive worked on before are the ones Im going to be able to solve the fastest, but everybodys brain works differently. Mrs. Ws brain was pretty free-ranging, but she was still a physicist, no matter how good a mathematician she was. Stoney couldnt care less about physical reality, so even more than Mrs. W he had the ability to reason through from if A+B=C and C-G=Y then 2(AG+5)7-xd!equals a teacup-shaped torus. She was fast, though. Even when he caught her off-guard with some off-beat realization she always went with it and we always followed things to their logical conclusion. Weird as the math sometimes was, what was going on in the news that summer was utterly preposterous. President Nixon found ways to spend increasing amounts of time overseas, trying to look presidential with foreign dignitaries, as his lawyers wrangled in venues all over D.C. seeking to avoid variously impeachment, having to respond to testimonial subpoenas, Ehrlichman203 gaining access to his own notes to allow
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John D, Ehrlichman was President Nixons White House Counsel (until he was replaced by John Dean, who ratted Nixon out in every way he possibly could about Watergate and everything else he could think of) and later his Chief Domestic Policy Adviser. In that capacity he became part of President Nixons inner circle and so was among those, along with H.R. Haldeman, who were told of the Watergate break-in soon after it happened and so were part of the presidents attempts to distance himself from the fallout from the break-in, one of a number of utterly idiotic plots hatched by the White House Plumbers (they fix leaksget it?) a group over which President Nixon appears to have had little direct control but whose moronic operations he supported with money from a slush fund that would get him and all contributors to it arrested were such a thing to occur today. The relationship between Ehrlichman and Nixon was perhaps the most Shakespearian, or perhaps the most classically tragic, relationship of the morality play that was President Nixons second term. Like a hero from Sophocles, President Nixon suffered from a not unusual form of hubris that told him that he could weather any political storm as long as he occupied the White House. And like the eponymous Richard III of Shakespeares play, Nixon the man expected absolute loyalty of his subordinates but was willing to cut them off at the knees when it became expedient. Ehrlichman resigned to avoid embarrassing President Nixon with his own legal troubles, all of which sprung from serving Nixon in two important offices. As soon as he did so he found that Nixon would not cooperate with his (Ehrlichmans) lawyers in any way, not even to the extent of letting Ehrlichman look at his own notes to establish that he hadnt been present for several conversations in which the prosecution asserted hed heard about the Plumbers schemes. Not only was his president and former champion unwilling to assist in his defense, he was willing to block his access to Ehrlichmans own notes in a way that was certain to enhance the crimes with which Ehrlichman was charged and ultimately lengthen the sentence he to which he was sentenced. The Presidents lawyer, James St. Clair, insisted that to allow former employees access to any government records, even their own notes, was an unconscionable infringement on presidential autonomy.

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him to defendwhat? Obstruction of justice, maybe? Or to have administration members at all levels from clerical to cabinet secretary appear to defend graft charges in all sorts of cases. As the summer wound on the plots and problems reported on became more and more tangled and outspread and I just couldnt follow them all, but more seemed to pile up every day. It felt like not even CBS could keep up. But through it all Nixon kept traveling. In the weeks following his June trip to Egypt weeks he found his way to Syria, Belgium, and the Soviet Union.204 There was an otherworldliness to the disconnect between his diplomatic trips and his legal troubles. The theater of his presidency was one side of Alices looking glass, his legal troubles were the other.205 Every day there were headlines that would shock us today but just werent noticed in the Seventies: Soviet Said To Seize Jews as Nixon Visit Approaches; France and Iran Sign $4 Billion Accord, Shah To Receive 5 Nuclear Reactors; Women Ordained Episcopal Priests, Church Law Defied; Austrians Elect Socialist Again. The Israelis
The three branches of government are supposed to be co-equal, right? So neither Congress nor the courts should be able to order the president around. This position is defensible, of course, as a matter of constitutional law, but utterly indefensible as way to treat a friend, loyal henchman and former colleague. Poor Ehrlichman was convicted and sentenced and did several years in prison. I met him several years after he was released and it is to his credit that he was not a bitter man. He had the sad resignation of a someone who has had everything taken away from him due to his relationship with and loyalty to a powerful man who would not lift a finger to help him when he needed help. Such is politics. Mr. Ehrlichman was also convinced to a fare-thee-well that Ford had agreed to pardon Nixon in exchange for Nixons resignation. 204 The Soviet Union, or the U.S.S.R., for Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, was a communist country in 1974. So far as I know, the best working definition of Soviet is under the thumb of the Kremlin and the other words in the countrys name have their ordinary meaning. The U.S.S.R. was huge and enormously powerful and woefully poorly run. The Kremlin never ever got a hold on agriculture, and one of the things President Nixon was sometimes willing to do was to sell the Soviets enormous amounts of grain which was popular with American farmers because it drove the price of grain up but enormously unpopular with a group of people called with no trace of irony or approbation housewives because sale of American grain to the Soviets by the shipload caused the cost of Merita, Holsum and Wonder Bread to skyrocket. There were widespread protests. They were polite protests by todays standards, but still. It was an odd time. Any large-scale protests over the price of food in the last 40 years? How about the cost of anything else? Gas? Housing? In 2011, the only thing people protest about is the other political party. 205 If your only exposure to presidential impeachment procedure came during the Clinton administration you might be prone to make understandable but incorrect assumptions about how things worked in the Nixon Administration. Clinton lawyered up very quickly to defend himself from the various allegations, innuendoes, and threats that emanated in all directions from special prosecutor Kenneth Starr, an investigation that began with a second-rate real estate deal financed by a bank whose only branch was in a house trailer in a Little Rock parking lot and eventually extended to an Oval Office blow-job performed years after the whole Whitewater deal had cratered. Even so, you didnt see or hear from Clintons lawyers very much, and Clinton (a former Arkansas Attorney General, after all) appeared to be representing himself, at least in the public eye. He wasnt, it just seemed that way. And regardless of what was going on behind the scenes Clintons lawyers never appeared in Congress to argue with the House about the propriety of the Houses investigation into Clintons affairs or the articles of impeachment it was drawing up. Clinton had his political allies in Congress do all of that. Not so in the Nixon Administration. James St. Clair, the presidents lawyer in connection with the Watergate investigation and all of the various legal proceedings swirling around that, was also his lawyer and chief spokesperson in the impeachment proceedings, all of the corruption charges, all of the subpoenas by former staffers on trial for corruption or various sorts, and everything in every court, congressional committee, or Senate panel in which President Nixon was called upon to appear, provide information, explain himself, or answer questions. That summer, Mr. St. Clair may have been the most important legal advocate in history, before or since. He still lost.

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began a new policy of pre-emptive bombing against Palestinian guerillas.206 CIA Criticized Over Watergate. It turns out that the CIA knew more than it had disclosed about the break-in. But since the CIAs charter is limited to international operations and specifically excludes operations in the United States, why did it know anything about Watergate? Nobody even asked the question. Drug Flows Noted Despite New Laws. How many times have we heard that in the years since? VP Ford Hits Spectator In Head With Golf Ball In Celebrity Golf Tournament. What the Hell was the Vice President of the United States doing playing in a golf tournament under any circumstances, much less during a constitutional crisis? Greece managed to sponsor a military coup in Cypress, Turkey responded by invading Cypress,207 then a few days later the military junta that had ruled Greece for decades just stepped aside, much to the delight of the Greek citizenry, but it was all just a minor blip on the news horizon. The real story was all Nixon all the time. Nixon promised the ambassador to Jamaica a better job in exchange for a large donation. Nixon had manipulated IRS data to make George Wallace, governor of Alabama and a competitor for conservative presidential votes, look bad. Nixons people offered to drop enforcement actions against ITT in exchange for large campaign donations. Attorney General John Mitchell and Nixon Campaign Finance Chairman Maurice Stans were under indictment for offering to obstruct criminal proceedings against Robert Vesco208 in exchange for a $200,000 campaign donation. It was just amazing. There were also signs of changes to come: HEW Proposes New Rules Prohibiting Sex Discrimination In Education. Ironically209 this was a Republican administration proposing sweeping regulations to implement the 1972 amendment to the Civil Rights Act known as Title IX. No foot-dragging involved. As Republican presidents go, Nixon was a terrible conservative.210 You could also pinpoint the moment in time when some things changed. On June 17 a headline read Negro Heads Southern Presbyterians. Negro. On June 18 both White May Get Seat Zoned For Black and Blacks Return to South In Reverse Migration appeared. Negro no more. But always and constantly the noise continued of Nixons lawyers protesting that criminal proceedings against Nixons former staffers were providing Congress with impeachment fodder to which they were not constitutionally entitled. We I watched the news every night and all shook our heads for our various reasons. The others considered me a liberal, but everybody elses politics seemed to me to be up for grabs. One night after some startling revelationmaybe Ehrlichman was sentenced, or maybe the dairy farmers admitted to raising millions for Nixon so he would make the Department of Agriculture to fix the cost of milk at an advantageous pricestuff like that
206 207

Now theyre terrorists. Forty years later, the Turks are still there. 208 An international financier and fugitive from justice. Today wed call him a Ponzi schemer, but in 1974 nobody knew what a Ponzi scheme was. We started hearing about pyramid schemes in the mid-1970s, but nobody referred to Ponzi schemes until the early 1980s, apparently to distinguish investment scams from Amway-style sales scams, which are pyramid schemes but are not Ponzi schemes, no matter how similar their effects may be on the trusting. 209 Ironically in retrospect, anyway. The Republican Party was a different bunch back then. 210 Daniel Patrick Moynihan was one of his key domestic policy advisers.

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was on every nightMrs. W and Stoney were finishing off their drinks and Stoney was finishing preparing dinner. I just dont remember anything like this, Mrs. W said. Wed come down to the kitchen after the news. How so? I asked. It just seems like everything is corrupt at all levels of government. And its not just the White House. One of the senators on the Watergate Committee is supposed to be under investigation for some kind of corruption.211 Are you sure this is odd? Stoney asked. He was whisking together some chicken stock, light cream, and a little sour cream. Ive never seen anything like it, she said, lighting a cigarette. Its on the TV every night. But maybe thats the point, Stoney said. Clarence and I looked at him as though hed started speaking in tongues. We didnt expect him to take much interest in civic affairs as long as the Tigers were in last place. TV news is a different sort of thing, he said. And print journalists are publishing things they never did before. I wonder if the immediacy of TV isnt causing the print media to report on things theyve traditionally overlooked. Cool! Marshall McCluhan! said Clarence. Exactly, little buddy, said Stoney. Hed peeled and seeded a cucumber and was mincing it finely. What are you Castenadans talking about? I asked. Mrs. W, baffled already by Clarences comment, scowled at me as though Id just added an unwanted variable to her equation. Clarence is alluding to one of my favorite authors, said Stoney. He says, sort of, that the forms of media you rely on define in a way who you are. TV is kind of hot in that theres a constant flow, you dont slow down to take it at your own rate, you get caught up in it at its rate and you just drink it in. Newsprint used to be and to a certain point still is different. In the morning we all drink coffee and pass the paper around. And we talk about what we see and what we disagree with.

211

She refers to Senator Edward J. Gurney, Republican of Florida, who eventually resigned on July 24, 1974 to prepare for his trial on charges that he extorted money from real estate developers.

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Like whether it was cool that Billy Martin got ejected from two different games on the same day yesterday?212 asked Clarence, in that way snotty kids do of trying to get their grandmothers goat. Its never cool to break the rules, said Mrs. W. But Mr. Nixon may be president because he broke the rules, said Stoney. And according to my dad, part of the reason hes willing to break rules now is that he got totally screwed by Kennedy and Daley in 1960 and was determined that it would never happen to him again. Dont now the story, I said. The Mayor of Chicago was a crook and he rigged the election for Kennedy, said Clarence. We all looked at him with various levels of surprise. He did, said Clarence, defensively. Then, after a pause, I go to school. That was the rumor, anyway, said Mrs. W, lighting a Benson & Hedges. Howd it go? I asked. Chicagos always been a tough town, she said. Lots of mobsters. Old-style political bosses. The biggest of the big bosses, politically, anyway, was Mayor Richard Daley. Everybody knew he was a crook, but he was too smart and too powerful to get caught. You remember a few years ago at the Democratic convention in Chicago, the one where they nominated poor sweet Hubert Humphrey. Student protests broke out, and the Chicago police beat up a bunch of boys your age just for protesting. All that was Daleys doing. Chicagos a tough town. What were we protesting? I asked. Dont be snide, pal. I was there. It was brutal, said Stoney, whisking together all of the ingredients hed been dicing, tasting with a fingertip, then deciding it needed a little salt. Hed never mentioned being in Chicago before and I was chagrinned by my own glibness. Needs to sit a minute for the flavors to get out, he said. Potatoes need another ten minutes. So endive and lettuce salad with spicy walnut vinaigrette, cold cucumber dill soup, potatoes Diane and broiled grillades in about ten or fifteen minutes. Mrs. W, I have a Pouille-Fuisse chilled. Excellent! Id love a glass. What were you boys protesting in Chicago, though? Was it an anti-war thing? There were lots of pictures of kids getting beaten up on TV, but not much of an explanation of why they, I mean you, were there. Stoney retrieved a
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Clarence alludes to the fact that on July 14, 1972, Billy Martin, then manager of the Texas Rangers, became the first manager in Major League Baseball history to be ejected twice in one day by getting tossed from both games of a double header against the Brewers, which was then an American League team owned by Bud Selig. Selig was, even then, an asshole.

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bottle of wine from the freezer and opened it. It was frosted, and when he poured a glass for Mrs. W, it immediately frosted the outside of her wine glass. She smiled at it happily. My friends and I were in Chicago because some Princeton guys had told us all about how it was time for a change and it was high time the up-tight Establishment213 realized that a different generation was taking over. They said the Establishment was all poised to nominate Humphrey, whom we all considered a political hack, and we wanted Clean Gene.214

213

In the 1970s the Establishment referred to an ill-defined group of businessmen, politicians, military leaders, Wall Street types, and wielders of authority whom young people believed were oppressing us in variously vaguely-defined ways. We wanted enhanced freedom from the draft, from limitations on our ability to have sex and do drugs, to wander about freely with no means of support, to reject accepted norms of fashion, grooming, and manners. In the 1960s people demonstrated for basic civil rights. In the 1970s we sought an amorphous freedom from any restraint whatsoever. The Establishment was the amorphous but perceived-by-youth-to-be-powerful opposition to our aims. Rush Limbaugh speaks of liberals as being a well-organized machine bent on nationalizing the American economy and embracing European socialism. In the 1970s we liberal youth opposed the Establishment in the much same way that Rushs Ditto-heads oppose liberals: there wasnt a lot of basis in fact for what motivated us to hatred. 214 Gene McCarthy was, in 1968, the senior Senator from Minnesota. He lost the nomination after a bloody convention floor fight to a former senator from Minnesota, Vice President Hubert Humphrey. That two Minnesotans who knew each other well went hammer and tongs at the convention, thus dooming any chance of unifying the party in a fight against Nixon brings two quotes spring to mind: Casey Stengel said Doesnt anybody here know how to play this game? and Will Rogers said Im not a member of an organized political party. Im a Democrat. McCarthy had been very popular in the early primaries as the only anti-war Democrat challenging Johnson, the sitting president, whom everyone expected to run for a second term. McCarthys strong showing in New Hampshire (then, as now, early in the primary season) led Johnson to drop out of the race altogether. At that point both Bobby Kennedy and George McGovern entered the race (neither had been willing to run against a sitting president who was seeking re-election) and had he not been murdered by Sirhan-Sirhan, Bobby almost surely would have won the nomination. McCarthy resented all of this. Hed done the heavy lifting of getting Lyndon knocked out of the race early, then the pretty boys jumped in and looked good using the exact same anti-war message McCarthyd been peddling. McCarthys resentment made it hard for him to accept the fact that he didnt have a snowballs chance in Hell of winning a general election in 1972 or any other year. After Bobby got shot, for reasons that defy logic, his delegates started glomming on to George McGovern, who had a good heart but the oratorical gifts of your favorite aquarium fish and not one chance in ten thousand of winning any general election, as he demonstrated with alacrity four years later. McCarthys supporters were all true hearts, but their effort was doomed by Democratic Party rules. Under its nominating rules in 1968 most of the delegates were chosen by local party bosses and state party leaders. If a clear leader developed, as John Kennedy had in 1960 and as Lyndon Johnson naturally had as an incumbent in 1964, the party bosses were obligated to shovel their delegates onto the party favorite, even if (as had been the case with Democratic party leaders from Alabama and Mississippi in 1960) there were misgivings within the Southern party faithful about having a Papist lead a party that also included George Wallace, Strom Thurmond, Orville Faubus, Ross Barnett, and, well, you get the picture. So the Democratic Party rules were set up to reward a clear winner if there was one, and otherwise to pick somebody who might actually win. By the time of the Democratic convention in 1968 there was no clear winner. McCarthy had some delegates, McGovern had some, mainly as beneficiaries of Bobby defectors, and Hubert Humphrey had a few from having come in second, third, and fourth in primaries in which he had never stood a chance of actually winning. Nobody trusted McCarthy and McGovern wasnt a serious candidate in the eyes of the party establishment, so it threw its entire weight behind Hubert Humphrey, a good Democrat, a fine man, and an honorable politician, but a guy who entered the convention a distant third or maybe fourth, could never possibly have won in the primaries, and, as is so often the case with Democratic presidential candidates, a guy who

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Mrs. W frowned. As I recall it McCarthy was, what? strong in the early primaries but didnt get anywhere in the long run and was maybe more or less eliminated by the convention? Am I remembering right? she asked. I guess. Youre probly right. I really wasnt well-informed. I was stoned and I assumed everybody else knew what they were talking about. Theres no evidence they did, of course. But back to my thesis, or certainly a theme closely related to my thesis, he said, taking a sip of his drink, TV took over that event. From what Ive read and what my parents said when I got back, in 1954 the Chicago riots might have gotten a sentence or two in the Times: some unruly youths were arrested. But the TV cameras were all over it. It was awful, and the country had a front-row view. Hard not to be, I guess. People were getting beat up o n live TV. Like Ali/Frazier only with long-hairs. Amazing, said Mrs. W. Did you get hurt? No, none of the crew I wend down with got hurt, but we saw some people that were bleeding. But there was so much tear gas you couldnt stop for long to try to help, at least where I was. Im glad you didnt get hurt, Mrs. W. said. And you know, I wonder if the way the TV has taken over everybodys attention hasnt changed the way the newspapers work, too. All this interest in political corruption, in who is doing what to whom. Stoney and I looked at her speculatively. She seemed to be harkening back to an earlier time, one with which we might have no experience. Oh, and anyway, she said when she realized we were looking at her, the fact that its all so luridly interesting doesnt mean its not true, she said. She thought for a second. Oh, well. Regardless of what motivates all these reporters, theres more of this crap in the news than I ever remember, she said. Stoney turned back to his cutting board and scraped some more finely minced cucumber into his soupy white liquid, stirred it a bit, tasted it, then shook his head and started mincing some more dill and chives. Mrs. W was watching, as well. She looked at me with a quizzical expression, and I shrugged. We had no idea what he was making. I could smell the potatoes cooking in the oven.
wasnt likely to motivate the electorate too much (think about Carter, Clinton, Dukakis, Gore, and Kerry). McCarthy entered the convention hoping to mount an honest to God floor fight but it quickly became clear that the establishment had coalesced behind the trustworthy and well-known Humphrey. The college kids who had surrounded the convention center to express their support for McCarthy got wind of what was going on inside and started protesting, chanting a mix of pro-McCarthy and anti-war slogans. The Chicago Police Department, supposedly on Daleys instructions, decided these protests were an unseemly display of party fractiousness, and began trying to disperse the protesters. There were lots of protesters, more than the cops had anticipated, and they were not at all cooperative. The clash quickly escalated, with riot police and billy clubs making their presence known, and pretty soon the police were chasing groups of college kids all over town, knocking heads and making indiscriminate arrests. The most memorable film clip of the evening was probably a line of long-haired college kids, gamely trying to stay in place while being beaten absolutely senseless by the cops. The protesters chanted The whole worlds watching! The whole worlds watching! and indeed it was. The cameras caught it all. As is so often the case when police action seems to be the main source of violence at a social protest, Daley and the Chicago Police Department blamed outside agitators.

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My dad would call himself a Rockefeller215 Republican, said Stoney, turning to look at us. Which is to say he votes Republican except when Nixon is running. He hates Nixon. Anyway, what he would say about this is that everybody does it, Nixon just got caught. Hey! My dad says that too! said Clarence. Stoney lit a cigarette and gave Clarence a thumbs up. Clarence reached as though to take a cigarette for himself, casually, as though no one would notice. Your father is a Humphrey Democrat and a labor lawyer, Mrs. W said to Clarence. Get your hands away from the smokes. I thought he worked for the railroad, said Clarence. Moms always complaining about that. But where our fathers would agree, little buddy, said Stoney, seeming to talk to Clarence, is that this has always been going on. Powerful men have always been doing things to preserve their positions. And once they attain power they use it to insulate themselves from having to pay the piper. If youre the president, you call the FBI and tell them to stop looking at particular things as a favor to your friends. Or you tell an ITT if they give you a bunch of money they dont have to worry about some case. Then you call your attorney general and tell him the ITT case really isnt too interesting. Cool, said Clarence. Power corrupts. Mrs. W. stubbed out her cigarette and scowled at me. Did you guys rehearse this? I asked. No, maam, Stoney answered. This is like popular literature. You and Mrs. W read Beowulf and Greek and sh stuff. Clarence and I read like, stuff that everybody else reads. Like? I asked. Stoney shrugged. Rod McKuen. Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
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Nelson D. Rockefeller was a liberal Republican who was governor of New York from 1959 to 1973. He was an unsuccessful Republican presidential primary candidate in 1960, 1964, and 1968, and Vice President under Gerald Ford from 1974 to 1977. When Ford decided to run for president in 1976, facing a hard-charging primary challenge from the far right by Ronald Reagan (Reagan hadnt wanted to challenge Nixon as an incumbent but had always planned to run in 1976 when Nixon retired and thought hed be too old to run if he bided his time until Ford stepped aside voluntarily) he dumped Rockefeller in favor of Bob Dole in a misguided attempt to appeal to the Reaganauts, who were already beginning their plans to yank the rudder of the Republican Party hard to the right, a process that continues to this day. Nelson Rockefeller died at his desk in 1979. Died at his desk may give the wrong impression, though. He was having sex on his office desk with a younger staffer when he had a heart attack and died. She got dressed and called a friend for advice before she called the paramedics. Yet another reason to forego strange.

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I loved Jonathan Livingston Seagull! Clarence said. He got up and ran around the kitchen in small circles making noises like a fighter jet with his hands drawn to his sides like little fins or tiny wings, shouting Terminal velocity! Terminal velocity! Hey, Ill give you my copy of Watership Down, said Stoney. Its lots better if you read it sto No, wait. Never mind, I looked up at Mrs. W. She hadnt noticed. Already read it! Clarence said. I love rabbits. What does this have to do with Nixon? I asked. Mrs. W withdrew another Benson & Hedges from her cigarette case and looked expectantly at Stoney. Nothing, directly, said Stoney. Yes it does! said Clarence, gleefully. The books Stoney and I like are all about people, or rabbits, or seagulls overcoming adversity! Go on, said Stoney. Nixon is that adversity. Him and everybody like him, said Clarence. Cool! Stoney said. He and Clarence did a high-five that continued through several more elaborate steps. Now that has to be rehearsed, said Mrs. W. Well, yeah, sure, said Stoney. Lets eat. He ladled the soup into bowls in the kitchen then handed us each one. He plated his in the dining room then returned to the kitchen to get retrieve the Pouille-Fuisse for himself and Mrs. W. The soup, a cold cucumber-chive-dill cream soup, was delicious. I think we got diverted, said Stoney, halfway through the soup. The idea is that Nixon is just doing what everybody else has always done, but that changes in the way news is reported meant Nixon was just unlucky enough to get caught. Wrong place wrong time. But that doesnt make it right. Said Mrs. W. Stoney thought a minute. Look, Im a math guy, said Stoney. I see the world in mathematical concepts. Thats true for right and wrong. Rightness and wrongness are scalar quantities. Seeing anything thats 100% either way is rare. You Physics guys are always looking to describe an underlying reality. Im not sure thats realistic. Well, youre right about that, said Mrs. W. What? I asked, surprised.

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Time for the entre, said Stoney. He collected our soup bowls and returned to the kitchen. Ive tried to explain this to you before, Henry, she said. Each thing we do in Physics is just an approximation thats always subject to revision. The Mayans had an understanding of astronomy that wasnt based on any mathematical concepts youd recognize as math but they knew exactly when the equinoxes were, understood the solar year, and could predict both solar and lunar eclipses. Same with the Sumerians and Babylonians. Same with the Egyptians, although they started to introduce what look like mathematical calculations, although Im not sure how much of that is ancient Egyptian math and how much is inventive grad students. Ptolemys tables allowed anyone with basic math to calculate the positions of the moon and the known planets and 48 different constellations with ease. So? Clarence asked. Mrs. W looked at me. Well, Ptolemy believed the Sun orbited the earth, and had these weird explanations for the movements of the planets. The underlying premise was completely wrong, I said. Stoney brought in two plates of sizzling grillades with mushroom sauce and potatoes Diane. He put one down in front of Clarence and the other at his own place.216 Actually, thats hubris, she said, looking at Stoneys plate. Clarence knew he had to wait until everyone was served to eat, but he clearly liked what he saw. Maam? I asked. We have a different explanation now, one we all accept, but we may have another one tomorrow and another one after that. It may eventually turn out that the Earth is the center of the universe and all the other orbital mechanics fall into line with that in some elegant way. Theres just no way to know. You believe this? I asked. Of course, she said, as Stoney returned with four salad bowls. Forgot, he said. Go ahead Clarence. Dont wait on me. He placed one salad bowl in front of each of us and left. Clarence looked at Mrs. W. She shook her head. He couldnt eat until Stoney sat. Just because youre comfortable with what youve been taught doesnt make it the only possible way the earth can be. These models we live by, that make so much sense to us, they come and go all the time.
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By serving Mrs. W last, her food would be hotter when she ate.

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The Copernican model just seems to describe the universe so much better, I said. Stoney returned with plates of grillades and potatoes Diane for Mrs. W and me. He sat and picked up his napkin, then Mrs. W picked up her fork and we all started in. It was delicious. I started with the veal, which was tender and juicy and coated in just the right amount of savory sauce, and then tried the potatoes, which were rich and flavorful and lightly, but agreeably, salty. So where did conversation go? Stoney asked. Henry thinks our current model of the solar system must be correct because it matches the observable universe so well. Stoney shrugged and nodded and continued eating. I know you say that the others, did, too, but lots of rationalization was involved, I said. Like? Stoney asked. All those mini-cycles, whatever you call them, that explained retrograde movements of planets, I suggested. Epicycles, she said. Yes, they were complicated. But Copernicus model was just as hard to understand in its day. Theres not so much thats not understood. Not so many exotic explanations required. Not so many mysteries. Maybe not so many, but there are lots, said Stoney. Like? I asked. Why does Uranus rotate on its side? Mrs. W asked. All the other planets rotate more or less with their equators more or less in the orbital plane. Uranus is at ninety degrees to everything else. Why would that be? Isnt Pluto on a different orbital plane than the other planets? asked Clarence. Mrs. W and I looked at him as though hed spoken in fluent Latin. Indeed it is, little buddy! said Stoney. He raised his almost full wine glass to Clarence in a toast and drained it in a gulp. Plus its ellipse is much more off-center than the other planets. Well done. Im not sure thats a mystery, said Mrs. W.

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How so? asked Stoney. Drink up, he said, to Mrs. W, rising from his chair and pointing at her wine glass, which was mostly empty. She took a sip but didnt drain it. Stoney took her wine glass and his to the kitchen for refills. Plutos not really like the other planets in other ways, too, she called out, so Stoney could hear. It may not really be Stoney returned with the wine glasses and her voice dropped to a conversational tone again, what mothers of the day called an indoor voice to their shrieking toddlers. the same kind of planet as the rest of them. Clarence and Stoney looked at her quizzically. Its just outside of the Kuiper Belt, she said. Stoney nodded and resumed eating. The what? asked Clarence. The Kuiper Belt, said Mrs. W. Clarence looked at Stoney. You know the asteroid belt? asked Stoney. Sure, said Clarence. Between Mars and Saturn. Jupiter, said Stoney. Jupiters inside Saturn. The Kuiper belt is like the asteroid belt, only its outside Neptunes orbit. Its like the asteroid belt, left over from when the Solar System was formed. Asteroids are mostly nickel and iron. Metals, anyway. The Kuiper belt is mainly made of great big chunks of ice. Not just water ice, but all kinds of gasses and crap. Whats that got to do with Pluto? asked Clarence. I think Pluto was a big chunk from the Kuiper belt that got disturbed or hit somehow and ended up in an orbit around the sun, said Mrs. W. Plausible, said Stoney, nodding. Like a comet, said Clarence, staring into space, speculatively. Exactly, said Mrs. W, appreciatively. Stoney looked at Clarence with pride, as a parent might, chewing the last of his grillades, but Clarence didnt notice. Mrs. W looked at me. Henry, you look confused. I have this experience a lot, I said. What? she and Stoney asked together. Clarence managed to pile an enormous glob of potatoes on his forktheyd congealed a little as theyd cooled a littleand managed to fit the entire pile into his mouth. He smiled to himself with chipmunk cheeks as he undertook the delicate task of chewing and swallowing with his overfull mouth. Im in a place Ive been in a lot since I started college, I said, after a pause.

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Whats that? she asked. Stoney looked up with interest. Clarence was still trying to chew up his potatoes, but enjoying the process. Everybody around me seems to understand the topic under consideration better than I do, said. Rarely has it been brought home more forcefully than tonight. Stoney nodded and began on his salad. I had in mind the fact that over the course of the evening I was surprised to have heard several reasoned and erudite discourses from Clarence, heretofore the village idiot, but nobody noticed. You know, said Stoney, Next time Im doing yeast rolls and serving them hot with the salad as a second course then bringing the grillades and potatoes in at the end. Mrs. W raised her eyebrows and nodded agreeably. Clarence swallowed the last of his potatoes and smiled. Eat your salad, Clarence, said Mrs. W. Clarence frowned dubiously. Dont like salad, he said. Youll actually like it little buddy, said Stoney. I made it with you in mind. How? Clarence asked, mystified. You like walnuts, right? And you like spicy food, right? So this has walnuts and olive oil and red pepper in it. Its based on a salad they talk about in a Nero Wolfe book called Devils Rain dressing. Nero Wolfe? Cool! said Clarence. My grandmother used to give me Nero Wolfe books. Archie Goodwin is the coolest! he said and dug in. You know he hates green vegetables, said Mrs. W. No, he doesnt, said Stoney. I mean, no, maam, said Stoney. Sorry. Neither does Henry have this experience a lot. What? Mrs. W and I asked in unison. Henry said hes the most ill-informed person present a lot of the time. Or something like that. Its not true. Its just true in Math Club. Hes over-generalizing. Math Club is your Kepler/Brahe thing? she asked. Well, actually, no. Quoting you, Henry steered everyone away from the elegant observations of Brahe and the intricate calculations of Kepler. We ended up in Maxwell instead. Your suggestion as well?

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Not at first. I think I suggested the Lorentz Transformations first, she said. Yeah, well, that was fun, Stoney admitted. You wouldnt have been happy with Kepler, Stoney, she said. Thats arithmetic, not math. Endless addition and subtraction, over and over, for months. I didnt intend we should use Keplers methods, said Stoney. I wanted to use Brahes observations and apply modern calculus to Keplers ideas and see what we came up with. Hmmm, she said, speculatively. Do you know the Galilean transformation217? she asked. I dont think so, said Stoney. Only way I can think of to do it. Ill show you tomorrow. Had you figured out some way to do the calculus? she asked. No, maam, he answered, and shrugged. I figured wed figure something out. Ill show you tomorrow, she said. Where were we? Weve got a lot going on. Dessert? said Stoney. What do we have? she asked. Sugared blackberries in blackberry syrup on vanilla ice cream, said Stoney. Lord, yes, said Mrs. W. We didnt always have dessert. I had been with Stoney when hed bought the berries and assumed they were for breakfast. He retired to the kitchen, beckoning Clarence to come with him, and they returned a few minutes later with ramekins of vanilla ice cream with a dark purple sauce, slightly grainy and with lots of small blackberries. We ate without much conversation aside from appreciative noises. The portions were pretty small, but boy was it good. When we were finished Stoney and Clarence cleared the table. They returned a few minutes later, Stoney with an enormous beaker of brown liquid for himself and a thimble-sized cut crystal glass of a slightly darker liquid for Mrs. W. She took a tiny sip and smiled. What are you having? she asked Stoney.

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Two coordinate systems, S and S', in uniform relative motion:

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Brandy. Martell. She nodded. Feel free to try that Armagnac Gunner gave me. Not in that sized portion, but have yourself a taste, sometime. Its really extraordinary. Tank you, maam, said Stoney, and raised his glass to her. Soweve got the issue of whether Nixon is a different kind of crook or just the same kind of crook who was unlucky enough to get caught, we have the issue of whether the way news is delivered has changed its content more than the way its reported and whether that may have contributed to our perception of corruption in Washington, weve got fractious Democratic politics contributing to the rise of Republican political power Really? said Mrs. W, sipping her B&B and lighting a cigarette. Well, thats the way I see Chicago, anyway. Johnson withdraws, leading to a feeding frenzy among Democrats who dont or wont understand the nature of national politics, said Stoney. Clarence shrugged and nodded. Mrs. W gave a noncommittal nod. Fair enough, said Mrs. W. We have Henry thinking that Copernicus must be right and Ptolemy wrong because why, Henry? she asked. Ptolemy is so complicated. And the calculations are so much simpler. And they have to be more accurate. They just have to be. I cant prove it, but No, you cant, said Mrs. W. Weve got you wanting to take a crack at Brahe using modern calculus, although I cant see what youd do with all those observations without the Galilean transformation she said, to Stoney. Weve got Clarence eating a salad without coaxing or protest. Clarence looked up, shrugged, and nodded. If were going down that road, weve got Henry eating dessert, said Clarence. Usually he tells you over and over how he doesnt like dessert and you kind of coax him into it. I frowned at Clarence. True enough, said Stoney. Three weeks ago when the raspberries came in and we had raspberries and cream, I just decided to put them down in front of him to see what hed do and he just ate them up. Ever since, if we have dessert, I just serve him, and he eats it. You just kind of slipped that in? Mrs. W asked. Yeah, its such a struggle sometimes getting him to do what you know he wants to do. Youre aware Im sitting here, right? I asked.

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Yeah, yeah, sure, said Stoney, firing up a Winston. Mrs. W pushed the ashtray towards him so they could share. Sometimes I think Henry may be the least self-aware person I know, Stoney continued, speculatively. He always seems to know what hes looking at, and he has this way of understanding mathematical and physical properties and stuff like that really, really well, but if you ask him what he thinks or feels, he doesnt know. Thats true, said Clarence. Can he do stuff other than calculations? Stoney asked Mrs. W. He seems to be really good with literature, and he seems to have a knack for languages. He can speak several, and he seems to have picked up Greek in the last six or eight months. Really? asked Clarence. Cool. And then theres pool. And gambling, said Mrs. W. Well, thats just another attribute of the calculation deal, said Stoney. Even still, we have a lot going on. Politics, education, science, dessert, violence, television. So whats our unifying theme here? What connects between Nixon and Henrys dessert and everything in between? Well, Kuhn, of course, said Mrs. W. Ive recommended he read it, of course, said Stoney. Me, too, said Mrs. W. Kuhn? I asked. Yeah. He wrote The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, said Clarence. That this came from an obnoxious grammar schooler didnt seem to surprise anyone. Oh, for heavens sake. And where did you pick this up? I asked Clarence. Stoney and Mrs. W both took sips of their drinks, then drags off their cigarettes. Stoney loaned me his copy, he said. So what does Kuhn say? I asked the three of them. He says that science organizes itself around paradigms, he called them said Clarence. He pronounced paradigm so that you could hear the g. Theyre kind of, like, supported by teachers and colleges. All the teachers and colleges and stuff get, like,

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comfortable with what they know. The sun revolves around the earth, maybe. Or theres this stuff called ether thats like, maybe its like water. Like if you throw a rock into water, it ripples and makes waves on the surface. And since light is like a wave, then there must be a water-like deal its moving through, so they call that ether and everybody accepts it because it makes their theory make sense. And then all the teachers everywhere stick with the ether or the Earth revolves around the Sun or this weird deal about why food goes bad until some new idea comes along and sweeps all of that stuff away and its like everybodys blinders come off and all the teachers and everybody see the world in a whole new way. It makes more sense that the Earth revolves around the Sun. And theres no ether, lights moving through space in some weird way. Can somebody explain that? Clarence asked, looking up. How so, little buddy? asked Stoney. Whats this ether stuff? asked Clarence. Mrs. W stubbed out her cigarette and took a tiny little sip of B&B. Stoney took a massive gulp of brandy, draining his glass, then gave a little shudder, as though he could feel it moving down, but looked at Mrs. W expectantly. The luminous ther was part of a bad deduction, she said. We just didnt realize it. I was taught it in high school, and they still used it when I was in college, but you could tell the younger guys didnt like it. They used a lot of its as if analogy language and then didnt test us on it. But what was it? Clarence asked. Stoney took a puff from his cigarette and shot a smoke ring at the ceiling. I couldnt follow it. I expected him to get up to freshen his drink but he didnt. It was a bad analogy, she said, after a pause. If you measure any electromagnetic energy, it appears to oscillate, to vary in intensity at a regular, measureable way. If you describe that oscillation on graph paper, it would go up and down in a regular pattern, and it would look like a wave. Why does it do that? Clarence asked. She sighed. Hard to say. Theres a lot we dont know. Say you have a steady force. Like a magnet. And then you bring that magnet close to a copper wire. The magnetic force, and we dont really understand what a force isat least I dontbut the magnetic force will cause changes in the wire. Specifically, the electrons in the copper molecules will move around a little bit in the presence of the magnet. If you move the magnet back and forth, the interaction between the copper and the magnet will create something newthere will be something you know as electricity in the wire. Electricity is a form of energy. That electricity will oscillate, it will vary, in sync with the timing of the magnets proximity to the wire. With me? Yes maam, said Clarence and Stoney in unison.

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If you were to plot that electric energy on graph paper, it would look like a wave. Its not really a wave, but it looks like one on paper, and the same rules and equations that seemed to apply to sound waves and ripples on the surface of a pond seemed to apply to electromagnetic waves, at least in 1920. And it turns out that the same is true for waves all across the electromagnetic spectrum. You know that light waves and radio waves are just two different forms of the same thing? Yes, maam. And x-rays and gamma rays, said Clarence. Stoney shot him a thumbs up. All of them have that same traitthey all oscillate, vary in intensity. They arent all generated the same waylots of light is generated by heat, for example, theres no wire and no magnet, but even still light waves all oscillate and if you plot them on graph paper the oscillation is like a very regular wave. So lots of really smart people came to the conclusion that since they acted like waves in a lot of ways and looked like waves on graph paper, then electromagnetic energy must really be waves. And that got them to thinking. All of the waves they were aware of were moving through some other medium. You can make a mechanical wave on a string or a spring, you can make a wave on the surface of a liquid, waves move through air and other gases, and shock waves move through everything. So what are light waves moving through? Clarence frowned. They told us in science class that light moves through everything, said Clarence. Yes said Mrs. W drawing him out. Well, that includes empty space. Vacuums. Like, light gets all the way from Alpha Centauri to here every night, and its all vacuum almost all the way, said Clarence. Exactly, said Mrs. W. And nobody really thought about that. Maxwell had shown that light was an electromagnetic wave. They decided since it acted like a wave and graphed like a wave and all the wave math seemed to apply, that it really must be a wave. So if it was a wave, it must be moving through something, so what was it moving through? They all turned back to this silly idea that had been around since before Newton. They hypothesized that there was some as-yet-to-be-detected substance that permeated the universe kind of like an invisible matrix, and that light waves were disturbances passing through that matrix which they called the luminous ther, which, if you could see the way it was spelled, it would look even more old-fashioned than it sounds. But they deduced that it must be there, because waves had to move through something, so the theory said that it was there. Stoney and Clarence nodded. Did they experiment? I asked. Stoney and Clarence jumped, as though surprised I was still there.

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Excuse me, honey? Mrs. W said, taking a sip of her B&B. Did they conduct experiments to confirm the existence of the luminous ther? She brightened. Oh, God, yes. Constantly. Most of them were frustratingly inconclusive, but respectable people managed to interpret some of the experimental results as confirming the existence of the luminous ther. They were mostly idiots of grad students with blinders on, of course, but if youd been paying attention you could see people trying to think it through in a different way no matter what youd learned in high school. And if you took physics from somebody who spoke German, they always seemed to be one step ahead of everybody else. Sprechen Sie knnen Deutsch? said Stoney.218 Ja, Sprachen wir es in der Heimat, als ich ein Kind war, said Mrs. W. Natrlich, said Stoney. Clarence and I looked at each other, hoping this wasnt going to continue. So what happened to the ether? asked Clarence. It went away, she said. It was never there. It was just something that college professors thought up as a clever way to explain something they didnt really understand. And then they stopped talking about it as though it had never existed. Which it didnt, of course. Cool. Kuhn, said Clarence. Again with the Kuhn, I said. Henry, as far as I can tell everybody who knows you has been telling you to read this damned book, she said with some irritation. Its an easy read. If youd just give up reading the Bible in Greek and being proud of yourself for finding verses that disagree for just a few days youd have plenty of time to read Kuhns tiny little book. There was a pause. What makes you think Im looking for Bible verses that disagree? I asked. Thats just the kind of thing youd do, she said. Stoney nodded. That does sound like you, said Stoney. I got no opinion on this one, said Clarence.
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I have no idea what he said to her. I didnt speak German in 1974.

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So Kuhn explains why the ther went away? I asked. Sure, said Clarence. Not only that, but why it came up, if I followed. The professors at the colleges invented the ether because it fit with what they already knew. They knew what a wave was, and how it moved, so they made up an explanation for what light was that fit what they already knew. This made em all feel famous for being smart and lots of grad students had to suck up to em and do experiments to prove the whole ether deal. Then Einstein and maybe some other guys came along thirty years later and said no, there is no ether, light waves do this entirely different deal They propagate, said Mrs. W, to Clarence. His eyes lit up. I think he realized for the first time that he was sitting at the grown-up table. So light waves propagate, not through the ether, but through anything. Even through a vacuum. They require no Clarence started. They require no medium, said Mrs. W. Okay. No medium, said Clarence. So no need for ether. So what happens next little buddy? asked Stoney. To the ether? asked Clarence. No, to the academy, said Stoney. Clarence looked confused. To the university, Stoney went on. To the professors and the teachers. Oh! Clarence brightened. Okay, so when Einstein and his buds came up with this completely new explanation for how light worked, Kuhn would call that a paradigm shift. Its like maybe like everybody put on a new pair of glasses, or something. They just saw things in a different way. He still pronounced the g in paradigm. So? Mrs. W led him on. Okay, Clarence started, So, like, all the old guys that taught ether would have been put out to pasture. None of them changed their minds, they all woulda thought there was still ether, but nobody woulda listened to em any more. And all the good jobs woulda gone to the Einstein guys, cause they now had the coolest paradigm. You could still hear the g. And so they got all the dough for experiments and grad students and stuff. And everybody woulda written the ether out of textbooks and stopped teaching it to high school and college kids, because of the new paradigm. Again with the g. So how would you describe this paradigm (no g) shift in just a few sentences? asked Mrs. W. Clarence frowned and thought.

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So everybody in the academy? he looked at Stoney, who nodded proudly, gets set on one way of seeing things. And that becomes, like, accepted, and thats, like, the way everybody teaches it. And everybody agrees that its the, like, right way to look at things. But, like, over time, little things dont add up, and the experiments, like, dont have the kinds of results that, like, prove the story. Then, all of a sudden, a new theory comes along that does a better job of explaining everything. And, um, more of the experiments make sense and stuff. And so everybody, all of a sudden, grabs on to this new story, and all of a sudden, theres a new kind of accepted theory. And it, like, stays in the books, and all of the teachers teach it, until eventually some other explanation comes along and knocks that one out of the box. Um, then that same deal happens over and over. One theory after another. Whatevers accepted now is gonna be replaced by another one some day. Clarence, frowning, wasnt sure he was done. He thought a minute, then nodded. Wish this was an open book test, he said. Im sure Im leaving out all kinds of important sh. stuff. Stoney gave him a proud thumbs up. Mrs. W? asked Stoney. He nailed it, she said. Stoney leapt to his feet excitedly. Woo-hoo! Stoney cried, and made to high-five Clarence. Clarence frowned unhappily. For Christs sake, Stoney. It was a just a book report. And I didnt get graded, said Clarence. Mrs. W laughed and drained the last few drops of her B&B. Just as you say, said Stoney. Refill time, he said, taking his glass and Mrs. Ws into the kitchen. Henry, you really need to read this book, said Mrs. W. Yes maam. It will explain why your math professors dont like you, she said. Really? I asked. How? What Clarence just described is the operation of the academy. Its members agree on a received truth and they all accept it until a better one comes along. You, on the other hand, dont accept anything, except conditionally. Youre always looking for whats wrong. Your eye is always focused on the pieces that dont fit. Okay, I said. Yeah, I can so completely see that, said Clarence. Far out.

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Stoney returned with a new B&B for Mrs. W and a glass of ice and a Coke for Clarence. For himself, he had exchanged his Old Fashioned glass of brandy for a water glass full. Mrs. W noticed his portion size but didnt say anything. She sipped her B&B and lit another smoke. So Nixon or TV? Stoney asked. I read Kuhn that night and the next night. Good book. To reconstruct, Mrs. W, Stoney and Clarence all thought, to varying degrees, that the 1970s had seen paradigm shifts in our approach as consumers and interpreters of media, the medias approach to reporting, my approach to dessert, Nixons approach to getting elected, Clarences approach to salad, and politicians approaches to politics. May you live in interesting times.

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Chapter 34 In what seemed like just a few days the summer was over. Nixon had resigned, tears in his eyes, and flown off to San Clemente. Does this mean we can get rid of Amtrak? I asked Mrs. W. She smiled and blew smoke out of her recently lipsticked lips. Probably not, Henry, she said. Gerald Ford, about whom most of us knew only that he had an interesting wife, a pretty daughter, and a hound of a son, became president. The summers mathematics, like its politics, had gotten less and less rooted in reality, but the math was a lot of fun. Then all of a sudden the summer was over and we were loading up Stoneys car. Like everything else that feels like it should last forever, it didnt. Oddly, there was lots less stuff to put in the car on the way back than there had been on the way down. Partly this was because Stoney had given his piranha and both aquaria to Clarence, a gift that did not seem to please Clarences mother, and partly because, being sober, or at least not stoned, Stoney had managed to organize his clothes into two suitcases and a box. Why this should take up less space than the other configuration was not immediately obvious to me. Clarence was watching glumly as we packed the car and Stoney was promising to visit and write letters. I dont get it, I said. What dont you get, Henry? asked Mrs. W. Why Stoneys stuff takes up so much less space than it did three months ago. Because its organized, she said, lighting a Benson & Hedges. So? I said. Its the same mass. Yes, but its organized, she said. I made him wash it all, and because hes got a pretty buttoned-down brain, he folded it all so it wouldnt wrinkle and put it away. Its all in neat stacks. A lesson you could pick up, a little, she said. I keep my stuff clean and neat, I said, surprised and a little defensive. Yes, you do but you dont really own much stuff, so you dont need to organize it particularly well to fit it in a suitcase. This is, well, partly, anyway, because your wardrobe may be just a little bit limited.

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Really? How so? Well, you really dont own much that you couldnt wear to change the oil in your car. Eventually youre going to need slacks and blazers and real shirts and ties and stuff, but you dont really need it now because of the way you kids are dressing. Stoney has some of that kind of stuff, although he generally wears it in non-traditional ways. He also folds his tee shirts and jeans in a pleasingly ordered way. Lets get back to the other issue, I said. She cocked an eyebrow at me but smiled. Why is it that a mass thats organized occupies less space than a mass thats less organized? Im not sure I even know what organized means in this context. In my defense, I was aware that, outside of Mrs. Ws presence, Stoney was an unpredictable if engaging hellion who might do anything at any moment and so I was having trouble with her characterization of his brain as buttoned down, but I still think I had a point. Okay, she said. Imagine the Sunday paper. Got it, I said. Will it fit into that box next to the car? There was a smallish box next to the left rear wheel of Stoneys car. It had an image of a moving van in orange and book box in black letters. Sure, I said. How much of the volume of the box would you say would be occupied by the Sunday paper? I dunno. Less than ten percent. Maybe less than five. Youre imagining the paper flat, as its delivered, as youd find it in the driveway if you were ever up early enough to go get it, she said, taking a drag and tapping her cigarette ash into the azaleas. Yes, maam, I said, with a quizzical expression. Imagine yourself sitting in a chair with that box at your feet, taking every sheet of that Sunday paper, wadding it up into a ball and tossing it into that box. Would the entire paper fit into the box, my sweet brilliant chump? No, maam, I guess not. Youre going to run into this over and over again. Disorganized things take up more space than organized things, and make it harder to tell whats going on. You can wad up paper to cushion your glassware when you move but it makes it harder to see

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whats in the box. The same principle applies to Stoneys tee shirts, to transport of crops and fuel by rail, to legal briefs, to politicians speeches and to your money. Which is doing fine, buy the way. But somebody who doesnt know what he thinks will take twice as long to express himself as someone who does. Free molecules bouncing around as a gas take up many orders of magnitude more volume than those same molecules bound into a liquid or a solid. The atoms in a diamond take up less volume than the same atoms lying around as soot. Okay. If you organize yourself, you will occupy much less time and space. Youll waste less. Okay, I said. I had no idea what she meant, but she was almost always right. You have no idea what Im talking about, do you? she asked. Stoney was handing Clarence a card with his college address and phone number written on it. No, maam. She lit a new cigarette and watched Stoney take down Clarences address, on a dollar bill, which he folded and placed in his billfold somewhere other than the bill compartment. You find Clarence irritating, she said. Yes, maam. Doesnt everyone? No. Stoney doesnt, at all. I do, but not like you do. What youre reacting to is the fact that he just gloms on to the last thing he heard as the best thing the world has ever come up with. I thought about that for a few seconds. Well, he does that, for sure, I said. Thats the adolescent intellectual version of the Sunday paper fitting into the cardboard box, she said. All those ideas rattling around like that with no intellect sorting through them they take up so much space. But hell settle down. Stoney sees that and connects to it. Youre out there on your own. I wasnt sure what to make of this. Im sorry, I began. Oh, heavens, nothing for you to apologize for, she said. I was just trying to give you a frame of reference. I like you, so I guess I I talk to you like I talk to myself. But did you notice that when Stoney organized Clarences thoughts for him, when he told Clarence he was playing with puzzles he was doing math at four to five years above grade level? And the last few crosswords were mostly in German. I wondered what they were talking about, I said.

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Stoneys brain is organized like a mathematicians but he still has something big to work out, I think. But inside here she tapped her temple, hes sorted through a lot already. And you dont think I have? I didnt say that, exactly, but I think you changed from being a hustler to being a student in a very short period of time, and youre trying to deal with school like it was a series of pool sharksyoure sizing things up all the time. It works, but I dont think you think much about what you feel. Thats where most people start in this day and age, and if it feels good they give themselves permission to go ahead. On the one hand, I find your resistance to the hedonism of the day refreshing, on the other hand, you may be missing something. I was a little taken aback. Oh, dont worry about it. I just like you, so I worry about you. Thanks, I said. Stoney and Clarence returned to the front porch. From somewhere in Stoneys possessions hed produced two martial arts-style belts. Stoney was wearing a red one and Clarence was wearing a black one, both neatly tied. Well, chief, I think its time to hit the dusty trail, said Stoney, probably to me, but he was wearing his dark aviator shades and I couldnt see where he was looking. You boys come back any time. Together or as unbonded ions, said Mrs.W. Stoney gave her a hug. Both of them had cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, but somehow nothing caught fire. She held out her arms to hug me, something wed never done before, but it would have been more awkward not to than to do so, so I hugged her back. I will admit I was worried about the cigarette close to my ear. Stoney and Clarence were involved in a lengthy, multi-step handshake. See ya, little buddy, he said. Later, Clarence, I said. He waved to us, but seemed too choked up to talk. We walked to the car without saying much. I had the keys. It looked like we were going to get to Nashville by lunchtime. Ill drive, said Stoney. How much have you had to drink? I asked. Nothing, said Stoney, a little indignantly. I gave him a few seconds to think. Well, I sweetened my coffee with a little brandy. Each cup, I said.

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Well, yeah, but thats not much. And then I guess when I was packing there was so little Cuervo in the bottle it seemed dumb to pack it so I drained that and threw the bottle away. Just to save space. And arent you going to want to have a drink on the way? I asked. He looked at his wristwatch. Yeah, I guess so, he said. He shrugged and got into the passenger seat. We waved and pulled out of the driveway. Mrs. W looked proud but sad, Clarence looked heartbroken. Clarence really likes you, I said, as we pulled away. Yeah, well, hes smart, but the other kids dont like him and he hasnt connected with his teachers. They think hes a problem and he doesnt get any of the gifted kid attention. Hell settle down this year and get better grades in a few subjects and teachers will start to notice how smart he is. In math? I asked. Math may be kind of dull for him for a few years. Hes good with literature, too. He reads faster than you think. I told him how to game literature classes. His teachers are going to love it. How do you game a literature class? I asked. You look for a symbolic subtext in everything you read, from the stupidest, which I would say is Shirley Jackson, based on my high school literature reading, to the most sophisticated, which is Shakespeare. If an author force-feeds the symbolism, like maybe T.S. Eliot, you just make like you think hes a genius and not plodding and pedantic and over-wrought. Gack. Literatures easy. You just have to know what the teachers looking for. We were about to pull onto the freeway. There was a long acceleration ramp. There, about halfway up, was Ed Bork, with his right thumb out in the recognized gesture, a miniature American flag stapled to a quarter-inch dowel in his left hand, and a large aluminumframed Boy Scout backpack at his feet. Of course I stopped. Stoney rolled down his window. Howdy stranger, he said. Want a drink? Ed smiled in a tolerantly Christian way. Hello, Stoney. Hello Henry, he waved at me. No, but if youre heading north, Id like a ride, if its not too much trouble.

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We are. No trouble, I called out to be heard over a truck passing us. Hop in. He picked up his backpack, which seemed to be heavy, Stoney opened his door and folded down his seat to let Ed in, and Ed wrestled his pack into place on the back seat then climbed in and sat next to it. Stoney returned to his seat, closed his door, then scooted his seat up a few inches to give Ed more room. Thanks guys, I really appreciate this, Ed said. Where you headed? asked Stoney. I presumed he was not asking me. He lit a Winston.219 Not sure. North, though, said Ed. I merged onto I-24 and nobody said anything for a while. So are you on a sabbatical? Stoney asked. There was a pause. I couldnt quite see Ed in the rear view mirror. Whats a sabbatical, exactly? Ed asked. A hiatus? Stoney suggested. Sorry. Dont know hiatus, either, Ed said. He shifted slightly in his seat and I could see most of his face in the rear view mirror some of the time. He had a kind of glum expression. He hadnt shaved for a week or so and had a kind of flamenco goatee growing in, with very sparse whiskering on the rest of his cheeks and jaw. A vacation? asked Stoney, tapping his cigarette ash into the Volvos front seat ashtray. Im sorry, said Ed. Are you asking me if Im on vacation? he asked Stoney. He was confused, not irritated. Well, sorta, said Stoney. You were all strong on the Vine Road Jesus Community last time I talked to you, he said. Yeah, sure, said Ed. And so are you still? There was a really long pause. More than a minute. No, Ive left the Vine Street Christian Community. For now. I couldnt see him in the rear view mirror. The seconds ticked by. I dont think I fit in there, he said. Another long pause. We were well past Moccasin Bend before he said anything more. Stoney had turned sideways in the passenger seat so he could look at Ed, and was tapping
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In 1972 people thought it was okay to light up a smoke in a confined space when non-smokers were present. Of course, smokers were a higher percentage of the population then, and it was Stoneys car, but still.

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his cigarette ashes into the Volvos ashtray. I really liked all the positive energy. All the teamwork, Ed said, eventually. There was another long pause. We were almost into Georgia. I was raised by my grandmother. Shes Catholic. They were always telling me what to do. I didnt like it. Gramma could get me to school and church and all, but I was a lot of trouble. I got into witchcraft mainly to piss her off, I think. It was mean. I shouldnt have done it. But once you get into it, witchcraft actually makes a lot of sense. There arent many other witches in Chattanooga, so its not like we were going to start a revolution or something. Most of the people wholl tell you theyre witches are big girls who like wearing capes. But Gramma made me go through parochial school and put me in Notre Dame High and I was going to church and all but then one of the nuns heard I was doing witchcraft and they threw me out. So I showed up at City High in the middle of junior year. Not a good way to start. I wondered about that, I said. Jack and Joe showed up from Baylor, and some other guys from McCallie, and the rumor was they all got thrown out for drugs. Sorry, but I assumed that was your story too. Oh no need for an apology. I did do a lot of drugs. Especially after Gramma died. She died? Oh, jeez, thats awful, said Stoney. What happened? She pissed me off so I cast a spell on her, said Ed. What? She really was a pain in the as, said Ed. Wait. So you killed her? asked Stoney. Depends on who you believe, Ed said. Ill confess, and have confessed to Jesus and anybody else who will listen that I cast a spell on her and meant to do her harm. I feel kind of bad about that now, but a man can only take so much nagging. I cant fucking believe you killed your grandmother! said Stoney. So you believe in witchcraft? asked Ed. No. Not at all, said Stoney. All I did was cast a spell on her. She had a heart attack all by herself. I was off with a girl in Mentone at the time. But to believe I killed her you have to believe in witchcraft and you just said you didnt. I need drugs for this, Stoney said. There was another long pause. Minutes.

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Whyd you leave Vine Street? I asked. You know, when I first started talking to them they were all so full of good will and cheerfulness. They were all working so hard. They all had this message about how I needed to open myself to the Gospel. When I was growing up there was this deal where the church hierarchy told you what to believe and how to experience your religion through all these different rituals and things you were supposed to do. But here were these people who were telling me to interact directly with the Word of God. It was exhilarating. Exciting. No barrier between me and God. A religion based on personal experience. My conversion. Personal revelation. If God is revealing Himself to each of us through His gospel, then I am partaking of God directly from God. What could be better than that? he said. So you cast a spell asking demons to kill your grandmother? asked Stoney. Something like that, Ed answered. But the idea of directly connecting to the living God was almost, like, intoxicating. You cant imagine what its like to feel directly tapped into the omnipotent force at the center of the universe. I feel that all the time, said Stoney. Im usually pretty fucked up at the time, of course. So what happened? I asked. Didnt anyone ever tell you its impolite to quiz people about their religion? Stoney asked. Hed reached around to rummage through a box in the back seat and returned with a quart bottle of Jack Daniels. Any coffee? he asked. Theres a Thermos in the back seat, I said. Ed handed it up. Stoney uncapped the Jack Daniels and was about to pour some straight into the Thermos. Wait, I said. I want a cup. Stoney shrugged and was about to pour me a cup into the cup-shaped plastic cap when Ed leaned forward with a larger yellow enameled cup. Wow, said Stoney. Whered you find this? It was on the seat, Ed said. It was my great-grandmothers, Stoney said. Theres some kind of pioneer story that goes with it. Not a Conestoga wagon but that same kind of shit. My mom was mad as hell when I lost it. He peered at it like a pawnbroker looking at a gold-plated wedding band. Looks pretty clean, Henry. Okay? I handed him my handkerchief. Wipe it out for me if you dont mind, I said. He sighed deeply.

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Talk about a fussy asshole, said Stoney, but he polished it up. How do we know this handkerchief is any cleaner than my great-grandmothers cup? That handkerchief has been riding around in those jeans right next to your ass for God knows how long. Im just gambling that its cleaner than the shoes of everyone whos sat in the back seat of your car since you lost it, I said. He poured me a cup of gratifyingly hot coffee and topped off the Thermos with whiskey. He replaced the stopper briefly to shake the jug, then proceeded to sip straight from the jug. So where were we? Stoney asked. I think you were telling Henry that it was impolite to ask me about my religion, said Ed. Oh, right. What were you thinking? Stoney said to me, crossly. Were you raised in a barn? What did you ask, anyway? asked Stoney after a pause. I have no idea, I said. We were passing the exit where the Highway Patrol office was, where I got my first drivers license. I took a sip of coffee. It was cooling fast in the metal cup. What did he ask? Stoney asked Ed. I think the question was So what happened? which I think was his way of asking me why Id left the Vine Street Christian Community. Oh, okay, said Stoney, taking a slurp from his Thermos. He thought for a minute. Okay, so what happened? I guess the problem is that I thought I was getting into this because of the personal revelation thing. If you think about it, what Jesus tells us to do is to buy into the whole Christian trip personally. We have to personally accept Jesus Christ as our lord and savior. I really like the personal revelation deal. I found the whole idea that God had chosen to reveal Himself to me personally very appealing. Okay said Stoney. I know it seems funny, but when I was a little kid my mother sang this song to me and here he sang: Jesus loves the little children All the little children of the world Red and yellow, black and white Theyre all equal in His sight Jesus loves the little children of the world. Stoney looked at me quizzically.

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People sang this song in your youth? he asked me. Yeah, sure, I said. In Tennessee? All over. Tennessee, Georgia, Mississippi, Florida. I dont remember California well enough to say. Sorry for interrupting, said Stoney. So as a kid you liked the idea that Jesus loved you. Yes, very much. I also liked the idea that Jesus was nice. Makes sense. But what started to worry me abut Vine Street Christian Community was that they didnt seem to want me to be personally experiencing Jesus at all. Usually when I did they told me I was going off in the wrong direction. It was like they wanted me to have this personal conversion experience, but they wanted me to have it in the way they wanted me to have it. It was weird. There was this thing we did like every week, or maybe it was every few days. It was hard to tell. I was working like eighty hours a week at the Yellow Deli and then when I was back at the house I wanted to sleep a lot, but generally we had a lot of Community stuff to do, and one of those was this thing called Critical Mass. Theyd get us all in this room and wed talk about how we thought the others in the group were performing. When they explained it to me they said the idea was to encourage each other to be good Christians, but really what they were talking about was whether you were a good member of their particular little group. Whether you were working hard enough at the deli, putting enough hours in. One girl got in trouble because she didnt move all of her inheritance into the Communitys hands. It was weird, some of the time. You didnt like it that they were grasping? Stoney asked. Grasping? asked Ed. Trying to take away your possessions, he said, taking a gulp from his Thermos. Oh, no. I had nothing. What did I care? What I didnt like was that I wasnt supposed to be asking questions. I was just supposed to accept the Word of God as they delivered it to me. See, what Id liked was that God was showing Himself to me, this whole one-on-one trip, but what they were telling me was that I shouldnt rely on the personal part of it so much once Id connected with them, that it was far more important that I do what they told me to do than to think for myself. Or even to point out problems.

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Once in Critical Mass they were explaining where the name had come from and they said theyd borrowed the term mass from the Catholics, which they said was a ceremony where the participants did a soul-searching examination of themselves, or something like that. I raised my hand and said thats not exactly what mass was and I didnt even get to say why before I wash shushed and told that it was unseemly for me to be questioning Community teachings that way. So far as I can tell, they dont have a lot of Catholics in the Community. I may have been the first. I seemed to be the only one around that day. To be stifled that way must be very frustrating, Stoney said. My grandmother was lots worse. But the deal was that they didnt want me to think much. Which seemed to me to mess with the whole personal revelation thing. Once in one of those meetings somebody asked me why I was so worried about being taught, rather than just figuring it out for myself. They were saying that the Bible was all perfect and everything. And the only thing I could think of to say was that when I was in high school everybodyd told me Shakespeare was this genius good writer, and Mrs. McCrary and Mrs. Johnson made us memorize all these verses and stuff. But I bet if you sat down and you tried you could pick and choose lines from Julius Caesar and Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth220 and then stitch them together to tell a completely different story that didnt have anything to do with any of those plays. Sure, said Stoney. Add Othello, too. Whats Othello? asked Ed. The Moor of Venice, said Stoney. Whats that? asked Ed. Never mind. So you think you could put lines from Shakespeare together to make a different play? asked Stoney. Sure. Anybody could, if he had some time. But the Community people didnt like me saying that. They said that I didnt have to worry about somebody stitching together Bible verses into a different story than Jesus meant because our leaders were so tight with Jesus that there was no way theyd make that kind of mistake. I had to trust them, to have faith that we were on the right path. Ed didnt say anything for the next few minutes. I finished my coffee and placed Stoneys great-grandmothers cup on the console between the two front seats. Stoney drank down some more of his coffee. Judging from the angle of the Thermos as he drank, he was getting towards halfway through with the jug. Isnt that what everybody thinks? asked Ed. Whats that? asked Stoney.

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Why isnt it MacBeth, anyway? Ive got some cousins named McBeth, for that matter.

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That you should trust their particular leaders, their particular interpretation of the scriptures. Dont all religions think theyve come up with the One True Way? Pretty much, I said. Maybe except for the Unitarians, Stoney said. They seem to think that even they are wrong. Yeah, so, I was looking for personal revelation, and I got shoe-horned into being told what to do and what to think. It was my grandmother and her priest with no costume. I have to take my personal conversion experience the way some other guy tells me to. And he seems to be a guy that doesnt show up for Critical Mass that much. Im taking somebody elses word for the fact that he really knows what hes talking about and God has chosen him as His messenger. Thats the same as the Pope and all that Catholic bullshit. That wasnt what I was going for. Once youve done nine hits of Purple Haze and fucked a majorette youre looking for an intense kind of religious experiencegoing straight for the mind of God. I understand completely. I think. Majorette? asked Stoney. Being fed Jesus in spoonfuls and told to toe the line isnt the kind of personal experience I was looking for, anyway, said Ed. I still want to find a group that lets me personally experience Jesus. Thats what Paul talked about. Not in the pastoral letters, I said. Stoney looked at me in frustration. Henry, what in the fuck are you talking about? Hes right, said Ed. What? asked Stoney. St. Paul has a lot of letters that go in a different direction. Its almost as though somebody else wrote Timothy. And Second Thessalonians. They just dont tell the same story as most of the books, Ed said. And whats up with Hebrews? I asked. Shut the fuck up, Henry. What were you saying, Ed? And dont forget to explain about the majorette. I was getting to what I liked about St. Paul was that hed been one kind of person then he had this conversion experience on the road to somewhere Damascus, I said. Stoney frowned at me. I aimed the car at a mile marker and he made an apologetic gesture.

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Damascus, right. So what I wanted was to have the scales fall from my eyes and then have this intense personal relationship with Jesus. One on one. Personal conversion. But instead, I had this extreme born-again experience then all these people started telling me what to do. Not Jesus. All these other people. And if I read the Bible and had questions, they all told me to shut up and listen. Not what I was looking for. What was the deal with the majorette? asked Stoney. Jessica. Long blonde hair. She was very sweet, Ed said. Youre saying you had sex with Jessica Chester? I asked. On acid. Yeah. It was intense, said Ed. Details? asked Stoney. No. That would be bad. That would be reveling in sinfulness, said Ed. Damn. I mean, wow. So about the witchcraft deal? asked Stoney. Howd that work? Its hard, Ed said. There arent many practitioners in Chattanooga. Or even in all of Tennessee, as far as I could tell. I bought some books, and there were some books on Magick in the library, but it was hard to put together. A lot of the books are pretty stupid, and Aleister Crowley is all about himself. One of the problems with Magick is that theres not really a Bible. Im not sure it really matters, though, because the Bible is all about Jesus and Paul, and in Magick theres not really a Jesus or a Paul. Theres not a story about people that led to this wonderful ritual that we do every Sunday, like there is with Christianity. Anyway, Magick and witchcraft have all this elaborate ritual, but no explanation of what its about. You say this thing and then drink blood and then fuck this girl on the altar. But why would that make demons want to do anything? Fucking? Demons? asked Stoney. Yeah, maybe, said Ed. Nobody really talks about what a spirit might be, though, or why it is that a high school kid and some naked cheerleaders might be able to make it want to do something. Say I chant something in a language I dont understand. Is there some reason that would make a spirit wake up and do what I wanted it to do? At the end of the day, it didnt make a lot of sense. Did you say naked cheerleaders? asked Stoney. Its not like you understand what youre doing with witchcraft. Even if you find a really thorough book, alls it tells you is what incantation to say and what youre supposed to do in the ritual. It doesnt explain why any of this stuff works. Crowley is

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big on adding sex to everything, and thats always fun, but why should getting laid make your spell more likely to come true? He says it releases some kind of energy that you can learn to harness, but it doesnt really make much sense. So what kind of spells did you cast? Stoney asked. Oh, all kinds of stuff. To pass my history test. To fix the radiator on Grammas car. I told you about Grammas heart attack. To have some money in time for my date with Allison. To have Abbie fall in love with me. You know, just stuff. Abbie who? I asked. Stoney frowned at me but drained his Thermos. Abbie Norman, he said. Abbie Norman the cheerleader? I asked. Yeah, sure. Shes very sweet. Cheerleaders seemed to be very susceptible to the dark arts. Christ on a crutch, said Stoney. Dont take the Lords name in vain, please, said Ed. I dont remember hearing anybody talk about you dating Abbie Norman, I said. We had to hide it from her parents, Ed said. Because you were a witch? asked Stoney. No Ed answered. Because you killed your grandmother? asked Stoney. No Ed said. Why, then? asked Stoney. Because I was a Catholic, Ed said. Oh, for Christs sake, said Stoney. Did you cast a spell on Mrs. Wertheimer? I asked. No. You know, I meant to, but before I got to it Abbie took me to a Campus Crusade for Christ meeting and I got saved. Besides, isnt Mrs. Wertheimer still up and around?

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Waitwhy did you get saved? You were a witch, I said. He thought for a minute before answering. Honestly? he asked. Sure, said Stoney. Abbie got saved first and told me she was going to cut me off if I didnt accept Jesus as my personal savior. I was kind of going through the motions that first few days, then I met somebody from Vine Street. Once school ended I wasnt sure where I was going to live. They sold Grammas house. The Vine Street guys took me in. And like I said, they just had this happy enthusiasm about the whole Jesus deal. Plus, Abbie got all worried about not repenting the lusts of the flesh so I got cut off anyway. Is it more comfortable being a Christian than a Satanist? Stoney asked. I was never a Satanist, for Gods sake. Anton LaVey is a gibbering idiot and incapable of telling the truth, Ed said. Stoney and I looked at each other and shrugged. Besides, nobody would worship Satan. Thats just dumb. But what I like about Christianity, or what I thought I liked about it, seems a little harder to find than I thought. But all that casting spells and incantations and stuff, you were okay with all of that black cat kind of stuff? Stoney asked. I dont know why people get so hung up on that. I would get together with some friends and cast a spell that would help a girl do good on her SATs. Or to make it rain the night of the Hi-Y Clubs outdoor party. Or to make it snow in April when I didnt have my term paper ready. Catholics are always praying for specific things. If Im not mistaken, the Vine Street guys were praying for something bad to happen to Pastor Ben Hayden because he was preaching against them. I dont understand how it is that Christians praying for God to intervene in current events in some really, really specific way is any different than me asking some different kind of spirit to do the same thing after a different kind of ritual. Did all that stuff happen? Stoney asked me. I remember it snowed in April one year, I said. I dont know about the rest of it. Why the Hi-Ys? I asked. They were a bunch of jocks. All jerks. Plus Abbie used to date the president and he was mean to her. Ed, I said, How do we know youre not making this all up? Is there any way to objectively verify any of what youre telling us?

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Have I ever lied to you Henry? How would I know? Its not nice to accuse someone of dishonesty, Henry. Especially when you have no reason to believe hes not telling the truth. I could see his face in the mirror again and he looked hurt. I mean no offense, I said. But some of this is pretty wild. Kids talk about whos dating who all the time and I never heard anybody say you were going out with Abbie or Jessica. I didnt really date Jessie, he said. That was kind of a one-weekend fling. But I never heard about any of this, I said. Henry, you werent really the most socially connected guy, he said. Plus I found Jesus and everything. Renounced my sinful ways. So? Lying would be sinful. Ive moved on from Vine Street, but that doesnt mean Im a sinner like you and Stoney. Yeah, right. Still, I dont have a lot of ways to connect any of what youre saying with things Ive seen with my own eyes. Well, if youre ever close to Abbie, she has a little birth mark in the small of her back shaped like a little mitten, he said. He seemed to sigh wistfully. Ah, shit, said Stoney. Like Michigan? No, the other way, he answered. Thumb on the left. We got off the freeway at the Nashville exit. We left Ed there to thumb further north. He strapped on his backpack and took out his little American flag. He waved and smiled. Thanks again, guys, he said, and walked for the light. No, I have no idea how much of what he said was true. When Stoney got out of the car to let Ed out, I noticed that he was still wearing his red martial arts belt

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Chapter 35: In which the checkers are returned to the checkerboard for college The next day Stoney and I went to the Math building to talk to Dr. Ladd about the courses wed chosen. Neither of us had taken any of the prerequisites for anything we wanted to take. Our suite was four bedrooms in a row with a bathroom in the middle. The fourroom suite had been originally designed to be shared by two people who used the inner rooms as sitting room and the outer rooms as bedrooms, but not now. I had the outside room at one end, by agreement with Cisco, and Stoney had the outside room at the other, by luck of the draw. I swung by Stoneys room just after lunch and he still wasnt awake. When I knocked and came in he woke up with his sunglasses on and even in his own room managed to convey a sense of confusion as to where he was. He lit a cigarette and mixed a Bloody Mary before he would let me talk. He had a larger refrigerator than most dorm residents and it had a large freezer compartment with a ten pound bag of ice inside. Were supposed to meet with Ladd at two to get approval on our registration cards, I said. Is there coffee? he asked. No. Get cleaned up. Youre so abrupt, Henry, he said, but trudged off to the bathroom, drink and cigarette in hand. Because he was in the bathroom, I had to go back out into the hall and unlock the door to Ciscos room to get back to my own. Stoney showed up at my room about twenty minutes later showered and shaved but clad in a red tee shirt with a Chinese character on the front and a portrait of Mao Tse Tung221 on the back, faded jeans held up by some kind of knotted macram sash and rubber flip-flops like you buy at the beach. How do I look? he asked. You need a haircut, I said. Im letting my freak flag fly. Lets go. No. Go put on a real shirt and some shoes and find a belt, I said. Youre not going to a hipster pride parade, we need permission. God almighty what a fucking Nazi, he said, but he returned to his room and returned wearing an Alligator shirt, a belt, and Weejuns. Id never seen him wear penny loafers before.
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For some reason theyve changed his name to Mao Zedong in the years since.

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It was only a block or so to the building where the math profs had their offices. Once we got there we passed a door marked Faculty Break Room and without saying anything Stoney veered off, opened the door, strolled in to the faculty break room, waved blithely to the middle-aged men conversing inside, poured himself a large Styrofoam cup of coffee, gave the professors a Boy Scout salute, and left, closing the door behind him. He stopped in the hall to take a few sips of his coffee. Okay. Lets do this, he said, coffee in hand. Ladd was expecting us. Gentlemen! he said, smiling but without asking us to sit down. So how did you spend your summer? Stoney slurped his coffee. Mainly on differentiation and integration, but with lots of analytical methodology thrown in, I said. She said to tell you wed covered everything in the Nehari book and went beyond it, although we didnt go into all the engineering applications with fluids and fields. In three dimensions or two? he asked. Mainly in two, although sometimes that was a two-dimensional mapping of a three-dimensional problem, I said. The what book? Stoney asked. The Nehari book, I said. What the fuck are you talking about? asked Stoney. We didnt use any fucking books. Dr. Ladd pulled a green volume off of a shelf behind him and handed it to Stoney. Stoney put his coffee down on Ladds desk and took the book with a skeptical expression. The Nehari book, said Dr. Ladd, frowning at Stoneys coffee. It was quite popular in the sixties, when I was getting my undergraduate degree from Carnegie, where Dr. Nehari was a professor. Stoney flipped through it, nodding equivocally. He took a sip of his coffee and put the cup back on the professors desk. Ladd frowned at it again, and again Stoney didnt notice. That book provided the material for a two-year course that I completed as a senior. It was considered quite rigorous. And you gentlemen claim to have learned all of it in one summer. Yes, sir, but in fairness, you were taking lots of other courses, and we were studying just math. All day every day, I answered.

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This is the right shit, man, said Stoney. He took out his cigarettes absently and made like he was going to shake one out as he leafed through the book. I took the pack away from him and put it in my own pocket. He looked at me, surprised, then realized I was not letting him light up because it would be rude. He nodded and looked back at the book, taking another sip of coffee. Remember this fucker? he said to me, pointing. Took all day. Oh, yeah. Heres your old buddy Poisson. Thats us, man, he said to Dr. Ladd and handed him back the book. Ladd flipped towards the back and stood as if to write something on the blackboard, then decided better of it and sat back down. He shook his head. What do you boys want to take? he asked resignedly. Differential Geometry? I asked. He nodded. That would be a logical next step. He looked out the window and thought. Thats a very hard course, he said. You will be the only underclassmen in it. Im a junior, said Stoney. Even you, a junior, have not taken the prerequisites. It is all but impossible to do so at this university before your senior year. Some of your classmates will be graduate students. Im perfectly okay with that, Stoney said. Mr. Ladd said, looking at Stoney. Jackson. But you can call me Stoney. Mr. Jackson it is extremely important that you do well in this course. I know you have made good grades thus far, but if you fail to do so in this instance I will not approve any further prerequisite waivers for you. Do you understand? Yeah. Sure. Totally. Thats cool. Sir. And you? he said, looking at me. Yes, sir. There are a lot of students who would like to skip prerequisites. I can justify it in your cases because you appear to be unusually good mathematicians and unusually well prepared. But if you fail to produce good marks in this course not only do your own academic records suffer, but I look bad for letting you leapfrog over other, arguably more qualified students. I dont care if you look bad, but I care very much if I look bad. Understood?

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Yes, sir, I said. Yeah. Sure. Cool, said Stoney. Sir. Dr. Ladd held out his hand for our registration cards and filled them out with the course number and scribbled his initials in the approval column. He returned our registration cards and gave each of us one of his business cards. Good luck, and tell the registrar to call me if she has any questions. Thank you, sir, I said. Yeah. Thanks, bud, said Stoney, giving a smile and a kind of abbreviated earhigh Black Power closed fist salute that Id never seen him use before. We turned to leave and Stoney opened the door. Oh, Mr. Baida, he said. I turned. Youre interested in physics, no? Yes, sir. Assistant Professor Wolffe, whom you gentlemen know, has gotten interested in knot theory, which no ones studied in any depth for a several decades. Hes begun to speculate about a new approach to physics in which particles are analyzed as strings. He doesnt have anyone to discuss it with. An iconoclast like you might understand what hes talking about. None of us in the Math department can really follow it. Like strings, you said? I asked. Yes. Its the damndest thing. He seems to tinker a lot with dimensions, too. I dont really get it, but hes all excited about it. Strings like strings of variables? I asked. No, like thread, or yarn, or rope. Ill drop by his office and say hi, I said. What do you think of the idea? Ladd asked You know, hard to say at first blush. Doesnt sound promising to me but I havent talked to him. Thanks. Ill tell him youre coming, said Ladd. Good afternoon. And with that we left. I gave Stoney his Winstons back as soon as we closed the door behind us and he immediately fired one up. He also took a large gulp of his coffee, some of which dribbled down his chin.

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Well, that was relatively painless, he said. Memorial? Lets go. We walked the few blocks to Memorial Gymnasium, where registration was taking place. What are you taking? I asked, on the way. He handed me his registration card. In addition to analytical geometry, Stoney was taking a matrix theory class that did not interest me in the least, advanced macroeconomics, a German literature course, and a very specific-sounding European history course. I was planning to take second year Greek, an introductory quantum mechanics course, nonlinear dynamics and an English course on Shakespeare. Whats your minor? I asked. Economics, if theyll let me not take any of the business administration bullshit, but so far the answer on that is no, otherwise German. You? Dont know. Im a double major so far, but I think I still need a minor. Greek, maybe. As we walked through the doors of the gym we were immediately greeted by Toni and Rob. Ah, shit. Henry. Finally. What are you taking? demanded Toni. She was wearing a very small tank top, cutoff jeans, and lace-up tennis shoes. Her hair was tied back under a navy blue bandanna. She was getting lots of looks from male passers-by to which she was oblivious. Rob was in khakis, a button-down shirt and running shoes and could have been a frat boy. Why do you care what Im taking? I asked. Because Rob and I have to take the same courses, she answered. Ah, shit. You cant take second-year Greek or Analytic Geometry, I said. And since when are you interested in Shakespeare? No, she means the physics courses, Rob said. Maybe Im not taking any physics courses, I said. I really had no interest in another year of sitting between the two of them. Henry, even if you dont tell me Im going to find out and were going to transfer in. My aunt Angie works in the Provosts office, she said. Is her last name Cuneware, by any chance? she asked. You know her? asked Toni. Weve met. I sighed. No escape. Okay. Im taking quantum mechanics and nonlinear dynamics, I said.

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Cool, said Rob. We guessed the quantum mechanics but not nonlinear dynamics, she said. Thank you Henry. She smiled and they walked off to stand in their appropriate enrollment lines. Stoney watched passively and finished his coffee. Who were they? asked Stoney. Rob and Toni. What did you think? Nice knockers, said Stoney. We stood in our respective lines. When I got to the front of the line, I handed the assistant registrar my card and she made all of the appropriate marks on all of the appropriate pieces of paper. She filled out a schedule for me and handed it to me with a smile, expecting me to move along. Can I ask a question? I asked. Sure. So Im taking the right number of courses, right? Sure. Youre on course to graduate in four years for sure, she said. But I could take more courses if I wanted to? Sure! Nothing but your schedule limiting your courses, she said. So if I wanted to take another course, theres nothing to say I cant? No, not at all. Youre a full-time student. You pay your tuition, you can take as many courses as you can fit in! she seemed happy to pass along this news. So will the course on advanced optics and electromagnetism schedule for me? I asked. Sure! Let me check! She flipped through her schedule cards and smiled, then frowned. Okay. So. It will schedule for you, but its limited to Physics majors, she said with a frown. Im a Physics major, I said. Really? As s sophomore? she asked, and flipped through some cards again. So you are! You want to take that course?

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Yeah, sure, I said. Sounds great. You know, you keep this up, youre going to graduate early, she said, filling out the papers to enroll me in the course. What? I asked. Well, youll get your credit hours early. You know. Wont get your four years of college, she said, smiling. You can graduate early? I asked. Sure, she said. You dont have to go four years, she said. As soon as you have 120 hours and 120 points, you can graduate. How do I get points? I asked. Well, if you get a C average or better, the points kind of take care of themselves. So if I double up on my courses I get out early? I asked. Sure! she said. But then you dont get to have your full four years of college. Do you really want to do that? Is there any other Math course I can fit into my schedule? I asked. She made a finny expression and looked at her catalogue of courses. She scowled for a few minutes, shook her head a few times, then looked at me speculatively. Theres this advanced statistics course, she said. Eight a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Any prerequisites? I asked. No. But that may be an oversight. Have you taken some basic statistics deal? she asked. Not really. But its just numbers, I said. So youre on some kind of math trip? she asked. Not really. I just get along with math really, really well, I said. Sure. Okay. Like, I was a psych major because I really liked Oakley Rays Drugs and Human Behavior class and really got so much out of it but then I took Cal

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Izzards seminar on the expression of emotions and it was all this looking at Russian actors and stuff and I was so totally out of my depth so I dropped the course and still graduated on time, she said. Sure, I said. So what Im getting at is that since youre taking like this enormous shitload of courses anyway if you get into this advanced stats deal and realize that just maybe you shoulda taken the basic sophomore level statistics course first then you drop it dont worry cause youre still like making progress to your degree. And you can drop pretty late. Heres my phone number. My work one, too, she said. I can help you drop it if you realize youre in like over your head. And theres like no shame in that because youre really biting off a lot here. Are you really just a sophomore? Yeah, sure, I said. You can see by my card. Sure. But you seem so confident and grown up. I look at these kids all day. Well, thanks. So Im signed up for the statistics course and the optics one too? I asked. Sure. Just call me at this number, or one of these numbers, if you want to drop one, she said, and smiled. Thanks, Miss I started. Julie, she said. Miss Julie. She smiled again and I left. Stoney was waiting by the door. What were you doing back there? he asked, with a complaining tone. That took forever. I signed up for some extra courses, I said. Cool, he answered. We walked back to the dorm room. So who were those guys again? he asked, halfway home. Which guys? I asked. The physics people. The girl in the Converse low-tops. I looked at him blankly. The boy had a good haircut and was in all Brooks Brothers except for the Adidas shoes. I need better clues, I said.

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She had big tits. Oh. Toni, I said. And him? Hes Rob. Shes crazy and he puts up with it because shes a nymphomaniac. I see. And you never noticed the way she looks? Stoney asked. Yeah, well, shes okay. Shes not Melissa pretty, but I can see where people find her attractive. And that whole buxom, tiny tank top, high-cut shorts, long shiny hair, free spirit in a come-fuck-me way of hers doesnt appeal to you? Stoney, shes barking mad. Since when did that get in the way of a red-blooded American boys sexual impulses? How about mad as a hatter? Mad as a March hare? You know nothing of March hares, Henry. And youre ignoring the larger point to immerse yourself in details, as is your wont. As is sometimes your wont, I guess. Crazy as a bedbug? You know nothing of bedbugs, either. Think of Rob. Did he ever strike you as queer? Stoney asked. Queer funny? Queer strange? I asked Queer gay, he said. I dont really think about that kind of thing a lot. What he thinks and does is his business and none of mine. Plus, Im not good at thinking through that kind of speculation. No one is. Thats why we all do it. Mother Nature made it fun to think about what other people are thinking. Otherwise wed never do it and wed have killed each other off back in the Rift Valley, he said. Yeah well they both act like theyre pretty engaged, sexually speaking. If Robs gay hes doing a pretty good straight imitation to her and to us, isnt he? Wed reached the front of our dorm, almost the exact spot where Rachel had kissed me one

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night freshman year. Stoney paused, and we stopped walking for a minute and he looked at me speculatively. You never know whats going on in another persons head, Henry. He can look like hes completely one thing and then he turns out to be something else completely. No matter what you think you know about somebody, you never really know whats going on in his head. So you can never really be surprised if he does something unexpected. At least I would never be surprised if anybody did something surprising. Are we still talking about Toni and Rob? I asked. Of course. You said it never occurred to you that Rob might be a swordswallower? No, not at all. Hes fucking Toni morning, noon and night, I said. Even though he has that precious haircut and those precious Brooks Brothers shirts and slacks, so carefully ironed in his dorm room? Stoney asked. How do you know where he ironed them? Those were definitely not professionally laundered. So he had to have an ironing board and an iron in his dorm room, Stoney said. So? Where do you keep your ironing board, Henry? I dont have one, I admitted. Neither does anybody else you know. Lets go! he walked into the dorm. He had his keys out as we approached our doors so we went in through his end of the suite. Milton was listening to rock music at high volume and smoke was thick in the air as though there had been a marijuana forest fire. Come to papa, said Stoney to Miltons joint, and Milton handed it to him. Later, I said, as Stoney took a deep toke. Dinner later? he croaked. I nodded. I got back to my own dorm room but didnt have a lot to do. I wasnt reading a novel, schoolwork was a few days off, I hadnt bought my books, and I hadnt bought a newspaper. I sat down at my desk. There was a sheet of graph paper sitting in front of me and I started to idly fill in a checkerboard.

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

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which may not look like much, but its an interesting way to look at what happens at complex margins that result form consistent application of simple rules. If youre thinking as youre drawing, you begin to think that areas of irregularity tend to isolate themselves from each other, sealing themselves off. There was a knock at the door. It was open, so Cisco walked in nonchalantly. Yo, he said, in greeting. Whats that? he asked, looking over my shoulder at my graph paper. It may be a representation of whats going on in small regions of the universe where the laws of physics dont apply uniformly, I said, cautiously. I dont always get a good reaction when I talk about this stuff. Or a randomly ordered checkerboard. Cool. Dinner? he asked. Sure. I shrugged. I got up to follow him out. We cut through the bathroom to Milton and Stoneys side of the suite. They were listening to Journey to the Center of the Mind by the Amboy Dukes at ear piercing volume. Dinner? shouted Cisco. What? they shouted back. Do. You. Want. Dinner? he shouted. What? Cisco bent over the turntable and lifted the tone arm from the vinyl. Hungry? he asked in the silence. Whoa. Man. That was like, so, kind of, assertive, said Stoney. Action-oriented. Awe-inspiring, like. Cool, said Milton. Do you gentlemen want dinner? Cisco asked. Oh, God, yes! Milton said. Im fucking starving, he said, as though making a discovery. Yeah. Wow. Yeah. Sure. Food, said Stoney. I opened the door, Cisco turned off the turntable, and we left. And youre saying he wasnt high when he did that? Milton asked, as we left. Yeah, yeah. He claims he doesnt do drugs at all, said Stoney.

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But the album cover has like pipes and things all over it. Hundreds of different pipes, said Milton, bleary-eyed. Fuck! Youre right. Maybe its just extremely effective marketing. You know. To, like, make the album222 more attractive to guys like us. Or maybe hes a complete stoner who lied in the interview, said Milton. I dont know, man. Youre accusing a fellow longhair of being a liar. Doesnt that break some tribal rule? Stoney asked. No, no. Im a philosophy major, said Milton. Im still going with Ted, said Stoney. Lets put it to a vote, said Milton. He looked at Cisco, who pitched the butt of his Marlboro. Gotta go with Milton on this one, said Cisco. Milton looked at me, Looking at the odds, chances of a lead guitarist in a famous rock band whos never smoked reefer have to be pretty small, I said. So youre going with Milton, too? Stoney asked me. Afraid so. How could you do this to me? I thought you loved me, Stoney said. I do. Deeply. Yet you have betrayed me. How can I ever learn to trust you again? Stoney asked. Wed reached the dining hall and Cisco held the door open for us. We crossed the hall to stand in the far line, which always seemed to be shorter. Maybe the freshmen didnt know. We fell into line behind two slender girls wearing skirts (one madras, one denim) and cotton shirts. The skirts were tight through the bottom and Milton was captivated by the view. So your Dodgers are still in the hunt, said Stoney, morosely.
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In 1974 there were two kinds of records, both of which were pressed on vinyl and played on a turntable: 45s and LPs. 45s were smallish disks that had two songs, one on each side, the A side had what the studio hoped would be the hit and the B side had something they were confident wouldnt be. They were played at 45 revolutions per minute and were monaural, meaning not stereo. A 45 had 90 to 120 seconds of music per side. LP stood for long playing, because in contrast to 45s or the earlier 78s they had lots of musicoften fifteen minutes per side. LPs played at 33 revolutions and claimed to be high fidelity, meaning high audio quality, played on the right equipment. In 1974 all LPs were stereo, and American college students universally referred to LPs as albums.

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Theyre looking good, I said. Pittsburghs tough, though. You have a team? he asked Cisco. Braves, Cisco answered. You? he looked at Milton. I tend not to identify with sports teams too much. It seems too totemic. I think. Milton began. The girl in the madras skirt turned around when she heard Ciscos voice. Frankie! she said, excitedly. Cisco smiled. Hello, June, he said. She kind of leapt towards him to give him a big hug. Hello Milton began, extending his hand to June. Muffy! Look who it is, June said to her denim-skirted companion, who interrupted her animated conversation with someone in front of her in line to turn around, then squealed with delight when she saw Cisco. Frankie! she exclaimed, and gave him a hug. Each of madras skirt and denim skirt took one of his arms and they turned away from us, not intentionally, but to talk amongst old friends. Milton made as if to tap one of the girls on the shoulder. Uncool, said Stoney, stopping him in his tracks. After wed all selected our dinners and paid for them in the odd scrip that was meal points, the three of us sat at a table for four. Cisco and the two pretty girls had gone elsewhere. I am never going to get laid, said Milton, morosely. We all ate our dinners in silence for several minutes. I had a piece of ground beef that was labeled chopped steak, a salad, and some green beans. How does he do it? Who, Cisco? asked Stoney. Of course, Cisco. Who did you think I was talking about? Reggie Jackson? Yeah. So despite your pontificating youre an As fan? Stoney asked. Sure. Theyre still in the hunt, too, said Stoney. I know. Stay on point, said Milton.

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Whats the point? asked Stoney. Why girls are always circling around Cisco. Oh, yeah. Well, like, there are, like, some differences between us and him that, like, girls might notice, said Stoney. Anything important? asked Milton. Yeah, like, well, he sorta shaves everyday. Hes got, like a haircut. And his clothes are clean. He wears khakis and shit. Girls dont care about that kind of stuff, said Milton. What do they care about? Stoney asked. Dick size. Henry, does Cisco have a big dick? Milton asked. They tell me size doesnt matter, said Stoney. Henry? Milton asked me. Couldnt tell ya I said, a little worried about having this kind of discussion in the campus dining hall. Oh, for heavens sake, Henry, said Milton. You know, Cisco and I dont hang around much. And we dont really hang out at all naked, I said. I dont know why you have to be so difficult about this, said Milton. Look. Id like to say that college was sitting at the feet of masters absorbing knowledge, but really, most of college was like this. It occurred to me that the Milton checkerboard might be the one causing the discontinuities, but for that matter, the Henry checkerboard could be, too.

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Chapter 36: A Road Trip and a Football Game Later on in the semester, getting on towards Thanksgiving, one Saturday just before lunch I was trudging towards home in the cold. It was raining, I had not brought either an umbrella or a hat, and I was all the way across campus from my dorm. I was cold and wet and in a fairly dark mood. I had gone to the library to get a copy of Art of Rhetoric by Aristotle in Greek, but all copies were checked out. A yellow AMC223 Gremlin screeched to a halt next to me. Hop in! Toni called out, opening the passenger door. I got in, thinking she was offering me a ride home, but then she did a u-turn across West End to zoom to take me away from my dorm. She zoomed a few blocks away from my dorm and slammed on the brakes screeched to a halt in front of Macks,224 a diner Id frequented before. Henry Baida, time for you to buy me lunch, she said, emphatically. I followed her in. She was wearing tight Levis, a yellow plastic waist-length hooded raincoat, like the top part of the throwaway rain suit tugboat deckhands wear, and preposterously tall black satin high heels. She trotted through the rain to the front door as easily as if she were wearing sneakers. There wasnt a hostess, so we sat at a table near the window. Nobody seemed to be paying attention on a rainy Saturday until Toni took off her yellow slicker, revealing a red, white and blue tube top that was barely decent and attracted the attention of everyone in Macks. The two waitresses, idling near the swing door into the kitchen, whispered to each other about her briefly before one of them came over to see what we wanted. The waitress was a Baptist-looking woman in her forties and didnt fit into her uniform. Id never been around Toni alone before. It was weird. She ordered a bottle of Schlitz and I asked for ice water. She looked at me intently after the waitress left. So are you interested in me? she asked. Sexually, I mean. Excuse me? I asked. Do you want me? she asked. I had to think. In the most general sense, I understand that youre extremely attractive. Several guys I know have said that youre gorgeous and they would love to have sex with you. But not you? she asked. No, not me, I said. So its true what they say, that youre gay?

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American Motors Company. It used to be a big car manufacturer, like Ford and GM. The sign out front said Macks Fine Foods and Fresh Vegetables Daily.

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Not so far as I am aware, I said. Then why dont you want to fuck me? she asked. Everybody wants to fuck me. Im not sure what to do when they dont I just dont, I said. But why? Because youre crazy, I said. At this point the waitress came back to take our food order. Toni ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and fries and I got a chefs salad with Italian dressing. No, Im not, she said. Youre not what? Im not crazy, she said. Let me rephrase that, I said. Okay, she said. She smiled and perched her chin on her hands in that way girls do. Because youre stark raving mad, I said. No, Im not. She frowned a little girl frown, lower lip stuck out. Yes you are. Youre not a psychiatrist, Henry. I have moderate obsessive-compulsive disorder with a tendency towards hoarding behavior. No biggie. Whatever you have, its severe, not moderate, I said. Youre overreacting. You and Rob made me sit between you every class my first year, and youre pretty much doing the same thing this year, I said. Oh, dont read too much into that, she said. I dont. But you said you thought I was crazy, she said.

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I do. Thats reading too much into a personal quirk, she said. No, its not. Its making a sensible deduction from available data. The waitress arrived with our food. Hers was steaming. We each took a few bites. But you think I m smart? she asked. Brilliant. Smartest person Ive ever met. And pretty? she smiled sweetly. Beautiful. And attractive? here, to make a point, she kind of cupped her hands under her breasts and sort of pointed them at me. The waitresses, watching from the kitchen door, frowned at this. Gorgeous, I said. But you dont want to have sex with me? she said. No, I said, chewing my salad. Why? Because youre crazy. I thought wed been over all of that, she said. Not really, I answered. But I told you Im not crazy. Youre wrong, I said, eating my salad. The Italian dressing was weird, like it had saccharine in it or something. Maybe blue cheese next time.225 Im telling you, Im completely normal, except for the OCD thingamajig. Plus my therapist says Im a little more focused on my libido than most people. Theres nothing crazy about any of that. I dont believe you for a second. But allow me to raise a second point. Youre not really interested in having sex with me, are you? She took a bite of her grilled cheese sandwich and thought for a few seconds.
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Ranch dressing hadnt been invented in 1974.

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Well, no, she said. I mean, maybe, some day, but right now my needs are pretty well taken care of. And I wouldnt want to upset poor Rob with more than he could handle. Right, so, whats the point of this tedious Toni-like conversation about whether Im interested in you or not? Well, I mean, most boys are. And its a little off-putting that youre not. You almost make this insane topic sound sane. I am sane! she said. No youre not. Youre stark raving mad, and I wish youd keep that in mind. And by the way, in a more sensible universe trying to talk a guy youre not interested in into being interested in having sex with you would be all the proof of insanity a person would need. What will it take to get over this insanity hurdle? she asked. It really doesnt matter, I said. I wasnt looking at her, because I was trying to load my fork with an ideal combination of egg, ham, and iceberg lettuce, then sprinkle a tiny bit of salt on it. Why not? she asked, with a puzzled expression. I looked up as she shoved an impressive handful of ketchup-covered fries into her mouth. Given the volume it should have looked awkward, but she was smooth and graceful. You couldnt even tell her mouth was full. She chewed a few times and swallowed as daintily as if swallowing a sip of expensive white wine. Even if we cross the crazy hurdle, I said, its followed in just a few yards by the difficult hurdle, then the demanding hurdle, followed by the insistent and bossy hurdle, after which wed start realizing that difficult was an oversimplification that, when parsed out, revealed a lengthy series of other hurdles that had been lumped together on initial observation but upon more extensive analysis each deserved its own, separate, hurdle, and the length would keep multiplying, like the number of points of distance between Achilles and the finish line. You say no more obstinately than most boys, she said, dredging her last quartet of fries in ketchup them re-salting them. Its kind of cute. Do you get a lot of no? I asked. She ate her fries and smiled in satisfaction before answering.

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Actually, no. You may be the first. I was an only child. My mother has always been crazy. Shes convinced I can do no wrong. Even I am aware that this is a fallacious misperception. Well, youve got that going for you, I said. I waved for the check. Toni drained her beer. As the waitress arrived with the check, Toni stuck her thumbs into her tube top and hoisted it up a few inches. This caused lots of shifting around of the tube tops contents, and the waitress eyes widened in reaction. Toni didnt notice. After I paid the check, and left a bigger tip than I generally would, we scampered back to Tonis Gremlin. It was still raining, a kind of steady cold drizzle. I live in McTyeire, I said. I have to go get Rob, she answered, cranking the car, and we sped off in the wrong direction. If she was aware in any way that there were other cars on the road, the way she drove didnt show it. She took a circuitous route to West End Avenue then zoomed into traffic without seeming to look to see if thee were any oncoming cars. Drivers in both directions had to slam on their brakes to avoid killing us. She zoomed up West End a few blocks then lurched into a parking lot near McGill Hall and stopped abruptly, not taking a parking space. She shifted into park but did not kill the engine, then leaned on the horn for maybe sixty seconds straight. Passing pedestrians frowned in irritation. She didnt notice. I take it youre not going up? I asked. Going up for what? she asked, confused. To get Rob. Why would I do that? she asked. Would you come down if Rob sat in the parking lot and honked for you? I asked. No, of course not, she said, shaking her head in irritation. But you expect Rob to come down when you do the exact same thing? I asked. Oh, for fucks sake, Henry, she said. Rob, umbrella in hand, showed up maybe five seconds later so I got out to let him in on my side of the car, because it was a twodoor. He agreeably took the back seat and leaned noticeably sideways. Hi, Henry. He didnt seem at all surprised to find me in the front seat of his girlfriends car on a Saturday afternoon.

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From the McGill parking lot Toni turned back into West End traffic, again without appearing to look, and zoomed off in the opposite direction from my dorm. With Toni you didnt know what she saw and what she missed, so it was unclear whether she thought she was taking me home or not. So, youre not taking me home? I asked her, after a few minutes. No, she said. Where are you taking me? I asked. Theres a football game today, she said. Oh, heck yeah, I forgot, said Rob. The football stadium is behind us, I said. Were playing UT226 in Knoxville, she said. What time does the game start? I asked, looking at my watch. It was just before two. Seven, she said. I was turned sideways so I could see both Toni and Rob. Rob shrugged. Okay, I said. It takes right around three hours to drive to Knoxville. Less if youre in a hurry. Yes? said Toni, pulling onto the freeway. So youre going to be getting to Knoxville at around five at the latest, I said. So? Toni asked. So theres plenty of time for you to turn around and leave me at my dorm before you guys run off to Knoxville. I really have no interest in watching a football game at all, I said. I was raised mostly in the South but Im not particularly Southern. One way in which I differ from every Southern man Ive ever known is that I could not possibly care less about college football. Even Southern men who go to tiny little schools like Elon or Millsaps that have no football scholarships will be quite aware, fifteen years after they graduated, of their schools conference standings during football season. If they go to a big one like Georgia or Tennessee theyll have a maniacal preoccupation with where their
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Under these circumstances, UT means University of Tennessee. Ive been told that in Texas theres an alternative meaning.

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team fits into the top 25 and whether their head coach is the right man for the job. If they went to Alabama theyll drive crimson cars and wear crimson pants and hounds-tooth hats. Its insane. No, I think you should go to the football game, said Toni. This is our traditional in-state rival. I disagree, I said. What are you going to be doing instead? she asked. Not going to a football game. Dont you like Rob and me? she asked. No, I answered. Youre just saying that, she said. No Im not. You two drive me crazy. Why? Because youre stark raving mad, I answered. Henry, weve been through that, she said. We didnt go through anything. There was a conversation in which we disagreed. But I was right, she said. No you werent. But you didnt disagree with me, she said. Yes I did. I disagreed with every word you said. Well, were too far away to turn back now, she said. We hadnt even passed the airport. No, were not, I said. Just pull over and let me out on the side of the road. I can walk back from here. That would be terribly unsafe, Henry. You might get hit by a truck.

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I might survive that. I dont think I can survive a full day of the two of you. Oh, dont be a killjoy, she said, and turned on the radio. She immediately pressed a cassette tape into the feeder and bouncy dance music blared through the speakers. I could feel Rob wake up in the back seat and start moving to the music. I glanced back and he was waving his arms around. What is this? I asked. The music? she asked. Yes, of course, I said, exasperated. Disco! she said. What the fuck is disco? Dance music. Its in all the clubs! she said. Its wretched, I said. Henry, do you like any music at all? she asked. I had to think. I dont seek it out, I said. So in this as in so many other ways your opinion is full of shit, she said. Try to dance along, she said, extending her hand at me in time with the music. I didnt respond the way she wished, so she plucked my hand from the Gremlins armrest and began flapping our hands back and forth as though part of a dance routine. I had little to contribute to this process. Oh, youre so difficult, she said. Cant you dance? No, I said. Not at all. Not in the least bit. Not one little whit. None. Have you tried? she asked. Of course not. Why not? she asked. Because I have no interest whatsoever in dancing. Oh, thats silly, she said. Everybody can dance. Even Rob can dance. Just look. I turned around to look, and Rob was gyrating and waving his arms in the back seat more or less oblivious to the fact that I was staring at him. Thats dancing? I asked.

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In a way. I managed to let go of her hand. Her cassette tape was maybe fifteen or twenty minutes per side of this stuff. The songs were indistinguishable. She played that same tape the whole trip over to Knoxville. Over an over. I had been pretty sick of it the first time around. It was maddening. Toni, though, was bopping to it pretty much the whole way. Over and over and over. I had nothing to read. I stared out the window, trying to concentrate on my misery, but after a few minutes fell into a reverie that allowed me to largely ignore Toni and her shimmying tube top and her music. I had been back and forth on this stretch of highway many times in the past. Id spent more time in Alabama and Georgia in my hustler days than in Tennessee, but there are plenty of boys willing to play pool for a little money in Tennessee, so I knew my way around. Plus, when I was just starting out those little towns in East Tennessee were the closest labs I had to see what worked. There was a pool table close to pretty much every exit we passed, and I had played them all. It may have been the first time I missed playing pool. Mrs. W once told me that I was too isolated from the rest of the world. She said that if I did the same things I ordinarily did, but did them with others, I would enjoy the experience more. I must say this particular afternoon gave me reason to doubt her, something I do not believe I had ever done before. We were reaching the outskirts of Knoxville. Whats the plan? I asked Toni. She was still interacting energetically with her cassette tape. Plan? she asked. Yes, plan, I said. Do you have one? For what? she asked. To see this football game. What kind of plan are you talking about? she asked, puzzled. Do you have tickets? I asked. No. What we do is we go find my friend B.B., then we buy tickets, she said. Where are you going to meet B.B.? I asked.

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Oh, give it a rest, she said. You men are so difficult about this list-making, task-oriented behavior. B.B. and I just go to the place and work it out, like women have always done. So you dont have a meeting place? No. Or a time, for that matter, Mr. Smarty-pants. All this appointments and schedules bullshit is such a phallo-centric preoccupation anyway. What is it with you boys and this hierarchical shit? I looked over my shoulder to check on Rob. The music was still going, although at lower volume. He seemed to be striking poses that he thought captured something from the lyrics. Maybe he was practicing to be a model. Do you know how to get to the stadium? I asked. She frowned. Its up here, somewhere, isnt it? she asked, pointing eastward on the freeway. Okay, if you take Exit 387 and go towards Dale it will get you over towards campus, I said. Why should I believe you? she asked, suspiciously. Because I know where I am and you dont, I said. She frowned, but didnt say anything and a few minutes later when the exit came up, she took it. She was going to park in a lot. Okay, I have a suggestion, I said. Its just after five. Lets go find your friend, Rob can circle the block, or something with a bigger circumference than a block, while we find her, then we can go eat somewhere other than the stadium and then park somewhere to the west of the stadium. Uncomprehending stare. That way, I said, pointing. If we park here were going to be stuck in traffic for hours after the game. Toni scowled and looked at Rob. So you can drive the car around and not get lost? she asked him Yeah. Sure. Cool, he said. We got close to the stadium, then Toni and I hopped out, Toni grabbed a long navy blue wool overcoat out of the back seat, and Rob ran around to the drivers seat and took over. Why do I have you along for this? Toni asked, putting on her overcoat. For what? I asked. For finding my friend B.B., she said. I dont need a man along for that. I do it every week, no males involved,

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You dont need me. Im sticking close to you because you and Rob are both crazy and I need a ride back to Nashville. If you start to pick up a new guy and leave Rob circling the block forever I can shoo the new guy away to protect my ride home. She thought about this for a minute. So you think if youre watching me, it affects what I do? A Heisenberg kind of a thing? she asked, puzzled. Not entirely. Observation doesnt have to impact your results for my observation to be effective. If you pick up a new guy, hed give me a ride to the bus station just to get rid of me, I said. As long as I can get to a bus or a train station, Im good, and as long as Im with you that seems likely. Otherwise, we get back in the car and I have a ride. If you disappear theres no telling what Rob will do, and I might not have a ride home. She frowned but didnt stay anything. Her intention of finding her friend B.B. with what seemed like minimal attention to details like meeting places or times seemed to me to be doomed to failure, but wed been walking in the broad lawns surrounding Neyland Stadium for less than ten minutes amongst a sea of people wearing Tennessee orange when a small, slender, darkcomplected, sedate-seeming young woman appeared next to Toni. Group sister! Toni exclaimed, and they hugged. They talked for several minutes, Toni rapidly, B.B. more deliberately, but I couldnt make any sense of it. B.B. had beautiful sparkling black eyes and long lustrous black hair, a tiny waist and a perfect figure and was obviously insane. No mistaking it. Henry, this is my friend B.B., Toni said. Beatriz Fonesca, she said, somewhat shyly, extending her hand. Henry Baida, I said, shaking her hand, briefly. Her hand was cold. She was wearing a grey wool overcoat but it wasnt buttoned up. It was lots colder than it had been in Nashville. Tickets! said Toni. You need tickets? asked a short round man standing nearby. The position of his lower lip suggested Skoal might be involved. Four, said Toni. Wait, I said. Do you have a date? I asked B.B. I was thinking we might need to buy a ticket for her date, if she had one. Henry, you asshole, youre her date, said Toni. Four please, she said to the scalper, reaching for her wallet.

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Hey, I said to B.B. Pleased to meet you. Henry. I stuck out my hand again. Im Beatriz, she said simply, and smiled. I took my hand back. Hang on, I said. Toni was about to start pulling money out of her wallet. Im sorry, but Im just too cheap to allow that kind of thing to happen. I reached over and placed my arm between Tonis willing-to-pay hands and the scalper. Yo, I said. Who are you? asked the scalper. Her lawyer, I said. We had a deal, he said. Fuck your deal. Where are the tickets? The ones the lady bought are in the end zone, he said. How much per? I asked. Twenty-five, he answered. Oh, for Christs sake, I said. You should be ashamed of yourself. Hey bud, lady was willing to pay. What else you got? I managed to get four on the Tennessee side near one of the forties for fifteen a hit. I paid, but I frowned at Toni, so it wasnt exactly chivalrous. But we cant cheer if were on the Tennessee side, Toni complained. That wont be a problem, I said. Why not? Because were not going to have much to cheer about, I said. Beatriz put her hand to her mouth and smirked or giggled or laughed or something behind it. You said you didnt like football, Toni said. I just dont give a damn about it, I said. So why are you so sure were going to lose?

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The line is were fourteen point dogs. Beatriz whispered something into Tonis ear, and Toni whispered something back to her. She may have been explaining what being a fourteen point underdog meant. So how do you know that if you dont like football? she asked. You dont have to like football to know how to gamble. So youd bet against us? Youd bet on us to lose? she asked, exasperated. Actually no. This week Id bet on us to cover. But thats not because I love my school. I just generally bet on the dog in college if the spread is more than ten and the teams have similar records more than halfway through the season. That spread makes it a pick em to me, but you dont bet a tie. She frowned at this. Gambling isnt physics. Its math. So you think theres going to be a tie227? In the theater of pure reason, yes, but that almost never happens. All I have to decide is whether I think were going to cover, and I think we will. Beatriz did her laugh-behind-the-hand deal. She was wearing what looked like very tall riding highheeled boots of some sort over extremely tight jeans and some kind of dark wool overcoat over a floppy wool turtleneck. It had been warmer when I left my dorm that morning, and I noticed that everyone but me seemed to have gloves. So you gamble on football games? Toni asked. Some. Not much. Are you successful? she asked. Yes. I wouldnt do it if I werent. Unsuccessful gambling has another, more popular name. What? she asked. Losing money. So if youre successful at it why dont you do it all the time? she asked. Your boyfriend is circling the block and Im getting hungry, I said.

227

The NCAA didnt adopt the overtime rules until 1996. Before then, if the game was tied after four quarters, it stood as a tie on the record books. This would have been true in a bowl game between teams ranked No. 1 and No. 2 in the country.

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So you dont want to answer the question? she asked me. So like a man, she said. Beatriz, are you hungry? I asked. Yes, sir, she said. So Toni, you, a crazy person, may not understand the needs of the body, or at least of the stomach, but Beatriz and I are hungry and poor benighted Rob is circling Knoxville hoping to see again the sight of your lovely face. Beatriz did her laugh thing again. Lets go flag down Rob. Theres a good barbecue place just a few miles from here. You eat barbecue? I asked Beatriz. She smiled and nodded. We embarked towards the arranged meeting spot with Rob. B.B. I cant believe you sided with Henry over me, Toni said. Were going to talk about this in Group, believe you me. We stood at the agreed-upon corner for maybe seven minutes before Rob pulled up in the Gremlin. He smiled and made a move as if to give Toni a welcome kiss, but she didnt notice. Beatriz and I piled into the back, her first. Where am I going? Rob asked, sensibly. Oh, for Christs sake. You men, said Toni. Stay to the left here, take the first left at 158, I said. Cool, Rob said. After that turn look for Kingston Pike. Turn left. Buddys is on the right, maybe three or four miles down the road. How do you do this? Toni asked. Do what? Well, fuck, there are several things. This whole trip you seem to have had this whole AAA tour guide thing going on in your head, where no matter where we go you seem to know where you are. Whats up with that? I live here? I said. Youre from Knoxville? she asked. No. But Im from Chattanooga, another town in Tennessee, and we Tennesseans, we get around.

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So why do you know your way around Knoxville? I used to play pool for a living, I said. Before I went to college, Id drive around looking for pool tables where people liked to gamble. There was a bar with a pool table close to Buddys but they didnt serve food, so Id stop at Buddys before I went in. How can you play pool for a living? she asked. I dont know that Id ever been asked that before. You bet people for money that you can beat them at a game. Generally a game called nine ball. I think youre making this up, she said. I cant believe you can make money playing pool games. I was about to conversationally throw up my hands when Beatriz spoke up. No, hes right. I saw him win a lot of money one night, Beatriz said. What? Toni and I said, in unison. I just saw Mr. Baida play pool for money once. A lot of money. And he won. So I know hes right. That he does play for money. I had craned around to look at her. She didnt look at me, though, she was looking at Toni. Where? I asked. I cant remember the name. My friend Jayden was going out with a boy named Frilla I think it was who was a KA and Jayden had never been out with a fraternity boy before and shes kind of sensitive about things and they were going to go to Elliston Place Soda Shop for dinner and then go over to this bar nearby after for maybe to have a beer because Ellistons doesnt serve beer but Jayden doesnt drink much and she looks and kind of dresses like she might be a member of a sorority but shes really shy like me and she hasnt been on many dates, like, she didnt date at all in high school but all these boys are asking her out now and shes really anxious about it so she asked me to come and like hang around in the bar he was going to take her to after dinner just to make sure that nothing bad was going on kind of like an invisible chaperone kind of a thing and then I was just sitting there on this barstool and then these pool games seemed to just happen and everybody seemed to get really really interested in them and a Girl Scout is always prepared and observant so I watched and Henry was one of the three guys playing and I think he won all the money. How much money? Toni asked. I dont remember, said Beatriz.

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Estimate, said Toni. Lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots, said Beatriz. Toni frowned at me. Rob had found his way to Kingston Pike and we were nearing Buddys. Up here on the right, I said. Rob pulled in. It was lots more crowded than it had been any other time Id been to Buddys, and most of the patrons were wearing their bright orange game-day clothes. The line at the counter was kind of long, and the four of us took our places at the end of the line. We stared at the menu board in silence. I was thinking, though. Toni had said I was Beatriz date. So what I was thinking was You know, I really dont have a lot of experience dating. It was warm inside so Toni elected to take off her overcoat. By removing her coat she changed from being a girl in line at a barbecue joint to Miss October in a tiny tube top, skintight jeans and spike heels. Men all over the restaurant stared, and wives all over the restaurant frowned. What are you going to have? I asked Beatriz. She seemed startled that Id spoken to her. Um, whats good? she asked. I like the barbecue. Its Alabama-style, which you dont get much in Tennessee. And I like the hush puppies She nodded seriously and studied the menu board some more. I get the hush puppies with the dinner, si? The si was strange. She didnt have a trace of an accent. Yes, but the dinners are a lot of food. I generally get a sandwich and a side. She nodded intently. Behind us Toni was telling Rob what he was going to order so that if she didnt like what shed ordered she could swap with him, a process that would have driven anyone other than Rob over the edge and around the bend in one fell swoop.228 Where are you from? I asked. Again she jumped as though startled. Um, a small town in south Alabama, she said. Which one? I asked. Um, you havent heard of it, she said. Try me, I said. Wadley? she said. I dont know what I was expecting, but it wasnt Wadley.
228

Three in a row.

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Ill be damned. I know Wadley. Okay, so the pork barbecue here is very like the cue they have at Speedys Catfish & Barbecue in Dadeville, but they give you more sauce at Speedys. She frowned and shook her head and looked back at the menu board. I always get the fish at Speedys, she said. How about John Boys Smokehouse in Roanoke? Yes? she asked, again with that flash of intensity. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. Actually, John Boys is better than Buddys. I think they smoke it longer. The outside is drier but at John Boys the inside almost doesnt need sauce. She narrowed her eyes at this and stared intently at the menu board. Then it was her turn to order. Ill have the half chicken dinner with fries and coleslaw. That comes with hushpuppies? Yes, maam. No beer here? she asked. No maam. With tea. The tea is sweet? Yes, maam. And Lamuriels lemon ice box pie for dessert,229 she said. She started fishing around her purse for her wallet. Ill get it, I said. She reacted not so much as if startled, but as if shed just stuck her finger into a charged light socket. Ill have a large pork sandwich with extra sauce and pickles, a side of hushpuppies and a large glass of water. I paid up and left Toni and Rob to give their painstaking and complex order. Beatriz took off her overcoat before she sat and I noticed that she was wearing two inch platform soles, so she was even tinier than she appeared. Date or non-date? I chose to sit across the table from her. We were at a booth and both slid all the way to the wall. Her eyes were so brown they were almost black. She stared at me intently for a few seconds. Youre the first man Ive met who knew about Wadley, she said. Here, I mean.

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In case I forget to mention it later, she ate every bit of that, and she wasnt out of my sight once until we got back to Nashville after midnight.

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I like Wadley, I said, perhaps a tad cautiously. I dont, she said. Whys that? I asked. Were Brazilian, she said. Your family is Brazilian? I asked. At this point Toni and Rob showed back up and slid in next to us. Yes, said Beatriz. So? I was not like the other girls. This was important to some people, she said. Yeah, well, south Alabamas not all eaten up with liberals, thats a fact, I said. It occurred to me that parts of south Alabama and south Georgia where I was very much at home might feel different to a small, nervous, pretty, smart, dark-skinned Brazilian girl. What the fuck were you doing in south Alabama, anyway? What were you thinking? asked Toni. My father was in the Brazilian Air Force when Brazil declared war on Germany and Italy in 1942. He served with some Americans from Alabama. After the war he went to Auburn. Toni and Rob stared at him blankly. Auburns in south Alabama. Not far from Wadley, I said. They nodded. Go on, said Toni. My mother and father met at Auburn. Both Brazilian, but met at Auburn. They decided they wanted to stay in the U.S. So my father got a job teaching Spanish at Randolph County High. Then later he transferred to Wadley High. You went to Wadley High? I asked. Si. Go bulldogs. Dont they speak Portuguese in Brazil? I asked. Si. So why did they hire your father to teach Spanish? I asked.

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They didnt know. Our food came. It was good. We then drove a few miles back towards Neyland Stadium, found a parking space, walked to the stadium, and found our seats. Heres what I remember about that game: 1. 2. Damn, it was cold. I was not dressed for this. You can see a football game so much better from the stands than on TV that it might actually be fun to watch if you could see them that way all the time. You can see the defenses develop, you can see the open receivers. A completely different experience. Toni and Beatriz sat next to each other, Rob and I on the outside. They knew the game waaaay better than Rob or I did. They knew the players names, saw when a blocker had clipped on a runback, yelled at the refs on blown calls, and knew how many of the receivers feet had to be inbounds for a completed pas. I would like to think that I could meaningfully participate in a conversation on most of those issues, but manfully admit that called to task on specifics, would be found wanting. It was really, really cold. That stadium was huge. Somebody told me it held more than 70,000 people. What the Hell? For a football game? Damned if it didnt end in a tie.230 So we more than covered and I won all of my bets. It was fucking cold.

3.

4. 5. 6. 7.

After the game I was anxious to get back to Tonis Gremlin in the hopes that it would warm up quickly. I smiled at Beatriz and was about to shake her hand goodbye when Toni said something surprising. Goodbye, Henry, she said. What do you mean goodbye? You have to take me back to Nashville. No, no, no, no, no no. Rob and I are going to go check into the Ramada Inn. B.B. can drive you home. Beatriz gloved hand quickly covered a smile but she didnt seem unhappy. You have a car? I asked Beatriz. She nodded. And youre okay with this? I asked. She nodded her head again. Because if youre not I can just get one of you to drop me off at the Trailways station. She shook her head.

230

It was maybe 1997 when the NCAA introduced the rules that football games could not end in ties and all the overtime rules came in. I mean, why not?

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Good night, Toni. Good night Rob, I said. All I knew about Beatriz was that she could eat lot and knew more than I did about football, but spending time with her couldnt possibly be worse than being with Toni and Rob. She turned, presumably in the direction of her car, and left, and I turned to follow her. When I was about five paces down that path Toni had turned and run after me and had grabbed my elbow. Look. Dont ask B.B. about her stuff, she whispered close to my ear. What stuff? I asked. Beatriz was still kept walking, so there was no need for whispering. Youll see. Or her book. What book? I asked. Shes getting away, Henry. Better catch up. Bye. She turned and ran back towards Rob, high heels and all. I turned and sprinted to catch up with Beatriz. So youre sure youre okay with this? I asked her, when I caught up. She didnt seem to have noticed that I was missing. I kind of got dropped in your lap. Metaphorically speaking. She cocked an eyebrow at me in a deliberate kind of way. It is my duty to be helpful and useful to others, she said. Well youve certainly done your duty by me. I owe you one. She smiled and nodded in this kind of goofy way. She didnt talk much. For an argumentative person Im not really very talkative, so we walked along in silence. She looked at me every few minutes and smiled, not in a flirty kind of way, but in an approving kind of way. As if she appreciated me for being there, or something. But why? We got to her car eventually. It was in a parking lot on the north end of campus jammed in from all directions. An odd thing: it was a beige Plymouth Valiant that looked almost exactly like the one Id lost in the parking lot of the Hixson Lanes, down to the dents in the right rear quarter-panel. I figured somebody must have been through the trunk. I was cold, and when we got in she started it right up to warm us up. She had this odd way of looking at me every few minutes and smiling. Do you mind me asking where you got this car? I asked, after the car began to warm up. Her hand darted to cover her mouth, this time conveying surprise.

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Um, no! she said, then looked at me intently without saying anything. It took me a few seconds to get it. Oh, okay, I said. Where did you get this car, Beatriz? I asked. My father bought it for me at an auction in Atlanta, she said, earnestly. I used to have this same make and model a few years ago, I said. What happened to it? she asked. It got towed away in Hixson, Tennessee. Why didnt you go get it? she said. Thats a long story involving a fake name, I said. Meaning you dont want to tell me. She stared at me intently for a few seconds. I stared back. She was nice, but I was flummoxed by her. At sea. My father said the cars at the auction were all seized by the police or by things that were like police departments. She stared at me intently. Not rudely. Just in an Im-unaware-Imstarting-at-you way. So whats a thing thats like a police department? I asked. A sheriffs department, she said, immediately. Gotcha. She looked at me intently across the dark bench-style front seat of the Valiant. Or a highway patrol, I said. State bureau of investigation, she said. FBI? I asked. Not on parking violations. My father heard about the auction and went there to buy me a car because he didnt want my mother to drive me all the way to Nashville to go to college and I have been very happy with this car. Okay. So this is probably your car. Okay. Mine now.

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Yes, it is. I said. I looked around the car to see if it actually looked familiar. It did. In the back seat were three stacks of very neatly piled paper things. The one I could see best, behind her in the drivers seat, looked like newspapers, tied neatly into bundles, and then somehow buckled in to rear seatbelts that didnt match at all the color of the interior of the Valiant. Whats this? I asked, looking at the neat stacks. Thats my stuff, she said. Toni had said no questions about her stuff. In this unique situation, if perhaps in no other, I found myself willing to trust Toni, so I didnt ask. Everything about the car, interior and exterior, was beige, and the seat belts didnt belong. They were a dark forest green and newer-looking than the rest of the car, obviously installed after manufacture. If it was the same one I had owned, of course, it had no seat belts when I drove it. The stack in the center looked to be a stack of books. On top of the center pile was a paperback-sized medium green hardback with the Girl Scouts trefoil symbol embossed on its cover encased in a large Zip-lock bag. The stack was tied up with what may have been womens stockings, and only the green book in its plastic bag sitting atop the pile didnt seem to be well tied down. It was just resting delicately on top of the pile. I couldnt get a good look at the pile directly behind me, but it looked neat. Squared away. Very tidy, I said. She smiled proudly and put the car in gear. She turned to look at me. My car, she said. Yes, maam, I said. She didnt need help getting over to the freeway so I kept my mouth shut. Near the Kingston exit she spoke. Shed seemed slightly agitated for a few minutes. So I sometimes see something in the paper or a magazine and I think I might want to look at that again in the future so I take that part of the paper or that magazine and I put it in the Newspaper Stack and some day Im going to file it all away in manila folders with two-prong fasteners and sort it all in file cabinets so I can go back and look up all this interesting stuff whenever I want but I dont have time to do the filing now so then when the stack becomes too big to be stable in my back seat I move it into a box and put it in storage. Storage? Si. A storage locker.

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Wheres your storage locker? I asked. One is at the Stack and Pack in Roanoke and the other at a Public Storage facility in Nashville. All very orderly. I dont have a process, or even an idea, like that. The only thing I seem to accumulate is books. After Ive read them I dont need them any more as a rule but it seems wasteful to throw them out. Oh, no! Dont want to throw away something you might need later! she said. I dont, I said. Whats your storage mechanism, then, and how do you keep it in balance? she asked. Ive got this friend, Mrs. Wertheimer. In Chattanooga. When Im done with a book but dont want to give it away I send it to her. Shes got this nice big house with lots of bookshelves, and she just keeps my books for me until I need them again. Oh, what a wonderful friend! said Beatriz. But shes married, this friend of yours? Widowed, I said. She nodded seriously and stared at the road for maybe a half an hour. So what are your designs on this Mrs. Wertheimer? she asked. Excuse me? An attractive young widow, a young man she began. Well, Mrs. Wertheimer is a retired high school teacher in her sixties or seventies. Oooooohhh, she said, only she drew it out even longer than that, and nodded. We drove along in silence for another thirty minutes. Shed gotten near maybe the Crossville exit before she spoke again. The middle stack is Books I Should Read. That one doesnt change around too much. So what do you want to read? I asked. Moby Dick, The Web and the Rock, Valley of the Dolls.

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All novels? I asked. Paradise Lost, everything by Emily Dickenson, the libretto from Parsifal. Sounds reasonable, I said. She frowned intently at me for a second, then gripped the wheel and concentrated on the road, as best I could tell by the headlights reflecting into her face from the rear view mirror. Near Nashville she spoke up again. Was Mrs. Wertheimer a teacher of yours? Yes. For three years. Geometry, Algebra, and Algebra II. Why do they call it Algebra II? Why not make up a new name? Because people dont like trigonometry. She nodded seriously and resumed her silence. As we were exiting the freeway just a few miles from campus, she spoke up again. I certainly dont, I can tell you that, she said. You dont do what? I asked. I dont like trigonometry. Most people dont. I do. I think its wonderful. I was going to say fascinating but really its too elegantly simple to be fascinating. Its wonderful and useful. But I understand that not everybody sees it that way. She fell silent again. After a few minutes she put up her hand to mask one of her laughs, but I couldnt tell at what. I never had a Mrs. Wertheimer, she said, after a few minutes. Well, shes one of a kind, I said. I had a Father Tom, she said. A priest? I asked. She nodded. He was the sometimes priest at St. Marks in Ashland, she said. Sometimes priest? Yes. He wasnt a diocesan priest. He wasnt really our priest. He was a Dominican monk who sometimes helped out the regular priests. He gave mass when the

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pastor was on vacation and heard confessions. He was the best. She smiled at the memory. She parked her car without saying anything else. When shed killed the engine she reached around to retrieve the top book from the center pile. When the dome light came on from opening the door I could see it was an old-looking hardback copy of the Girl Scouts Manual in a plastic bag. She held it as though it was important. I walked her back to Branscomb, her dorm. There was a certain spot on the patio where people kissed after dates. She stopped there and I wasnt sure what was going to happen. We were still standing sideby-side, as though walking down a sidewalk, only we werent moving. She looked at me, then kind of hugged my right arm, then let it go and smiled at me briefly. She walked towards the door, but just before she got there, she turned and said Elegantly simple, gave me a smile and a thumbs-up sign, and vanished into the dorm. I turned to walk home. When I got to the sidewalk Rosie, the waitress from the Campus Grill, walked past me, twirling a majorettes baton with great finesse. She didnt seem to see me. I looked around, and of course there were no witnesses. I sighed and walked on home. It wasnt as cold as it had been in Knoxville.

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Chapter 37: Math Club, or Mutationem motus proportionalem esse vi motrici impressae, et fieri secundum lineam rectam qua vis illa imprimitur231 At the beginning of the year Stoney had gotten the Math club back together and wed had several meetings. At the first one Leah showed up with a friend of hers named Michael Stewart whom she introduced with This is Michael. Hes better than me. My impression was that Stoney was in charge of membership so I wasnt sure this was appropriate. Its not like we had rules or anything, but if we let in any Tom, Dick and Harry mathematician who walked down the sidewalk, what kind of club would we be? Michael was short, wore stylish spectacles and very snappy, colorful, clothes, and couldnt be mistaken for a straight person at a hundred paces. He was the first openly, exuberantly homosexual person Id ever met. He was also incredibly cheerful. Stoney, as our leader, introduced Michael to the rest of us: Michael, you know Leah, and this is Cecil, this is Raheem, and this is my gay friend Henry. Oh, for heavens sake, said Michael. Henrys not gay. Hes not? Leah and Stoney asked, at the same time. I have the best gaydar in the world. Not a blip on Henry. Ive heard about you, too, he said to Stoney. Did I guess right, that you took your nickname from the Stonewall riots? Stoney kind of looked down, embarrassed, and damned if he didnt blush. No, no. Nothing like that, he said, after a pause. My real name is Thomas Henry Jackson, just like the Confederate general. Well, fiddle-dee-dee, said Michael. Stoney blushed again. A man in his forties showed up with an order pad in his hand. What you folks want to drink? asked the waiter. Wheres Robin? Stoney asked. Oh, I had to let her go. Turned out she was underage, he said. Underage, how? Stoney asked. She told me she was eighteen, but then I come to find out that she was really just fifteen. Sophomore at Hillsboro High. The state is very strict that people serving alcohol have to be over eighteen, so I didnt have any choice. She was a great waitress, though. I really, really liked her. But. Cant risk my license. Ah, fuck, said Stoney.
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Newtons Second Law. You know Newton.

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Let me guess, I said. No please dont said Stoney. Beer? said the owner. A pitcher of Heineken for me, said Stoney. And a Pitcher of Schlitz for the rest of the table, said Cecil. Can I get a Coke? asked Leah. And a glass of ice water? I asked. He nodded and left. So whats going on at that end of the table? asked Leah. Stoner done tapped him some jailbait, said Raheem. Id really rather not talk about this, Stoney said. She insisted she was eighteen. Tom, I think this is an opportunity for you to reflect on the decisions you make regarding the objects of your affection, I said, which provoked a few laughs. Oh, mistakes happen, said Michael. Somebody else came back with our drinks. Stoney gulped down two glasses of beer as though he was pouring them straight down his throat and was pouring another. Goodness, how thirsty you are, said Michael. Oh, Stoner jus gettin started, said Raheem. After we ordered pizza we discussed what problem to work on next and Leah suggested the Navier-Stokes equations.232 Stoney and Cecil immediately complained that this was another attempt to push us out of pure math and into physics. I dont think its even physics. I think of it as engineering,233 said Leah. Thats not the point. Mathematically, theres no proof that, as three dimensional equations, the Navier-Stokes equations are smooth. Seems like nobody can demonstrate that theres no singularity, she said. There was a long pause around the table. To
232

The Navier-Stokes equations are powerful equations that describe the movement of fluids. Because from a mathematical viewpoint, fluid includes both liquids and gasses, the equations have a wide variety of applications. 233 Mathematicians and physicists look down on each other. Both look down on engineers. Engineers never go for graduate degrees, the others always do. But then, engineers build all of the bridges and power plants. Go to a construction site, hand a mathematician a hammer, and see what happens.

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mathematicians, equations either work or they dont. To physicists, they work until something that works better comes along. How long have they been around? asked Cecil. Nineteenth Century, said Michael. There was a big engineering explosion in the 1920s, though, and thats when they really moved into the mainstream. So youre a homo? asked Cecil, out of the blue. Yes, I am, said Michael. Is this going to bother you? Cecil thought. No, I guess not. I just was never around a homo before. Were okay, I promise. I wont bite. Is it all right if I call you a Negro? Michael asked. Cecil and Raheem both sat up at this. I prefer Black, said Cecil. In exactly the same way, I prefer gay to homo, said Michael, then smiled. There was a pause while Cecil thought about this. Okay. Gay. Gotcha, said Cecil. There was a moment, then Cecil picked the conversation back up. Okay, so the Navier-Stokes equations, everybody uses them but nobodys figured out if they work? Nope, said Leah, Michael, and Raheem, all at once. How the fuck do you do this? said Cecil to Raheem. Do what bro? said Raheem. Whenever I dont know about something, you do, said Cecil. I had good teachers, said Raheem. Look, said Michael. Im an Electrical Engineering major. Were not like physicists or math majors. Engineers tend to work off of experience more than theory. People were building bridges millenia before there were Civil Engineers. If something works, we stick with it. If a theory comes along later that explains why it works, thats great, but as long as it works, well use it even if nobody understands why it works. Leah told me about you guys working through the Maxwell equations, which was tres cool but that was just his way of reducing his observations to math, which is why they make no sense at first. Hed observed without an underlying theory of what he was seeing, and he never really made sense of it. Kind of like Tycho Brahe.

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I love Tycho and Kepler, said Stoney. Michael smiled at him. Okay, said Leah. So Ill drop everybody some introductory materials about the Navier-Stokes equations through campus mail, and everybody can play with them, and maybe another meeting in two weeks? Scrumptious, said Michael, looking at Stony. A few days later I was on my way to the dining hall at lunchtime with no specific plan other than lunch when I ran into Cecil, who high-fived me then would have continued the greeting into further steps if I had understood my part in the handshake dialogue. Cecil said he needed to drop in on Raheem because they usually took meals together. This was fine by me and we cruised by his room. The door was ajar, so Cecil knocked it open. Raheem was on the phone. I could only hear his part of the conversation. Yes, maam, he said, then listened. No, maam. Im not expecting any trouble on this exam. Ive made mostly As on all the tests. Maybe I got a B on the one about Richard III, but the rest are all As and my papers are all As. Pause. Yes, maam. How is Auntie Pearl doing? Pause. Well, tell her Im thinking of her and Im glad it went well. Pause. Is Dad ready for the campaign? Pause. I hate to miss so much of it, but I really am pretty busy here. Pause. Well, thats sweet of him. Ill do what I can. Short pause. I love you too. He hung up. Sup, dawg, he said, standing, then he and Cecil did a fifteen-part handshake. What the fuck was that? I asked. Whas what, Henry? asked Raheem, as we left. You, speaking the kings English, to make your high school teachers proud. Yeah, well, my mama, she dont allow no street talk. The idea of a tough guy like Raheem being told what to do by his mother caught me by surprise a little. So which way of talking is more normal for you? I asked.

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They both normal, Henry. I just aint like you. Les get some lunch. I had become used to thinking of Raheem as a particular kid of person, so it was be hard for me to think of him as anything else. Tough guy? Street man? Black Panther? Yes, yes, yes. Mamas boy? Well not before now. After lunch Raheem and Cecil went off to do whatever they had next on their agendas and I went to Probability 201, a silly class that could just have easily been called Statistics for Social Science Majors and may well have been called that at one point. Gauss functions (think bell curve) are in no way complicated. All the course does is convince humanities majors that there must be a mathematical basis for the statistics that they spout but dont understand. Psychologists propping up their theories with statistics is like linguists or sociologists supporting their theses with books from a different language: if you dont understand what it says, how can you argue about what it means? They were all learning statistics the way that theyd learned their times tables. Almost none of them got the sense behind the math. For the next Math Club meeting, Stoney told me hed pick me up in front of the dorm at a quarter to seven. It was October, so it was dark. Usually up to this point Id had to track him down or wake him up and then hed drive me there, but this time he said hed pick me up. Right about on time he pulled up and came to a stop. Michael hopped out of the front seat, said Bonjour, Henri! and cheerfully folded down the front seat for me to take the back seat. Id never been in the back of Stoneys car before. It was small. It occurred to me as we drove over to House of Pizza that Stoney hadnt been around much over the last week or so. I dont keep tabs on my roommates, but I hadnt come home to Stoney and Milton stoned to their gills and listening to The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway at ear-bleeding levels for more than a week. Stoney hadnt been a part of our dining hall forays for several days. It looked, though, like he and Michael had become good friends. Stoney was driving, and he and Michael were talking, Michael a little animatedly, Stoney somewhat less so, but they were both engaged in their conversation. Stoney also appeared to be even more sober than hed been in Chattanooga. In Mrs. Wertheimers house he hadnt had access to any of his counterculture pharmaceuticals but hed been drinking pretty much all day every day. I couldnt really see him from the back seat, but it was possible that he was stone cold sober. The notion was shocking to me. Something must be wrong. As soon as I was beginning to conclude that Stoney had turned a new leaf, though, he pulled a silver234 flask out of a coat pocket and took a long pull as he turned left off of West End. He handed the flask to Michael, who took a smaller swallow, and he offered the flask to me. Henry doesnt drink, said Stoney, to Michael. Well, bless your heart, said Michael. You were brought up this way?

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Not silver the color, but silver the metal. Ag on your periodical chart. It was clean and polished, with very little evidence of Ag2O.

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No, no, its an occupational thing. There was a pause, and when I looked back at Michael he still had an inquisitive look on his face. I used to play pool for a living, I said. It kind of changes your views on the decisions people make when theyve had a few drinks, I said. Certainement, when people get drunk, they make foolish decisions, he said, taking another sip of what smelled like Bourbon, then handing the flask back to Stoney. Stoney took a gulp that was less voluminous than the last, then Michael took it back and recapped it and screwed back on the silver shotglass overcap, which neither of them had used, and Stoney returned it to his jacket pocket. They dont have to be drunk, I said. A guy who can play good pool with one beer in him is still a worse pool player than he was before he had that beer. Not by a lot, but if youre the only guy in the room who hasnt had a beer, its noticeable. Michael and Stoney looked at each other and shrugged. We were getting near the House of Pizza, and conversation turned towards spotting parking places. When sharp-eyed Michael spotted one, he briefly placed his hand on Stoneys knee and pointed. Stoney found a rare break in traffic and managed to negotiate the Volvo through a high speed U-turn to cruise gracefully into the empty spot. When we got to the restaurant Leah and Cecil were already there. We all sat down and said our hellos. A new waitress came by to take our drink orders, and for the first time in my memory, Stoney did not order separately for himself. She asked if we were ready to order. I think were still waiting for one, said Michael. No. Sorry, I should have said. Raheems not coming tonight, said Cecil. Leah ordered a Pizza With Everything Including Anchovies for both of us as usual then swapped seats with Cecil so wed be sitting next to each other when our food came. Everybody else placed their food orders. So wheres Beanie? asked Michael. Leah and Stoney both laughed, midswallow, and beer may have passed through Stoneys nose. Who? asked Cecil. Beanie. Dont know Beanie, said Cecil. Your friend. Raheem. He thought for a few seconds. Where you get Beanie? Cecil asked. Leah and Stoney stared at the ceiling. I didnt get it.

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Sorry. I always see the two of you together. So if youre Cecil, he must be Beanie.235 Cecil got it then and laughed, then frowned. No, no. This is totally uncool, he said. Raheems really not going to be cool with this at all. Oh, its just a little joke, a nickname, said Michael, pouring himself another beer. No, really. Raheem works really, really hard on his street cred. He really aint gonna like being tagged with a kids cartoon name. Well keep it to ourselves, said Leah. Its not just that, said Cecil. Between him and me, hes like the leader and Im like the follower. Between us Im like taking his lead and hes like helping me through this all. Oh, for heavens sakes. Youre equals, said Leah. Students. Frat brothers. Math Club members. Yeah, sure, but I really dont want to show him up in any way, said Cecil. Oh, youre not showing him up. He gets to be the big green dragon. Youre the little boy, said Leah. Im just not sure hes going to see it this way, Cecil said. So where is Beanie? asked Stoney. Hes got a bad stomach flu, or something. He started puking at about three and went over to Student Health. That whack-job doctor from Viet Nam was on duty and after Raheem told his symptoms the first thing the doc axed was Did you have he spaghetti at Rand for lunch today? and when Beanie said yes, the doc just shook his head. Said he couldnt do anything for him, he just needed to drink lots of water and tough it out. Anybody taking care of him? asked Leah.

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The Adventures of Beanie and Cecil was a delightful Saturday morning cartoon on ABC in the 1960s. Beanie was a little boy and Cecil the Sea-Sick Sea Serpent was his best friend. There was also a Peter, Paul and Mary song called Puff the Magic Dragon which covered exactly the same ground from a completely different direction. Both revolve around a little boy whose best friend is a dragon. If youre ever tempted to think theres no such thing as a coincidence, research this one. Both of them were completely in the can before either could possibly have been aware of the other.

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No. Im sorry, but I just got tired of listening to that shit. We all nodded our heads in agreement. Its not like he was going to die. Anybody else eat the spaghetti at Rand today? asked Cecil. We all shook our heads. The Red Death, said Stoney. I never touch it. We all nodded. Yeah, well, tell Beanie we miss him, said Leah as our pizza came. We all nodded. We all dug into our pizza, and Leah started talking about the equations. Anybody play with them? she asked. Everybody nodded, and the subsequent discussion suggested that textbook problems about flowing streams or rivers or liquids moving through sewer pipes of different sizes at various angles were all fine and good but were a little like homework problems, not so much like fun stuff for Math Club whizzes. As we talked through the problems and what they suggested, Cecil and Stoney kept noting diversions that suggested to me that there was a turbulence problem, but nobody knew what to do with it. In retrospect, I would wonder whether or not fluids subject to irregular forces, or under pressure in irregularly-shaped spaces, arent always subject to turbulence, and that the necessary turbulence this implies isnt the singularity at the heart of the equations. We just dont understand turbulence as yet. It took us about three meetings to come to the conclusion that we were not going to get to the bottom of he Navier-Stokes singularity problem. Math didnt get there when we were undergraduates and it might not have gotten there now, but I dont think the problem is calculus singularities. I think the problem is the other way around. Turbulence isnt insoluble, but we havent solved it yet. Until we do, I think it will insert itself into our solutions like the most rigid singularity, but thats just me. Still and all, it was kind of hard for me to give up on those equations and I was about to voice this when Stoney, dejected, opened up. Guys, this is just awful, he said. Everybody looked up. Why? asked Leah. I just dont like giving up, said Stoney. Nobody does, said Cecil, we just arent going to solve this one. Oh, man, theres no problem thats actually insoluble, said Stoney. Ive worked out Fermats last theorem twice. And what was it? asked Leah.

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Yeah, well, I dont remember. I was pretty loaded. But the second time I dictated the whole deal to this good-looking dark-haired chick who was pretty friendly and taught me all about the Russell Saunders coupling theory. The what? asked Cecil. Its a physics deal, I said. What are you telling us, Stoney? I dont want to give up! Im with you, said Leah, I cant stand not solving a problem. But we dont even agree on what the problem is. Henry thinks its turbulence, and he may be right. There are no ways to describe turbulence. Not entirely true, said Stoney. Mrs. W says that theres a new discipline emerging thats organized around chaos. Finding relationships between things like turbulence and fractal geometry. Yeah, well maybe she can come up and explain it to us, or we can all go down there sometime, but for now, I think we should pick a new problem. Ah , shit, said Stoney. Call to a vote? said Leah. Oh, no need for that, said Stoney. Its just that There was a pause. If were going to do something remarkable, were going to have to do it here. Back on campus they just want us to learn what they already know. Ah, shit. Whats next then? Theres the Poincarr conjecture, said Leah. Fuck that. No topology, said Cecil. And an anti-torus prejudice rears its ugly head, said Michael, sipping his beer. Why no topology? Leah asked. Its got no numbers, he said. Yang-Mills existence? I asked. I dont know what that is so Im betting its another one of your physics deals, said Stoney, and sipped his beer, but he didnt drain it. How about the Hodge conjecture? asked Michael. Stoney sat up.

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Anybody good with number theory? he asked. Leah, Raheem, and I raised our hands. Youre not good with number theory, he said to me. I know it better than you do. No, you dont, I said. I was doing Diophantine geometry in high school, said Stoney. I see your Diophantine and raise you an analytical object and a Riemann zeta function, I said. Oh, dont start with your Peano arithmetical bullshit, he retorted. Ladies, said Cecil, politely, can we return to the task at hand? Actually, said Leah, watching them bicker over arithmetic is pretty entertaining. There was a pause. So. The Hodge conjecture? said Michael. Re-educate me, said Cecil. For projective algebraic varieties, Hodge cycles are rational algebraic combinations of algebraic cycles, said Leah. What is a Hodge cycle, anyway? asked Cecil. Is this a homology deal? asked Stoney. Yes, said Leah and Michael at the same time. Okay, we can do this, Stoney said to me. Okay, so think Hk(V, C) = H where V is a non-singular complex algebraic variety or Khler manifold. Dont know Khler, I said. Okay, he said. Then think manifold with unitary structure keepin an integrability condition. A Riemannian manifold, a complex manifold, and a symplectic manifold, with all three structures mutually compatible. Fuck! I said Slow down! Riemannian manifold? You remember Riemennian geometry?

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Yes, of course, I said. So a Riemannian manifold is a real differentiable manifold M in which each tangent space is equipped with an inner product g, a metric, which seems to vary smoothly from point to point. Wait, wait. This is stacking up too fast. I had to think. I think I get where youre going, but Ill need to work this through. So theres a problem here that we can chew on? asked Leah. Oh, yeah, theres a problem, I said. I guess the problem, or one of them, will be making sure we all understand what were working on. Once we figure that out, well have to think about whether its soluble. Oh, it is. Everything is, said Stoney. Okay, it may be that Im the member of this illustrious group whos the most familiar with Hodge, so Ill pull together some introductory materials, then Ill hand them over to Miss Leah, who is so efficient at distributing info, and well have another visit in two weeks? said Michael. We all agreed. A few nights later, Milton and Cisco and I went over to Rand at about dinner time. We took our place at the end of the shorter of the two lines, but for some reason the lines were both really long and didnt seem to be moving very quickly. Fuck this. Lets go somewhere else, said Cisco. No, lets stay here, said Milton. Why? asked Cisco. Its going to take thirty minutes to get through the line. And the tables are all taken, too, I said. After we get our food, well be looking for a place to sit and our food will get cold. People were wandering around with full trays, waiting for a group to get up to leave so theyd have a place to sit. And you think cold Rand food is worse than warm Rand food? asked Milton. Besides, he said, under his breath, did you get a look at the tits on that girl right in front of us? Cisco, who had been smoking a Marlboro, took one last drag and dropped it to the floor and put it out with the toe of his Topsider. He looked at the girl ahead of us in line. He cocked an eyebrow and studied her from behind for a minute. Mandy? he asked. She turned around, somehow understanding that he was talking to her. Excuse me? she asked.

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Gosh, Im so sorry, he said. From that angle you looked exactly like my friend Mandy. I havent seen her since I graduated from high school. Really, I apologize, he said, and smiled at her, looking into her eyes. From that angle? she asked, smiling wisely at him. Im sorry, Im Frank Atwater, he said, taking her hand as if to shake, but not shaking, just holding it. He still seemed to be staring at her, and smiling, as though captivated. Im Jessie Wilcox, she said, smiling back, a bit reluctant, but not discouraging him. Well, Jessie, until I met you my friends and I were about to give up on this line and walk over to the D-School to see if the line isnt shorter. Would you care to join us? D-School? she asked. That she did not know what this meant suggested freshmanhood. The Divinity School, he said. Next to the library. They have a smaller cafeteria there, but the line is always shorter because they dont allow underclassmen. Im a freshman, she said. Im a sophomore, he said. They dont card. Lets go. She grabbed her friend, who also got Miltons attention, and we left for the D-School. Milton was as alert as a dog expecting a Milk-Bone for the first few steps out of Rand, expecting that there would be at least one girl to spare for him, but they both clustered around Cisco, one left, one right. I am never gonna get laid, said Milton, morosely, and lit a cigarette. The DSchool cafeteria was much smaller than the others on campus. It had one much shorter line, with fewer selections at the exact same price. You could glimpse into the dining room from the end of the line, and there, at a small square table, dinner complete, Stoney and Michael were holding hands over their dinner trays. Henry? Cisco asked, shooting me a look. Yeah, thats my take, too, I said. Cisco looked at Milton but he was too mesmerized by Jessies friends behind to have noticed anything else, and the line quickly moved forward to a point where we couldnt see Stoney and Michael. Milton? asked Cisco. Introduce me to her friend, said Milton. You dont need both of them.

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Okay, lets ease up on the stupid a little bit, said Cisco. Has Stoney been acting weird recently? Oh, yeah. He really hasnt been around much the last few weeks but last week he was in his room studying one afternoon and I asked him if he could tell me where to score some weed and he said there was more to life than weed. Stoney said that? I asked. And he was studying? asked Cisco. Yeah. Sure. I found the whole exchange unfathomable, said Milton. Introduce me to her. Cisco kind of put one hand on her shoulder and the other at her waist on the opposite side in a way that would have gotten me arrested but she looked up at him with a surprised smile. Wendy, said Cisco, Id like to introduce my friends Henry Baida and Jimmy Milton. So youre the philosophy major Frankie was telling us about? asked Wendy speculatively. Yes, maam, said Milton said, bowing slightly. I think Im going to major in philosophy, too, she said. I am absolutely fascinated by the Existentialists. She looked him over. Didnt I see you smoking a cigarette on the way over here? Possibly, he said. I hate cigarettes, she said. My parents and my brothers all smoke. It makes me gag. Ive just been trying it for the last few days because Sartre and Camus both seemed to enjoy it, Milton said. I dont think I really like it. She nodded speculatively and shrugged. He followed her into the line, saying Simone de Beauvoir was his favorite, which struck me as a pretty good stab at a pickup line, based on the available information. Jessie led Cisco into the cafeterias tray rails, and I brought up the rear. How did you do that with Wendy? I asked. Do what?

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Get her to take an interest in Milton. Oh, I just talked him up a little, Cisco said. Well, that was nice of you, I said. Not really. Only way to shut him up. Otherwise hed be tripping over his dick trying to talk to Jessie and Wendy both. And I kind of like Jessie. I nodded. Hell fuck it up anyway, I said. No, I think hes in, he said as he got roast beef. Shes nave and he can talk philosophy well enough that a small-town freshman wont know hes full of shit. Harsh, I said. I got the chicken-fried steak. Money talks, he said. Twenty says no within the next two weeks. I say she lets him in, and double if he hits it within a week, said Cisco. He got spinach and mashed potatoes. Done. How are we going to know? I asked. We sure cant trust him to be honest. I got turnip greens and pinto beans. Jessie will tell me when it happens, he said. You do have big plans, I said. I got a corn muffin. I have to say, they made really, really good corn muffins at the campus eateries. Deal? he asked. Deal. He got pecan pie and when they got to the cashier he held up two fingers to indicate he was picking up Jessies dinner as well, and she was utterly charmed. I paid for mine, and when I got into the dining room, the table where Stoney and Michael had been was empty. I have to say, your man Stoney continues to impress with is ability to surprise, said Cisco, as we sat. What are you surprised by? asked Wendy. We think weve just discovered that one of our roomies is queer, said Cisco.

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Really? she asked. We didnt have any queers in Dadeville. Im not sure Ive ever seen one. Oh, I bet you have, said Cisco. They just might be a little reluctant to raise their hands. But when we came in our roomie Stoney was holding hands with some guy. His name is Michael. Hes in Stoneys math club, I said. He prefers to be called gay. I can deal. And? Cisco asked. Hes bright. Well-educated. Went to one of those up-east prep schools. Andover, maybe? Or Tabor? Stoney went to Lawrenceville? Yep. Did you say Dadeville? I asked, turning to Jessie. Why yes. I did. Dadeville, Alabama? I asked. Why, yes. You know of it? she asked. I do. Do you by any chance know a girl named Beatriz Fonesca? Why, sure. We were at Wadley High together. Dark-skinned Brazilian girl. There was a pause. Kind of different. And you know, I know shes here, but I havent run into her. Neither, it appeared, had she made any effort to look Beatriz up, since they both lived in the Branscomb quad. I alternated between listening to Milton blather to Wendy about Existentialism and Cisco charm Jessie. I didnt think I was going to be friends with either woman. And Cisco was right about Wendy and Milton. He got there, but it took ten days, so I owed Cisco twenty, but not forty. If you win them all, youre not betting enough. Cisco broke up with Jessie immediately after he got the news about Milton and Wendy. I cant remember the pretext he used but he said she was a tremendous bigot, and he was surprised to find he didnt like having sex with a bigot. Great in the sack, of course, but it turns out Im a liberal, he said. Who knew?

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Chapter 38: Pool and an Odd Concatenation of Circumstance: No Checks, and if You Dont Like Math, Just Skip Over the Equations A few weeks later, and we are into Spring of 1975 by now, we went to House of Pizza for our Math Club meeting but it was closed. It was a warm spring evening and the leaves on the trees were just budding in. There had been a thunderstorm earlier in the day but the sky was clear now. But the door to House of Pizza was locked. We hung around until everyone showed up. Stoney and Michael were still focused on each other but not to distraction, the way straight couples so often are. Beanie and Cecil showed up, and figuratively scratched their heads. Leah was the last to show up, but still early. Why would thy close like this? asked Cecil. Well, its Good Friday, said Leah. Oh, shit! Sunday Easter? asked Raheem. Sure, she said. So where are we going to go? Macks? I asked. Michael and Leah both winced. Ciraccos? asked Raheem. Beers too expensive, said Cecil. Oh, you caint fret the little shit, said Raheem. You Episcopalians are all the same, said Cecil. I take umbrage at that, said Leah. What about Annies? Like it, said Raheem. Oh, perfect! said Michael. The rest of them nodded. We had a solution. Ah, shit, I said. Whats wrong? Stoney asked me. Nothing. Lets go. Nobody else needed a ride, so Stoney led Michael and I back to his car and we returned to our seats. On the way back to Annies he and Michael were discussing the Equal Rights Amendment with some intensity. I couldnt hear what they were saying, exactly, but it seemed like they were both in favor.236
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The Equal Rights Amendment was passed by Congress in 1972. To become part of the Constitution, three quarters of the states legislatures, or 38 states, must approve. To date 35 have done so. It has never been clear to me why this was controversial, but it still hasnt passed. It came up in Virginia in 2011, but their House said no.

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We got to Annies before the others. Michael seemed to know where it was and gave Stoney very precise driving directions. We had no trouble finding a parking place. Biggie was at the front door, carding people who looked too young.237 Hi, Henry. Hi Michael. Said Biggie. Hey, Bigness, Michael answered. Anything going on? Biggie was still enormous, and dressed all in black. He was wearing cowboy boots that had these odd silver wraparounds on the toes and heels. Interesting ornamentation, but one wonders whether the workers for whom the boots were named would have thought of this advance. Not for you, so far as Ive noticed, Biggie answered. Henry, theres a crazy drunk chick here whos going to notice you if you play pool. Why? I asked. Call it a hunch. Donnies here but not playing. Biggie said to me. No big players tonight but I think youll remember that we dont hold much with big-time gambling here. Me, I love it, but my boss, he dont. Im not here to gamble, I said. We jut want some burgers and a table to have a meeting.: Knock yourself out, said Biggie. We walked in. I looked around. Well, hello, I said to myself. Melissa, the pretty redhead from Hixson, was at pool table no. 1, playing Beatriz. Milton was at table no. 2, playing a slightly sloppylooking but attractive woman, doing his best to look down her blouse. She was wearing red high heels with ankle straps and showing lots of cleavage but the first thing you noticed about her was that she was playing with a beautiful cue stick. It was a two-piece stick inlaid with a beautiful floral vine pattern. It looked familiar. Melissa, too, was playing with a finely made and intricately inlaid cue stick. Hers had a fiery demon inlaid on the heel end of the barrel. Thats Max, I said. Melissa, who was lining up a shot, answered back Mais oui!, then she looked up and saw who I was and stood up straight in a friendly way and seemed happy to see me. Henry! At the sound of her voice Beatriz noticed also noticed me and hopped off her stool to wave at me excitedly at first, and then retreat to her cute little wave. I smiled at her and waved back. A few seats down at the bar, Rob and Toni were bickering about
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InTennessee in 1974, the drinking age was 18. The bar was low, and the police in Nashville had a Devil-may-care attitude towards enforcement, so the only vendors who got busted for selling to minors were convenience stores that sold beer to middle-schoolers.

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something. They were too focused on each other to notice me or anyone else. I walked over to Melissa, although Beatriz was also standing nearby. At your service, I said to Melissa. I tried to do a kind of courtly bow thing. Not sure how good it looked. I was trying to figure out, if she had Donnies cue stick, what that meant about the state of their relationship, but then Donnie his own self showed up. Henry. He said. He made no attempt to feign enthusiasm. Donnie, I said. Or was it something else? How about you call me Don and I call you Asshole? he asked. He was watching that woman play Milton. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, and it looked like Milton was trying to teach her how to play nine ball. She had that beautiful custom cue It had a French phrase lettered in mother of pearl up the barrel. I said something polite to Beatriz. Milton, one table over, heard my voice and looked up. He waved. Isnt that the stick Texas had the night we played cutthroat? I asked Donnie. Oh, yeah. No mistaking it. Saw it right away. And that woman cant play worth shit, Donnie said. Anything going on tonight? I asked. No. I am not hustling a single soul. I even loaned Mel my cue. But your pal Milt is such a fuckup that its really, really hard not to just walk over and take all of his money away. A guy whos that much of a mark ought to stay away from places like this. Hes smart, but stupid, I said. I know the type, he said. Donnie lit a Marlboro from a Bic disposable lighter and shook his head. How much you think hes got on him? he asked, player to player. I dont like her having that stick, I said. Im with you, Donnie said, then thought better of it. I mean, I despise you and think youre dog shit, but I appreciate the sentiment. The cues current owner had long dark hair with heavy blonde streaking, and when she lined up shed cock one knee so her ass would stand way up then sight her shot by looking straight down the cue low to the table so that her hair was on the felt, then shed look down the cue with one heavilymascaraed eye, then smile confidently to herself as if to say Oh, yeah. I got this shot nailed. Then shed take her stroke and absolute chaos would ensue. Despite the delivery, she had no skill and no aptitude. Occasionally shed sink one by a random

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collision but she was as inept as a pool player could possibly be. A kindergartner on a footstool would do better. Milton was only marginally better, so it was painful to watch. How am I going to get that cue off her? I asked Donnie. He thought for a few seconds. You generally roll with a pretty hefty wallet, he shrugged. She aint got no money. Shes been going home with losers. Maybe shell sell it to you. I shrugged. Not a bad suggestion. So I put fifty cents on the rail to buy the next game with the winner. The problem was, she was so horrifically awful that it looked like I might be playing Milton and wouldnt have a chance to talk to her about the stick. I took out my wallet and handed Donnie a twenty. Whats this for? he asked, frowning. I have no interest whatsofuckingever in playing you for money. Look, go buy enough shots off of her that she wins the game, I said. That way I take the next game and can talk to her about the cue. Otherwise I have to follow her around and shit. He watched her fuck up another shot. Fifty, he said. Oh, fuck that, I said. To sink four or five shots? You can do that on your head. Pal, hustlings about advantage. I have it. You want that cue, I can help you get it. Fifty. Its worth forty times that. Fuck you, I said. I gave him a Grant and an unpleasant expression and he handed me back the twenty. Biggie, who was watching us carefully, frowned at me. I smiled back. Bud, since you dont hustle, let me add some fabric to this, Donnie said. We mix in a few bought shots from me and a few from Mel to make it look legit. You got a girl here? Not really, I said. Yeah, well, he said. To him there was no surprise in the fact that I had no girlfriend. Why are we doing all this fabric, I think you called it? I asked.

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To convince the onlookers its real. If anybody watching table gets the feeling that somebodys cheating, it turns bad. Doesnt even have to be the player. When youre hustling, you have to sell the hustle to the whole room, not just your opponent. Youre a lone wolf asshole, so you dont know the basics. Convince the onlookers its real. Got it? Got it. Donnie bought the next few shots off of her, but she wouldnt just take the quarter or fifty cents regulars would take, she demanded a dollar for the first shot and two dollars for the second, and then smilingly said she wanted his underwear for the third. Melissa was nearby and frowned. Donnie said hed pass. He never looked at me, though. She scattered balls everywhere. Milt was lining up a shot when Rob and Toni showed up abruptly on either side of me. What are you doing here? she asked. Math Club usually meets at House of Pizza, I said, with a sigh. Its closed, so we came here. Toni nodded silently. Melissa bought a shot for a quarter. She was better than when Id seen her play in Hixson, and I noted that observing her lean over the table was still distracting to the males who were present. This game ought to be easy, Toni said, staring intently at the table Its just masses and vectors. Want to give it a try? I asked. She shrugged. I bought Miltons next shot. I put a dollar on the rail, which caused everybody to look at me. I waved at Milton. Okay, I said. Look, usually when somebody buys a shot they like the way it looks and want to take it. Here, my friend Toni here is new to pool, so shes not likely to make this shot, so this is an experiment and I think we ought to pay a little more. People nodded. Toni looked around the table. I handed her my cue. She put it down to line up a shot, but didnt understand how to hold the cue. I showed her. Her eyes and hands were surprisingly steady. She had her fingers wrapped around the barrel of the stick in a way that I disapproved of, but Id corrected her enough. For a first-timer, she seemed pretty confident. She took a bead on the four and just stroked it in. I forgot. Its Toni. She doesnt see or interact with the world the way I do. Well done, I said. Yeah sure, she said, dismissively. I couldnt count on her to screw up, so I couldnt buy shots from Milton and hand them to her. Donnie noticed, too, and cocked an eyebrow at me. I shrugged. I understood it, but there was no way to explain. Maddening as she was, Toni was an extraordinary mind.

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Focused as I had been, Id lost track of my Math Club pals. I looked around, and Stoney and Beanie were playing what looked to be eight ball two tables over, with Michael and Leah looking on. Cecil was standing at the bar end of our table, just out of the light, watching Milton play the woman with the cue I wanted. Cecils eyes looked sharper than usual. Without seeming to orchestrate anything, Donnie managed to move people in and out, buying shots and making problems, in a way that made it more likely that the woman with the cue would win the game. Once, after Milton had fucked up six shots in a row, Cecil took pity on him, bought a shot and hammered in the six for him like he knew what he was doing, then gave me a look that suggested that he knew something was up. He didnt say anything, and so far as I know he and Milt werent friends. I looked over at Biggie and he scowled at me. I decided I needed to talk to him. Look at her cue, I said, when Id crossed the distance. Yeah, its pretty, taking a drag from his Camel. That money game with me and Donnie and Texas that got me in so much trouble? I said. Yeah? Texas was playing with that cue. He nodded sagely. She shouldnt have it, I said. He gave that kind of nod of the head coupled with an almost shrug that says Yeah, I guess youre right. So I want to get it from her. I said. He nodded again, but then cocked an eye at me. That cues worth some money, he said. It is, I agreed. No big stakes gambling here, said Biggie. I just want to offer to buy it from her. He looked at me. He pitched his cigarette butt out the front door without looking, then looked at the woman with the cue consider but reject several shots. Biggie drained his beer, then retrieved a pouch of Red Man from his hip pocket and placed a good wad in his cheek pouch. It took him several seconds to get his chew adjusted. Roys not here tonight, said Biggie, looking at the woman with the cue as she hiked her ass and dropped her head into another disastrous shot. Cool. Im not trying to cause trouble, I said.

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I gotcha, he said, chewing his wad. He spat into his now-empty beer can. Heres the deal. She and I are friends. Good friends? I asked. No, not really. He chewed his tobacco contemplatively. About once a week, when she hasnt picked up anybody else and is still in here when we shut the place down she grabs on to me and I take her home and she fucks my eyes out. I aint got no illusions. Im sittin here some nights when she leaves with other guys, too. But, boy, she is a wildcat, he said, appreciatively. Of course, I always wear a rubber. God knows whats goin on in there. I just want the cue stick, I said. I want to buy it from her. I dont want to gamble for it. Yeah, okay. Just dont make any legends that will get me in trouble, he said. Thanks, I said. A few minutes later she finally managed to sink the nine and I was up. I waved at Milt, and he disappeared to another part of the bar. I took my fifty cents from the rail and used it to free the balls. They made their familiar clattering thunk. Hey, I said. Im Henry. Who are you? Im Kundry, she said, as I racked for nine ball. Who breaks? she asked. You do, I said. She smiled and lined up. She cocked her ass up the way shed been doing but didnt bring her face down the table. She made a little teepee out of her fingers at the rail and clobbered the cue ball with her stick. Her break was pretty good but nothing went in. Nice cue stick, I said. I tried for the one ball but missed by a hair. Slow roller with a bounce at the end. Oh, yeah? Kundry asked. She slammed without looking and scattered a bunch of balls and, miraculously, the one ball went in. She took another shot, and Im not sure the cue ball even collided with another ball. Yep, I said,. I was about to take my shot at the two when Melissa stepped forward and handed me Donnies cue stick. It felt good. I looked at the inlaid demon. I wasnt sure about the propriety of this. I gave Melissa a look of thanks, but then looked over my shoulder at Donnie, who shrugged. Melissa smiled that smile of hers, and then I took my shot. Lord, that stick felt good. Id never shot with a premium cue stick before. I always used the ones from the wall. This was straight, heavy, solid and oh so smooth.

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Never felt anything like it. Oooooo,238 I said, appreciatively, and Donnie and Melissa both smiled. I had to concentrate. I sank the two, then had a no trouble with the three. Unfortunately, I could tap the four but not sink it. I think Ive seen your cue before, I said to Kundry. Oh, yeah? she said, taking another random shot that accomplished nothing. A guy from Texas had it, I said, rolling in the three. Soft tap. Good shot on the four. Yeah, that was Carl, she said. Carl? I asked, and tapped in the four. The five was guarded pretty hard by the nine. I moved it but didnt try to sink it. Yeah, yeah. Carl Klingsor, she said, impatiently. She mis-shot and table scratched, bouncing balls around randomly, but the likelihood that she knew what table scratch meant was minimal to nonexistent and I didnt want to try to explain so let it pass. In the background Donnie moved as if preparing to say something. Melissa kind of nudged him with her hip by way of telling him to be quiet, perhaps under the misapprehension that I was being chivalrous. How much do you want for that cue? I asked her, and coaxed in the five. I was a little off my game, but she wasnt getting anything at all so it really didnt matter. A lot, she said. How much? I asked, and then just barely made the six. The seven was almost impossible, so I tapped it and the cue ball, with some roll English, into the center of the remaining balls in a way that gave her no shot. She giggled. He had these long earrings that looked like real goldstrands that looked like little pipes separating large gold beads. The strands swayed and clacked together as se bent over her shots, and looked like they were heavy enough to tug at her ear lobes when they moved. They looked expensive and really old, like archaeologically old. She stroked off a meaningless shot that came nowhere near the seven. Donnie made a noise and again I waved him off. Two hundred and fifty dollars, she said, suddenly and proudly. Thats what you want for the cue? I asked. Yeah! she said, challenging. She had this smirk. Done.
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It rhymes with you.

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I took out my wallet and placed two hundreds and a fifty on the rail nearest to her. She was startled at this and showed it with a smile. But she didnt take it. The only way to the seven ball was a really hard bank shot. I was out of practice, so I left it right at the lip of the right corner on the headspot end of the table. Any idiot could sink that ball, but most idiots would scratch on the shot she had. I want to tell you something about the game of pool, I said. Okay, Master Po,239 she said. Donnie snorted. You have a great shot on the seven, but if you hit it the way youve been shooting the cue ball will roll in right after the seven, which is what we call a scratch, and you dont want that. I know that, she said dismissively, knowledgably. So what pool players do is put English on the ball. Milton, you listen up, too, I said. He came forward, looking befuddled. If you hit right at the center of the cue ball, it will keep rolling after it collides with the six, but if you hit it cleanly under the center of the ball, it will tend to stop or even back up after the collision. No, she said. Cross my heart and hope to die, I said. Try it. She leaned way over to make her shot, and, under the guise of getting a closer look at it Milton circled the table to look down her blouse. She slapped it kind of hard, but not square. She hit it strongly but not accurately. The cue ball rolled true but it had so much bottom left English that it not only bounced back from the seven, which caromed off the corner of the pocket and spat back onto the table, but then the cue ball, charged with tons of bottom left English, careened off of the side rail and bumped into the eight. Lordy. Good shot, I said. Thanks, she said, smiling at me and licking her lips. At this point both Beatriz and Melissa stood up from their stools and crossed their arms across their chests. Milton crossed back to my side of the table and managed to burn his fingers lighting a cigarette on the way. Man, are you going to leave your dough laying on the table that way? he asked. Lay, lie. My mother was strict about this. Yes. Wow, he said, in amazement.
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A Kung Fu reference.

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Its still her shot, I said. His eyes brightened and he positioned himself to improve on his view. I looked at Kundry. She wasnt lining up a shot. She had the heel of Texas cue on the floor, with her leg wrapped around it like a wisteria vine, the rest pressed close to her, and she had her left thumb against her front teeth. She was smiling at me. I like this cue stick, she said. I bet you do, I said. It was her shot, but she was making no move to line up. She stared at me for a few seconds, acting alluring. You know, it either works or it doesnt. Im not a football fan, but I like the delay of game penalty. Le doute nest pas une condition agreeable, mais la certitude est absurde, I said. She frowned. Whats that? she asked. Thats what your cue says. I dont speak what was that, German? she asked. French, I said. Whats it mean? To doubt is an uncomfortable position, but certainty is absurd, I said. Kundry looked at the phrase inlaid in the cue, puzzled. Not sure what he meant by that. She looked at the inlaid phrase for a few seconds. Carl was through here a couple of months ago, she said. He was a little down on his luck. Said he was going to give up on life on the road and go back home to Texas. Some stupid little town. Lumken. Lufkin. Munchkin. I dont know. He was gonna take the money he had left and go home to get a job at a paper mill. His father and his uncle and some of his cousins all worked there. There was a long-ish pause. Beer bottles clanked, pool balls clacked, and Kundry remembered. And? I asked. Her voice had been dropping, in support of a batting-theeyelashes routine, so that no one but me could hear what she was saying. She slid over as though to tell me something even more secret. Yo, that game over? asked Donnie, loudly. Up the cool, Donnie, I answered. Were still working.

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So Carl was in here one night, she said, and I met him, and he won some money, but not much, she said, kind of re-starting her story. And I took him home, and he was feeling down, and there was something he really, really wanted me to do for him. She giggled softly. And so I asked him how bad he wanted it and he said bad enough to do anything and I said enough to give me that cue stick and he said but its really special and I said if youre going back to Lufkin you wont need it to work at the paper mill and he said but he really liked it and couldnt ever part with it and then I did something that he liked and he really, really wanted me to finish and now its mine. Your shot, I said. She smirked at me, but then looked back at the table. Im not sure I want your money, she said. The eight was an easy shot, and she was lining up to take it. Milton positioned himself to observe, and appeared to be staring down her cue stick as seriously as if watching Kasparov play Fischer in chess. No. Wait. Dont take the eight, I said. Donnie snorted, and Melissa frowned at him. She was still standing. As was Beatriz. Why not? she asked, curling the tip of her tongue to touch her upper lip. This is nine ball. You have to take them in order. The seven is next, I said. Really! she said, looking at the table again. Well, shit. It doesnt matter what else happens, I said, but the cue ball needs to strike the seven before it hits the eight or the nine. Wow, this really complicates things, she said, still looking at the table. You can still keep the $250, give me the cue, and walk, I said. She thought about it. I dunno, she said. She was looking at the table absent-mindedly. $350, I said. Her head snapped around, and I knew Id made a mistake. Wanted it too bad. She knew I needed it. She smiled happily, and was as pretty as Id seen her. To Miltons delight, she leaned over and took a shot at the seven. She missed it, but it was a decent attempt. I started lining up the shot on the seven, an easy one even though I was rusty. I have a different proposition, she said. Okay, I said, standing to listen.

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Well play another game. Im a pretty lucky girl, but in the off chance you win, you get the cue. I win, you have to do something to make me happy. She smiled invitingly. What about the stakes for this game? I asked. Well, you win, Ill be glad to go home with you, she said. All right. So in this game, if I win, I can take you home. In the next game, if I win I get the cue stick, and if you win, you can take me home? I asked. Oh, that sounds so fun! she said. I dropped the seven, the eight and the nine. Game over. Kundry kind of jumped up and down and clapped. Lets rack, I said. Milton moved forward to do the honors but Donnie waved him off. Just as well. No way Milton knew how to rack for nine ball. That demon cue stick Donnie and Melissa had loaned me was simply beautiful. I balanced it on my index finger. It was so perfectly round and straight that I could roll it back and forth along my finger without losing balance. I kind of twirled it majorette-style and snapped it into my left palm to chalk it. While I was doing so, Beatriz kind of shuffled over and got close to me, then, standing next to me, grabbed a pinch of the fabric of my shirt to pull me over. How are you, Henry Baida? she asked, softly. Im doing well, Beatriz, how are you? I am well, Henry, thank you very much for asking. I wish to alert you to something. I am not sure you are aware of this, but from another womans perspective, it appears that this woman Kundry has sexual designs on you. Its very nice of you to think so, I said. No really? I think this woman Kundry believes that you have a bet with her that is secured by a promise of sexual favors. From you to her. This is highly irregular. Actually, thats not as rare as you might think. So youve done this before? Not exactly like this, I said. And what did you bet for, Henry Baida? It was for something important. And you love this stick? she asked.

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Love isnt the right word, but its not right for her to have it. And what was it on the previous occasions? she asked. Something important, like I said. Yes? Cigarettes, I said. You smoke? she asked. No, I never have. You are a strange and mysterious man, Henry Baida, she said, and returned to her stool. Donnie had racked the diamond perfectly. I twirled his perfectly-balanced, two-piece, high gloss, inlaid pool cue again and was about to ask Kundry if she wanted to lag when Toni spoke out in a loud voice. Henry, she said. Yes Toni? Explain gambling. Does the fact that you just won mean you have to fuck her? she asked. No, I answered. Why not? she asked. I think it does, said Kundry. I had to think how to phrase my answer to Toni. When you win, you win rights. Its when you lose that you have duties. I won. I dont get it, she said. Think about it while we play, I said. Rights and duties. The right to collect money. The duty to pay. Betting isnt math. Theres no equal sign in the middle. Its just a way of playing with money. And whatever else you want to play with. That didnt come out right. She nodded and thought to herself, frowning. Well, if youre not going to do me because of the last game, dont you have to go home with me if I win this one? asked Kundry, close to my ear.

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If thats what you want me to do, I said. You said I had to do something to make you happy. She smiled with an adolescent-looking innocence. But you have to beat me first. I smiled back at her. Im pretty lucky, she said. If I asked you if you wanted to lag, would you know what that meant? I asked her. She smiled a surprised smile and came even closer. No! What would lagging me involve? she asked, softly. Never mind. Your break, I said. Beatriz, Melissa, and Toni were all semi-near the pool table, standing straight up, in their jeans and various cotton tops, with their arms crossed, frowning at the table and tapping their toes. Kundry lined up for her break, misaligned with an un-chalked, if beautiful, cue and cracked the diamond weakly, so that the balls didnt much scatter. I had no shot whatsoever that would sink the one ball, but I could hit it, so I did, softly. It occurred to me that Id missed a step. I walked over to Biggie. As I did, Cisco came through the front door in a casual stroll and a pink polo shirt with a little alligator on the left side. Hey Henry, he said, nonchalantly, and continued on to the bar without pausing. Hey, big man, I said to Biggie. It just occurred to me that I offered to buy that cue but she wants to play me for it, which is not what I told you I was going to do. Plus, last time I was in here I promised Mr. King I wouldnt play any high-stakes games here. She wants to play me for that stick. I dont really view this as gambling because she cant play, but Im betting her for that cue, and its worth some jack. Yeah, but all she stands to gain is a few inches of your pecker, he said. So? That bets made in here moren youd think. Really? I looked at all the clean-cut college kids playing pool, lounging at the bar. Enough that we dont think of bets involving pussy as a high-dollar deal no matter whats on the other end, he said. Most folks who make that bet are playin to lose anyway. All right. I just dont want Uncle Roy thinking I went back on my word, I said. He did right by me. Youre cool, he said. He aint here tonight, but Ill tell him tomorrow what we talked about and how I told you it was okay.

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Thanks, big man. He gave me a Cub Scout salute and turned to spit through the front door and also to stop a pair of obviously drunk lance corporals from coming into the bar. I went back to the table, where everyone was still in their places from before my discussion with Biggie. I looked at the table. It was a mess, but Kundry had waited for me to return before taking her shot. I watched her line up on the five. You have to hit the one first, said Melissa, frowning at Kundry. Melissa pulled her long red hair behind her back with her right hand and kept it there for a few seconds as though held by a scrunchie. She was wearing black patent leather flats with crepe bows held on by gold buckles, jeans, and a black and white striped scoop neck elbow-length tee shirt. Kundry stood up and looked at her, confused. Since when was that a rule? she asked. Since forever, said Donnie, smoking a cigarette and standing behind Melissa. I never heard that before, she said, snappishly. She looked up. Biggie? In nine the cue balls first contact must be with the lowest-numbered ball on the table. Initial contact with any other ball results in a table scratch. You sure? she asked. I thought I had to sink em in order. Yeah, Ive seen you playin that way, but thats not what the rules say, said Biggie. But thats not the way we played the first game, she said. Henry has been letting you slide, said Biggie. Why would you do that? she asked me, smiling flirtatiously. She wasnt thinking this through. Dont want to be a stickler, I said. But Im supposed to hit the one first, not try and sink it first? she asked. Thats the rule for nine ball but we can play by any rules you want, I said. Lets make up our own game! Kundry ball! she said, brightly. Lets sink them in order, and hit whatever we want first. She sidled over to me and kind of rubbed her hip against mine, smiling at me. Biggie turned to eject his tobacco juice onto the sidewalk outside and shook his head dolefully. I looked over at Donnie and he was laughing to himself.

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Yes maam, I said. Whatever you say. I dont know if Kundry is an idiot, I didnt talk to her long enough to tell. But that rules-change deal was a bad decision on her part. Once you know how to shoot, the only thing that makes nine ball hard is that the first strike has to be to the lowest numbered ball. If it werent for that, any idiot could do it and it wouldnt be a game of skill. She made an incompetent attempt to sink the one off of the five, then I ran the table. I think that Donnies cue stick made up a little for the fact that I was out of practice. Everything I wanted it to do, it did. Id always avoided custom sticks because when I walked into a strange bar I wanted to be just a drifter, not label myself a shark. Buy boy, I could see the appeal. I called the nine. Nine ball, near corner, I said. Donnie and Biggie both laughed briefly. There was a much easier way of getting the nine. Well, rats, she said. Melissa, Toni, and Beatrriz, one by one, sat back on their stools and took sips of their beers. Still the high priest, said Donnie. The what? asked Toni. Henry Baida, high priest of the church of straight lines, said Melissa. Stoney walked up and noticed the $250 on the table. He picked it up and looked at it, as though it were a curio in a gift shop, then put it back on the rail. What? asked Toni. Oh, thats just what we called him back home. He impressed a bunch of guys in a bar one night, and then got arrested for knocking out my boyfriend. Toni looked at Donnie. You? she asked him, No, no, no, shaking her head so that her red curls fluffed out a little. Henry would never hit Donnie. This was the guy I was dating before. You been gambling? Stoney asked me. After a fashion. Michael showed up with two mixed drinks and gave one to Stoney. Beatriz seemed to recognize Stoney, but Stoney did not seem to notice her. So do you really want my cue? asked Kundry. Yes maam, Im afraid I do.

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But I dont want to give it to you, she said. A waitress showed up with a drink on a tray for Kundry. White Russian for the lady. Oooo! My favorite! From you? she asked me. I pointed to Biggie. She gave him a shy smile and crooked her pinkie at him as she took a sip. The cue, I said to her. So you dont want to take me home? she asked, pouting slightly and draining her drink. The waitress, who was maybe five feet tall and solid, took her glass away and went to get her another. Biggie had apparently given her instructions. Not tonight, thanks, I said. I need to make sure somebody gets home safely, if she doesnt have a date. Toni scowled at this and looked around to see if she could figure out who I might be talking about. You could come over tomorrow night then. I promise Id make you very, very happy, she said, as a second White Russian showed up. You could lag me, if youd do something for me first. Some other time, maybe. Id just like the cue. She knocked back the next drink in a gulp. So are you a homo? she asked me. No, thats me, said Michael. Heres the deal, though, I said. You keep the $250. And if you have the case Texas carried this cue around in, Ill give you an extra hundred for that. I put down a another Grant. She frowned suspiciously at this and the waitress took her empty glass away. What? I asked. Nobody does this, she said. What? Is nice after they win a bet. Im not being nice. I promised Mr. King I wouldnt do a certain kind of gambling, and this way I didnt gamble for it, I bought it, so Biggie and Donnie can tell Mr. King that and I wont be in trouble next time I come in here.

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Donnie nodded appreciatively. Thanks, dick-head, he said. I put another hundred on the rail. She looked at the money for a second, then seemed to laugh to herself as she pounced on it like a cat pounces on a mouse, looked at it, turned on her heel and shoved the money into her pocket as she walked away. The case? I asked. She waved vaguely towards table number four. Over there somewhere, she said. I found it. Donald? I said. Asshole? he answered. Chalk it up. Lets play. Dollar a game. He smiled and put a dollar on the rail. Your break, I said. He smiled. Melissa handed him his cue as I racked. Come on Max, he said and clobbered it. The one rolled in. Ill be dipped in shit, said Milton. At least he now understood the rules. All right Max, he said to his cue stick. What do you want? Why do you call it Max? asked Toni. Rob stepped back into the shadows. She was using her argue tone of voice, undetectable to outsiders but obvious to Rob and me. Guy I won it from said this little guy is a devil named Maxwell, said Donnie, showing her the inlay in the barrel of his cue. Thats not what he said, said Toni, tapping her toe and glaring at him. How would you know? he asked. It doesnt matter how I know. What he told you what that the red image was of Maxwells Demon. Donnies face brightened. Ill be a son of a bitch, he said, nodding agreeably. You know, I think youre right. Thats exactly what he said. He sank the six off the two and then the three. He was playing well. Now how in the hell would you know that? he asked. You won that from Mustard Nathan, she said. Did you say Mustard? asked Michael. Yes. Donnie was re-chalking and looking at the table.

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I do love a pithy nickname, said Michael. Mustard? asked Donnie. He told me his name was Jon. He tried to explain who Maxwells Demon was but you wouldnt wait, she said. So you were there? he asked. He lined up the four and tried to tap it into the side pocket but was a hair too thin on the slice and it barely bounced off of the rail. No, but he told me all about it. He told me he offered to make good on the bet by giving you a check. No checks, Donnie and I said in unison. I tapped in the four, then turned the other way to clock in the five with enough stop English to bring it way back down the table to give me a good shot on the six. The new cue felt great. As good as Max, maybe better. The tip was a little rounder than I like, but not by much, and I could replace that. It was the exact right weight and smooth as polished marble. So why wouldnt you let him explain? she said. About what? Donnie asked. Maxwells Demon. He and I were dating, sort of, freshman year. Thats a very special pool cue, she said. I agree, said Donnie. So why didnt you let him explain? she asked. Its not really a good idea to hang around after youve won that kind of bet, he said. I got the six but the seven was hiding behind the nine. I managed to tap it, but couldnt sink it. Why not? she asked. It was kind of hard to follow what she was talking about, because I kept trying to focus. Why not what? Donnie asked. Why not listen to him explain about Maxwells Demon? asked Toni. You just dont wait around, Donnie said, and shrugged. Why? she asked. Mustard might have friends, I said.

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So you tell me about Maxwells Demon, Donnie said. I dont think I can. Okay, said Michael. So the Second Law of Thermodynamics postulates that the world is moving towards a lower energy state. More entropy. Yeah, we get that even over in the School of Engineering, said Donnie. Dont be bitchy. Im an engineer, too, said Michael. John Clerk Maxwell here he paused to glance at Donnie, who nodded, did what Einstein would call a thought experiment, although of course Einstein hadnt been born yet. Maxwell imagined two compartments of gas, one hotter than the other, connected by a teensy aperture. Everybody knows that what happens is that eventually theyll be the same temperature and pressure. But Mr. Maxwell said imagine theres a tiny little demon sitting at the aperture and he has very quick fingers and hes able to block all of the slow-moving molecules from passing from the cool chamber to the hot chamber, so that what happens is that the cool chamber gets cooler and the hot chamber gets hotter. Reverse entropy. Why wont it work? Class? Stoney and I raised our hands. Henri? he called on me. Gaussian motion would make the demons hands shake too much to do the job. Prcisment! said Michael. But thats not what it was to Mustard, said Toni. To him it was an explanation for why the rules of the universe didnt always seem to apply. He said sometimes the rules of the universe seemed to crumble at the margins. He used to see things that didnt line up right. He was always looking for why. Maxwells Demon was important to him, and he wanted to explain it to you. Hmmmm. I looked back at the pool table. Familiar territory. Donnie did the seven, then the eight, whiffed on the nine, and I took it. I didnt deserve it. He put another dollar on the rail so we could play again. Thanks for the explanation, said Donnie. Interesting stuff. Wheres Mustard now? Hed racked the balls and Id chalked. He looked at me, and I broke. It was incredible. The one, two and three all rolled in. Fuck me with a live penguin, said Milt. Youre not going to claim that was skill? Donnie asked.

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Fuck no. But this thing is heavier and faster than Im used to, I said. Donnie nodded. Cecil and Raheem came over. Look, said Cecil. Looks like no Math Club, and Im hungry, and I feel a little outnumbered here, so me and Raheem are going to cut outnumbered here so me and Raheem are going to check out and maybe get an omelet at the Campus Grill. Wanna come? Hey, yes, thanks for inviting me, but theres too much going on here. Anything uncool happen? I asked.240 Naw, naw, they both said. I just wanna feel a little less exposed, said Cecil. Everybodys cool, were just getting outta here. Okay. Well Ill see you when I see you, I said. They left. It hadnt occurred to me that they wouldnt feel comfortable there, but I looked around and all the other faces were white. You dont see it when youre the same. So if a demon could control which molecules could get through a tiny aperture, how fucked up would the universe be? Donnie asked. Fucked up, but they say it isnt possible, she said. Why not? Not sure, she said. Brownian motion, said Stoney. I nodded. The bouncing of the molecules means they cant be still except at absolute zero, Stoney said. Michael looked at me and smiled. The demon couldnt exercise the necessary level of control because his fingers would be bouncing around too much, and the aperture is back to random. Are you Henrys friend Stoney? she asked. Yeah, sure, he said, extending his hand. And you are? Im Toni, she said. Oh, Ive heard about you, too, said Stoney.

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If you look at the 1974 yearbook, there are no black members of any of the white fraternities or sororities. Not one.

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I dont care what he told you, Im not crazy, she said. Donnie tapped the heel of his stick on the floor impatiently, and I turned my attention back to the table. I snapped in the four pretty easily but then the rest of them were all bunched up in a corner. Well, the other things he says about you are that youre gorgeous and that youre the smartest person he knows, so its not all bad, said Stoney. I didnt really have a shot but I tried to hit the five first but didnt, so table scratched, so Donnie took the five in hand. That gave him a great shot on the six. Henry, Im not the smartest person you know, said Toni. Donnie took the six and popped the seven in the side, but had a tough shot on the eight. He stood and looked at it for a minute. Yes you are, I said. No, Im not. Youre the smartest person you know, she said. Oh, for heavens sake, I said. You and Stoney both are smarter than me. Toni and Stoney looked at each other, surprised. Stoney lit a cigarette and took a sip of an amber colored liquid in an old fashioned glass. Donnie made a miraculous bank shot to drop the eight and a no-brainer on the nine, so gave him his dollar back and paid to drop the balls again as I talked to Toni. Melissa smiled at me. She was talking to a college girl wearing bright red checked bell-bottoms and a v-necked long sleeved tee shirt. Donnie was better than hed been the last time wed played, and I was pretty rusty, so we were very easily matched. If I may, said Beatriz. Donnie broke and scattered them, but nothing went in. I started picking them off. Yes? asked Toni. The three of you all have different kinds of intelligence. I stopped to hear this. Henry Baida understands what he is looking at better than you or you, she said, looking at them in turn. Group-friend Toni has a keen ability to see and describe the world in terms of her discipline. Whats that mean? asked Toni. And Stoney Jackson is more able to reason from what he knows into unknown territory than you or you. Im sorry, said Stoney, with a look of confusion. Have we met?

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Yes we have? she said, and raised an eyebrow speculatively, wondering if hed remember. What were we doing? he asked. As much as he did recreational pharmaceuticals, Stoney may have been more baffled by this situation than most people. Well, it started with a discussion of Russell Saunders Coupling, she began, then pause to kind of laugh behind her hand, and at the end of the evening, you dictated a twenty-seven step proof to Fermats Last Theorem, she said. That was you? he asked. She nodded and smiled, and appeared to be relieved that he remembered her. Youre right, she is pretty, said Michael. This is the guy you told me about? Toni asked Beatriz. The math guy with the enormous penis? Beatriz frowned primly but nodded. Yo, Elvis, said Donnie, to me. Your shot. I turned back to the table. It was all set up pretty good, and I was able to sink them all. Donnie gave me back the dollar and bought the balls. I had missed part of the discussion, but Toni had been quizzing Stoney on our summer with Mrs. W. But thats just what Henry said, she said, crossly. Im not sure that result varies much from expectations, Stoney said. Henry, dont you usually tell the truth? Sure, I shrugged. Henry Baida is honest, said Beatriz, like she was quoting something. Or so he says, said Toni, dubiously. Nah, thats not it, said Donnie. Id gotten the one ball in on the break but couldnt nail the two, and Donnie was running the table with clean precision. He took a few more shots. Well? asked Toni, impatiently, irritated by Donnie having something other than her to occupy her attention. Henry tells you the truth because he doesnt give a shit about what you think, he said. I wagged my head equivocally. He wasnt far off. He treats me the same way. We cant stand each other. Melissa laughed to herself. I certainly didnt care what Toni or Donnie either one thought of me.

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Donnie finished cleaning the table with an intentionally risky shot that only barely whispered in to the side pocket and would have given me a slam dunk if hed missed. Such a show off, I said. Is that something you pick up in a big town like Hixson? He ignored me. I gave him the dollar back and paid to drop the balls. Id never seen Donnie play so well. Maybe it was because girls were watching. Lots of times guys will show off when women are watching them, no matter what it is theyre doing. Donnie wasnt just getting in, he was rifling every shot so that the ball made noise when it hit the back of the pocket. But truth be told, so was I. The stick Id won off of Kundry was amazing in every way that an inanimate object can amaze. It was like owning a new German sports car. I could make shots I shouldnt have been able to make. After I racked I listened in on the conversation again. B.B., what was that thing about being able to see the world in my discipline? Toni asked Beatriz. Beatriz thought. Im not sure I can describe it better, but its like you can see the physics problems all around you? she said. No, I dont, Toni said, tapping her toe impatiently. Oh, yes you do, I said. Thats what makes you the smartest person in the room. She scowled at me dismissively. Donnie pounded a break that scattered the balls to all parts of the table but didnt sink anything. Dont get it, she said, in an irritated, sing-song voice. Donnie, hang on a second. Lets involve you in this thought experiment. Look at the table and tell me what you see. He looked. Nine ball, he said, with a sour expression. As an engineer, I said. He looked again, less sullenly. A set of objects that can be rearranged in a useful manner with the proper application of force, he said. Rob? I asked. A lot of random interactions that would be difficult to calculate, he said. Stoney?

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Um, something that would be hard to predict. So many variables. It looks like the singularity that we saw in Navier-Stokes might be one of the results, but Ive been watching you two play and you run the table over and over. Its amazing. Donnie and I thank you, but its not really amazing, its just practical, and the result of practice. Mathematicians dont practice. The engineers and physics majors all nodded their heads. What do you see, Beatriz? I asked. She frowned and thought for a few seconds. Henry Baida, I think I see a field of possibilities whose outcome depends on the vectors and forces applied. She paused and thought. I do not think I have ever actually played pool? she said. Thats okay. So Toni, what do you see? I asked. On the pool table? she asked. Yes, I answered. There were three balls left. Donnie, give her a few seconds. Shell need to study it. Michael, I didnt mean to leave you out, but my guess would be that you would see it the same as Donnie. Toni was scowling at the table, motionless for a few seconds. You are correct, monsieur, said Michael. Donnie was looking at Toni the way he might look at a girlie magazine. She was dressed in typical Toni fashion, bit I dont think I would have looked at her the way Donnie was looking at her with Melissa sitting nearby. What is the mass of a pool ball? Toni asked. Six ounces, said Donnie. I shrugged. They vary, but he was close. So 170 grams? she asked. More or less, said Donnie. Donnies an engineer. Engineers round off a lot, but they know their math. Toni stared at the pool table intently for several minutes without saying anything, in some kind of zone that shut out the rest of the world. We waited silently. What do you suppose shes thinking? asked Michael. Dunno, I said. But its lots of fun to get her to do it. What exotic pleasures you pursue, Monsieur Baida, Michael said. He took the cigarette from Stoneys fingers, took a drag, inhaled it deeply, exhaled gradually, took

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another drag to shoot a smoke ring over Tonis head, then gave the cigarette back to Stoney with a smile. Stoney smiled back at him affectionately. As small a gesture as it was, the casualness of their intimacy widened some eyes around the table.241 After maybe two or three minutes of silence, long enough for conversation to pick back up around the table, Toni snapped out of her trance. She looked at me and smiled, a big grin. She almost never smiled, at least not around me. Thats why I like you, Henry, she said. You get me to do that. Whaddya got? I asked. Everybody stopped talking to listen. Okay so lets call the white ball m1, the black ball m2 and the yellow and white striped ball m3. So first we calculate the gravitational attraction between m1 and m2, then between m2 and m3. Note that they look like theyre arranged as though they describe a right triangle, and my solution assumes they are. So this is a trig problem? Donnie asked. Wait, I said. Toni thought. So you remember your Newton? she asked. That the attraction of two masses is directly proportional to their masses and inversely proportional to the distance between them? Sure, said Donnie. So thats F = G

m1m2 she said. d2

I learned the denominator as r squared, but okay, said Donnie. Stoney cleared his throat. Newton was taking orbital mechanics so it was a radius, Stoney said. Here its just a distance. Gotcha, said Donnie. If you two boys could shut the fuck up, said Toni, back to her normal state of being pissed off, I could give you the answer, she said, shaking her head. And do you remember the constant of universal gravitation? she asked Donnie. Maybe, said Donnie, and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. G equals . he began, and paused for a while. It appeared that none of us knew it.
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Stoney and Michael are not brave, but they both had privileged upbringings that cause them to assume that the rest of the world is going to adapt to them. They are also not holding hands or engaging in any of the small physical expressions of affection that straight couples do. To do so in an unfamiliar could easily cause trouble in 1974. Things are better now, but the world is still full of places where Stoney and Michael would not feel safe.

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 6.673 1011 m 2 / kg 2 said Stoney. Donnie and Toni both looked at him, surprised. Hes smart, I said. More phallocentric bullshit, said Toni, shaking her head. So, assuming theyre, what, forty centimeters apart? Sure, roughly, said Donnie. So we get F21 = G

m2m1 (0.170kg )(0.170kg ) = (6.67 1011 m2 / kg 2 ) for 2 (0.400m2 ) d 21

the gravitational attraction between the white ball and the black ball and assuming the distance between the other two is exactly thirty centimeters we get

F21 = G

m3m1 (0.170kg )(0.170kg ) = (6.67 10 11 m 2 / kg 2 ) for the gravitational 2 (0.300m 2 ) d31

attraction between the nine ball and the unnumbered ball. Okay, said Donnie. So the net gravitational force exerted on the white ball she started. The cue ball, said Donnie. What is it about men that they cant ever resist telling you that they know more than you do? Toni asked, exasperated. So the net gravitational force on the fucking (3.75) 2 +.(3.21) 2 10 11 . cue ball is F = F212 + F312 or I could see Stoney start to do the calculations in his head. Deliberate, immediate, automatic. This would be a lot easier to calculate if billiard balls weighed 300 grams, he said. Toni wheeled angrily to snap at him but even as she raised her finger to wag it at him she froze. Youre right! she said, surprised.242
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Stoney was referring to the fact that if a ball weighed 300 grams the mass over distance part of the nine ball equation would be easier to solve. Since the ball is 0.3 meters away from the cue, the denominator, 0.32 , would equal .09. If the balls weighed 0.3 kilograms each, the product of multiplying the masses of the two balls youd also get .09 for the numerator, so the numerator and denominator would be the same so youre multiplying by 1 in your head, which is much easier to calculate than the way it works out with 170 gram balls. From my standpoint if billiard balls weighed 300 grams I would have been able to copy the entire goddamn thing straight out of my goddamn textbook, which assumed billiard balls weigh 300 grams rather than having to recalculate the entire goddamn problem to describe what happened at Annies.

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So its

1.8752 +3.332

or she started.

Three and a half Stoney began. Right.

3.5 +11 .

She looked at Stoney.

Shy of four, Stoney said. Right, she nodded, smiling at him. Youre really good. So the gravitational force exerted on the cue ball by the other two is 3.82 10 11 . Thats what I get, he said. She looked at him for a minute. Impressive, said Donnie. You guys can put your extraordinary mental abilities to bear to calculate an infinitesimally small number that just has no function in reality. But its genuinely impressive that you can do it. Can you do the vector? Stoney asked Toni. Not in my head. Id need a chart, she said. I can never remember the values for the trig functions. He nodded and finished his cigarette. So Stoney Jackson, said Beatriz. Stoney looked up at her and was probably trying again to remember who she was. Hi, there, he answered. You could do this problem in your head, just as group friend Toni could do? He thought for a few seconds. Im pretty good with calculations, but Im not sure I could have set it up exactly like that, surely not as fast as she did, and if I could have, I just dont see the world that way. Looking at the pool table, I wouldnt have seen a puzzle. I love all kinds of puzzles, but I usually dont see them in the world around me. I guess, Stoney said, draining his drink. Henrys right, though, its fun to observe. And if youll excuse me, I have to see a man about a dog, Stoney said, and left for the restroom. Hes wonderful, Toni said to me, and abruptly left for the ladies room. So should I be worried about this? asked Rob, slightly fretfully. Worried how? That shes going to run off with your friend Stoney, he said.

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Extremely doubtful, I said. Stoney seems to be batting from the other side of the plate lately. At this point Leah came by. She had Cisco with her. Hey, she said to Michael and me. It looks like were not going to get much Math Club stuff done tonight so Im going to go with my friend Frankie here to do something else. She had her arms around Cisco in a happy, kind of proprietary way. Id never thought much about her looks, but as she announced her departure she looked positively radiant. Yeah, sure, said Michael. Maybe a week from tonight, and House of Pizza will be back open? Sounds good. Ill get word around. She and Cisco left, arms around each others waists. I wondered if she knew Cisco and I were roommates. Lets play some pool, said Donnie. I looked back at the table. Still my shot? I asked. Donnie nodded. I picked off the eight and the nine. I did not notice any gravitational pull influencing the results of my shots. So I was right, Henry Baida? asked Beatriz. About what? I asked. About you and Stoney and Toni? she asked. Donnie put the dollar back on the rail and racked another game. Well, youre right about Toni, and youre right about Stoney, but I dont know about the other. I recognize patterns, but so do dogs and cats. She smiled and pointed at the pool table to redirect my attention. It was so much fun playing pool that night. I dont remember it being fun before. It had always just been what I was. Being right-handed isnt fun, you just are. In the same way, Id always been a pool player. But being rusty made it obvious that outcomes that varied from expectations were due to mistakes. No worry, low-stakes nine ball. A totally new concept. We gathered a crowd and paid no attention. After about an hour or so we switched to playing the other way, where you chip off single balls from the diamond rather than scattering them at the break. We played five or six games that way until Donnie just got tired of it and said Aw, fuck it, and clobbered the remaining balls, getting the next one in. Sweet. It was a fun night.

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Eventually it was time to go. We I unscrewed our cues and put them in their cases. Got a name? Donnie asked as I placed my new cue in its slightly worn case. You know, I generally dont give names to inanimate objects, I said. So you already have one, Donnie said. That was fast. How do you know this? I said. I have one, too. This is Max. His carrying case also had a small red demon on the outside. His was soft leather. Mine was hard aluminum, with a carbine strap. Yeah so I guess this is Voltaire, I said. He smiled. Later, asshole. He gave me a thumbs-up then gathered Melissa and left. As they walked out the door she looked back over her shoulder and waved and smiled at me. She had a nice smile. I was still looking at the new cue case when Beatriz appeared at my side, grasping a tiny part of my shirt sleeve. Au revoir, Henri, said Michael, with Stoney at his side, from across the table. They were leaving. I waved, and they waved back as they left. Henry Baida, a word? said Beatriz. Yes, maam. If you will point out the woman you intend to walk home tonight, I would appreciate it very much. I would like to have a few completely non-obtrusive words with her, she said. Beatriz I began. No, please, Henry Baida, let me finish. Beatriz, I was thinking I might walk you home, I said. She was startled, but didnt react as many girls would. Me? she asked. Why? I thought about how best to answer this. Because the two of us will be safer together than either of us would be alone. I said. I guess. She looked at me intently.

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Henry Baida, you are being useful and helpful. Your honor is to be trusted, she said. She had all this odd emphasis. In the King James Bible random words are italicized. Talking to her felt like that. So you ready to go? I asked. She nodded happily and we left. I gave Biggie a fifty as we left. Dont forget to tell Mr. King, I said. Im worried hell think I broke my promise. Ill tell him, but really, we just have to ignore bets for pussy around here, he said. Beatriz frowned at the floor at this. Otherwise wed have to get rid of the pool tables. Thats not exactly what happened, I said. Close enough, he said. Youre a gentleman and a scholar. Thanks, big man. He saluted and we left. We walked a few blocks in silence. I didnt really expect Beatriz to talk much. Right after we got to campus, though, she did. I was distracted because there seemed to be ten or fifteen unicyclists crossing against traffic on West End, all wearing Guy Faulkes masks, two blocks up. It was hard to see, but as they crossed the intersection against the light without getting killed, and I was about to point them out to her she said I understand that you are taking care of me by walking me home Henry Baida. You do? Si. And I like it. But I feel I must ell you, Henry Baida, something. Okay. I like boys, she said. Okay. But I dont want a boyfriend. Okay. She didnt say anything else. Why? I asked, after a few seconds of silence. I am terribly, terribly, terribly embarrassed . after. After what? I asked. She paused and seemed to glance at me worriedly several times before she answered, although it was dark and I wasnt looking straight at her so her expressions were hard to read.

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After I enjoy myself. Henry Baida, it may be that you are inexperienced in intergernder relations, but they can be fun. She paused to frown and look at me. So I hear, I said. Henry Baida, you do not seem to me to be motivated to seek out intergender relations. I thought. Mrs. W says something similar, I said. Im a loner. Si. I am unfamiliar with this Mrs. W, although I remember you mentioning her the last time we talked. I would say she knows you in that respect. What I want I dont think you understand, Henry Baida, but I need to try to explain it to you because I want to be your friend and do not want you to misunderstand my intentions. Okay, I said. We were walking slowly through the freshman quad.243 It was a mild evening and it was too early for mosquitoes. Henry Baida, I should also remember to say that I want you to let me know if anything I say makes you uncomfortable in any way. My therapists all say that I do not have strong boundaries myself and so do not recognize them in others. Okay, I said. So this conversation does not embarrass you, Henry Baida? she asked. Not so far, I said. What I want to tell you, I have never told a friend before. We are friends, Henry Baida. I think we are. Si? Si. You speak Potuguese? No. Spanish? No. Im okay in French and a form of ancient Greek. Passable Latin, I said. So you were answering me in Spanish?

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A recent map identifies the freshman quad as Kissam Quad. In 1974 it was called the freshman quad because only freshman men lived there.

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Si. Do you wish to converse in Spanish, Henry Baida? You said you do not know it, she said. No. She frowned at me meaningfully. I was misdirecting the conversation. You commented that you are a loner. I took this to mean that the prospect of a solitary life does not bother you? What I want to tell you is that I am not a loner. Most definitely not. I have never told a friend this before, Henry Baida, she said. Well, its easy to make friends in college, I said. Not for me. The other girls dont like me? But you seem to like me, Henry Baida. I do. I do not want a boyfriend, but I do not think you want a girlfriend. You are correct. I dont think Id be good at it, I said. I think you are wrong in this, Henry Baida? Oh? Yes, but perhaps this is something you should discuss with the mysterious Mrs. W. My point is that we have made friends and I wish to remain friends but if we were to become intergenderized, friendship would be impossible for me. And I would like to have a friend. Thats fine. Me, too. But you dont want friends? she said. I had to think. I dont think about myself a lot. Its not that I dont want friends, I said. Its just that when I dont have them I dont miss them, I guess, so I dont seek them out. But I like you. She nodded seriously to herself and we walked along in silence past the chain-link fences surrounding the Sarratt construction site. We walked in silence for a few seconds. She nodded seriously. Thank you, Henry Baida. I hope you can tell that I like you, too. We walked along in silence. So what do you like to do? I asked, after a few minutes. She seemed surprised at the question. She thought.

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I like to watch people, and think about what I would do if they were talking to me? she said, nodding. Thank you for asking, Henry Baida. You dont want to join in? I asked. Yes, very much? she said. Something dawned on me. But you cant? I asked. That is correct, Henry Baida, she said. I cant. She looked sad, but just for a few seconds. Who in her life was noticing when she was sad? We walked past the B house in silence. I am a good matchmaker? she said. Excuse me? I asked. While I am watching people I form ideas about who would be successful, intergenderally, with whom. My predictions have an extremely high success rate. How high? I asked. Henry Baida, it depends on your measurement criteria. Measured by one yardstick, 100%. That is whether they enjoyed each other. Based on another, 80%. That metric is whether they formed a relationship lasting six months. And longer than six months? I asked. I cannot say, Henry Baida. My first eight matches were less than seven months ago. Well, look for somebody for my friend Milton. He wants a girlfriend more than anybody I know. I saw him. Ginger hair, fuzzy beard. Smokes a lot, bothers girls a lot. Yes, clearly he needs a girlfriend. And you think he would be happy with her if he had one? Yeah. Hes, excuse my French, a fuckup, but hes not a bad guy. He was dating a girl for a while but he told her he was fluent in French and when she found out he wasnt she got mad, I said. Yes, well, a heavy smoker lying about his linguistic abilities to attract a mating partner does indicate a need for a girlfriend, she said. I think he and my suitemate Doris are well-suited for each other. She is slightly plump. He will like this. I will take care of this issue involving Milton and Doris, Henry Baida.

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Do they know each other? I asked. No. We were at the front door of Branscomb, the say goodnight place. Good night, Henry Baida. I am genuinely glad we had this talk. Me, too. Really? Are you sure? she asked. So often people say these sturdy conversational platitudes but do not mean them. No, no. Beatriz, I genuinely look forward to being your friend, I said. She seemed to be taken aback by my answer. She pulled her head back to look me in the eye, waited a few seconds, then if Im not mistaken, her eyes began to tear up. Henry Baida, that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, she said, and ran to the door so I wouldnt see her cry. She turned at the door and wiped her eye. See you later, alligator, she said, and disappeared into the dorm. Heavens. Wonderful and sweet, but crazy. I turned to walk around the corner to go back to my dorm. As I was about to turn into my dorm and I heard hoof-beats. I turned to look behind me. It was dark so it was hard to see, but it looked like a block back, in front of the engineering school, an old woman was riding past, bareback, on a zebra. Gone in a flash. I looked around. No witnesses. I sighed and went into my dorm. The door was locked. Remember, I had to go through Ciscos room to get to mine. I unlocked the outer door. I figured Cisco would be asleep, if he was there, so I quickly closed the door behind me. Id come in from the light and was mometarily nightblind, but a candle was burning near his bed. Henry! I heard Leahs voice exclaim. Its totally cool, said Cisco. Hes my roomie and tells no tales. Dont stop what you were doing. I stepped into my room and left them to it. Chapter 39: Picking Up the Pace

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The university experience is a blend of learning immense amounts of information, developing the critical faculty to ponder and analyze that information, and exposure to profound stupidity. To report more fully on my second year of college would include either boring stories about learning or repetitive stories about deep levels of stupidity. So lets skip it and jump to junior year. At the end of sophomore year Cisco organized a shift from our four person suite in McTyeire to a six-person suite in Carmichael. We added Michael as Stoneys roommate and Brian Wilmot from our freshman floor. It turns out he and Cisco were fraternity brothers244 and had remained friends. After the semester ended, Cisco drove me back to Chattanooga and I spent the summer with Mrs. W going over Einsteins relativity theories from several different directions. What shed explained to me the previous summer blossomed in many different vectors, but it wasnt a problem-solving education, the way the previous summer had been. She would give me things to read, then wed talk about them. We didnt have Clarence very often, but when we did, he was annoying. Hed changed books from Carlos Castaneda to something equally idiotic called The Tao of Physics and wanted to talk to me about it as though he understood what he was speaking about, which he didnt. He clearly missed Stoney. Stoney and Michael dropped by several times during the summer, always on the way to somewhere else. They dropped by in June before driving north to Detroit so Stoney could introduce Michael to his family. If Mrs. W was at all surprised that Stoney was now gay, she didnt show it. She had a kind of bemused look on her face as they clambered up to put their luggage in his bedroom. She liked Michael, and Michael liked her. Regarding my studies that summer in Chattanooga, my problem with Relativity was more a problem of sequence. By the time I came to understand Relativity pretty well I had also started to pick up quantum mechanics. In quantum, I had subsumed the idea that the what and the why were unknowable and that the exquisitely perfect math of the wave-form was all we had. Dont worry about the physical realitythere may not be a physical reality. The equations work extremely well. Just use them! one of my professors had said, and he seemed pretty smart in most other ways. Mrs. W didnt like that. She was of a different generation. Its called physics because it describes a physical reality. She never quoted the Einstein dice deal, but it was clear she didnt like expressing physical realities in terms of probabilities. Everything was somewhere. That we couldnt tell exactly where didnt mean that it wasnt somewhere. In July when Stoney and Michael were on their way to Marthas Vineyard to do something with Michaels family they stopped in and Clarence was there. He was so happy to see Stoney that it was almost pitiful. He was excited and bounding around like
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AE, which Beatriz told me had the reputation among sorority girls as being the coolest fraternity.

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a dog who hasnt seen its owner for six months. It would have been touching if Clarence werent such a pain in the ass. In the fall I showed up a little early to talk to Prof. Dannhausen, who was my advisor in my capacity as Physics major. He was pleased to see me. I understood Relativity and so wanted to leapfrog to the graduate level courses.245 He quizzed me closely and called in a colleague to quiz me further before giving me permission, but he did. One more course I wouldnt have to share with Toni and Rob.

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Baida! Come In! Thank you for dropping by! He always seemed to be neatly coiffed and wearing a turtleneck. In deference to the Nashville heat, todays turtleneck was black cotton. Hello, Dr. Dannhausen, I said. He gestured for me to sit. To what do I owe the pleasure? He asked. Because Im your advisor, Sam Dryksos kept me apprised of your progress in Quantum Mechanics, and he said you were genuinely impressive in your command of the wave-function. Not everyone grasps Heisenberg so well. You know, it makes sense as Math. Im a double major. I dont have to have a sense of whats going on to solve an equation. And its really amazing how precisely the equations work out, I said. Indeed. I presume something is on your mind? he said. Yes, sir. I spent the summer studying Relativity. And? he asked. I think I understand it pretty well. How well? he asked. Well enough that Id like to skip all the undergraduate courses and take the graduate seminar. My, my, my. He thought for a few seconds, then looked at me. You have an amazing mind but this would be a leap even for you. So, allow me? he asked. Certainly. Who did you read? he asked. Einstein. Rutherford. I have a friend who knew them both. We talked a lot. He thought a minute. Youre from Chattanooga, arent you? he said. Yes, sir. Margaret Wertheimer, he said. Yes, sir. What a lucky young man you are. Still. Lots has happened since 1940. Before I let you violate common sense, allow me to ask you a few questions. Of course. He stood to write on the blackboard behind his desk. Its been a few years since I delved into this, but a few months ago, I attended a lecture about the Reimann Curvature Factor, he said. Interesting stuff, I answered. 2 2 2 2 Okay so, if I recall, and here he wrote on his blackboard: ds = dx1 + dx2 + dx3
2 Sure. Straight Cartesian coordinates, I said. And Minkowski says you need to add a dx4 to make it four dimensional. Exactly! But you still dont have any intrinsic curvature, and youre going to want it. So you end up at and here Dr. Dannhausen started to work it out. 2 I think you end up at ds = g ik dxi dxk I said. He looked startled. Im sorry, Ive been thinking about this stuff a lot, I said. How do you get there? he asked, puzzled. If you spread out Reimanns four dimensional space you get 2 2 2 2 ds 2 = g11dx12 + g12 dx1dx2 + g 22 dx3 + g32 dx4 and then that solves down to ds = g ik dxi dxk , I said. He wrote it down and frowned at it. He picked up his phone and dialed four digits.

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So that semester I took all Physics and Math, except for one Greek course. The only one that Toni and Robb could also take for was one on advanced quantum mechanics. This seemed to disappoint Toni bitterly. She denounced Rob for not paying better attention and the university for allowing me to take a graduate-level Relativity course just because I was a man. Our rooming arrangements third year seemed straightforward at first but turned out to be baroque, albeit workably so. We were in a dorm named Carmichael West, tall and Bauhaus-ugly. There was another dorm that was also named Carmichael West, and I forget how we distinguished between them conversationally, but we did. A Carmichael West suite was occupied by six people of the same gender, at least theoretically. There were two doubles and two singles, a kitchen/common area, and a spacious tiled bathroom. In our suite I had one single, Milton had the other. I was surprised, given his proclivities, that Cisco hadnt wanted the other single, but he waved me off and said he had it all under control. Cisco chose Brian Wilmot, who, as noted, had been on our freshman dorm floor and was a fraternity brother of Ciscos, in as his roommate. Stoney and Michael had the other, smaller double. Next door on our floor in a stroke of luck that seemed impossibly broad was a group of six women organized by Beatriz. I hadnt realized she and her suitemates were going to be so close, or even who they were, until move-in day. I hauled my steamer trunk out of the elevator on the eleventh floor and she was standing there waiting for the down elevator. Hello, Henry Baida! How good it is to see you again. I hope you will not mind the proximity, she said. What kind of proximity? I asked. Do you live near here? This is my suite, she said, pointing right, and this is yours, she said, pointing left. We had adjacent suites on the same floor. But our proximity is likely to increase once Milton and Doris meet. I had no idea what she meant, but she was Beatriz. Well, its so good to see you again, Beatriz, I said. I liked Beatriz. How was your summer? Desparately loney and forlorn. Father Tom has left. Unforgivingly hot and humid. I think there were locusts. I could not find a job. Being back in college is much better. Good to see you. The elevator rang and the doors opened. She got on and waved shyly, pressed a button, then, as the doors began to close, she hopped off again and hid her shy smile with her hand. Henry Baida, I am so happy to see you again, she said. And I am happy to see you, Beatriz. At this point the doors to the other elevator opened to reveal Rob and Toni in mid-bicker. As they stepped off the elevator

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carrying boxes they froze mid-stride when they saw me standing there with Beatriz, my steamer trunk propped against my knee. B.B., what is Henry doing here? demanded Toni. Hello, group-friend Toni, said Beatriz. This is your door, she said, pointing to the right, and that is Henrys, she said, pointing to the left. Henry lives next door to us? Toni demnded. Yes, Beatriz answered. The chances against that are beyond astronomical, said Toni. Hello, Henry. At this point Michael and Stoney exited our suite, talking animatedly, came to the elevator and pushed the down button. They both said hello to Toni. Stoney, what are the odds that Henry and I would end up living next door to each other? Toni asked, looking at Stoney, expecting him to know. Oh, gosh. Henry actually knows statistics lots better than I do, he said. He wont tell me, she said. Actually I dont know whether I would have or not. So how many floors? Michael asked. Floors three through fourteen are occupied by students, but it doesnt matter, said Beatriz. On both of the two east towers? asked Michael, ignoring something I had heard. Si. So eleven floors of six person suites in each tower? asked Michael. Twelve, said Stoney. Floors count funny. Michael frowned, paused, and I could see him count on his fingers. How strange, Michael said. So twelve times six times two for total residents? Yep, said Stoney. A gross. How many eligible students? asked Michael. 4,500, assuming all eligible students are interested in rooming here, which theyre not, said Beatriz. For the first time since Id met her, Beatriz seemed impatient.

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So assuming 4,500 students applying for 144 slots. Michael began. A flawed assumption in too many ways for me to politely fail to intrude, said Beatriz, approaching exasperated. Beatriz, I interjected, you said the numbers didnt matter. Why was that? Thank you, Henry Baida. The numbers dont matter in a way. Your wonderful friends Michael and Thomas were prepared to calculate the odds as though this were a random event, but it wasnt random in any way. I wanted my friend Doris to live next door to Henrys friend Milton, so I have made that happen. The odds against it are large, although I would not characterize them as astronomical, she said, glancing at Toni, but as I understand probability, it applies to random events, and my actions took this out of the scope or randomness. Cool, said Stoney. The bell rang and the elevator arrived so Stoney and Michael left. Michael gave us a thumbs up as the doors closed. How did you arrange it? asked Toni. I have friends, Beatriz answered. Toni shrugged. See ya, Henry. See ya, B.B. said Toni, and made off for her own suite. Beatriz smiled sweetly at me and pressed her hands together but didnt say anything. She looked at me expectantly. So you have a nickname? I asked her. She frowned in concentration for a few seconds. Why, yes, Henry Baida, I do. Why do you ask? Because Toni calls you B.B. I said. Ah, well. That is not my nickname. No one except Toni calls me that? She looked up at me with her shy brown eyes. Toni has her own rules? she said. So what is your nickname? I asked. I was aware that we were spending a lot of time in the hall. I stood my trunk against the wall, as out of the way as it could be in front of the elevator doors. Aunt Dora called me Little-Ship-Under-Full-Sail. It was Juliette Gordon Lows great-graandmothers nickname. She lived for four years among the Indians when she was a child and this was the name they gave her, Henry. Do you mind if I call you Henry? Of course not. Were best friends. At this she seemed to tear up.

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You say the sweetest things, to me, Henry Baida. Henry, I said. Henry, she said, and touched my arm. So who is Juliette Low? I asked. She founded the Girl Scouts of America, she answered. And how did her great-grandmother come to be living with Indians for four years? I asked. This is an excellent question, Mr. Henry. I do not know the answer? But I would expect that her parents were mightily, exhaustively worried about her whereabouts the entire time. But on this point my book was completely silent. It did use the word captured with respect to the Indians custody of Mrs. Lows great-grandmother, so I imagine there were aspects of her interactions with Native Americans that were perhaps troublesome to her or her family. The book also mentioned that when Mrs. Low as a child went to visit her grandparents in Chicago in the 1800s that the Indians would meet on her grandparents front lawn. So apparently there were no hard feelings? When was this? I asked. Hard to say? she answered. And youre saying that there were Indians in front yards in Chicago within a lifetime of the Civil War? I asked. Si. Okay, I said. Mrs. Low lived through the Siege of Savannah? said Beatriz. In the Revolutionary War? I asked. Cantbe. You cant fool me. I took American History at City High. No. In the Civil War? There wasnt any siege of Savannah during the Civil War. Hardee set up for one but once Shermans troops took Ft. McAllister Hardee ran away. The South didnt even put up a fight over Savannah. There was a pause. Mr. Henry, my Girl Scout Handbook relates these facts unambiguously.

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All right. Im sorry. I didnt mean to argue. There are just other versions of this story. This book, the Girl Scout Manual, is very important to me, Mr. Henry. Just Henry. No need for Mr. Henry, I said. Thank you. It seems very odd to address you without some expression of respect, she said. Were friends, Beatriz. Thank you so much Henry I dont have much experience with friends. Youre friends with Toni. Group friends, she said. Our group therapist assigns us friends to work on the issues we reveal in group sessions. Toni and I have been assigned to each other. Toni has helped me in many ways. Dr. Rogers told her to encourage me to do things outside of what he refers to as my comfort zone. And Toni has been very successful at this. What kinds of things are you doing? I asked. Going to football games, she answered. So you like football? I asked. No, not at all. But I have learned a lot about it, and going to the games gets me to be able to be around crowds. And gets me to go to different places. I dont like to travel, and she makes me drive to Knoxville and Mississippi and Georgia. I am fretful as I do it, but her insistence has made me a more complete person. Plus she often finds me dates. One of them was rewarding, although I can never see him again, and another was you. I am very glad I met you, Henry Baida, and I have Toni to thank for this. So are you supposed to be encouraging Toni to do something new? I asked. As a group friend, I mean. Yes, Mr. Henry, I am. She sighed. What are you encouraging her to do? Dr. Rogers wants me to encourage her to be more tolerant of other points of view.

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I see, I said. There was a pause. Beatriz looked at the floor, then shrugged, then looked at me with an expression that mixed sadness and irritation. I expect shes not very cooperative about that, I said. Thank you, Henry Baida. Toni is exceedingly uncooperative. I feel that I am called upon to stretch myself as a group friend to do the things she insists that I do, and I feel that I am a better friend to her and a better person to myself for having done so. But I assumed that the friend gestalt, if I may call it that, would be in some ways reciprocal. There was an awkward pause and Beatriz looked at me earnestly. Yeah, well, Tonis pretty focused on herself, I said. Beatriz thought a minute. I am not good at human interaction, Mr. Henry, she said. I was about to say something but she continued. Is this observation about Toni what people call understatement, which is you being wry, or you being honest, which is to say youre admitting to me that you find Toni to be tiresome? Or another, simpler form of honesty in which you admit to being a person who observes but does not always understand what he is seeing and therefore occasionally creates narratives or theories about what hes looking at but never pretends to know for sure and is always willing to change his mind and Ill be darned but I think I know you after all my dear, dear previously mysterious Henry Baida. She was very happy as she said the last part. Youre a fascinating woman, Beatriz, I said. The elevator rang and Stoney and Michael reappeared with two men carrying a king-sized mattress that was hard for them to maneuver out of the elevator. Stoney smiled and Michael waved but no one said anything. The foursome disappeared into our suite with the mattress. I am so glad you think so, my Henry. So do you have any comment on my description? she asked. I had to think. Well, Im not particularly self-reflective. I just dont think about myself all that much. I dont think Im as interesting as anybody else I know. To think about, I mean. But I think probably there are rules that govern the cosmos and our understanding of the rules will never be perfect. Even if we could figure them all out, though, I think maybe the rules get disrupted from time to time or dont apply uniformly in all parts of the universe. So you can never really understand what youre looking at, and even if you do, it may change or break down as youre looking at it, so like I said, you can never be sure. And its hard to be confident that you have it all figured out, even when you have. You always have to be willing to look at new information, to tinker with your view of the world. To change your mind. No matter what you believe, no matter how sure you are, no matter what youve been taught or read, you may be completely wrong. Have you read Kuhn? Yes, of course. This is college, my Henry. Everybodys read Kuhn. Well, I just read him a couple of months ago, I said.

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Oh, Henry Baida, I had no idea, she began, appearing mortified, and her hand popped up to cover her mouth again, and certainly no intention of insulting you. Please, please forgive me. No forgiveness needed. If you want to be insulting youll just have to try harder. The guys who had carried the king-sized bed into our suite returned to the elevator carrying most of the component parts of a university-issued dorm room single bed and pushed the down button. You are very sweet to me, Henry Baida. Im really not, we just get along, I said. The two workmen looked at us speculatively. One of them lit a Kool with a wooden kitchen match he sparked off with his thumbnail. The elevator showed up and they got in, exchanging a glance. If Beatriz was aware theyd been there she didnt show it. Well, Mr. Henry, I have detained you long enough. I appreciate as always, the opportunity to interact with you. She smiled sweetly and pushed the down button. When the elevator got there, she smiled again and waved as the doors closed. Sweet, as always, but crazy, as always. I dragged my steamer trunk into my dorm room, set it on the bed, and started unpacking. The workmen and Michael kept reappearing, bringing things in and removing other things until all of the university-issued furniture had been removedreplaced. The room, designed as a double, had separate areas intended for each of its two occupants, not completely divided but somewhat separate. One of these areas had become a sleeping area, with a king-sized Ethan Allen sleigh bed and two matching nightstands with matching cut crystal lamps, and the other area had been transformed into a sitting area, with two green leather couches, a quarter-sawn mission-style coffee tables and two end-tables, with bronze reading lamps. I returned to my own room and could hear something going on in the common room. I looked, and the workmen were removing the kitchen table and the couch. I ventured further back into the suite and found Brian and Cisco in the middle of a discussion. Yo, I said. Yo, they answered back. Cisco was lying on his bed in khakis, topsiders, and a green Alligator shirt, smoking a Marlboro. Brian was in green battle fatigues and black combat boots with a white sailors hat, which seemed a little out of place. What are they doing? I asked. They think the furniture the schools provided is shitty so theyre putting it all in storage and replacing it with this other stuff theyve bought, said Brian. Hi, Henry.

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Hi, Brian. Long time no see. Have you seen the stuff theyve bought as replacements? I asked. No, but the stuff in their room is pretty cool. So I think well be good, said Cisco. This is odd, I said. Yeah Brian and I have been debating whether this is a gay thing or a money thing. And? Brian here comes from money and hes come close to convincing me that this is a money, class and privilege deal, said Stoney. You went to Westminster, I said. Yeah, yeah. My dads a lawyer. We werent hungry. But Brians people own a sporting goods company up in New Jersey. And he says Stoneys people own a big chunk of G.M. and Michaels people own Manny Hanny, more or less. Manny Hanny? I asked. Manufacturers Hanover Bank, Brian said. Old money. Big money. Why arent they at Harvard? I asked. Both fathers are on the Board of Trust here, said Brian. As is Brians, by the way, said Cisco. Thats how he knows all this. And youre in R.O.T.C., I said to Brian. Call me a patriot, he answered. Youre a patriot. Thats not the right cover for fatigues, I said. He took off his white sailors hat and looked at it. Yeah, I know. But I dont have a fatigue cap here. I can pick one up at the post, and carrying the crackerjack will let the C.O. know I didnt just forget. Gotta run. Later, dude, said Cisco. Brian left. Michael and Stoneys redecoration efforts werent the only oddity of the semesters rooming arrangements. As Beatriz had predicted, Milton was quickly smitten

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with her friend Doris. He followed her around as though she were magnetized and then shortly after classes began it was obvious that she had invited him into her bed. The impact of this development on him was immense, personality-wise. I dont think I ever met Doris, but his descriptions of her were rhapsodic. In a matter of days he went from being tense and brooding to happy-go-lucky and light-hearted and was genuinely enthralled with her. Then, one night a week or so into the semester, Beatriz showed up in our suite, in Miltons vacant room. She didnt announce herself, but Cisco and I, arguing about whether Gerald Ford was or was not an idiot, both noticed that she was getting ready for bed in Miltons room, wearing blue flannel pajamas and a white terrycloth bathrobe. Cisco looked first at her, then at me. Hello, Beatriz, I said. Cisco smiled at her and gave her a little hug. Girls generally seemed to like being hugged by Cisco. Cisco looked at me again. So . I said. Bunking here for the night? I asked. She smiled sweetly and nodded. I know this is unconventional, but please, my Henry, and Mr. Henrys good and perhaps best friend Mr. Frank whom all the boys seem to call Cisco, let me say that Milton and Doris are very into each other and have turned out the lights in our room? Doris and I are roommates? So when Milton and Doris are enjoying themselves, and I am glad they are, because in my opinion they are far better together than they are apart, but if you think about the actual way it works out you might come to understand that it is difficult for me, a shy person, to be in the same room where Doris and Milton are communicating intergenderally. And since Doris and Milton are busy next door in the room the university has assigned to Doris and me, I would prefer to bunk elsewhere tonight. And what with one thing and another, barring a fight that seems unlikely given the sounds coming from the room Doris and I, and only Doris and I, theoretically share, I am relatively confident that Miltons room will remain unoccupied all night. So, unless anyone objects. she said. I cant imagine anyone would, said Cisco, smiling at her, looking into her eyes, and taking her hand. Your company is always welcome. Our house is your house. He smiled as though to communicate that he knew he was acting corny, then lightly bowed

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and kissed her hand, then stood and smiled. She seemed reluctant to let go of his hand,

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and blushed pretty floridly.246 Mr. Cisco, I begin to understand why the girls all refer to you as charming. Good night, Mr. Henry, and good night, Mr. Cisco. She smiled and waved a fluttery wave at me but especially at Cisco and closed the door. I did not hear the deadbolt click shut. How do you do that? I asked, lowering my voice. No good answer. I cant even take credit for it. They just like me. He shrugged and lit a Marlboro. Interesting to watch, I said. Its a lot of fun to be me. He shrugged again. You realize that Beatriz just moved in for the whole year? he asked, even lower. Really? Sure. Think about Milton, he said. Okay. Perennial problem getting laid, he said. True. Now he has a blonde, blue-eyed Doris with big hooters and no apparent limitations on pussy access. So Milt is going to be next door most of the time? We might as well accept this now. I like Beatriz. Shell need to decide how bathroom rules will work. The bathroom locks from the inside, I said. Really? Never noticed, he said. Shes sweet. Itll be fine. And he was right. Beatriz moved into Miltons room and became part of our happy family. Stoney and Michael loved her and had no trouble with having her around all the time. It also turned out that Mary Roberts, whod always been interested in Brian, was also in the suite next door. Beatriz and/or Cisco had been very, very thorough in their analyses, but then they were both pretty smart and she was a detail-oriented woman. The temptation of a beautiful girl with a perfect figure who wanted a full-time

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relationship proved to be very powerful and Brian disappeared as a suitemate, for the most part, and Cisco had the large double to himself. You must have seen this coming, Cisco said to me, when I realized he had a double-sized single. No, not at all. And you did? I asked. Sometimes I can see a few moves into the future, he said. You play chess? I asked. Yes, but please dont tell anyone. It would ruin my image. He took the last drag off of a Marlboro and flicked the butt out an open window nonchalantly. I also play duplicate bridge, which is worse. He thought to himself for a minute. Because I know you wont violate a confidence, it appears I tell you things I should keep to myself, he said. Odd. Almost as though I had a need to confess. Which I dont think I do. Or perhaps I do, but that doesnt involve you. Im Catholic, of course, but dont see you as any kind of confessor. You know this conversation has gone off in a kind of strange direction, I said. Understood. Youre Catholic? he asked. No, no. Diffuse protestant. No clear path to denomination or salvation, I answered. Bud, youre Catholic. Ill take you to church on Sunday. Youll see. Although that means I have to get up in time to get to mass, which isnt so cool. But dude. Youre the most Catholic guy I know. Odd, then, that Im completely unaware of my Catholicism, I said. Look, Stoney didnt know he was gay when I met him, he answered. I fail to see the connection. Ill take you to church Sunday. Just go along, he said. So our suite for that year was me in a single, Beatriz in the other single, Cisco in a double that turned out to be a single because Brian moved in with Mary Roberts, and Michael and Stoney in the small double. I dont think the dean of housing would have approved, but he never dropped by.

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Chapter 40: Entanglement by Any Other Name is Still EPR I spent Christmas break with Mrs. W. She had adopted a dog, a small, highenergy Jack Russell Terrier she named Monty, after her favorite movie actor, Montgomery Clift. It was cold and snowy so I assumed responsibility for walking him. On our walks he would return to me when whistled and would freeze in his tracks if I said anything in a loud voice, like stop! yo! or dammit, Monty! It didnt matter what I said, hed stop and look at me sheepishly. After I yelled, if we needed to cross a street hed wait until I could catch up and wed cross together, Monty wagging his tail. If
Hello, Mark, he said to the phone. Im talking Relativity with and undergrad and wondered if you could spare a few minutes of your time. He nodded and smiled and hung the phone up. He frowned at the blackboard for a minute. I dont mean to be difficult, Baida, but Im out of my depth. I dont want to be wowed by my immense respect for your intellect into putting you into a course where you will not thrive. There was a knock at the door. Come in, he said. A slight, bearded young man, also wearing a cotton turtleneck, with jeans and those hideous Earth Shoes, came in. He didnt speak for a few seconds as he looked at the blackboard. So were talking Reimann Curvature Tensor? asked Mark. So he says, said Dr. Dannhausen. I dont follow, and so want to make sure he knows his stuff before I put him in graduate courses. Okay, he said. He turned to look at me. You? I nodded. He shook my hand. Mark Rudinski, he sad. I said my name. He looked at the equations. Yeah, well thats the way its done, he said. Funny order, though. The third one you have written out factors down into the second one, but thats the way I do it. Ask him about Relativity, said Prof. Dannhausen. Im a photon guy. Rudinski shrugged agreeably. Is strict Euclidean geometry actually possible? he asked. No. Matter disturbs space too much. What is it about matter that disturbs space? he asked. It either creates gravity or something that looks like gravity, and that bends space-time. Why do you put it that way? he asked. Because nobody seems to be able to tell me what gravity is, I said. You just did, he said. A curvature of space-time caused by unequal distributions of matter. Dr. Dannhausen, youre a particle guy, right? I asked. Just so, he nodded. How many millions of dollars were spent last year trying to detect gravitons? Hard to say. Several, certainly. Perhaps many millions. Okay, so if Relativity explains gravity so elegantly, as it seems to do, why do we need a little particle that does the same thing? Oh, indeed. And applying the wave-particle duality we can also assume that if there is a particle, there is also a wave, said Dr. Dannhausen. Rudinski was bobbing his head and making a circular motion with his hands that suggested I get this crap all the time and am tired of it. But while it may not be a strictly valid Euclidean universe, theres no reason to adjust Euclid or Newton either one because the amount that space is disturbed by matter is utterly miniscule, I said. Okay, so youre right about Euclid, Im still working on Newton, said Rudinski. But he knows his stuff. Are you going to put him in my graduate seminar? That is what he wants. Wont bother me if you do, he said. Okay so were going to start with Einsteins field equations. Capiche? he asked me. Yeah, sure. I can do them the way Schwartzchild does it, I said. I got a little easier way I can show you that works out more exact. Learned it from this Indian dude, said Rudinski. Hes good to go, he said to Dr. Dannhausen. See you next week, he said to me. He smiled affably and left.

I was ready to go a different direction than hed taken Id whistle and clap my hands and hed come running. A good dog. As soon as we got back to the house, though, hed look at me and wag his tail as if to say thanks, then trot off in search of Mrs. W. He was a good dog, but he wasnt my dog. On Christmas morning Mrs. W and I exchanged presents and had gotten each other the exact same present. Each of us had gotten the other a black cashmere scarf from Brooks Brothers. I had asked Ginny on the drive down what to get her, and shed recommended a cashmere scarf. Im not sure Id ever heard of cashmere before. I have to admit that, expensive as it was, it was seductively soft. The winter jacket I was wearing at the time was a World War II-era leather pilots jacket, and warm as it was when I walked Monty, the cashmere scarf seemed a little posh for the likes of me. A few days after Christmas, Stoney and Michael showed up again. Mrs. W. was glad to see them, of course, but at first they didnt intend to stay long. I think they were headed to Sea Island, Georgia, where one family or the other had a vacation home, and they were just intending to spend one night and then head on south in the morning. But it snowed overnight, and when I awoke the light through my bedroom window had that blue look it does when its snowed in Tnnessee and the skys still overcast. I could smell coffee and bacon and something else warm in the air as soon as I woke up. I brushed my teeth, pulled on my pants, and went downstairs. Stoney in his pajamas and Mrs. W. in her bathrobe were looking at the paper, just like the old days. They both smiled. Stoney pointed at the coffee pot and I poured myself a cup. Lots of bacon was drying on a piece of newspaper next to the stove. I snagged a piece and sipped my coffee. Nobody said anything, but Stoney handed me the front page section of the paper as I sat down at the kitchen table. I noticed there was a Pyrex bowl of batter next to the stove. Home. Id never felt that so strongly before, and never have since. A few minutes later Stoney and Mrs. W. both lit cigarettes at about the same time, and Stoney topped off all our coffee cups. Nobody had said anything, but we were all at home. We exchanged newspaper sections. After about twenty minutes Michael came down, shaved, combed, dressed, and ready for the day. Before speaking he went to Stoney and kissed his forehead. Stoney smiled. Bonjour, Henri. Bonjour the Divine Miss W, said Michael. I know thats inverted, but you know what I mean. Mrs. W. smiled at him with a confused look in her eyes. Morning, Michael, she said. Sleep well?

Dr. Dannhausen smiled and shrugged. I guess youre in. One could also accurately say she blushed florally, because it was pretty bright, but Im not sure about the usage. It was cute.
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Like a baby, yes, maam, he said. Thanks so much for the hospitality. She smiled and went back to the sports section. Sweetie, Im thinking were not going to make it to Brunswick247 today, he said. Its just snow, said Stoney. We dont deal with snow as well here as they do in Detroit, said Mrs. W. They wont clear the interstate today, and may not clear the local roads tomorrow. We generally wait for it to melt off. How civilized, said Stoney. Pancakes? Michael kissed his forehead again and took his seat as Stoney stood to cook. The pancakes were perfect, of course. Afterwards Stoney poured us all another cup of coffee and he and Mrs. W. fired up cigarettes as Michael and I cleaned up. He ate breakfast without making a fuss about how he never does, said Stoney, softly, but not whispering. I know. I noticed, she answered. Michael shot a glance at me. I shrugged. Have you socialized him in some way the rest of us have failed to do? Stoney asked. He seems to understand quantum mechanics now. Maybe thats changed his world-view. They were kidding, and Im not sure if they knew I could hear them. Well, I sure as hell dont, said Stoney, still softly. Im okay with Newton, but I picked up one of Michaels EE books the other day and it went into the wavefunction and I had no idea what they were talking about. And when Michael tried to explain I just got deeper into the weeds. Why does Michael need to know wavefunction? she asked. Michael and I looked at each other, kind of taken aback and amused that they were talking about us as though we werent there. Hes an electrical engineer. After we graduate, hes going to work for Hewlett Packard in San Jose, California. They make those expensive little calculators that are so smart, said Mrs. W. Right. And right now, according to what they told Michael, their calculators are based on what are called integrated circuits, but what they want to do is move towards
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Brunswick is a south Georgia coastal town about five miles from Sea Island. Port City Billiards is in Brunswick. So is the Georgia Pig, a barbecue joint. They do pork barbecue in Georgia about as well as it can be done.

something called microchips that will be smaller and cheaper and use less current but theyre so small they run into quantum rules. Okay, said Mrs. W. Like I said, I dont understand quantum mechanics, but Michael does, and apparently electrons work a lot like photons and engineers at Intel and Hewlett Packard are a few years older and dont really understand quantum. Intel? she asked. Transistor manufacturer, I think, said Stoney. Michael looked at me and shook his head. So Michaels been doubling down on his engineering physics. So what are you doing post-grad? she asked. Michael cocked an ear. Ive applied to Stanfords Ph.D. program, he said. Robert Osserman is one of my oldest friends, said Mrs. W. Im sorry, who? asked Stoney. I heard Mrs. W. light another cigarette off of her Zippo. Hes the chairman of the Mathematics department at Stanford, she said. Oh, Dr. W., he said. I would love to get into Stanford. With your grades and your smarts I dont think you need any help, she said, but Ill call tomorrow and see. It was Sunday. Oh, Dr. W. It would mean so much to Michael and me. Youre family, she said. Michael and I were through washing up but werent sure what to do. They were having what seemed to be a very private conversation, but wed heard every word. He kind of shrugged and opened his hands and his mouth opened and he shook his head as though to communicate that he wasnt sure what to do. I wasnt sure what to answer. I shook my head. We turned around and made noise so theyd know we were listening again. After breakfast we all took a walk in the snow together, Monty bounding around excitedly. Frankly walks in the snow arent as exciting to me as they are to most people who grew up in the south. My toes get cold and go numb really fast. Its pretty, but thats what picture windows are for. Stoney made a lentil soup and a sweet kind of cornbread for lunch, not a combination Ive ever had before but it was good, and we spent most of the afternoon

with Mrs. W. and Michael trying to teach Stoney and me how to play bridge. The sun came out for a few minutes, but then it began snowing again, leading to speculation about when Stoney and Michael would be able to leave. That night Stoney cooked beef stroganoff, I think both because there was frozen round steak and sour cream in the refrigerator and because he knew Mrs. W. loved it. After dinner Michael and I cleaned up and Mrs. W. talked to Stoney a bout his educational goals. Stoney loved pure math but wasnt sure he had the temperament to teach, so he wasnt sure about a career. We finished cleaning up and theyd reached a lull in their conversation. What do they usually do now? he whispered into my ear. Drink, I said. His face lit up and he smiled dramatically. He hugged me briefly. All right, ladies, I am taking drink orders, he said, turning. Why thank you Michael, said Mrs. W. Theres a bottle of Armagnac in the front pantry, its hard to read but Oh, I can read French, said Michael. But thanks. Comin right up. Stonewall dearest? I think a little B&B, said Stoney, after a few seconds of reflection. Mrs. W. smiled. Youre welcome to a little of the Armangac, she said. I think I want something sweet, said Stoney, and placed a long Winston between his lips. Henri? he asked me. Mrs. W. and Stoney looked at me expectantly, which was a little surprising. Thanks, but I dont drink, I said to Michael. Everybody was looking at me funny. What? I asked, looking at Stoney and Mrs. W., who hadnt realized they were staring at me. Well, a few of your attitudes seem to have changed, said Mrs. W., after a pause. It was possible youd taken up drinking. Michael understood that I did not want a drink and left in search of B&B and Armagnac. I made myself a fresh glass of ice water. So, Henry, Ive been meaning to ask, said Mrs. W. Hows your checkerboard these days? Michael returned with two bottles and three glasses. In that brief amount of time, hed managed to find a blown crystal brandy snifter, two tiny cut crystal liqueur glasses, the B&B, and a bottle of Armangac. Fast work.

What brought that up? I asked. You seem different, she said. Has anything else changed? She and Stoney looked at me attentively, smoking on their cigarettes as Michael poured drinks. Like what? I asked. A girlfriend, maybe? she asked. No, I said. May I say without overmuch emphasis that since Stoney had changed from a lush who had sex with underaged foreign teenaged girls to a happy gay man who subsisted on thimbles of liqueur it seemed to me that focusing conversation on the changes in me seemed a little out of place, but we were all friends. Stoney looked at me dubiously. Henry, youre never in your room Sunday mornings, and Beatrizs door is always locked, said Stoney. Mrs. W. gave me a surprised, semi-happy look. Oh, gosh. No. Beatriz and I are just friends, I said. Stoney shrugged as if to suggest he wasnt sure he was buying it. So where are you every Sunday morning? asked Mrs. W. Ciscos been making me go to church, I said. What? Mrs. W., Stoney and Michael all said at once. I have been going to church with Cisco, I said, slowly. Ciscos a born-again Christian? asked Michael. With all the girls he f um, dates? he asked, glancing at Mrs. W. No, hes Catholic. Thats the point. They all looked at me, mystified. He says Im extremely Catholic and just happened to be raised in a Protestant household. I didnt believe him, so he started making me go to church. And? asked Mrs. W. I thought. Yeah, I guess I kind of like it, I said. The whole faith deal is a little out of my league, but I fit in there. There was a kind of stunned silence. Henry, I knew you had it in you but I didnt know youd find it, said Mrs. W. I dont think Ive found anything, I said. Im just tagging along with Cisco. Theres no road to Damascus for me. No scales will be falling from any eyes. Im just

 tagging along with Cisco. Where, by the way, he manages to pick up girls even in the peace be with you deal. Hes truly amazing as a pickup artist, said Michael. Ive seen him do it. So how is your Catholic checkerboard holding up? Mrs. W. asked. Im not a Catholic. I just tag along with Cisco, I said. Henry plays checkers? Michael asked. He topped off the glasses. No, its an analogy, said Stoney. Henry sees the rules of the cosmos as following a regular pattern, and his mental image of that pattern is a regular checkerboard with nearly infinitely tiny squares, stretching off in all directions. Only Henry sees that there are occasionally small problems, places where the rules dont work, where the checkerboard doesnt match up because two patterns were started on inconsistent squares or in different colors. So the pattern of the universe has some flaws and aberrations, where the laws and principles of the cosmos appear to be violated. There are ripples and flaws and inconsistencies that can be observed if you look closely enough. Is that about it? he asked, speaking not to me but to Mrs. W. I think so, but I think Henry can visualize this in three dimensions. I can follow, but I can only see it in two, she said. Michael nodded. Three works, Michael said. Interesting analogy. Whoa, said Stoney. So the question was whether your Catholic self sees the checkerboard any differently, but I think the real question is whether your quantum self sees it any differently, Michael said. Mrs. W and Stoney looked at me speculatively. Things are so much worse, I said. Youre right. I used to see little things that didnt add up and think they were the result of tiny aberrations in Newtonian mechanics but now I have to think of them as possibly the aggregations of millions of waveform calculations stacking up in a way that is imponderably improbable to create a change in the observable universe. So my checkerboard isnt really even a checkerboard any more. If you look at any particular square, it may not even be solid, its made up of thousands of tiny dots or holes or patterns that are too small to see even with an electron microscope. So its all far more complicated than can be imagined. There was a pause. One of the possible outcomes here was that theyd all think I was stark raving mad. And you see this in your head in three dimensions? Stoney asked, lighting another cigarette and taking a tiny little sip of his B&B.

Yeah, sure, I said. Pull back enough and its just shapes and colors. Close in its just squares and cubes. The problem is when you close in some more the cubes and squares start to dissolve into something insubstantial. So? Stoney asked. The world is substantial, not insubstantial. As an analogy that informs all aspects of ones life, this one now appears to be lacking, and I have no other to take its place. Okay, said Mrs. W., after a pause. Im going to tell you a story. Its why I gave up Physics and stuck to Math. I met Albert in 1931. He was in and out of Caltech in the thirties, and I was at Berkeley, so whenever he was in Pasadena I would go down for a visit. Albert Einstein? I asked. She nodded. And you knew him as Albert? asked Stoney. She nodded again and lit a new cigarette. The last one was still burning in the ashtray, although almost gone. Ive heard he had an eye for the ladies, said Michael, and damned if Mrs. W. didnt seem to blush. Maybe it was just her mannerisms. Stoney discretely held up a hand as if to say shush for now, well talk about this later, and Michael good-naturedly poured another splash of brandy into Mrs. W.s glass. The journal we all read in those days, about Physics, anyway, was called Physical Review. I was up at Berkeley and in October of 1935 Albert published an article with these children I didnt know named Podolsky and RosenI presume they were research assistants at Princeton, called Can Quantum-Mechanical Description of Reality Be Considered Complete? Michael looked at me intently, and I nodded. Wed heard of this. It took a few days for it to be my turn to read itthere was no Internet in those days of course and not even Xerox machines, but when I did I was amazed. Albert, or whoever wrote it, because there were words in that article that Id bet my left ventricle Albert didnt know, pointed out that the quantum rules allowed for well, its hard to describe, but we called it non-locality. Dont follow, Stoney said. Okay. So you remember Heisenberg, she said. You cant observe something without changing it, Stoney said. More simply, you can never know both the velocity and the location of a quantum particle at the same time. But youre right. The practical effect of this is that whatever energy is added to a system to measure either the location or velocity of a particle always changes one or both, she answered.

Okay. So say you create a bunch of photons all at once. A light beam, she said. Like a laser? Stoney asked. Yes, but no, she said. We didnt have lasers back then. No. Say you excite a bunch of phosphorus or sodium atoms to the point where they emit light and then focus that light through a lens. Okay, said Stoney. So youve got a beam of light created by the same chemical reaction. Theyre all identical photons. Okay, said Stoney, again. And then you pass the beam through a half-silvered mirror, so that half of them fly off in one direction and half of them fly off in another. Ahem, said Michael. We all looked at him as though he were interrupting something important. Yes? she said, quizzically. We may have left something out of the story, said Michael. What? Mrs. W. asked. Do you know about wave/particle duality? Michael asked Stoney. Oh, shit, youre right! said Mrs. W. I know that light sometimes appears to be particles and sometimes seems to be a wave, said Stoney. It started with Heisenbergyou know Heisenberg? We just mentioned him a minute ago, she said. You can know the location or the velocity of a particle but not both, Stony recited. I did go to high school. Just so. But Schrdinger took Heisenberg further on and developed what we call the wavefunction. In quantum, light appears to be a wave almost all the time. You can do experiments where two beams of light getting to the same place from different

windows cancel each other out just like ripples on a pond or sound waves. They make very wave-like interference patterns. But the instant you look at itobserve it or measure it in any way, it immediately becomes a particle, Michael said. Is that how they teach it now? Mrs. W. asked. Sure, said Michael. She looked at me. I nodded. Yes, maam. Why? I asked. Its just the terminology. I would have said that light appears to be a wave before observation and appears to be a particle after observation, she said. Interesting, I said. Were taught that thats a distinction without a difference, Michael said. She looked at me. I kind of shrugged. The verbiage they teach us wouldnt be much different, I said. Actually a physicist wouldnt be able to grasp the idea that a distinction didnt result in a difference but I didnt want to get into the whole physics/engineering deal with Michael. Hes a nice guy, and they always think were looking down at them. But there is a difference. And thats what Albert was talking about, she said. In what? Stoney asked. Physical Review. May of 1935. The journal for physics. We looked forward to every edition. The Department had one subscription and the library had another. The professors would all hand the departmental copy back and forth, so the grad students would go read the one in the library. A lot of times youd get there and see a friend in the reference area and youd just turn around and leave because you knew what he was reading. But in May of 1935 this article came out by Einstein, Podolsky and Rosen that Im talking about. Can Quantum-Mechanical Description of Reality Be Considered Complete? The EPR, said Michael. EPR? Mrs. W. frowned and lit another Benson & Hedges. Sorry for interrupting, please tell the story, said Michael, as soon as he could see she didnt follow his question. Go back to the example, she said. Youve got all these photons created by the same reaction, all identical, some of them going one way and some of them going another because of the half-silvered mirror. What Albert realizedand honestly, Albert didnt

write this. They were his assistants or something, but Albert couldnt carry on a complicated conversation in English. My bet is that Podolsky wrote it and Rosen spiffed up his English, although eigenfunction made it into the final draft, she said. Even I know eigenfunction, said Stoney. Really? But you know German, too, she said, doubtfully. Ja, aber ich erfuhr von Eigenfunktionen in einem standard-Math-Klasse. Es ist ein linearer Operator-Funktion. Ich denke an ihn als einen Weg, um Vibrationen zu suchen, Stoney said. Michael and I looked at each other and shrugged. In Ordung, she said, and shrugged. Okay, so what did the paper say? Stoney asked. Albert, or the paper, pointed out that if you had two photons, two systems, he called them, with a common origin, like Ive described, that the two particles could violate the rules of physics. From Heisenberg, we know you can never know both the velocity and location of a particle. And under Schrdinger, as soon as you measure a wave, it turns into a particle. What Albert, or Podolsky, or whoever, noticed, was that if you have these intertwined particles that were created by the same reaction and split apart by whatever means, a half-silvered mirror would work, if you measured one and then observed it as a particle you would have the exact same information about the intertwined particle. So, what? Whatever you knew about one you would know about the other. Would measuring one of the two waves cause the other of the two to turn into a particle, too? And if it did, what if the two particles were miles apart? Wouldnt the instantaneous change in the second particle violate Relativity? If the change is instantaneous no matter how far apart the particles are, the adage about the speed of light being an absolute doesnt look so good. It was just crazy. She took a drag from her cigarette and took a sip of her brandy, then propped her chin on her hand forlornly. The only time I got to speak about this with Albert it was just for a few minutes, when we had other things on our minds. But he called the problem spooky action at a distance. She smiled and stubbed out her cigarette. Whys that? Stoney asked. He reached for the B&B bottle, then noticed that Mrs. W.s snifter was empty, and poured her another drink. Im not sure Id ever seen her drink this much before. We now call this issue non-locality, said Michael. At the time, people thought that all of physics was localthat there was no way to influence events in one place from another without some direct linka presence, a string, a wire, a radio wave. If measuring a wave in one place caused a wave in another place to immediately collapse into a particle, this is called a non-local event, and scientists at the time considered it implausible.

Not just implausible, impossible! said Mrs. W. Our science was physics, for Christs sake, which means the study of physical reality. An action taken in one place cant cause a result in change in another place without any communication. Its absurd. If I slam my fist down on the table here, and she did, it doesnt cause somebodys table to shake in Shanghai. Michael looked at me with a worried expression. I gave him a surreptitious safe sign like a first base umpire might give waving off an appeal of a no swing call from a catcher. Michael nodded. She continued, still agitated: Everybody knewAlbert, Dr. Bohr, Schrodinger, all those Copenhagen boyseverybody knew that non-locality was simply impossible, and if the mechanics allowed for it, something was wrong. There wasnt a doubt in anyones mind. Michael filled his tiny glass to the brim with B&B and drained it back in a gulp, then looked at the carpet with a speculative, worried look. If nothing else, it would violate the speed of light, she said. True, it does, said Michael. Mrs. W. didnt notice his phrasing. How did everyone react to the article? Michael asked. Stoney stood. Be right back, he said. I assumed he was going to the restroom but he returned shortly with a brandy snifter like Mrs. W.s. At first, it was fun, she said. The problem with quantum mechanics is that ever since Heisinger and Schrodinger, it works so well. Even if you dont understand why it works, and you cant, all those little probabilities describe the way particles work and interact and stick together very well. Even those of us who think its incomplete or lacking agree on that. Stoney had poured himself a generous glass of Armagnac. Why is it incomplete if it works? Michael asked. Well, just because something works doesnt mean its right. Archimedes knew when the sun was gonna come up. He knew where the planets and stars would be and could predict eclipses of the sun and moon. Aristotles system, as it got elaborated over the years, was remarkably good at predicting astronomical events. So? Well, Hell, Michael, they all thought the Earth was the center of the Solar System. Physics needs to be about reality. I love math and like it that its not rooted in reality Ich gre dich fr diesen Gedanken, said Stoney, raising his glass. Toast. Mrs. W. clinked her glass to his and they both took a swallow. I guess Im too much of an engineer, said Michael. To me, if the equations and the tables in the books keep the bridges from collapsing and the generators working, Im good. I kind of just want to know that it works. If somebody I trust tells me it works, or if I know industrys been relying on it for dozens, or hundreds, of years, I dont necessarily need to look behind that.

Mrs. W. likes to understand why the calculations work, said Stoney. Somebody wise once said that there was no more common error than to assume that because accurate and prolonged mathematical calculations have been made that the application of the result to some fact of nature is completely certain, said Stoney. Michael nodded with an equivocal expression. Stoney, that was Whitehead, and he was a moron, said Mrs. W. Really? Stoney asked, swallowing some brandy and reaching for his Winstons. Well, he was smart, but he was an idiot. Complete ankle-biter. Read him if you want, but everything he got famous for was philosophical speculations on Alberts theories, and he really couldnt do the math. You and Henry and Im sure Michael too all know more math than Alfred Whitehead. You and Henry can sure as shit calculate better than Whitehead. She thought for a minute and gazed into the distance, taking a couple of drags from her cigarette. Bertrand Russell wrote Principia Mathematica and why he wanted to share credit with doddering old Whitehead is beyond me. He cant have added anything to it. Okay. So should I read him? Stoney asked. Whitehead? Yes, but quickly. He tries to make philosophical deductions from math he doesnt understand. Have your critical antennae up. She stubbed out her cigarette. Yes maam. You were saying? said Stoney. What was I saying? se asked. Einstein, Podolsky, and Rosen had published an article about entangled particles in Physical Review in March of 1935. It got everyones attention because it pointed out that quantum mechanics allow for non-local interactions that would violate Relativity because they would be instantaneous at distances impossible if the speed of light is an absolute limit, said Michael. She sat up a bit and lit a new cigarette. Yeah, thats right, she said. Entangled, you say. The two photons generated at the same time that passed through a half-mirrored glass. If you measure one, you automatically know about the other, non? asked Michael. Oui, said Mrs. W. Entangled. I guess thats a good word for it. She looked at Stoney. So ist er ziemlich schlau, diese? Stoney smiled. Ja, maam.

So it was fun for a few months, Mrs. W. said. We all started talking about what we knew and what we didnt know about quantum mechanics, and it almost seemed to open up the debate again about whether just basing our calculations on probabilities that we didnt understand was a sensible way for a bunch of scientists to proceed. Why? Michael asked. Mrs. W. frowned. She seemed puzzled by the question. Well, most of physics has been, throughout history, making observations and then trying to figure out how to express them on paper. Schrodinger and most of the quantum guys were sure that the way to get ahead was to focus on the calculations. Dont worry about why it works. Just shut up and calculate. And those of us who had an experimental, observational bias liked the fact that we were thinking about quantum and its relation to reality again. It was fun. So what happened? Michael asked. Niels Bohr happened. In the next issue of Physical Review. It was awful. Poor Albert. We havent seen the article. What happened? I asked. Oh, Dr. Bohr got all shirty. He said, more or less, that if our equations dont answer all the questions youre asking, then its not because our equations are incomplete, its because youre asking the wrong questions. Excuse me? said Michael. It really was just that rude, said Mrs. W. Dr. Bohrs idea was that the quantum equations explained things so thoroughly that there just was no room for argument, so if the equations disagreed with Alberts notion of reality, that it was our notion of reality that was lacking, not the equations. The equations were perfect. The Newtonian world and the quantum world complimented each other but were separate, and since any measuring device would have to be part of the Newtonian world, any measurement would be meaningless. Complimentarity, my ass. And the Physics community didnt rally behind Einstein? I asked. No not at all, she said, lighting another Benson & Hedges and raising her glass as if to drink, then noticing her glass was empty. There wasnt much of the Armagnac left. Michael looked up at Stoney, who nodded and got up to look for a replacement. Theres another bottle of it, said Mrs. W. Stoney smiled. Ill find it, he said, and Michael poured the last splash from the current bottle into Mrs. W.s glass. She smiled.

You boys sure are good hosts, she said. Youre the hostess, said Michael. This is your house, too, she said. Stoneys family, so you are too. You are the sweetest mathematician of all time, he said, as she smiled and took a sip. Tell me more about what people said in response to Dr. Einsteins article. Oh, well, everybody sided with Dr. Bohr, she said. It was awful. But why? asked Michael. He was Albert fucking Einstein, for Christs sake, said Michael. Excuse his French, I said. Excuse me. In French: Il tait Albert Einstein putain, pour l'amour du Christ, said Michael. Mrs. W. smiled and took a drag form her cigarette. But by that point all of Alberts triumphs were in the past, she said. Theyd all come in the teens and twenties, and we were twenty years past that by 1935. Physics moves fast. Plus, Albert never liked teaching. He liked thinking about things and talking to people. He didnt even particularly like writing papers. And Dr. Bohr always had dozens of students. And they went on to get jobs at every important university in the world. Albert had figured out all kinds of things he never wrote about. But Bohr was a much bigger deal academically. Sometimes Albert would have one or two graduate assistants around, but over in Copenhagen, Dr. Bohr had this entire school of young men, and all of them worshipped him. All any of them thought about was quantum. Relativity was something established It was old. Twenty-five years old. And Alberts paper re-focusing attention from quantum to Relativity was a little embarrassing to them. Like he couldnt move on. Thats the way the Bohr people saw it. Because that was the point of the paper. If what did you call it? she asked Michael. Entanglement? Entanglement. Good word. Because if entanglement was possible, it looked like the rules of Relativity, the absolute limit of the speed of light, would be violated, she said. But he was right, said Michael. Which he? she asked. Einstein was right, he answered.

Well, it sure looked like it. Assuming the whole non-local thing could be worked out. And everybody just knew that non-locality was some kind of anomaly. A quirk. But for Einstein to find a problem with their elegant equations because they disagreed with his old-fashioned Relativity was just seen as quaint and kind of pitiful. He had already started looking for the unified field theory, and he was out there working for pacifist and Zionist causes, and people just thought hed lost it. So the next edition of Physical Review had this piece from Bohr in which hed obviously been helped by that weasel Pauli and probably by Rosenfeld, too, because Bohrs English wasnt much better than Alberts. The whole tenor of the piece was that old men like Alberthe was 56 didnt understand how to ask relevant questions any more. That the focus on physical reality was misplaced. That at the molecular level, the interactions between particles were so divorced from human perception that to try to analogize to the perceptible physical world was silly. I mean, it didnt say that, but thats what it meant. So what did it say? asked Michael. It said that Alberts concerns were misplaced, that he fundamentally misunderstood quantum reality, that there was no such thing as an observation which did not affect the thing observed, so, in essence, Alberts question and all of the assumptions underlying it were fundamentally misplaced. Albert was flummoxed at this. All right, Ive heard this exchange discussed in the past, said Michael, and what I dont understand is why, if such a well-regarded scientist had posed such a fundamental challenge to the basic premises of their doctrine, why the Copenhagen school was so cocksure of themselves in blowing him off. Oh. Well there was this book, she said. I cant remember the name.248 It was by a man named John von Neumann. He claimed to prove that what are called hidden variables, things that might give an underlying reality to the quantum equations, was impossible. He said that because, he thought, the expected value of the position and momentum of a particle both measured at the same time is equal to the sum of the expected value for a measurement of the position and the expected value of the momentum. <P+Q>=<P>+<Q>, said Michael. Damn. He was good. Damn. Youre good, said Mrs. W., encircled by a wreath of smoke.
248

She refers to Mathematische Grundlagen der Quantenmechanik (Mathematical Foundations of Quantum Physics, published in 1935. It not only purported to unify the separate mathematical formulations of Heisenberg and Schrdinger, but also purported to prove that as unified quantum mathematics was complete and held no hidden variables, or things that might be filled in later to explain some of the weirder aspects of quantum mechanics. Bohr and his cronies did a lot of patting themselves on the back, but Einstein had read it and noticed that its premises were flawed. But Bohr, Pauli and Rosenfeld had all just read it in the few months before the publication of the EPR paper (explained later in the chapter) and all of them were very full of themselves because of it when they collectively responded to Einsteins paper. Note that Einsteins collaborators shared credit, but Bohrs collaborators did not. Basking in the great mans presence should be enough, no?

But von Neumann offered no proof whatsoever of this. Heisenberg and all the Danes just glossed over it and let him get away with an utterly unfounded assumption. But because the book was otherwise so elegantly reasoned, Heisenberg and Bohr and all the Copenhagen boys thought that it had been proven that no hidden variables were going to be later discovered that would give a physical reality to quantum mechanics. And when Alberts paper came out, they all saw it as an attempt to re-introduce the hidden variables question into quantum mechanics. So they knew from von Newmanns book that this nonsense had been disproved, but since Alberts reasoning was so sound they just didnt know what to say. At first. But nobody knew that <P+Q>=<P>+<Q> was just an assumption? Michael asked. Well, thats a more complicated question. Heisenberg did. He had a graduate student named Greta Greta something, said Mrs. W. Dr. Grete Hermann? asked Michael. Yes! Damn! How did you know that? she asked. This is more of a hot topic the last year or so than you seem to be aware, said Michael. Well, I met her at a meeting kind of thing during the War249, and she said that shed managed to convince Heisenberg that it was just an assumption, and that without it the idea that quantum mechanics had been proven to be free from hidden variables was completely false. She said shed published her conclusions in Germany, but it wasnt in a physics journal, it was in some philosophy deal, and so nobody really saw it. And then Heisenberg left for England because of what was going on in Germany and nobody seems to have told Dr. Bohr. And then Hitler invaded Poland and all Hell broke loose. People tried to keep up academic correspondence during the war but it just wasnt possible with Germans, and the Germans who had left Germany, like Albert and Dr. Heisenberg, were preoccupied with other things. But most of the Copenhagen people went to their graves thinking that von Neumann had proved that the quantum mechanics had to be complete. Did Dr. Einstein know it was not complete? I asked. Well, he wouldnt have believed it even if somebody told him it was. He wasnt just smart, he was the most God-awful stubborn man you ever met. But I met Rosen years later, and he said one day Albert took out von Neumanns book and pointed at the <P+Q>=<P>+<Q> equation and asked now why in the world should we believe that? So he knew von Neumann was wrong, and why.
249

Mrs. W. refers to World War II. In the seventies, young people of our age accustomed to hear our elders refer to the War, and even though the United States had been involved in two wars since, both in east Asia, the War was always understood to mean World War II.

But still, hes Albert Einstein, said Michael. Everybody should shut up and listen. Thats not how life at a university works, she said, lighting another cigarette and looking at her empty brandy snifter. Michael doled her out another shot, but it was smaller than the last one. At a university youre encouraged to think, but what youre encouraged to think is what everybody else already thinks. If the professors and grad students are all really, really focused on quantum calculations then you should follow their lead and do that, if you want to get ahead. If some strange old man who was really important twenty years ago seems to make an important point, well, however interesting that may be, its not going to help you get your Ph.D. Keep your eyes on the prize, what the dissertation committee is interested in. She shook her head and took a small sip of brandy. So what was the unified field theory? asked Stoney. Ive heard people talk about it, but only in generalities. And remember Im your math guy, not a science guy. He took a sip of his Armagnac. He kind of smiled at his snifter. Mrs. W., head propped on her hand, looking down at the table and her brandy glass, thought for a few seconds. Albert was looking for a group of equations that would apply to all the forces in the universe: gravity, the strong force, the weak force, electromagnetism, quantum mechanics. Everything. A unified field theory that explained all the forces of nature in terms of one field that could be explained by a single set of equations, like Maxwells electromagnetic equations. Stoney shot me a look. Having worked through Maxwell to get to Heavysides simplifications, it was hard to see how they could be reduced much further, much less replaced. Stoney took a prim sip of his Armagnac and shrugged. Seems sensible, said Michael. Stoney looked at me and shrugged again. What we now know as Maxwells equations dont explain anything, they just allow us to make calculations. Michaels an engineer. As long as the math allows him to build something, hes good. Ask physicist who is proficient in this area what is a force? and youll get a befuddled response. We know everything in the world about Physics, except what magnetism and gravity are. This doesnt bother engineers. Ambitious, I would say, I said. She shot me a look. I dont know, it might have been possible. For somebody like Albert, anyway. But everybody thought it was a waste of time. Bohr, Pauli, Feynman. We were supposed to be looking at small things that happened inside particles, not large things that governed galaxies. Relativity was okay, it worked, it predicted lots of things, but there was no career in studying it. The excitement was in quantum. So everybody in the university system had more or less dismissed Albert as a crank. A guy who once had great ideas, but who had petered out twenty years before and was now embarrassing himself by publishing articles out of step with the mainstream. Unified field theory? Give me a break. She had her head propped on her hand with her arm crooked pretty close to the

table. She had a somber expression. Sometimes I worry that when I left Physics to concentrate on Math I abandoned Albert, too, she said. I never meant to do it. I was upset that science turned into camps, into sides. Sects. The Bohr people said were right, youre wrong, if you dont agree with us youre an idiot. So ever since I left Physics, Ive worried that I should have stuck around and helped Alfred. What did you do instead? asked Michael. Got married and had children, she said. Its a lot of fun. Especially if you like your husband. There was a silence. Mrs. W. stubbed out her cigarette and drained her glass. Lordy. Im tired. Bed time. Im with you, Dr. W., said Stoney. Im tired. Fun day though. Have you noticed its still? No. Lordy. You boys are never going to get to Sea Island. I looked, and it did indeed look like a blizzard outside. Do you by any chance have copies of the articles from Physical Review? I asked. She looked at me as though surprised by the question. Ive never seen them, I said. Ive read about them, but never seen them. Why would you be reading a forty year-old magazine article? she asked. The story got picked up a few years ago by this Irish guy, I said. John Bell, said Michael. Its late now, but maybe if you could let us look at the articles, tomorrow Henry and I could catch you up on recent developments. Mrs. W shrugged and stood. She seemed a little unsteady. Stoney stood to accompany her. They walked into the den where the TV was, where she stored a lot of my books. I could see her try to reach for something on a high shelf, then saw Stoney reach it for her. They returned. May I say that finding within minutes something she hadnt looked at for four decades revealed a startlingly well-ordered mind. Here you go, she said, laying two bound reprints on the table. What I want you boys to remember when you read Dr. Bohrs response is that when you tell somebody that if your solution doesnt answer his question then hes asking the wrong question youre talking religion, or maybe politics. But youre sure as Hell not talking science. And if you tell someone his notion of reality is quaint and outmoded youre talking philosophy, not observation or deduction. Or maybe drugs, said Stoney. She laughed. Good night, boys, she said.

Ill walk you up, said Stoney. Im beat, too, and Im betting these two are going to read the articles before they can go to sleep. Toodles, said Michael, and blew Stoney a kiss. Stoney smiled, and they left. She asked him something about the Detroit Lions, and they talked as they went up the stairs. Michael moved his chair closer to mine and we opened Can Quantum Description of Reality Be Considered Complete?250 Any serious consideration of a physical theory must take into account the distinction between the objective reality, which is independent of any theory, and the physical concepts with which the theory operates. These concepts are intended to correspond with the objective reality, and by means of these concepts we picture this reality to ourselves. Seemed sensible enough. The introduction went on to say that for any theory to be deemed complete, every element of physical reality must be explained by the theory. Well, Id never heard it expressed that way, but okay. Then it went on to explain, in what seemed to me to be a roundabout way, what all Physics students whod taken elementary quantum mechanics call the entanglement problem. As you learned if you took high school physics (which I actually didnt) light acts like a wave until you measure it, but as soon as you measure it acts like a large number of discrete particles. Look at it, you have particles, dont, and youve got waves, both experimentally and mathematically. This weirdness has been demonstrated in thousands of experiments. As we had discussed earlier in the evening, entanglement arises when you have two identical photons251 that share a lot of properties that get separated somehow. As weve said over and over, theoretically, if you measure one of them, you have in effect measured the other one, too, and, theoretically, if you collapsed one wave into discrete particles, youd have collapsed the other as well. Einstein considered this to be a mathematical anomaly, a figment of the calculations, spooky action at a distance. Since it was so obviously impossible, it had to reveal a flaw in quantum mathematics. What Einstein, Bohr, and Mrs. W. didnt know, but both Michael and I did, was that not only was spooky action at a distance an acceptable part of quantum mechanics, it was a required part of quantum mechanics, had recently been verified to have occurred by lab experiments. What Mrs. W., Bohr and Einstein all considered impossible, in other words, was common. It was essential. Even though it appeared to violate the speed of light. If you can explain this to me, please do, because it still baffles the shit out of me. The odd thing about reading the piece was that it totally assumed that what we now accept as entanglement was completely impossible. This impossibility was so
250

It should be Can the Quantum Description of Reality Be Considered Complete? but Rosen, who probably wrote most of it, was Russian, and Russians wouldnt use an article here. 251 Of course calling them photons presupposes the end of the experiment. Light generated by a single chemical reaction will appear to be a wave until you measure it. A photon is a particle of light. If you never measure the wave, though, it will continue to be a wave. So the way Henry is describing the problem assumes the end result.

obvious to the authors that they didnt even bother explaining why they thought it was impossible. But if you measure one entangled particle, how can that change the quantum state of another particle in another place. Are they communicating, somehow? And if so, what of the speed of light? Michael and I read through it in silence. At one point he pointed to a mathematical notation thats not used any more and looked at me with a quizzical expression. Quantum math was much more advanced in the 1970s than it had been in 1935, but I had been taught by Mrs. W. in her thirties-era notation and could re-express it 1970s notation that Michael caught immediately. He turned the pages, and we were reading at about the same pace, so we ended at about the same time. He looked at me. The holy EPR,252 said Michael. Indeed. What do you think? he asked. Well-reasoned but long-winded, I said. Its only four pages, said Michael. Entanglement violates Relativity, I said, summarizing. Yes, youre clever, but youd still have to demonstrate it, sweetie. Lets look at Bohr, he said. He picked up the reprint of Niels Bohrs response. Shall we? I looked at the title page. I looked again at the title page of the original EPR article. Okay, I said. So the original EPR article came out on March 25, 1935. Then Niels Bohrs immediate, harsh, unthinkingly rude response to Einstein came out in October of 1935. Yes indeed. Although it does say that Dr. Bohrs response was received in July. All right. And its the next issue of the journal. We started reading. Let me say for the record that, as a budding physicist that night, and then again when I re-read the article as I wrote these memoirs down, Bohrs comments were gibberish that would not have been published had they been written by anyone other than Niels Bohr.

252

I dont remember if Ive mentioned this or not but its called EPR after the initials of the authors. In 2012 one author referred to it as the most cited physics article of all time. Actually Im not sure of the year. It must have been either that Scientific American article or the amazing Louisa Gilder in The Age of Entanglement.

Such an argumentation, however, would hardly seem suited to affect the soundness of quantum-mechanical description, which is based on a coherent mathematical formalism covering automatically any procedure of measurement like that indicated. said Bohr. Michael scowled. Covering automatically any procedure of measurement? asked Michael. I scowled back. Cocky bastard, said Michael. We looked back at the reprint. Bohr didnt even think Einstein knew what reality was: In fact, as we shall see, a criterion of reality like that proposed by the named authors containshowever cautious its formulation may appearan essential ambiguity when it is applied to the actual problems with which we are here concerned. Asshole, said Michael, without looking up. Bohr went through the two-slit experiments, in which beams of light (or radio waves, or x-rays, or anything else) shot through two tiny slits would behave just like waves all day long, but as soon as you measured them, or even looked at them, theyd immediately act like particles.253 He distinguished between classical physics and quantum physics and said what is knowable in classical physics is not knowable in quantum because of the interaction between the measuring instruments and the objects being measured. So the questions Einstein, Podolsky and Rosen raised were irrelevant: Just in this last respect any comparison between quantum mechanics and ordinary statistical mechanics,(sic) however useful they may be for the formal presentation of the theory,(sic) is essentially irrelevant. Indeed we have in each experimental arrangement suited for the study of proper quantum phenomena not merely to do with an ignorance of the value of certain physical quantities, but with the impossibility of defining these quantities in an unambiguous way. What an arrogant asshole, said Michael. He poured himself another tiny glass of B&B. Well, remember hed read von Neumanns book and didnt catch the mistake. He thought that the entire hidden variable question had been proved to be an impossible solution, I said. He thought Einstein was barking up not just the wrong tree, but a tree that von Neumann had proved didnt even exist. What an idiot, he said.

253

In Physics, we never grow tired of thinking about two-slit experiments and wave/particle duality. If you go to a Physics lecture tomorrow, the lecturer will bring it up, and he or she will have an opinion about what it means. And he or she will be wrong.

I dont know, I said, dubiously. They figured out an awful lot in Copenhagen. I know, youre right, and everybody knew Einstein was stubborn, but hed revolutionized physics several times before. If theyd paid attention to him people would have understood entanglement before World War II. Its 1976254, forty years after he pointed this out and we still have no clue why it works. Dr. W. is right. When you point out a problem and somebody responds there is no problem, youre just asking the wrong question, thats religion, thats not science. I dont know. The math department seems to give me that response a lot, I said. Funny, he said, taking a sip. Youre religious? I asked. Was. Cradle Catholic. Altar boy. Angelic altar boy, if I do say so myself. Wanted to be a nun in the worst possible way. Now lapsed. What happened? I asked. I like swallowing dicks, he shrugged. They tell me this is a sin. I think they must be wrong and until they come around Im staying away and swallowing away. Gotcha, I said. Back to this asshole Bohr, he said, and we looked back at the paper. Bohr next said that our conception of time is faulty. Trust me, it makes no more sense to someone with a Ph.D. in physics than it does to you: It is true that we have freely made use of such words as before and after implying time-relationships; but in each case allowance must be made for a certain inaccuracy., which is of no importance, however, as long as the time intervals concerned are sufficiently large compared with the proper periods entering in the closer analysis of the phenomenon under investigation. As soon as we attempt a more accurate time description of quantum phenomena, we meet with well-known new paradoxes, for the elucidation of which further features of the interaction between the objects and the measuring instruments must be taken into account. I looked at Michael with what Im sure registered as a quizzical expression. Gibberish, he said.

254

Actually it was 1977. Hes forgotten about the new year, as people do.

Bohr went on to say that clocks were unreliable indicators of time, if I followed him, because reading the clock changed the way it recorded time. In moving towards a close, he said more or less that classical physics was essentially meaningless in quantum mechanics: In accordance with this situation there can be no question of any ambiguous interpretation of the symbols of quantum mechanics other than that embodied in the well-known rules which allow to (sic) predict the results to be obtained by a given experimental arrangement described in a totally classical way, and which have found their general expression through the transformation theorems, (sic) already referred to. By securing its proper correspondence with the classical theory, the theorems exclude in particular any imaginable inconsistency in the quantum-mechanical description, connected with a change of the place where the discrimination is made between object and measuring procedure we have only a free choice of this place within a region where the quantum-mechanical description of the process is concerned is effectively equivalent with the classical description. Exclude any imaginable inconsistency, said Michael. Pretty sweeping, I agreed. Gack, what an asshole, he said. Okay, so you dont think Dr. W. knows about Bells inequality or the entanglement experiments? Doesnt sound like it, I said. Do you think we should tell her? Sure, although I think shell be surprised. She stopped quantum in 1935. Even her vocabulary is old-fashioned. Non-local. When she first learned Physics from her father, who was educated in Germany I started. So thats where that came from, Michael said. What? I asked. She and handsome Stone-o are always talking German to each other, he said finishing his drink with a final tiny sip. I think I want to taste this Armagnac, he said. He reached across the table for Stoneys empty glass and poured himself a small portion. Wait, I said, as he did so. Where did you pick up handsome Stone-o? Oh, you called him that once when you were teasing him and I picked up on it. The only time Ive seem him blush was when he said he wouldnt explain. I expect a girl

is involved. He apparently had terrible taste in girls, although you have to admit his taste in boys is impeccable. Indeed, I said, smiling. And note that I am not asking you to tell me the story. If he doesnt want me to know, I wont ask his best friend. Best friend? I said, puzzled. Yes, Henri, youre his best friend. Actually, I am, but Im his lover so that puts me in a different category. I was surprised, and my expression must have showed it. He loves you, Henry. So do lots of people. Why? I asked. Because you accept people for what they are without judging them. Since you seem to be unaware of your effect on the cosmos, let me tell you that Im willing to bet, on extremely long odds, and I am not a betting man although I have heard stories told about you that demonstrate that you are, that both Beatriz and Cisco regard you as their best friends, too. Really, I said. This was all mystifying to me. And Mrs. W. loves you as the son she never had. She has a son, I said. Theyre just not close. Well there you go, he said. Why are you resisting this, Henry? People like you. I dont mean to resist, but I guess I spent so long alone that I think of myself as a loner, I said. Thats as may be but youre a good friend to lots of people. People like telling stories about you, but what the members of your fan club always talk about is that you never violate confidences, never judge people, and always accept them for who they are. I dont see Cisco describing me that way, I said. He stresses the trustworthy with secrets aspect of your personality, said Michael. There was a pause as he looked at me speculatively and I scowled at the carpet. I guess I find all this a little perplexing. I mean, I like all those people and now that I think about it I value their friendships. I just dont think about that kind of thing

too much. I thought for a minute. I also value my friendship with you, Michael, I said. I didnt mean to leave you out. Henri! he said. How extravagant to be named in such company. Not really. I like you. I just dont think about that kind of thing too much. And I regard Beatriz, Stoney, and Cisco as interesting people to know and be around. You, too. Its just odd to hear you speculate that they might think of me as best friends. I just dont think about that kind of thing a lot. Is it okay? he asked. I thought. Yeah, I kind of like it, I said. And that Beatriz is drop-dead gorgeous, Michael said, slyly. I shrugged. Yeah, shes pretty, I said. Shes not Melissa pretty, but shes pretty. Ive heard Cisco say that, Michael said. Shes not Melissa pretty. What does that mean? I honestly dont know why I said that, I said. It means really, really pretty. In a way that particularly appeals to the viewer. I must have picked it up from Cisco. No, he says he picked it up from you. All the boys use it now, and its making its way into the Nashville gay scene, as well. I am pleased to report that a film critic I know tried to pick me up last weekend at The Other Side255 by telling me I was Melissa pretty. Did it work? No. Stoney was there. He took a sip of his Armagnac. You know Stoney thinks youre gay? he asked. He started saying that because I didnt respond the way he thought I ought to with Ginny, who is Mrs. W.s favorite niece. I can tell Im not as libidinal as some, but really, the last person I would hit on is Mrs. W.s favorite niece. Stoney also notes that both Beatriz and Toni have beautiful faces and perfect bodies and flirt with you constantly and that you do not appear to have fucked either one, although everyone speculates you could have done both and kept it a secret, he said. Three minutes ago you he was telling Mrs. W. that I was fucking Beatriz. Michael took a speculative sip of his drink.
255

A Nashville gay bar in the seventies. Have I mentioned that before?

Stoney, like many gay men, started his sexual life with women. The fact that he thinks youre gay is not inconsistent, in his eyes, with the fact that most men would have had sex with both Beatriz and Toni by now, he said, looking at the ceiling. And you? I asked. Moi? he asked. Oui, vous256 I answered. You know, Ive heard a lot of men talk about how they were confused as children and found women attractive but I knew the first time I saw a Tarzan movie on TV that I thought Johnny Weissmuller was lots more attractive than Maureen OSullivan. Maureen was Jane? I asked. Oui. Very good iconic recall for a straight man, he said. Not really. I think Ive heard this story from other people, I answered. The Tarzan thing was a very powerful discriminator for people who grew up in the sixties, he said. The movies were on TV all the time. If you realized you were looking at Tarzan and your friends were all excited about Jane, it told you you were different. Thats where learning to keep a secret about who you are starts. Interesting, I said. Heavens, how off-topic we are, he said, waving his hand briefly as though to clear the air. So you claim that youre not gay and that youve never fucked either Toni or Beatriz? Yes, of course. Im surprised there are questions. Even I can tell theyre both really attractive, and I dont pay much attention to girls. Large hooters, tiny waists Oh, for Christs sake, I said. I couldnt have sex with Beatriz, I said. The reason she likes me is that I dont hit on her. She trusts me. And you like being trusted? he asked. Yes, of course, I said. More than you like getting laid? he asked.
256

Yes, you, I said.

Apparently so. If Beatriz is interested in taking me as a lover, and I dont think she is. What an interesting young man you are, Henri, he said. Toni? he asked, brightly. Shes stark raving mad, I said. True. Still, this does not prove to be an impediment to most straights. Or most gays, for that matter. She actually quizzed me on why I never hit on her one time. She said she didnt want to have sex with me but seemed miffed that I didnt act like I wanted to have sex with her, I said. What did you tell her? he asked. That she was stark raving mad and it was bad luck to have sex with crazy ladies, or something like that, I said. Another great Henry story, he said. So back to the original topic, he said, before I could respond. We need to tell Dr. W. about Bells inequality and the entanglement experiments tomorrow? Yes. Sure. Shell be interested. It may get her thinking about physics again. You should talk, though. Im not sure Im good at explaining things. I tend to listen and think to figure things out. I dont really talk unless somebody asks me a question. No trouble, he said. I find all of this fascinating. Which part? I asked. All of it. You, the wonderful Stoney, your circle of friends, the amazing and semi-mystical Dr. W., entanglement, the EPR paper, all of it. You live in an interesting world, mon cher. He swallowed the last of his drink. Toodles, he said, smiling, and stood to go. I moved the glasses to the kitchen, emptied the ashtrays, put the bottles away, and turned out the lights. After I turned out the lights I could see that the moon was out and it was snowing again. Somehow Monty sensed that I was about to go to bed and showed up wagging his tail, prancing and pawing near the door, so I bundled up and took him for a short walk, although he wasnt interested in being out for long. The snow was deep and he was short.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the luster of mid-day to objects below, I said to Monty as we returned to the house. Where did I learn that line?

Chapter 41: Entanglement Fulfilled The next morning when I woke up I could smell coffee and something else warm in the air but I wasnt sure what it was. There was bright sun coming in through the windows, a sign that the storm had passed, the sun was out, and was reflecting off the snow. I brushed my teeth, pulled on my jeans and a new tee shirt and ambled downstairs. Mrs. W. and Stoney were both in bathrobes. Hey bud, Stoney said, gesturing at the coffee pot. He stirred something in a pot on the stove, added a sprinkle of salt to his hand and dropped it in, then a large-ish pat of butter, stirred it, covered it, and turned down the heat. Oatmeal? I asked. Prcisment, Stoney answered. I like oatmeal, I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. When I turned around they were both looking at me. What? I asked. Nothing, said Mrs. W., looking back at her paper. She handed me the crossword. She was looking at the front page section and Stoney was looking at Sports. I looked at Stoney. You sure you dont want to do this? I asked, referring to the crossword. Theyre fun to write, but Ive kind of lost my taste for solving them, he said. Stoney is one of the two smartest people I have ever met. Thanks, I said, taking out a pen. In a few minutes Michael showed up, shaved, hair still wet, fully dressed. He gave Stoney a peck on the cheek and Mrs. W. smiled at him as he poured himself coffee. Nice to have all you boys in one place, she said. It was about ten oclock. We were not early risers. Oatmeal? asked Stoney. Yes, please, said Mrs. W. I noticed for the first time that butter, cream, and sugar were already on the table. Stoney got up to ladle us all a bowlful, then the phone rang. We were all surprised. Well, all of us except Mrs. W. Hes an early riser, she said. Stoney and Michael and I looked at each other quizzically. Hello? she listened. Well, hello, Bob. I wondered if this might be you. You always get to the office so early. How in the Hell are you? She listened.

That all sounds good. How are Maria and Paul? she asked, then a few seconds later an alarmed expression spread across her face. Oh, Im so sorry, she said, and listened for a few minutes. Gosh I hope it all works out okay, she said, and listened for a few more minutes, then started nodding as she took a pull from her cigarette. Yeah, yeah. Hes really good. At calculation hes the best Ive ever seen, she said. He can do things in his head I cant do on paper, she said. Michael and Stoney and I looked up, because she could only be talking about Stoney. Then Michael looked at Stoney and smiled. She hasnt met Toni, Stoney said. I knew what he was talking about, but Michael frowned. She smiled. Okay, she said. I can teach him Rieman surfaces if it will get him a teaching fellowship. I want him to try some teaching anyway to see if hes going to want to be a professor. Hes crazy smart. She smiled and looked at the oriental rug. No, there wont be any pressure. Hes got money and can go to Stanford even if you dont give him a She puffed on her cigarette and smiled again. Ill get him started on minimal surfaces. He wont have trouble with it. Then you can see what you think hed be best at. Hes smart. She listened intently. When will he get the letter? She listened for a few minutes. Okay. Can I tell him? She smiled. Okay. Well thanks a lot, and its been good talking to you. Ill call next time Im in northern California, she said. Thanks again. She hung up the phone and smiled at Stoney. Okay, ace, she said. Youre in at Stanford. Youll get a letter in March. If you show up in Palo Alto knowing the geometry of minimal spaces, he needs a teaching fellow. Stoney looked so happy I thought he might cry. Michael jumped up and clapped his hands. Yippee! With my man on the peninsula! he said, and gave Stoney a happy hug. Congrats, bud, I said, and gave him a thumbs up. He smiled over Michaels shoulder. Stoney you need to give me a week this summer. At the beginning. Ill read up on what Bobs been up to and well go through it, said Mrs.W. What is this minimal spaces geometry deal? Stoney asked. Oh, think very small objects that have a physical reality. A very small bubble. Bobs always been obsessed with it. I dont really know what its good for and here Michael and I shot each other a look, because if math had to be good for something, maybe she hadnt completely turned her back on math and even engineeringbut Bobs not so much calculational as he is philosophical. Hell make some tiny little discovery then think about it for weeks and write about it every day. Im not sure youll like it. But

heres the deal. Youre painting yourself into a corner. I assume your dream job is being at the Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton, she said. Whoa. Youre good, Stoney answered. Yeah, but you dont get invited there until youre famous, and the best way for you to get famous is by being a professor, and you cant just profess, you have to teach. So you need to figure out if you can do that, so being a teaching fellow is something you should do, even if you dont need the money. Stoney thought. Okay, he said. Now lets eat some oatmeal, she said, and we all did. It was delicious, but could any hot bowl of grain with milk, butter, and sugar not be good? After wed cleaned up Michael went to the window. Monty was wagging his tail by the front door, so I started dressing to walk him. Michael showed up at the front door. Im going to keep Henry company, he called out from the front door. Stoney and Mrs. W. called out something in reply and we left. I know that meant a lot to Stoney, Michael said, so I wanted to give him the chance to talk to her alone for a few minutes. Youre the man, I said.

Chapter 42: Entanglement Re-Opened The next morning when I woke up I was feeling a little itchy for personal grooming reasons. It had been several days since Id shaved so I did so, showered, brushed teeth, etc., before going downstairs. When I did the coffee aroma was strong. Mrs. W and Stoney were at the kitchen table in bathrobes. They acknowledged my entrance silently as I entered the kitchen. There were two mugs next to the coffee pot so I took one, poured myself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table. The front page of the Chattanooga Times was idle so I took it. After a few minutes Stoney got up, took some bacon from the refrigerator and began to fry it in a black iron skillet, so the room began to smell very breakfast-like. I read the first section of the paper and got up to refill my mug. Stoney had lined up the cooked rashers of bacon on yesterdays help wanted ads. After I poured my coffee I reached to snag a strip of Stoneys perfectly-cooked bacon but he smacked me with the back side of Mrs. W.s very narrow Teflon egg turner, leaving a warm and oily mark on the back of my hand. My expression must have conveyed surprise. Sorry, bud, he said. Were running out of supplies. Weve been snowed in for three days. Just enough for each of us to have three bacon biscuits. I noticed that biscuit dough was rolled out on the Formica next to the sink. Gotcha, I said, and sat down with my coffee. I looked at Section II of the paper. Someone named Rupert Murdoch from Australia was trying to buy New York magazine, which Id never read. Hard to see why that mattered. So you think youll graduate on time? Mrs. W. asked after a few minutes. I looked up. She must have been talking to me. She was aware of Stoneys graduation plans because shed gotten him into Stanford yesterday. Me? I asked. Yes, Henry, you, she said, with a mixture of irritation and amusement. And the question is am I going to graduate on time? I asked. Oh, this is going to be interesting, said Stoney, smiling at the bacon frying in the pan. What? Whats going on? Henry, have you fallen behind? she asked, alarmed. No, I said, confused. Im trying to graduate early. What? How early? she demanded. I kind of scowled because I didnt understand what the fuss was about. Um, if I may? said Stoney from the stove.

Please! she answered. Last year at registration Henry figured out that if he took lots of courses he could graduate in three years. So hes doubled up on Math and Physics and according to my Math friends, hes going to graduate in May with a perfect GPA. How in the Hell can a person double up on courses and still get good grades? she demanded. Of Stoney, not of me. Henry claims to have no love life, doesnt drink, and doesnt do drugs. No hobbies that anyone can see. Doesnt even play pool any more, Stoney answered. Henry, dammit, what am I going to do with you? she demanded. Oh, you dont mean that, sweetie, answered Michael, entering, fully dressed in pressed, creased khakis, a pressed white button-down and a navy blue v-necked sweater, ready to meet the day. He kissed Mrs. W on the cheek and then Stoney on the forehead. Henrys a strange force of nature, but you love him. You know you do. Michael said, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He was the only one of us who took cream or sugar. You know I do, but dammit, Henry, what are we going to do now? I thought Id succeeded in getting myself a degree while saving myself a years tuition and was still baffled over the direction the conversation had taken. I was thinking Id go back to playing pool and hang out with you whenever I was close to Chattanooga, I said. No, dammit, you have to go to graduate school at someplace really good and the acceptance season is almost over. Damn. Whats your GPA? I paused. Stoney answered for me. My sources in the Registrars office tell me he has a perfect 4.0, said Stoney. There was another pause. Why do you have sources in the Registrars office? I asked. Well, and here he said ahem, or something close, theres a sort of interest in who will be valedictorian, he said. Youre in the running? I asked. Um, yes, said Stoney. Tied with someone.

Who? I asked. Nobodys as smart or as well-educated as Stoney. There was a pause. Henry, you idiot, if you have a perfect 4.0 it has to be you, said Mrs. W. Michael laughed, then smiled, and took a sip of his coffee. It is Henry, said Stoney. But I think I should win. Whys that? Michael asked. Because Middle German is so much harder than Koine Greek, Stoney said. Plus, Henry gets to putter around in Physics while I have to think in higher math all day every day. Oh, for Christs sake, I said. You German guys get to read articles written in English by J.R.R. Tolkein and listen to Wagner and get credit for it. I have to read bullshitexcuse me, Mrs. Wertheimer, that just slipped outwritten by born-again Christians. No way you win. You try explaining Valhalla to a bunch of thirteen year-olds, he answered. When did you do that? I asked. I was a counselor at a summer camp in North Carolina, he answered. After you started college? I asked. After freshman year, he said. Anything other than summer in Michigan. Bad call, ace, I said. I was trying to think of what kind of camp counselor he would have been, stoned to the gills every day. Yeah, okay, he answered. Just out of curiosity, how did you get weed at camp? I asked. Those campers were extremely well-prepared for their camping experience, Stoney said. How old were they? I asked. Mine were mostly middle school, but there were some high schoolers as well. The high school girls were exceedingly well prepared for camp, Stoney said. Plus, Asheville257 was right down the road.
257

Asheville is a town in the mountains of western North Carolina. Sort of. Its like Denverif you go there, youll be surprised at how taller than the town the mountains around it are. There are lots of dope

I know the name, but Ive never been there, I said. I like the mountains, but I dont like to play pool at altitude. Not sure why. Im more comfortable down on the flatlands. With farmers. Well, that makes sense, of course. But Asheville is a college town, so, you know. Stoney said. Michael smiled. If you ladies would stop your reminiscences and focus, Henry, youre not returning to the pool hustler and gambling circuit, said Mrs. W. Im not? I asked. Stoney turned his back on us, smiling, and began to cut biscuits with a champagne flute. There was an awkward pause. Where in the Hell can we get you in? Mrs. W. asked herself, lighting a cigarette. She seemed to raise possibilities and strike them out to herself, shaking her head occasionally. Michael, chin propped on hand, watched this for several minutes with something close to amusement. He looked like he was going to interrupt her reverie for a second, but then seemed to change his mind. So have you read about Bells Inequality? Michael asked. Sure, I answered. Its Not you, Henri, Michael interrupted. I was asking the amazing Dr. W. What? she asked, stirred from her internal debate about where she was going to send me to grad school. Are you familiar with Bells Inequality? Michael asked. She stubbed out her cigarette and looked at him curiously. No, I dont think I am. Whats it about? she asked. Quantum mechanics, Michael said. Well, I dont much follow that any more. Not for a long time, she said. I expect you do more than you admit, but for now lets wait until after breakfast, said Michael. Stoney slid a sheet of biscuits into the oven and poured himself another cup of coffee. He didnt seem to be adding any bourbon. Okay. I still have friends in Pasadena and in Cambridge, Mrs. W said, returning to what was really on her mind and pointing at me in what seemed like a semithreatening, if affectionate, manner. If I can get you into one of those, youre going, you
smokers in Asheville.

hear me? I had a vague sense that Pasedena was in California and that there was a Cambridge in Massachusetts and that good schools were in both. I wasnt really sure that I wanted to go to school any more, but then I wasnt going to disagree with Mrs. W. She generally knew best. But more school? Yes, maam, I said. I never heard of such a thing, she said, lighting a cigarette. She looked off into the distance, shaking her head, then looked back at me with her dark eyes. Play pool? You? she demanded. The smell of the biscuits cooking began to fill the room. Sorry, I said. Henry she began. The snows going to melt, said Stoney. That caught her off guard. Okay, she said. Michael and I need to leave to go to Sea Island today, he said. I looked outside and it did look like the snow was beginning to melt. I stood and looked out a window and the streets looked pretty clear. Too bad. I like having all you boys around, she said. Michael and Henry want to talk to you about quantum mechanics, said Stoney, removing the sheet of biscuits from the oven. So lets eat breakfast and then talk about inequality and entanglement, he said. Quickly, though, because Michael and I have to go. This was a sad thought. He shook the biscuits from the baking sheet onto a plate. The bacon was on another plate. He placed both on the table in front of us. Butter was already there, although I hadnt noticed it before. Dig in, he said, and smiled. He and Mrs. W. both stubbed out their cigarettes, he poured himself another cup of coffee, and we all ate. What you did was to take one of Stoneys perfect, steaming hot biscuits, split it, butter it lightly, then take one of his perfect rashers of bacon, break it in two, put it between your biscuit halves to make a mini sandwich, and then take a bite. It was heaven. Perfect. Mrs. W got up after her first one to pour herself a glass of milk, and I waved for one, too, but Im not sure but what coffee nay have been the perfect beverage for bacon biscuits. Either way was delicious. We discussed no physics until all of the biscuits were gone and all of the bacon was eaten. Unusually for us, nobody said anything while we were eating, but then baseball season was months away and no elections were coming up. Afterwards we all sat around for a few minutes knowing wed enjoyed something rare.

Lordy. That was magnificent, said Mrs. W., taking a sip of her coffee. We were all in a state of mind that only a perfect breakfast can create. I reached for the section of the paper that had the comics and was just beginning to work my way towards the puzzles when Mrs. W. spoke. Stoney, something was so simple and so perfect about that breakfast that I dont quite know what to say. Thank you maam, he said. He took a sip of coffee then reached for a cigarette. It was kind of like a hot bowl of oatmeal, she said. Its plain, but you just cant improve on it. Thanks, he said, and smiled, lighting a Winston. Okay. So there was this guy, Michael started. His name was John Bell. Irish guy. Took a job at CERN in Switzerland. He was always bothered about the EPR. Mrs. W. had made the transition from breakfast reverie to physics over coffee very smoothly. And EPR is what you call Alberts 1935 paper? she asked. Yes, maam. Named for the authors. Einstein, Podolsky and Rosen. She nodded and took a drag from her cigarette. Remember Einsteins premisethat because quantum mechanics allowed for non-locality, for what Einstein called spooky action at a distance, something must be missing. She nodded again. Obviously, she said. Actually, not so much, Michael said. Bell ran through the mathhe was married to a physicist and they talked about this stuff all the time, and he came up with a premise Youd call it a theorem, I interjected, speaking to Mrs. W. A theorem, then, said Michael, called Bells Inequality. In 1964 Bell published a paper called On the Einstein Podolsky Rosen Paradox Where did he publish it? she asked. I shrugged. Bell was in my Quantum textbook. Id never seen the paper. In a journal called Physics, Michael answered. Never heard of it, she said, firing up a new Benson & Hedges. I could smell the minty menthol over the nicotine. Stoney sat down with his already-lit Winston.

According to what Ive read, said Michael, Bell had wanted to look into the questions raised by the EPR258 and see where it went when he was a grad student, and even when he was a post-doc, but every time he brought it up somebody would act like seriously addressing the question would be career suicide. Heisenberg/Bohr et cetera worked so well that nobody thought there was any progress to be made turning over any of the rocks that crossed the quantum stream. But Bell never stopped thinking about it. Then when he got a job at CERN259 his career was pretty much bullet-proof and he started arguing with people about why it was that the quantum allowed this strange phenomenon of entanglement. Everybody he talked to was dismissive of the idea that something might be missing from the quantum theory, but he kept thinking about it. What he came up with was really, really weird. Michael paused and frowned at me. What was it? Mrs. W asked, exasperated. Michael thought and looked at me. I shrugged. Bell proved, or demonstrated mathematically, that the oddity that Einstein had noticed, that everybody had dismissed as silly from Bohr to Feynman, was an irreducible, unavoidable part of the quantum math. What? she was alarmed. How would you put it, Henry? he asked me. He actually relied not just on EPR, but also on a subsequent paper by Bohm and Ahronov that showed that if you have two matched spin particles, measuring one of them would tell you everything about the other no matter how far apart they were. I said. I remember a little of this, she said. How do you prove that it has to be that way? This entanglement business. Albert took it that the equations allowed for what youre calling entanglement as proof that something must be missing, she said. Right. Einstein thought that the strangeness of the universe was due to hidden variables that had not been discovered. Later scientists would fill in the gaps and explain the anomaly. But! He was, in this rare instance, wrong, it appears. Bell formulated Einsteins idea mathematicallythat something yet to be discovered would explain the weirdnessand actually managed to demonstrate that it was fundamentally
258

The EPR suggested that because entangled particles remained entangled no matter how far they were separated, this entanglement must violate Relativity, which says the speed of light is an absolute limit. If two entangled particles are a light-year apart and respond to stimuli instantaneously, what is going on? 259 Originally an acronym, nobody seems to know any more what CERN originally stood for. It was a nuclear lab and think-tank with an associated particle accelerator located in Switzerland, where neither the Germans nor the French could control it if twentieth-centrury-style troubles were to erupt again. Now known formally as the European Center for Nuclear Research, but still widely referred to as CERN, it runs, most spectacularly, in the present day, the Large Hadron Collider. Forgetting what a collection of letters stands for is not at all uncommon, by the way. How many remember that laser is an acronym that originally meant Light Amplified by Stimulated Emission of Radiation? Or exactly which vowels go where in YHWH?

incompatible with the established truths of quantum mechanics. It felt odd to be talking to Mrs. W and Stoney and Michael like this. They were all smarter than I was. Or am. How do you she began. Hang on, I said, unthinkingly, like I was talking to someone my own age. Gack. Sorry. Please, I said to Mrs. W. I felt like Id been very rude. No, go on, she said, smoking. Didnt mean to interrupt. Thank you, Jesus. Bell showed that it was the requirement of locality,260 I said. The classical requirement that a measurement of one thing be completely unaffected by the operations of another system with which its interacted in the past that creates the problem. It is mathematically impossible for a quantum system to exist that does not include entanglement. So this strange problem that Einstein noticed in the EPR is required by that confusing system that is quantum mechanics. Right? I asked Michael. Prcisment, Michael answered. So weird as entanglement is, and its plenty weird, the math of quantum mechanics requires it. So fundamentally the world is not what any of us think it is. Whether we believe in Newton, or Einstein, or Bohr, Bell has proved mathematically that we fundamentally dont understand whats going on. Or maybe that one of them must be wrong. Or something. Michael and I reconstructed the math as best as we could remember it.261 Neither of us could explain Bells proof262 of his conclusion to her263 because and both of us had been taught that it was reliable without being told why. She wasnt familiar with the math and wanted more of an explanation than we could give. She frowned at the ashtray and took a drag off her cigarette. Nobodys been able to test this experimentally? she asked.

260

In other words, Bell demonstrated that the entanglement problem was an unavoidable consequence of quantum mechanics. It will always be with us. 261 Bell began by assuming that there was a more complete wavefunction than the one quantum mechanics used and that it was defined by some unknown parameters which he called . He then assumed two entangled particles, then showed that even with the previously-hidden function, measuring one of the two entangled particles still allowed you to know what happened with the other, it just had thrown in. He demonstrated that quantum value of either product (the probability values for the two particles) multiplied out to a value which was either the same as the wavefunction in the absence of , or else arbitrarily (he means infinitely) small, which he demonstrated was impossible (this is commonsensical, of course; it cant be large enough to disrupt all of physics yet infinitely small). 262 See Appendix B.
263

It assumes the reliability of a normalized probability distribution. Not hard conceptually, perhaps, but hard to conjure up on the spot during Christmas break.

Actually, somebody did. They built a potassium cascade that generated entangled photons with the same polarization then shot them through half-silvered mirrors that diverted the light into two beams. They measured half with magnetometers then collected the other half in photomultiplier tubes. The correlations predicted polarization of the non-measured photons as collected in the tubes at rates several times higher than would be predicted by chance. She thought about this for a few seconds. And these tubes can detect individual photons? she asked. I had no idea and my expression showed it. She was looking at Michael anyway. They can come close, he said. They werent really designed to be used for light sources so faint, but thats what was available, so thats what they used. The problem was that any stray particle that wandered through would look like a photon in the experimental results. I bet, she said. What did they do? They shielded it as well as they could and kept the collection apparatus really, really cold. Gotcha. She thought about this for a few seconds. Albert really wouldnt like this, she said. Really? Michael, said, surprised. But it shows he was right. No it doesnt, she said. He wouldnt think so, anyway. But nobody else had ever noticed the entanglement problem, Michael said. Stoney rejoined us, a little winded. Hed packed their suitcases and loaded them into the car. What do you make of this, Handsome Stono? asked Mr.s W. I dont understand it, he answered. I dont see how something can have immediate effects on something far away. Michaels explained it to me, and my initial reaction was that Einstein must be rightsomething is wrong. Something is missing. But I looked at the math in Bells paper You have it? she asked. Its in the library, he said. Can you send me a copy? she asked.

Sure, he shrugged. Michael took out a small black datebook and made a note with a fountain pen. Ill remind him, Michael said. Thanks to both of you, she said. But I interrupted. What did you think of Bells math? The math was fine, so far as I could follow it, but it assumed all kinds of shi, um, stuff about quantum mechanics that I dont know. Michael said it was all right, but theres a lot of it that seems assumed, at least to me. In Math, if we paint ourselves into a corner and realize that one of our principles violates another of our principles we assume them both to be suspect until we figure out whats going on. At least I think we do. But the Physics department seems to assume that the entanglement deal violates Relativity, and I dont understand either Relativity or entanglement, of course, but everybodys marching right along as though both quantum mechanics and Relativity are both still reliable. We all looked at him, and nobody really knew what to say. Well, theyre both really good at predicting things, I said. They just predict things in different spheres. The Sumerians could predict eclipses and the positions of constellations and planets with astonishing, at least to me, accuracy, he said. So could the Aztecs and the Egyptians. But that doesnt mean the sun was marching across the sky on the back of a giant tortoise, or whatever the hell they all thought was happening, Stoney said, and shrugged. He lit a cigarette. Valid point, said Mrs. W. And now, sweetness, he said to Michael, I hate to break up this rap session of weighty minds, but we really have to hit the road. People are going to be waiting on us. That you do, said Mrs. W. But please come back often. Stoney kissed her on the cheek, lit a Winston off of her Zippo, and we walked them to the door. She stopped at the front door, maybe because the sidewalk was snowy and she was wearing loafers. She waved and smoked speculatively. I waved goodbye. Im going to miss those boys, she said.264 Theyll be back, I said. I hope youre right, but it will be a while if they do. Theyre moving to California. As are you, if all goes according to plan. Are you coming back?

264

Now that I think about it, she seemed to understand that she was saying goodbye to them for a long time. I knew I wasnt. We would all be back in the same suite in a few days.

Yes, maam. You dont think theyre coming back? I think it will be hard for them to schedule. But they have each other, she said. So do we, I said. Thank you, Henry, but youre so full of shit. Where am I going in California? I asked. Cant say yet. Youre not in. Northern or Southern California? I asked. I dont consider the Bay Area part of Northern California, but not there, she said, lighting a cigarette. So Southern California? I asked. Si, she said. Pasadena or Westwood? I asked. Not Westwood, she said. Wow. She was aiming high. She took a contemplative drag off of her cigarette. What did you think about all of that about Bell? she asked. Hmmm. Well, I was taught it in class, a couple of classes, actually, and they presented it to us like it was true, I said. Established. Which is to say, what, exactly? I I asked no one. It was hard to explain. She looked at me speculatively. I guess they dont teach stuff at school the way you do, I said. I guess. Not in quantum, anyway. How so? People are always saying that if you dont find quantum mechanics disturbing then you havent been paying attention. But they also seem to think it works so well that its pointless to ask questions about why it works. Like you were saying Bohr said to Einsteinif the equations dont answer your questions, then youre asking the wrong questions. They seem to think that the equations describe the universe so thoroughly that theres no point in questioning them. Yes? she asked, taking a drag. She whistled the smoke over my head as I thought about how to answer. Well, so I learned Bells theorem the same way I learned Newton and Planck and Einstein. This has been established and you need to understand it to be a physicist.

When you teach me something its more like Heres what these guys concluded and why. She smiled over her cigarette. Everybody at school teaches it like This is what weve establishedjust accept it as true and keep moving. Remember Kuhn? she asked. Sure. The people in the academy keep building on what they know until a new idea comes along that reorganizes everybodys thoughts and provides a better explanation for observed facts. Then theres a paradigm shift. Close enough, she said, after a pause. But everybody just accepts all of this. Newton makes sense. Einstein makes sense. Bell makes sense. So theyre true, I complained. And with quantum mechanics? she asked. Yeah, well, everybody seems to accept that quantum mechanics makes no sense. Nobody tries to describe it in terms of reality. They just really like it that the equations predict results so well that they stop worrying about the fact that they have no idea whatsoever why it works. She thought for a minute then took a last drag off her cigarette and stubbed it out, looking out the window. Okay, Henry, so universities are institutions, she said, changing the topic, it seemed. Yes, maam. So lets look at a different institution. A different kind of institution. Say youre a Methodist minister. Or a priest. Or a rabbi. And one day when youre sitting in your study smoking your pipe thinking great thoughts a member of your congregation comes to you and says hes figured it all out. Weve been looking at the relation of God to man all wrong, and if you just listen to his insight about the proper interpretation of the scriptures, everything will be better. All the arguments solved. It will all make sense. Whats your attitude as you begin the conversation? I thought, but not for long. I guess Im pretty dubious. Whys that? she asked. Well, Im trained, hes not. Ive heard this before. What makes him so special? If that kind of insight was out there, somebody would have picked it up before him. All good, she said. Plus, youve been teaching the congregation the same thing for the last thirty years, just as it was taught to you. If hes right, you were wrong. Youve always been wrong. The people who taught you were all wrong. And we know

that the current system works, right? Weve brought solace to thousands of people saved their souls, buried their mothers, circumcised their boys, baptized their children, done whatever Catholics doand we know that our system, for whatever flaws it might have and questions it leaves unanswered, well, its worked pretty well so far. Yeah. I mean, yes maam. That makes sense. Your professors know how to teach Newton and Albert and Bohr and even Bell. Thats what their jobs are. And all of their predictions work out, just like Archimedes could predict eclipses and Rutherford understood atomic weights and chemical reactions and Feynman knows the probabilities. Theyre not teaching you how to find the next paradigm shift any more than a Baptist minister is teaching his flock to be actual real-live prophets. Read the Bible we know and live as those prophets tell you to live. Ask the kinds of questions we tell you to ask. Otherwise, keep your nose to the grindstone. Dont go out in the desert and live on locusts and honey and seek your own vision. Do as we say and youll be fine. Youre describing the physics department pretty accurately, I said. Almost stifling. Its supposed to be stifling, Henry, she said. They didnt set it up on purpose to be that way, but one of the benefits of institutions is that they move slowly. Why is that a benefit? I asked. Because however poorly, what we have now works, and we know how its going to work tomorrow. In politics, in religion, in government, in law, in education, in medicine, and in social conventions. And in science, it works exceedingly well. Just like Archimedes knew what time the sun was going to come up and Bohr knew where all the particles were, across all of science and engineering we can build refrigerators and bridges and make phone calls and pasta salads and know how its all going to work. And for the most part, we think we understand why. No reason to challenge things that work. Makes sense, I said, and stopped to think. So if it works so well, why are we still trying to figure out more? I asked. She smiled and lit a new cigarette. Part of that will be easier to understand after youre around grad students a little more, she said. With all these theories, no matter how well they allow us to predict whats going to happen, and no matter how well they explain the results of experiments, there are little holes all over the place. Why does this kind of particle describe that exact kind of loop in a cloud chamber? Why does this kind of quark need to seem to spin twice to get back to its original polarity? Why do particles sometimes seem to be strings or loops? Theyre teensy, tiny, little questions, but thats what grad students do all dayfill in the tiny little chinks and cracks in the wall that is our accepted theory.

But then every now and then somebody comes along and wipes the slate clean? I asked. Yep. The time before last it was Albert. Remember, when I was in high school and starting college they taught us there was a substance in the universe called the luminous ther. Oh, yeah. I mean yes maam. Youve told me about this. Because the math of EMWs described waves, they assumed that there must be a substance light was moving through. Like a ripple on the surface of a pond. Or a compression wave through air.
265

Yes. Yeah, well. Not much evidence for that.266 None whatsoever.267 Everybody was extrapolating from what they knew. And you can never extrapolate from what you know if theres some complete unknownor
265 266

Electromagnetic waves. Well, there wasnt in the 1970s. In the 1960s a Brit named Michael Higgs who taught at (of course) the University of Edinburgh proposed a new kind of particle, a boson whose field would provide a mathematical basis for why particles have mass. Since mass is such a fundamental property it may seem odd that physicists have a hard time explaining it, but fact is, they do. Until Higgs came up with his boson and it got included into the Standard Model (which didnt happen right way, of course; Higgs was regarded as a loon for several years before the gentlemans club that is Physics calmed down and considered the possibility that he was right) there wasnt really an explanation, at least amongst quantum mechanics, as to why all these particles amounted to something that had mass. The Relativity guys always had an easy explanation for mass, of course, but until Higgs got written into the Standard Model quantum really didnt. Then on July 4, 2012, the merry pranksters who run the Large Hadron Collider said they thought theyd detected the Higgs boson, which suggests that the Higgs field, which creates the conditions necessary for mass, actually exists. So theres something vaguely analogous to a luminous ther out there, but its a field, not a substance. And the reason I dont explain what a Higgs field is is because you have to understand how fermions act and how that relates to something called spontaneous symmetry breaking, which, frankly, I dont. If you want to try your hand at the math, knock yourself out. The fermion conversions are described by where again the gauge field A only enters Dirac matrices, and (i.e., it is only indirectly visible). The quantities are the

is the Yukawa-coupling parameter. Already now the mass-generation follows the

same principle as above, namely from the existence of a finite expectation value . This is crucial for the existence of the property mass. And no, I havent tried to solve it. But my point is, what Henry said in 1977, that there was no evidence of something in the universe like the luminous thera substance that must exist because waves must have something to pass through is not quite so silly-sounding in 2012 as it was in 1977. True, were not talking about waves passing through something, but were talking about a particle that creates a quantum field that must exist for there to be something as basic as mass. There will be something else, sometime later, that will account for waves. Surely that counts for something in the esoterica record book.
267

Well, see footnote 20. There was some, but nobody understood it in 1975. Except maybe Higgs, who was still regarded as a loon in the seventies.

more accurately, some fundamental misunderstanding in the things youve been taught out there. Rutheford couldnt extrapolate beyond his ther. Albert didnt seem to be able to see beyond light and gravity. Feynman cant extrapolate past his probabilities. Theyre all great men, but they see what they see, and they cant see anything else. I thought for a minute. How would you say your analogy works in the other direction? I asked. How do you mean? Could you say the same about religious leaders? That they know what they know but cant get beyond what they know? I asked. Well, thats what I was saying earlier, but thats not the point I was after, she said. She frowned, took a drag, and tapped her ashes into an ashtray. She thought for a long pause. I guess Im having a hard time thinking of transformative religious leaders other than the ones we name the religions after. So Im not sure there are paradigm revolutions in religion. Billy Graham, I said. Earnest and well-meaning, honest and riveting as a preacher, but hes just the best Baptist tent-revivalist of the last hundred years. Its not transformative. Pope Pius XII? I asked. He brought some changeslimited, if you ask mebut his hands were dirty. Plus thats incremental change, not transformative. Mary Baker Eddy? I asked. Lots of followers but still a crank. Aimee Semple McPherson? I asked. How in the Hell do you know about Aimee Semple McPherson? she answered. I read.

Then you know shes a complete kook whos not worthy of your list. The others youve mentioned had an impact. She was on the radio in Los Angeles.268 She was the one who started turning California nutty. Joseph Smith, I said. Good choice. I think Brigham Young would be better, though. Joseph Smith was a con man from Missouri who convinced a bunch of yokels that hed dug up some golden tablets and translated them into English then got killed young. Brigham Young sold the whole hidden scripture deal then convinced them all to move off to Utah, away from prying eyes and troublesome questions about the golden tablets. Whos next? I may be done. The deal is, unless the religion is named after you, your role is to tell the congregation to toe the line and do as told. Ill admit that Joseph Smith added some wrinkles and a book, but Mormonism isnt any weirder than Catholicism. Youre sure about that? I asked. Do you know what transubstantiation means? she asked. She had a point.

268

Without a doubt the most entertaining Southern California TV preacher of all time was Gene Scott, who showed up on television in 1977 and may have been on the radio before that. He talked about sin, the Bermuda (which he pronounced Bermooda) tiangle, demonology, and above all the importance of tithing to his church. After the FCC yanked his broadcast licenses for financial improprieties (the FCC claimed he was not entirely honest about the purposes to which donations would be put) he switched to satellite TV and soldiered right on. Died in 2005. For all of his foolishness, he seemed to understand Greek and Aramaic and could, on occasion, particularly on Easter Sunday, deliver a poetic and profound sermon. The next night hed be back to demanding you contribute so he could feed his prize horses.

Chapter 43: A Reflection on a Painful Memory Reported by a Dear Friend The next semester, my last as an undergrad, was more or less uneventful. Things progressed as youd expect them to progress. My friends continued to be themselves. I was glad to have them around. Funny, interesting, very smart people. All good, fine, okay, but not much to talk about here. There are lots of stories that would be fun and interesting and even informative to tell but this book is already way too long so Im leaving them out. But then one night something happened that was different. One night in March Beatriz and I were walking back to the dorm after dinner at the Elliston Place Soda Shop, which Beatriz said she liked because it reminded her of restaurants around Wadley. I liked it because I liked the food. That night Id had country-style steak with mashed potatoes, turnip greens, and cornbread. Beatriz had roast beef with gravy, rice, string beans and biscuits.269 She also had iced tea and banana cream pie for dessert. I had water and no dessert. I drink a lot of water, so the waitresses at Ellistons would bring me a pitcher of it when I sat down to save themselves he trouble of refilling my glass every sixty seconds. On our fairly quiet walk back to the dorm after dinner Beatriz was carrying her green hardback copy of the Girl Scout Handbook270 sealed in a large-ish Baggie clutched to her breast with both hands, the way she did. We didnt have a lot to say that night, but we were comfortable being quiet with each other. It was a nice night and the stars were out. It had been warmer during the day but the temperature began to drop pretty quickly as soon as the sun went down, which it did around six. Daylight Savings Time wouldnt start until late April.

We walked along in silence until we reached the freshman mens quadrangle271 with its large magnolia trees. She smiled and looked at me every few seconds as we walked, as though she was happy to be there and wanted to say something but wasnt sure what it was she wanted to say. After a while she cleared her throat, stopped, and stood up straight, ready to say something. Shed decided what she wanted to say. We were right at the geometric center of the freshman quad, or as near as we could be given the magnolia trees. She was still hugging her little green book to her breast. I stopped and looked at her expectantly.
269

Have I mentioned this before? In the seventies, what are now called green beans had a tough string down the underside and so we called them string beans. When I was a kid and my mom was in the states shes sit on the couch watching television with a brown paper bag on her lap, snapping the string beans and pulling out the string. The people that produce the Burpees seed catalogue had used selective breeding to get rid of the tough string by sometime in the eighties, but green beans dont taste like string beans did.w 270 Girl Scout Handbook Intermediate Program, Girl Scouts of America (4th Ed, 1949). 271 I think its real name was Kissam Quadrangle. It was six identical dorms arranged around a quadrangle. When Id lived there, Id lived on the third floor of Hemmingway, and I think the one at the other end of the quad was named Kissam Hall. When I was there, all of the residents of all six of the dorms on the quad were freshman men. Sometime in 2011, it appears the six dorms of Kissam Quad were all torn down and the university began construction of an enormous structure also called Kissam Quadrangle but which was much more elaborate and massive than the freshman quad had been.

Why are you so alone, Henry Baida? she asked me, after a brief pause. It was dark but not so dark that I couldnt see that her eyes widened and she smiled as she asked. Oh, I think its just my nature, I answered. I shrugged. Youre pretty solitary. Why do you think that is? I asked. Oh, that is a very different question, Henry Baida. I am solitary because I make others uncomfortable. You are alone because you choose to be? she said. You dont make me uncomfortable, I said. I had to be careful here, because she was right, in a way. Dear, sweet, brilliant Beatriz had some eccentric mannerisms and Id noticed that lots of people regarded her utterly charming weirdness somewhat judgmentally, which I didnt understand. Unless somebodys trying to cheat you or hurt you, or being obnoxious or annoying, why would you care if shes a little odd? Beatriz had trouble bringing herself to swat mosquitoes, so why did women who belonged to sororities, for example, seem to have such strong opinions about her? I know, Henry Baida. Nothing makes you uncomfortable. Not charging lions or gay stoners or difficult rednecks or peculiar girls from Wadley. We resumed walking, slowly. There was no moon but there was enough light to see. There werent many streetlights on campus, but there was some light from the quads dorm room windows. I encounter so few charging lions, I said. Just as I said it I heard the faint sound of hoof beats in the distance. We were standing on the sidewalk at the northwest end freshman quad, close to Kirkland Hall, and the hoof beat sound seemed to be coming from the other end, the southeast end closest to Tex Ritters272, maybe a hundred yards away. I squinted down through the darkness and watched as a red-eyed zebra galloped past left to right towards the law school. It was only in sight for a few seconds. I turned to look at Beatriz. But if you did encounter a charging lion, you would be unfazed, Henry Baida, she said. Um, did you see that? I asked. I see many things, Henry Baida? she said. How about a zebra, right down there? With maybe bright red eyes? I asked. Yes, of course I saw it, Henry. It was there. Why would I not?
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Tex Ritters was a burger joint on West End across from Hemmingway Hall, where Henry lived his freshman year. Tex Ritter was a singing cowboy who was in westerns, a type of movie popular in the 1950s that resembled modern movies about the American frontier of the nineteenth century not as much as one might think. Tex Ritters was a failed attempt to establish a beachhead in the chain restaurant business, as was the Minnie Pearls Fried Chicken chain that occupied the same building either immediately before or immediately after Tex Ritters, I forget.

And you dont think thats kind of weird? I asked. Henry Baida, improbable things happen every day. Dont let them distract you from what youre about. Father Tom taught me that. Okay, I said. You were saying, she said, and started walking again. Well, I forget, what with one thing and another. You commented that you encountered few charging lions and I had posited that when and if you did so you would be unfazed? she said. Yeah, well, thats the kind of thing you cant really know until you get there, I said, as the sound of hoof beats faded into the night. You are never fazed, Henry Baida. That is one reason we all love you. What? Who loves me? I asked. Everybody, she said. Oh, for heavens sake, I said. She looked at me expectantly but said nothing. Look, Im glad I get along with you and Cisco and Stoney and the crew, I mean I really like having friends and all, but really. She paused to think for a moment. May I ask you a question, Henry Baida? Sure, I answered. Did you have friends in high school? she asked. I thought. Not really. I did my homework and went to pool halls and bars, I guess. Bars are useful but not places to make long-term friends, she said. No pool-hall friends, Henry Baida? Well, no. The old guys didnt like me because I wouldnt hustle and the young guys didnt like me because I took their money. Whats this about the old guys, Henry Baida? You seem to me to form natural and easy-going relationships with senior citizens?

Yeah, they were fine, but they wanted to teach me the cons. We stopped and she looked at me with a frown. I thought for a few seconds about how to respond. They wanted to teach me how to tell a story to make a guy up his bet, like act like I wasnt as good as I was, to encourage the guy I was playing to bet more. Gambling tricks. How to hustle. That kind of stuff. For a lot of the cons you need a partner and I never wanted one of those. Seems dishonest to gang up on somebody. Besides I just wanted to shoot pool. Just look at the table. Make your bet and take your shot. No story, no partner. Again the aloneness, she said. I have seen your friend Donnie do the things you describe. Donnie wasnt really my friend. Fun to have around, in some ways, but not a friend. You couldnt trust him any further than you could spit a brick, but since Id recently been chided for noticing a fire-eyed zebra I let it go. Well, Donnie would do all of the things a gambler could think of to do if he had a partner he trusted, but Donnies not the trusting sort, I said, deliberatively. This gambling. I do not understand it, Henry Baida, she said. You cant explain gambling to people who dont gamble, so I didnt try. I shrugged. It seems to me that it may conflict with ones duty to be thrifty, she said, hugging her book more tightly for a second. Yeah, well, I have no duty to be thrifty. And with gambling, you either get it or you dont. Of those who do, some are good at it and some are not, I said. Do you understand it, Henry Baida? she asked. I thought. Not really. Ive had some success with it and I once could tell which bets I was likely to win and which I was likely to lose. Theres a touch to that part of it that I may have lost. But I never understood the why of it. For that matter I dont understand the why of quantum mechanics, but they keep telling me it works. Im better with Newton than with quantum, she said. It makes intuitive sense. It comports with perceptions and observations. I keep waiting to reach that point with quantum. Stop waiting. You wont, I said. She looked at me and frowned. No analogue, I said. Nobodys trying to describe physical reality with quantum. Sometimes the equations work out, and when they do they stick with them. But you dont need to understand. She clearly didnt like this, although she must have heard it many times before. Explain, Henry Baida? she said. I thought. So you seem to be a faithful Catholic, I said. I am, she said.

Can you explain the Trinity to me? I asked. I cannot, Henry Baida, she said. We are given to accept it on faith. Isnt the Trinity central to Catholic theology? I asked Father Tom says that it is, she said. And the fact that you dont understand it doesnt bother you? I would prefer it if I did, but the fact that I cannot is something that all priests seem to agree is not surprising. I decided at a young age that I trusted priests and so I take comfort in the fact that they tell me that all people are not intended to understand all things, she said. But we are considerably astray from our original point, Henry Baida? Okay. What was the original point? I asked. Your aloneness, she said. Yeah well. Im just solitary by nature, I said. Some people are. I must admit I cannot understand this, Henry Baida, although I love you, as all who know you do. I would not choose to be alone if I had an alternative. Living with you and Stoney and Michael and Cisco is the nicest thing that has ever happened to me. I am not alone with you? And I do not like being alone at any time and never have, Henry Baida. I did not realize I was alone until I was eleven? And I have been alone ever since, until I met you. And Stoney and Michael and Cisco. What happened when you were eleven? I asked. She frowned at an unpleasant memory. She stopped our slow walk right at the corner of Kirkland Hall, well away from the freshman quad. Without the light from the dorm room windows it was too dark to see anything but the general outline of her face. I had always wanted to be a Girl Scout, she said, in the still, chilly darkness. I loved the green uniforms, the three-fingered salute, the merit badges, the clubbiness, the having friends. But there wasnt a Girl Scout troop at our church and my mother wouldnt drive me to the ones in other towns. But then the mothers in the other class in my grade said they were organizing a troop for our school, and anyone who was interested could join. So of course I went to the first meeting and had such a good time, Henry Baida. They gave us mimeographed copies of the Girl Scout laws and told us when meetings would be and took our sizes for uniforms and told us Girl Scout Handbooks had been ordered and would be there in a few weeks and we had Lorna Doones and pink Hi-C and talked about our teachers and nobody seemed to be a popular girl or an odd girl, we were all just girls and I felt happier than I had ever been before in

my life. To be a part of something? To be part of a group! To be part of a club! It was wonderful. She paused for a few seconds but I got the feeling I didnt need to say anything. We stood there in the cold for a few more seconds while she thought. The next meeting was the following Tuesday, she continued, with a more somber tone of voice than I was used to from her. I went to the meeting just the same as the week before, all excited and happy, but the girls didnt seem to be acting the same to me. It was like we had popular girls and unpopular girls again, but I was the only unpopular girl. Mrs. Scott was handing out all the uniforms and making sure the troop had been paid for them but when I tried to give her the money my mother had put into the brown official Girl Scouts of America uniform money envelope Mrs. Scott said she didnt have a uniform for me and she was going to call my mother and explain why. It was all very confusing to me. The first meeting had been so much fun and the second meeting was how I always felt, only worse. Then that night while I was doing my homework the phone rang and my mother answered in the kitchen. She was making this awful moqueca fish soup my father likes so the house smelled unpleasant and stuffy and I could hear part of what she was saying and I knew it was about me so I went into the kitchen despite the smell as soon as my mother hung up and my mother was frowning at the phone and I asked my mother was that about Girl Scouts and she looked at me and scowled at me like something bad was going on that was all my fault. She had this idea that my father and I loved Alabama and made her live there even though she hated it. It wasnt trueDaddy was just stuck there and II, I didnt feel like I fit in, I didnt like Alabama I just didnt know anything else, which is very different, but there was no way to change my mothers mind once shed made it up so I didnt ever try to talk to her about it. Then she said kind of angrily in Portuguese They wont have you, so I asked Who wont have me? Mom said Os americanos maldito.273 Beatriz went quiet again for a long time. The Girls Scouts didnt want me, she said, eventually. Mom said Mrs. Scott told her that the troop was for white girls only. I had never realized I was dark before. I mean, Henry Baida, I knew my skin was darker than many girls but was not aware it mattered. In that way, I mean. I could see her tilt her head up to look at the stars. It explained a lot, she finished. Im so sorry. You had nothing to do with it, Henry Baida. My mother said that Americans did not like us and that she wanted to move back to Brazil but my father wouldnt go. She asked me for the uniform money back so I went back to my room where my school book bag was and got the brown Girl Scouts official envelope with the uniform money and gave it back to her. Oh, Beatriz, thats just awful, I said.
273

I dont speak Portuguese but my guess at translation would be something like Those awful Americans.

Oh, Henry! It was! I was so sad! I went back to my bedroom and I cried and cried and cried. I had so wanted to be a Girl Scout. And I had been so happy in the meeting before. But they didnt want me. I was too different. There was a pause. She was crying. Sweetheart. I like it that youre not like everyone else. How could anyone not? Oh, Henry. Youre so sweet, as always. But most people dont like whats different. They like whats the same. The same as them. Im not the same as anybody. Im dark-skinned but I never knew any black people until I came to college. And I have to say they all seem very nice. But I wasnt the same as anybody in Wadley. So Im not the same as anyone here. I dont know how. So there was no way for you to be a Girl Scout? Not exactly. Mrs. Grimes who lived down the street heard about what had happened to me and she had been Girl Scout leader for a long time and she knew what the new troop had done was bad and so she created a one-girl troop for me and we met once a week and I was making progress and had earned my Homemaking and Nature merit badges before she died. She gave me this. She held out her Girl Scout Handbook, then clutched it again to her breast. I couldnt see it, but I could see a faint reflection off of the Zip-Loc bag she kept it in. My eyes were tearing up and I was glad it was dark. The idea of sweet, beautiful, eccentric Beatriz, who never seemed to have wanted anything in her life except to belong, to have tasted that for an hour only to get tossed out may be the saddest thing I had ever heard. Oh, Henry, she said, sounding worried. Have I upset you? I couldnt see her eyes in the darkness, and hoped she couldnt see mine. No. Yes. Maybe. I dont know. I know how much you like scouting, I said. Many people suffer disappointments, Henry. In this I am like many others. I, um. I mean, I grew up among Southerners, I said. Yes? she said. I dont like it that they treated you like this. Oh, Henry Baida Thats so sweet of you? But I think the actual black people in South Alabama had a far harder time than I did. Nobody was actually mean to me. We had a nice house? Beatriz, they wouldnt let you into their Girl Scout troop because they thought you were too dark.

That is true, Henry, but when I was a little girl most of the black people I saw around Wadley didnt have shoes. They were hungry. They farmed with mules. People called them names. Not as much now? All kinds of bad things had happened. But there was something so ineffably sad about poor Beatriz sitting at home alone while the group she so wanted to belong to met a few blocks away. It was more than sad, it was mean. Nobody had cared about little Beatriz going from feeling awkward and odd to feeling like shed finally fit in just where she wanted overnight to be to being shunned, all in the space of a week. Back in the present, she started walking again in the darkness, slowly, and I followed without saying anything. I wanted to hold her hand. I wanted to give her a hug. I wanted to stop crying. I wanted for everything to have been different for her. We were quiet until we got to the elevator in our dorm and she looked at me for the first time in the light. Oh, Henry! Poor Henry! I have upset you! Im so sorry! Im fine, I said. She looked at me without saying anything. I shrugged. I feel bad that you were treated like that. You deserved better. We got onto the elevator and I pressed the button for our floor. Henry Baida, it is truly and deeply touching that you feel such empathy for me. For the younger me. But none of this was your doing. You have done nothing wrong. I thought about that for a second. Its more complicated than that, I said as the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor. The door to our suite was unlocked and open even though no one seemed to be present. The door to Beatriz/ room was directly across the interior hall from mine and we got there in a few steps. I dont think it is more complicated than that, Henry Baida. You are a good person. You like to think of yourself as a cruel dude but youre not. A what? I asked. A cruel dude. Its from a song. Dont know it. Well, youre not one anyway? She came closer to me than she generally did, placed her hands on my shoulders and stood on tip-toe to kiss me on the cheek. She smiled. Thank you, Henry Baida, she said, then opened her door, waved good night, and closed the door behind her.

I unlocked my own door, flipped on the lights and sat on the corner of my bed, remembering something from my own childhood. I sat there glumly for a few minutes, not even taking off my jacket, then Cisco appeared, headed for his own room. He said hi as he passed and glanced through the door at me then stopped suddenly. You okay, man? he asked. Sure. Why? I asked. Cause you look like youve been crying. Not your style, he said. Im okay, I said. I was just thinking about something that happened when I was a kid. Hit me, he said, leaning against the door jamb. I shrugged. I wasnt sure it was going to be interesting to anyone else. Okay. Well, when I was in the third grade my Uncle Norman died. Mom was stateside for some reason and needed to go to the funeral in Birmingham. My dad was in Viet Nam and my sister was in high school. I think Mom would have left me with my sister but Mom needed the car to drive to Birmingham. So my sister went to stay with a friend for a few days and Mom took me with her to Alabama. When we got there Mom decided I needed a haircut. So the night we got there she took me to this little three-chair barber shop in Birmingham just before dark. It turns dark early in Birmingham in the winter. Memorable haircut? Cisco asked. He had a pretty short attention span. Not exactly, I said. It was kind of hard to come to the point. Cisco shifted his feet a little. When we came out it was almost dark, like I said, I said. I remember my head seemed cold because my hair was shorter and the barber had put some sweetsmelling stuff on my hair. Mom and I walked out of the barber shop towards her car and passed this narrow alleyway that ran between the barber shop and this hardware store. Or maybe a feed store. Some kind of big red brick store. Cisco lit a cigarette, held up a finger to request a brief pause, then went to his room to get an ashtray. He returned and repositioned himself against the door jamb, Marlboro in his right hand, small smoked glass ashtray in his left. He looked at me expectantly. Okay, I said, So in the alley, close to the store, was a Birmingham motorcycle cop. He said something cordial to my mom, but shes not good at that exchanging pleasantries deal. Mom also didnt seem happy to see him and seemed to want to keep moving but his presence there surprised me and I stopped to look at him for a second. My mom tried to tug me along, but I was kind of stopped. I could hear Stoney and Michael show up in the living room. They seemed to pause there in conversation. If Cisco heard them it didnt register.

And? Cisco asked. He may have been a little impatient but was also perhaps aware that something I thought significant must have happened with the cop. So the motorcycle cop looked at me then smiled at my mom and said Im just waiting for some nigger to run that red light sos I can give im a ticket.274 Man, that kind of thing happened all the time back then, Cisco said. There were bad cops in Atlanta, too. Yeah, there were bad people all over. Heres the thing. At the time my question to my mom was Why would he be just looking for niggers? Shouldnt he be giving tickets to everyone who runs the red light? Yeah, bud. Dont be hard on yourself, man. Why not? If Im not hard on myself, whos going to be? Certainly not Beatriz. I came close to crying again. Stoney and Michael showed up behind Cisco. Michael took one look at me and came right over to sit next to me on the bed. Whats wrong, sweetheart? he asked. I wasnt sure how to answer. I kind of spread my hands without saying anything. How to explain this? If I may, said Cisco, taking a drag from his cigarette and whistling the exhaled smoke into the hall in an attempt to keep it out of my room. It was nice of him to try, but smokers really dont understand the effect they have on their surroundings. Or they didnt back then. Go ahead, I said. Henry and I grew up in the South. When he was a child a Birmingham policeman told Henry that he was selectively enforcing the law against only blacks, using a racial epithet in the process. Henry may think it should have seemed worse to him at the time than it did. I thought I heard the n-word, said Stoney, lighting a cigarette off of a Mrs. W.type full-sized Zippo. He looked around for an ashtray, spotted Ciscos, and tapped his Winston on it sociably. Howd I do? Cisco asked me. Not bad, but I began.

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If anyones ever curious about whether anything in this book is autobiographical, that is the only sentence in the entire book that was ever spoken in the authors presence. It was said by a Birmingham policeman in an alley near a barber shop in 1963. Everything else in here is made up. True, the cylindrical volume problem in Chapter 26 was inspired by Car Talk on NPR, but I dont think I quoted Tom or Ray.

Man, you just cant be too hard on yourself about this stuff, Cisco said. Those were different days. We were raised in a particular way, in a particular place. From what I saw on TV Atlanta may have been a little better than Birmingham, but there were things we just didnt notice back them. Should we have noticed them? Sure. But I think we can cut ourselves a little slack for being kids in a chaotic time. Hell, I didnt even realize I was a liberal until earlier this year. What brought it on? asked Stoney. Oh, I was dating this girl named Jessie. Gorgeous. Melissa pretty. Great in the sack. But she was prejudiced. She knew somebody I happen to like and she wasnt keen on her because ofwell, reasons I considered bigoted. So I dumped her and have been dating liberals ever since. No matter how beautiful, if shes not a Democrat, she doesnt get a second look. Well, maybe a look, but thats about it. Hows that working out? asked Stoney, tapping his ash into the ashtray. Outstanding, said Cisco, stubbing out his butt into the ashtray, but keeping it handy for Stoney. How so? asked Michael. The Democrats are just as good-looking, they dont wear makeup or padded bras so theres less guesswork, and they all give killer blow-jobs. It really has been eyeopening. Back to Henry, said Michael. Of course, said Cisco. He shook out another Marlboro, and Stoney offered him a light from his extra-large Zippo. Dont take this the wrong way, Henry, but have you been crying? Michael asked. A bit, I said. Explain, said Stoney. Beatriz and I had dinner at Elliston Place, and on the walk back she said something that made me think about the racial stuff thats been going on all around me all my life and I just never noticed. The cop story? Cisco asked. Yes, I said.

But you didnt do anything wrong, Cisco said. You were a child who saw an adult planning to do something wrong. Even if you understood what he was doing, amigo, you were ten. What could you have done? Okay, so, when I sat down on this bed and I remembered that story I was thinking of how tough things were back then and how this was an example of how things used to be. But then it occurred to me that it had never occurred to me that I used the word nigger. Never once. Not until tonight. Look, man, everybody used that word back then, Cisco said. You ever use it? I asked Stoney. No, never, he said. Sorry, pal, he said to Cisco. You? I asked Michael. No. Of course not, he answered. And I can place a reasonably informed wager that Beatriz has not, so Cisco, you and I are the people nearby who have used that word, I said. Point taken, said Cisco. Being liberal is a bitch. Its worth it, but its a bitch. I dont like being part of the problem, I said. Yeah, we have to do better, said Cisco. And we probably both went to sleep that night thinking we would. After theyd gone to bed I realized Id completely forgotten about the zebra. Just as well.

Chapter 44: Estimated Prophet 275 A few weeks later I got back to the suite and no one was there. It was dinnertime and I was hungry so I decided to walk over to Rotiers. I had a hankering for either a grilled cheeseburger or a bacon cheeseburger on French bread. Or maybe a weinerburger.276 Or even a fried oyster platter. It took a few minutes to walk over on a warm spring night but I was still pondering the weighty questions posed by Rotiers menu when I opened the front door and saw that it was more crowded than I was expecting. Of course. It was Friday night. Nevertheless there was an empty barstool so I took it. I found myself seated next to an older bearded man dressed all in black. The bartender recognized me and had a large glass of water waiting for me almost immediately. The bartender turned his attention to a waitress at the service rail, which was just to the other side of the man in black, who took a swallow of his drink, which allowed me to see that he wore a priests collar under his beard. He looked vaguely familiar, but I didnt think it through because I didnt know any priests. I took a sip of my water and wished Id brought something to read. The bartender was mixing several drinks with multiple ingredients. Whaddya want, bud? he asked me. He didnt look at me because he was watching a yard-long stream of Kailua pour into an old-fashioned glass half-full of cream. He was wearing a red and white striped French sailors shirt and black pants. Looked a little out of place. Double bacon cheeseburger. American cheese. Mayo, pickles, no ketchup. Fries, I said. Lettuce, tomato? he asked, flipping his Kailua bottle back to the rack and splashing in vodka. He tossed the vodka bottle back to the service rack with an experts flourish and reached above his head for peach schnapps, a substance I did not know existed before that moment. He set the cream drink on the bar at the service rail as he started the next drink. The waitress moved the finished one to her tray. On the side, I said. Comin right up, he said, adding orange juice to the peach schnapps and placed it on the waitress round tray. She vanished with the drinks and the bartender scribbled on an order pad and handed the pale green slip through the kitchen window. My dinner. I glanced to my right, casually, and my eyes were locked by the priest, who seemed to be looking at me intently. Hello, I said. I didnt really have a choice. Hello, he replied. You are Henry?
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Thank God for the fair use doctrine, and thanks to the Grateful Dead and for Estimated Prophet and everything else on Terrapin Station. 276 A weinerburger was several hot dogs split and grilled then served in place of a burger patty. I cant defend all of my tastes in food but Im honest about them.

Yes. And you are? I asked. , he answered. It all came back. I remember you, I said. You were one of the crazy guys who hung out at the Hixson Lanes. You had a friend. What was his name? Dodge? You may be referring to Ford, said . Ford. Thats it. So since we last spoke I took a year of New Testament Greek, so what youre telling me is that your name is Thomas? I asked, somewhat smugly. is Greek for twin, after a fashion, which got anglicized into Thomas, which may represent being of two minds, more or less. Thomas the doubter was of two minds. A simple Greek pun that became hard to see as it got translated over and over. After a fashion, he said, shrugging at his drink, which looked and faintly smelled like a gin and tonic. I could also be telling you that Im one of a pair of twins. Koine Greek speakers seem to like ambiguity a little too much. Wheres Ford? I asked. He and his friend Arthur have gone off with the Vogon constructor fleet, answered. He rattled his ice cubes at the bartender, who appeared immediately. Another Vic and T? the bartender asked. Si, was the response. Your double BC with fries will be right out, he said to me. The guy sitting to my left, whom I had not previously noticed but who looked a lot like Casey Potter, stood, put some cash on the bar and left. The bartender quickly cashed him out. I could feel the front door open behind me, then a few seconds later, Beatriz was seated on the empty stool to my left. Hello, Henry Baida. Hi, Tom, she said. Hi, I said, surprised. The priest waved at her. Okay. So for several reasons this was really odd. I had been to Rotiers maybe fifty or sixty times before and had never before run into anyone I knew. And now there were two? Plus the dean of housing? Vogon constructor fleet? Focus.

So you two know each other? I asked. Yes, of course, Henry Baida, said Beatriz. Thats Father Tom from Wadley. The priest nodded and smiled, first at me, then at Beatriz, then at the bartender, who had just brought him a new gin and tonic. Did you expect to see him here tonight? I asked Beatriz. No, she said, shaking her head briefly, matter-of-factly. Then why arent you surprised to see him? I asked. Weve discussed this before, Henry Baida, she said. Strange things happen every day. I learned this from Father Tom. I looked at him. Si. I told her this, he said. Most smart people see it for themselves when theyre a little older than the two of you are now, but I told her this when she was in high school. Okay. So did you know Beatriz was going to be here tonight? I asked the priest. No, he said, taking a sip of his gin and tonic. Heres your BC and fries, said the bartender, to me, placing a really appealinglooking cheeseburger in front of me. I was really hungry. I salted my fries and tried to eat one but it was too hot. Okay, so you guys just bump into each other in a random Nashville bar and it doesnt strike either of you as weird? I asked, although I didnt really want to talk. I grabbed my cheeseburger and took a bite. It was cheesy, beefy, bacony perfection. Or at least it would have been with a little Guldens mustard. The bartender was at the other end of the bar. The burger was beginning to cool. I ate a French fry, then another. I waved for the bartender. He acknowledged me, but he was in the middle of pouring a pitcher of beer, so it was going to be a minute. Si, said the priest. Yes, of course, said Beatriz. Henry Baida, you are much too focused on probabilities. Everything that happens is as equally improbable as everything else that happens. What? I said to Beatriz. Shed said something important. Yes? asked the bartender, who appeared out of nowhere, to me.

Could I get some Guldens mustard? I asked the bartender. Sure. He reached somewhere behind him and plopped down a small glass jar of it. I opened it as Beatriz prepared to query me, confused. I dipped into the mustard with my knife and smeared some onto the bite wound Id left on my burger. What, what? she asked. The priest signaled the bartender for yet another gin and tonic. I took a bite of my mustard-smeared bacon double cheeseburger and enjoyed the last perfect bite that burger had to offer. It was cooling fast. I chewed and swallowed and picked up some still-warm salty fries. What was that about everything being equally improbable? I asked Beatriz, eating some more fries. Still warm but cooling, the way fries do, especially the straightcut ones. The crinkle-cut ones like they serve in North Carolina stay warm and crispy longer. I sprinkled a little more salt and had a few more fries as she answered. Oh, that, she said, dismissively. I went to this lecture the other night about the JFK assassination. And the speaker, who was not particularly insightful, Henry Baida, had performed a lengthy series of calculations that indicated that the odds were hundreds of millions to one against the fact that Lee Harvey Oswald and several other people whose names I dont remember happened to be in Dallas on November 22, 1963. And so in the question period I raised my hand and asked had he calculated the odds that Lee Harvey Oswald would be anywhere else and he seemed baffled by the question. But the point is that Lee Harvey Oswald had to be somewhere on November 22 and the odds that he was going to be at Dealey Plaza were the same as the odds that he was going to be in Wadley, she said. Everybody is going to be somewhere all the time, and the odds against that person being there with all of the other people who happen to be there are always going to be trillions to one against. Yet it happens all day every day. I took a healthy bite out of my not quite warm enough burger. Still tasty. She had a point. Every outcome of every day is highly improbable. My time coming any day, dont worry about me no! said a surprisingly loud, unexpected and new voice coming from what was (at least while I was talking to Beatriz) my blind side, between me and the priest. I swiveled and saw a surprisingly close, strangely familiar face, with sunken dark eyes and a grey beard and full head of grey hair, both of which were longer than fashion would usually permit. His clothes were disheveled but clean, also all gray. Been so long I felt this way, Im in no hurry, no, he said, too loudly for polite surroundings. Pastor Leslie? I asked, after a pause of a few seconds. He ignored me. I ate a few fries. They were still warm but beyond their prime. The priest was trying to ignore the preacher. Okay, look. He reminds me of a guy I knew when I was a kid, I said to the priest. And maybe I ran into him a few years ago on a train, I said.

Si. The train fits, said the priest. We all know him as The Preacher. Rainbows down that highway where ocean breezes blow. My time coming, voices saying they tell me where to go, said The Preacher. He wandered off, taking the priests gin and tonic with him. What do I want to eat, Henry Baida? asked Beatriz. I highly recommend the double bacon cheeseburger, I said, but you want to eat it before it cools, which means you want to ask for Guldens when you place your order. Or use mine. Ive used most of it, though. She nodded matter of factly and waved for the bartender. Ahem, said the priest. Yes, Father Tom? Beatriz asked. It is Friday. During Lent,277 said the priest. Okay, Henry Baida, we need a plan B, said Beatriz. The bartender had appeared and was waiting for an order. Talking this through with Beatriz might try the bartenders patience. Mr. ? I asked. Please call me Tom, he answered. Thank you. Tom, what is Beatriz talking about? During Lent Catholics do not eat meat on Friday, he said. It is part of a Lenten fast he began. Thanks, I said, and turned to Beatriz. You want the fried oyster platter, I said to her. She turned to the bartender and opened her mouth to speak. Got it, said the bartender, scribbling on his pad and turning towards the kitchen. Yo, keep! she said, loudly, irritated. She was like everybody when she was irritated, and he hadnt taken her drink order. The bartender turned back around with a cocked, interrogative eyebrow without saying anything.

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Easter would have been on April 19 that year, because the first full moon following the Vernal Equinox fell on that day, a Sunday.

Heineken draft and a shot of Jack green, she said. He gave her the thumbs up and handed in her order. At the corner of the room farthest from me, which was still pretty close, The Preacher was standing on a caf chair that wobbled slightly. The assembled bar patrons looked at him expectantly while carrying on their conversations with each other. The Preacher fluttered his fingertips as he stroked the air with outstretched arms, like a magician about to do a new trick. Dont worry, bout me, nah, nah, nah, dont worry bout me, no, he called out, almost singing. And Im in no hurry, nah, nah, nah. I know where to go. California preaching on the burning shore. Here he paused and the bar patrons applauded amusedly. This seemed to confuse him slightly and he seemed to lose his train of thought. Whoever was sitting to the left of Beatriz put some money on the bar and left. The bartender, who had just set down Beatriz shot and beer, quickly cleared the plates and glasses and wipes down the bar place. I felt the door open behind me and a few seconds later a familiar face was sitting on the stool next to Beatriz. Cisco, I said, in greeting. Yo, he replied. Never seen you here before, I said. I heard Beatriz was down here, so I came, like a moth to a flame, he said. He smiled his most charming smile at her. She liked it, but didnt swoon. She knew him pretty well. Hey, whatcha want? the bartender, appearing out of nowhere, asked Cisco. Cisco smiled at himthat smile worked on men, tooand held up a finger to ask for a few seconds. What are you having? he asked Beatriz. Heineken and a shot? she answered, smiling shyly. Me, too, said Cisco, to the bartender. And another round for Miss Beatriz here. Whats your name? Im Casey, sir, said the bartender, kind of surprised to be asked. Casey, whats your story? What do you do when youre not tending bar? Um, Im a divinity school student, sir? he said.

Excellent. Casey, Id like to talk to you about that, but I know you have other duties. I would like a menu when you have a sec. Im Cisco, by the way, he said, extending his hand. Casey shook it, briefly, as though bewildered, then smiled, and went off to bring their order. So whats going on here? Cisco asked Beatriz. Nothing at all, friend Cisco, she said. Friends having supper and a drink at a local eatery. rattled his ice cubes for yet another refill. Casey didnt look at him but gave him the thumbs-up to indicate hed heard. You should introduce , I said. Oh, sure. Father Tom, this is my best friend, or one of my best friends, or one of the best friends a person could have, Cisco Atwater. Pleased to meet you, said Cisco, shaking his hand over my cheeseburger. What did you call him? Cisco asked me. Didimas? , I said. Henry Baidas showing off. Like he does, said Beatriz. Cisco looked at me, slightly confused. Casey the waiter placed a beer and two shots in front of each of Cisco and Beatriz, then stood ready to take Ciscos dinner order. Henry is displaying erudition, said . My name, Thomas, means twin. is a name in Greek that means much the same thing. Dude? Cisco asked me. Last time I ran into him he and his friend Ford were pounding down drinks in a bowling alley outside Chattanooga in the early afternoon. I just recognized the name this time. So youre Father Tom? Cisco asked him. Si. Im Catholic, padre, so consider me one of your flock, Cisco said, then tuned his attention to the menu. Casey, my good man, I dont want to detain you, so what do you recommend? The bacon cheeseburger is always a good choice, sir, said Casey. Then lets have that, with fires, Cisco said, and mayo, mustard, pickles, lettuce and tomato, downing one of his shots and taking a sip of beer.

Ahem, said . Yes? asked. Cisco, looking at the priest. There was a pause. Father Tom heard you say you were Catholic? said Beatruz. Yes, of course. Who isnt? said Cisco. Father Tom knows that its Lent? she said. No shit? Cisco said. I had no idea. Yes, well, Easter is coming up, and during Lent, Father Tom would probably like to remind you that as a Catholic your fasting rules obligate you to refrain from eating meat on Friday during Lent? said Beatriz, sheepishly. She smiled shyly then downed a shot of bourbon in a single swallow. Is this right? Cisco asked . Si. All right, then, Casey, and thanks so much for your patience, what do you have from the ocean? Cisco asked. Right now, fried oysters, Casey answered. Excellent. Bring me lots, with fries and tartar sauce, said Cisco. Casey left us, scribbling on his pad. Cisco smiled at Beatriz, then drained his beer. Thanks, kid, he said. So padre, when is Easter? Cisco asked. A week from Sunday, the priest said. So Palm Sunday is coming up? Si. So I need to confess my sins before Easter? Si. So can I confess to you? Cisco asked, waving to Casey for another round. Somehow both Cisco and Beatriz had finished their beers and both shots.

Si. Okay, padre, so in the name of the Father the Son and the Holy Ghost my last confession was maybe six years ago, Cisco started. Understand that he was talking to Father Tom, who was seated two stools down from him, past Beatriz and I, and that to speak above the noise of the bar he had to speak loudly enough that everyone around him could hear as well. Thanks, bud, he said to Casey, who had set down a mug of beer and two shots in front of each of Cisco and Beatriz. Have you examined your conscience? asked the priest. Oh, yeah, all the time, Cisco answered. It may be lacking in some respects but its always there. And, hell, Im always examining it. How else to keep it in its place? So I say unto you, unless you do penance, you shall likewise perish, said the priest. A few people around us had stopped to watch. I sipped my water. Bless me padre, for I have sinned, and I guess most of my sins are wing-wang related, said Cisco, knocking back a shot and taking a healthy sip of his beer. Beatriz shrugged and knocked back one of her shots. Que? asked the priest. Beatriz thought for a second. Father Tom, friend Cisco is telling you that he believes that most of his sins are sexual in nature. The priest still looked confused. Friend Cisco has sex with women to whom he is not married, she said. Ah, said the priest, nodding and taking a sip of his gin and tonic. And have you made amends with this woman? he asked. Hmmm, said Cisco, knocking back another shot. Well, padre, I dont in any way mean to suggest that youre slow on the uptake here, but this is more of a pattern than an isolated incident, said Cisco. Excellent! he said, as Casey set down Ciscos oysters and fries. Are you guys doing a confession? Casey asked . Si. Sure, said Cisco. Mind if I listen? Im protestant, said Casey. No go ahead, said Cisco, eating his first oyster. Man, thats really good, said Cisco, salting his fries. He dipped his next oyster into the folded paper cup full of tartar sauce and rolled his eyes as he chewed the result.

Father Tom, if I may assist you in bringing Cisco back to the table of the Lord, what he means to convey is not that he has had an inappropriate sexual relationship with one woman, but that he has had many inappropriate relations with many women, said Beatriz. Yeah, I dont know about inappropriate, but the nuns in my grammar school taught us that any sex that had any purpose other than procreation was sinful, so pretty much everything Ive devoted my time and energy to for the last, oh, say ten years has been a sinful. I promise you I never meant to procreate with any of them, and honestly, a lot of that stuff we did couldnt possibly have resulted in procreation, no matter how fun it was, Cisco said. He dunked another oyster in tartar sauce and popped it into his mouth. I must assume these women are now angry at you, said . Not so far as I know, Cisco said, downing another shot and taking a swig of his beer. They all seem pretty friendly. Most of them seem to call from time to time. glanced at Beatriz as he took a gulp of his G & T. Girls like him, Beatriz said to , who frowned as though he didnt understand. They dont mind sinning with him, she said. cocked an eyebrow at her. Not with Cisco, Beatriz said. frowned as though dimly aware that her response contained information that he didnt like. He shook his head and looked back at Cisco. The Preacher appeared out of nowhere at Ciscos elbow. California, Ill be knocking on the golden door, he said. Thanks, bud, said Cisco, eating a handful of fries. Like an angel, Ill be standing in a shaft of light. Rising up to paradise, I know Im gonna shine, said The Preacher. He reached over to grab the priests drink and wandered off into the bar. signaled Casey for another drink and Casey was able to mix it and hand it to him from where he stood. Where were we? asked . Okay, so I have, what? Ciscos address started towards but the question was directed to Beatriz. Known, said Beatriz, waving at Casey for a refill. Okay, so I have known many women, said Cisco. And do you feel remorse for your sins? asked .

No, not at all, said Cisco. I had a good time. No regrets. Showed them a good time. Confession without contrition is meaningless, said , gulping down half of his new drink. Oh, sure. Padre, you misunderstand me. Im not confessing the sin of knowing those women. Im confessing the sin of disobedience. Of not understanding why its a sin to have sex with a willing partner when everybody involved has their eyes open and has a good time. So since I know Catholic doctrine is that I shouldnt do that, and I do it all the time, and I dont see it as sinful, I figure the sin Im committing must be some form of disobedience. I confess this sin, he said, finishing his last oyster and signaling for a drink. Casey had a new beer and two new shots I n front of him in a heartbeat. Jesus, said . These people are all kind of smart. And kind of difficult, in a nice way, said Beatriz. Not like Wadley. Sorry, what did I miss? Can I get absolved? Cisco asked. The Preacher appeared on the other side of the bar, next to Casey. My time coming, any day, dont worry about me, no, said the Preacher. Not worried, dude, said Cisco. Its going to be just like they say, them voices tell me so, said the Preacher. You hear voices? Cisco asked. Sorry, sir, you cant come behind the bar, said Casey. We have to work here. The preacher reached across the bar and grabbed what was left of the priests gin and tonic and disappeared. Casey mixed him another and placed it in front of before he had time to ask. You think he hears voices? Cisco asked Beatriz. Si, said the Priest. So, padre, I wanted absolution. As I recall you tell me my penance and then I say the Act of Contrition and then you absolve me. Or have I fucked up the order? And what, exactly, are you confessing?

I think of it as disobedience. Or maybe ignorance. Of Catholic doctrine. I know the nuns taught me that it was wrong to have lots of great, fulfilling, thrilling sex with lots of beautiful, enthusiastic, extremely willing women but I just think they must be wrong. So since I dont think Im doing anything wrong Ill admit its possible I might be missing something. So maybe Im confessing the possibility I might be wrong. Or something. Cisco knocked back a shot and then looked at the priest earnestly. Dios joder un patos, said . Beatriz frowned at him but didnt say anything. I dont speak Spanish. The priest drank off a lot of his drink and stared off into the middle distance in silence. Father Tom? Beatriz asked. He frowned. Sometimes he gets stuck, she said, to me. Father Tom? His eyes seemed to come back into focus. Okay, so I absolve you of whatever this sin is you think youve committed, said . He then looked at Cisco expectantly. Cisco stared back blankly. Friend Cisco, Father Tom is expecting that you will say the Act of Contrition now, Beatriz said. Oh! Fuck! I forgot! Cisco said. Okay, so O my God I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins, because I ..fear the pains of Hell? because of Your just punishments said Beatriz. Oh, fuck! Right! Because of Your just punishments, but most of all because they offend You, who are all-good and deserving of all my love, and I firmly resolve, with Your grace, to sin no more and to avoid something about the near occasion of sin. Amen. How was that? Reasonably close, said Beatriz. So penance, said . Right, said Cisco. Now for the hard part. I want you to go to church every Sunday until Pentecost, said the priest. How long is that? Cisco asked Beatriz. This Sunday plus seven more, said Cisco. This confession was pretty steep. He knocked back a shot and drank about half of his beer. Dont worry. Henry and I will go to keep you company, she said. What the fuck is this? I demanded. I hate church. Im not even Catholic.

Its for the good of Ciscos soul, she said, placidly, taking a sip of her beer. Soul? Cisco doesnt have a soul. He doesnt even have a good break shot, I said. Well, if you and Henry will be joining me, I guess I can endure, said Cisco. We will, she answered. They looked at each other like young lovers without glancing at me. Cisco waived for another round. Casey was near at hand and refilled all of us. So padre, the Bibles divinely inspired? asked Cisco. Si. Then why does it disagree with itself? Cisco asked. What do you have in mind? the priest answered. Lets start with cape color, Cisco answered. Was it purple or crimson? frowned at Beatriz. Among the peoplehe knows, the only person who could possibly have been talking to Cisco about the color of the cape the Romans put on Jesus is Henry. He is fond of reading the New Testament and then complaining about it at great length, said Beatriz. looked at Cisco. Henry may have been involved, yes, said Cisco. frowned at me. Actually I can handle this one, said Casey, the bartender. We all looked at him. The red and white stripes still struck me as a little off for Rotiers. Matthew 27:28 says that the Roman soldiers placed a crimson robe on Christ as a way of mocking him as the king of the Jews. Mark278 and John279 both indicate say the garment was purple. Thats just the kind of thing Henry complains about, Beatriz said to the priest. At great length. He scowled at me. I shrugged. So if God wrote it, why does it disagree with itself? Cisco asked. Wouldnt God know what color it was? scowled at me again.

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Mk 15:17. Jn 19:2.

Youre self-taught, arent you? the priest asked me. I was opening my mouth to say Not entirely, but didnt get a chance. Completely, she said. He goes to class, but all the important things he thinks through himself. Heres a lesson for you, then, said , to me. He turned to Casey. What do you think it means, my son? he asked. I gotta admit, it worried me. But then I prayed on it, and it occurred to me that scarlet, red, is the color symbolically related in early church liturgy with martyrs. And purple is the color associated with regal power. So one was talking about Christ the king and the other was talking about Christ the martyr, so they were both right. Whoa, said Cisco. Bless you my son, said , to Casey. This is what comes of listening to teachers, he said, to no one in particular. An educated mind doesnt just notice inconsistencies, it recognizes patterns and harmonies as well. I find find it really helps me to pay attention to teachers. Preachers, too. If I try to think everything through by myself I kind of get into trouble, said Casey. But wait, said Cisco. Thats a pretty story, but purple and red arent the same. So didnt it have to be one or the other? Henry, arent you a student of physics? the priest asked. Yes. Then you understand, he said, draining his drink. You are not doing this, I said. Que? he asked, innocuously. Conflating two entirely different concepts from two entirely different fields of learning in and entirely inappropriate way, I said, perhaps bit too loudly. People turned to look, and at first I thought it was at me but then the Preacher cleared his throat behind me. Seems so long I felt this way and time is passing slow. Still I know I lead the way, the voices tell me so, said the Preacher. What two concepts? Cisco asked, downing a shot.

Dont worry about me. No, no, no, dont worry bout me. Not worried, bud, said Cisco. And Im in no hurry, no, no, no, I know where to go. You know, if youre in no hurry, I bet there are some guys in the back room who would be really, really interested in this bullshit, said Cisco. The Preacher, still glowering off in the middle distance, nodded grimly, then grabbed the priests new drink and shuffled off towards the back room. Casey made another gin and tonic for the priest. What two concepts? Cisco asked me. I think he wants me to go to wave/particle duality but Im not going to do it, I said. Beatriz? Cisco asked. Basic quantum mechanics states that sometimes small particles like electrons or photons appear to be particles, other times they appear to be waves. The math works with both states, and both states are essential to the math. An electron is both a wave and a particle. This has nothing to do with historical reality as applied to martyrs capes, I said. Interesting, said Cisco. If you do an experimentrun them through a prism or pass them close to a magnet, do they act like particles or waves in the real world? Experimentally they all behave like both? said Beatriz. No shit? None, friend Cisco, of the many lady friends. They interfere with each other like waves but scatter like particles in the most basic of experiments. Always have. Look, this is not some validation of a homiletic I began. So a physical thing can be two things at once, Cisco said, as though I were not present, or had not said anything. Interesting. Yeah, okay. Thanks, padre. Thanks Casey. And Casey, while youre there Casey brought another round. This is wrong, I said to . Why is that, my son?

Because youre conflating two things that have nothing to do with each other, I said. Everything in the universe has something to do with everything else in the universe, he said, blandly, and gesturing thanks to Casey. I could hear the Preachers voice faintly over the crowd noise, although it must have been booming in Rotiers back room: Dont worry bout me, no, no, no. Dont worry bout me, no. And Im in no hurry, no, no, no. I know where to go. California, a prophet on the burning shore. California, Ill be knocking on the golden door. Why does he keep saying that? I asked, irritably. What? asked . Dont worry about me. Who does he think is worried about him? He assumes we all are, said . Why? Because he is worried about us, said . And look, my son, you need to stop thinking of me as . This will lead to trouble. Okaay. I said, looking at Beatriz. Yeah, he can be a little spooky, she said. And what I began. As I said, earlier, call me Tom. You can feel proud of yourself for understanding the link and will not make me feel uncomfortable for thinking of me in a way that is 1,750 years out of fashion. I looked at Beatriz. Like I said, spooky, she said, shrugging. She may have been as relaxed as I had ever seen her. Yo, keep! she shouted out to Casey, at the other end of the bar, waving her shotglasses for refills. God only knows how many shed already had. And why Tom do you think the Preacher is worried about all of us? I asked as Casey put two shots and a beer in front of her. She knocked back a shot and pumped a fist in the air. Arent you listening? He wants us all to move to California. Why?

Because he believes it to be the will of God. At this point the Preacher came through, walking quickly, pursued by two young men who may have been Rotiers busboys. As he passed by our end of the bar he deftly snagged Toms drink and motored quickly for the exit. As soon as he was gone the busboys shrugged and sauntered back into the kitchen. Casey noticed all of this and prepared another drink for Tom. I have to say, seemed to me to suit him better. Why would God want us all to move to California? I asked. Do you understand Gods plan for your life? he asked. No, of course not. At this point Beatriz drained her second shot, finished her beer in a gulp and shouted out Take me home, you beautiful protestant whitebread bastard! to Cisco, and grabbed his hand to lead him away. As Cisco stood to follow I grabbed his collar. No, I said. I know, he said, reluctantly, but you gotta admit shes really cute. No, I said. Yeah, all right. No it is, he answered. I let him go and she led him through the crowd to the front door. Sorry. Where were we? I asked Tom. You just said you didnt understand Gods plan for your life, he said. No, I didnt, I answered. Yes, you did. That might not have been what you intended to say, but that is the only logical interpretation of what you did say. Okay. So, what I think, regardless of what you think I said, is that I dont know Gods plan for my life because there is no such plan, because either there is no God, in which there can be no such plan, or there is a God, in which case he has many more important things to do than worry about me, I said. I noticed that Casey seemed to be hovering nearby, trying to listen in nonchalantly. Interesting, said Tom. He took a patient sip of his drink. He didnt seem disposed to move the conversation forward. Why? I asked.

Why, what? he answered. Why is that interesting? I asked, weighing the value of finding out what he thought against what appeared to be the large cost in dragging responses out of him. For several reasons, he said. For one, you seem quite confident that you know what God worries about. I dont recall talking to anyone who seemed outwardly sensible apart from you and here he paused, clearly expecting me so tell him my name. Henry, I said. Henry, who was so sure of what God thought. Certainly not recently. He took a healthy draw from his drink. And its interesting that so quickly again we run into this ambiguity/duality idea. I often go decades without running into it and here it is twice in an evening. Its not really here, as a principle of physics, I said. You introduced it artificially. You might as well say this is a problem of owls or asphalt. So you know something of owls? he asked. No. Nothing. Pity. I waved for the check Casey smiled, reached around to several different places, and turned to an adding machine. What he handed me was maybe fifteen little green sheets stapled together. I paged through and not only my fried oyster dinner, but everything Cisco, Beatriz, and Thomas had ordered for the entire evening was on my bill. The total was just over $375.00. So none of my friends paid before they left? I asked Casey, who was smiling cheerfully in his red and white stripes. Um, no, no, he said. Understand, my dinner would have cost around six bucks. About five pages of the bill consisted of gin and tonics. I looked at Tom. Unfortunately, I have taken a vow of poverty, he said, earnestly, rattling his ice cubes for another drink. This ones on the house, Father Tom, said Casey, pouring him another. So, Casey, I said, reaching for my wallet and stacking four hundreds280 and a twenty on the bar, do you understand you were lucky here? His eyes lit up at the sight of the cash. Oh, yes, sir. But then the Lord always provides. I looked at Tom.
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Gamblers always have cash.

Well, usually, he said, somewhat sheepishly, over his new drink.. Good night, Tom. Good night Casey, I said. They bid me farewell. Outside on the sidewalk the Preacher had gathered a crowd. He was standing on top of an upended wastepaper basket addressing the assembled group as sincerely as though theyd been gathered in a cathedral. I paused to listen. Although he was completely unhinged there was always something compelling about him. Like an angel, he cried, passionately, standing in a shaft of light. Rising up to paradise, I know Im gonna shine. Youve all been asleepyou would not believe me. Them voices tellin me, you will soon receive me. Standin on the beach, the sea will part before me, fire wheel burnin in the air! You will follow me, and we will ride to glory, way up, the middle of the air. And Ill call down thunder and speak the same. And my work fills the sky with flame. Here he gestured up dramatically with both arms, looking to the sky, fingertips twinkling to indicate fire. The second coming of Savaronola. And might and glory gonna be my name! And men gonna light my way. My time coming any day, dont worry bout me no. At this point I left. Like all good preachers, he was magnetic and interesting, but like all fundamentalists, he was repetitious. On the way home, I decided to cruise past my post office box. I hadnt picked up mail in several days. There was a fat envelope from an institute of higher learning in Southern California. Because I knew shed be pleased, I called Mrs. W. as soon as I got home, although I knew it was late for her. Hello? she answered, after two rings. I could hear her lighting her cigarette as soon as she answered. Hey, I said. Hello, Henry! How in the Hell are you? she said brightly. Just checked my mail. Got an envelope from Pasadena, I said. A thick one? she asked. Yes, maam. The enrollment one. Thats just great. You go ahead and enroll. Let me know where I need to send checks, she said. You dont want me to wait until I hear from Berkeley? I asked. No, no. Youre a better fit for Pasadena, she said.

She would know. So I was going to graduate school.

Chapter 45: An Unexpected Call The next night after dinner I was working on a paper when the phone in my dorm room rang.281 Im not sure I remember that particular phone ever ringing before. People didnt call me much. Hello, this is Henry, I answered. Hey, Henry, said Mrs. W. How are you tonight? Doing fine, Mrs. W. Is everything okay? It was rare for her to call me. Plus wed just talked the day before. Yes, thanks. Didnt mean to worry you. Have you looked at those admission forms from grad school? Yes, maam. Filled most of them out, planning to send them back in the next few days. No deadlines looming. Do they ask you to pick a concentration or anything? she asked. I could hear her taking a drag from her cigarette. Concentration? I asked. You know. Astrophysics. Quantum mechanics. Orbital mechanics. No. I dont seem to have to pick courses until Fall. Did you request a faculty advisor? she asked. Theres a blank for that but I left it blank. I could give a sh I started. I could care less, I finished. No, no. You need to care about this, she said. Um, look. Thus far my academic advisors have been handsome well-meaning do-nothings or pains in the whatchamacallit, I said. Why should I care? Grad school is different, she said. Youre choosing teams. Kind of like choosing your religion. People dont choose religion, so far as I can tell, I said. They seem to be born into one.
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It was what we now call a land line, attached to AT&Ts network of wires by a wire. In the 1970s most of us were unaware of any other kind of phone. It was manufactured by a subsidiary of AT&T called Western Electric. It was expensive, because they kept track of long distance calls and charged by the minute. But it worked well and what we now call reception was great. You heard every word of every call but you couldnt wander around.

Not true, she said. Didnt you notice all that born again, Jesus saves, second birth stuff going on around you in high school? You mean like Ed Bork? I asked. There was a pause. I could hear her take a short puff. I thought Ed was a witch, she said, contemplatively. Im sorry. Yes maam, youre right. Stoney and I ran into him a few years after I graduated and Ed said that after several years of witchcraft hed found the Lord and devoted his life to Jesus. There was a pause while she thought this through. Howd that work out for him? she asked. I guess not optimally. When I met up with him he was hitch-hiking north after leaving a Christian group that sounded kind of like a cult to me. Like a cult how? she asked. Work to exhaustion with no pay, no contact with outsiders including family, rigid adherence to dogma, distant but ever-present authoritarian leader, public shaming of nonconformists. And theyre Christian? she asked. Yes, maam. Why did he say he left? she asked. She took what sounded like the last sharp drag off her Benson & Hedges. As best I can recall he said that the Baptist minister at one of the big downtown churches seemed to understand him and be a lot more informed than anybody in his cult. Baptist, you say? Yes, maam. Was it First Baptist? she asked. Sorry, cant recall. What do you remember? she asked. Scotch last name, I said. Scots, she corrected me. I knew that. McEwen, maybe? she asked. Yes maam. That sounds right, I said. Reverend McEwen.

Thats Jack, she said. Jack McEwen. Knows his stuff. Good guy. And Ed liked Jack? I dont know, I said. I just remember that he was in a cult-like thing and he talked to this Baptist preacher after listening to a sermon and the cult wasnt happy with him for liking the Baptist. Yeah, well, if it was Jack, Im not surprised. Never anybody who wasnt charmed by Jack. Charmed? Oh, yeah. Completely charming in every way. Intellectually, personally. Brilliant. Informed. Knowledgeable. Learned. If all Baptist preachers were like Jack wed all be Baptists. Well, apparently the Vine Street Christian Community didnt approve of Rev. McEwen. Oh, Vine Street. Weird group, she said. Yes, maam. Anyway, I think our point was, there are lots of born-agains around, and I was using Ed as an example, but I interrupted you in the course of making a point about something to do with grad school, I said. Yeah, okay, she said. I heard her Zippo crank and could tell shed lit another Benson & Hedges. But lets stick with religion for just a second longer. Didnt you just say something like you thought religion was something a person picked up in childhood, as in from your parents? Yes, maam. Thats the way it appears to me. Didnt you tell me last week that someone named Beatrice was taking you to Catholic mass? she asked. Beatriz. Yes maam. Beatriz is supporting Cisco on what she refers to as a penitential journey, I said. That sounds funny, she said. Dont get it. Theres a Les Brown song called Sentimental Journey. Anyway, werent you raised Protestant? Yes, maam. And are you liking the Catholic services? she asked. I had to think. I would have thought Id call them a nuisance.

Maybe not as bad as I expected, I said. I hadnt been to a church since high school until we started this. Why not as bad? she asked. I had to think. Well. Hard too say. When they talk about the scriptures I know the Greek. The New Testament part anyway. I thought a minute more. I guess I expected it to be totally useless but it turns out to be oddly comforting. Exactly! she said. And your choice of academic advisor is going to have a big influence on whether you find grad school to be oddly comforting or totally useless. I think I need you to show your work on this one, Mrs. W. Okay. Grad school is broken up into these groups or tribes. Almost like denominations. All grad schools, or just the one Im going to? I asked. All programs in all grad schools to some extent, but none more so than Physics, and thats especially true at the good ones. Okay, I said. Where you go and how important you are is partly the result of who your mentor is. Let me call Dick Feynemann and see who you should request. Why did it get like this? I asked. Like what? she asked, taking a drag. All this tribalism, I said, All these denominations. Where I am now its clear that the math department and the physics department look down on each other. Ive picked up on the fact that even within physicists there are rival groups.282 What youre telling me seems to confirm this. Well, it wasnt like this in the beginning, she said. We used to be all in the same boat. So what happened? I asked. I could hear her take a drag from her cigarette. I guess what happened was quantum. Albert started with, I mean his earliest papers were about, what happened with atomsremember, he was the first to explain Brownian motionbut then he moved on to speed of light and gravity. Relativity was groundbreaking, massive, wonderful. It explained so much about the nature of the universe. But it was complete, whole. It said what it had to say. There were no experiments to do. Nothing to confirm. There were no little nooks and crannies for grad
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Only a clueless idiot like Henry could fail to notice this right off.

students to explore. It was just this enormous, beautiful, elegant thing, like Newton. It explained so much. Then along came Bohr with his quantum. It didnt explain anything. It just works. And there were thousands of little unsolved problems for grad students to get busy with. It predicts with extreme accuracy whats going to happen but it doesnt even bother trying to take a stab at why. So youre saying more people go into quantum than relativity because quantum was more incomplete? I know it sounds funny put that way, but yes, she said. Both relativity and quantum are extremely useful tools for looking at the universe and figuring out what its up to. But Albert presented us relativity more or less complete, and quantum has been a messy process that will never be complete. No matter what you figure out, there will always be something else to study. Youve noticed that it doesnt pretend to describe an underlying physical reality? Sure. If you try to look for one theyll shoo you away. And what do you think about that? she asked. Yeah, that strikes me a weird, I said. I guess Im too rooted in physical reality. Thats why I got interested in all this. Despite what they say I think there must be an actual underlying physical reality, we just havent discovered it yet. I know this shows me to be a bad physics student. But I confess, and I hope you wont tell my professors, that I think that until we do, all these math puzzles that seem to describe the universe with increasing accuracy are just the best we can do. So you think theres a pattern, we just cant see it yet? she asked. Something like that. Somethings not right, and we cant seem to see it. So the science is an extension of your pool table problem? she asked. Maybe. Something doesnt add up, and the fact that the quantum guys cant look at it and tell us what it is just means that something has been missed. You remember when people said that to Dr. Bohr his response was that if the equations didnt answer your questions you were asking the wrong questions. Yes, maam, but still. Its called physics. Thats because it has a physical reality, I said. She chuckled. Shall we lose faith in Delphis obscurities We who have heard the worlds core Discredited, and the sacred wood Of Zeus at Elias praised no more? The deeds and strange prophesies Must make a pattern yet to be understood, she said. I didnt recognize it.

Shakespeare? I asked. No, Greek. Sophocles, she answered. Oedipus Rex. Dont remember that, I said. The chorus said it. An ode. I admit I tended to skip the odes and stuff from the chorus. Read it again. Thats the best poetry. Anyway, it reminded me of you always looking for whats wrong when I read it. But were getting sidetracked. What I wanted to tell you is that I know how suspicious you are of quantum, and I understand your misgivings, but you need to go into it. It might lead you to a job as a particle experimentalist, and besides you really like puzzles. But I hate that deal about no underlying reality, I said. Very sensible of you, but you need to think about the future. I dont want to be more Bohr-like. I want to be more Einstein-like, I said. Okay, look, Henry. You like to be alone. I get that. But sometimes I think the biggest mistake of Alberts life was taking that job at Princeton, she said. Why? I asked, baffled. Princetons Institute for Advanced Studies seemed like the ideal job to me, at least for a theoretical physicist. Because he was up there by himself. He never liked having students, but when he was younger he really liked talking about things with colleagues. But he had to leave Germany because of the War and all, and he came over here, where his English skills werent so great, and he was just totally isolated. Bohr was Christian and in Denmark, so the Nazis didnt get in his way so much. Dr. Bohr didnt seem to think he had any colleagues. N o peers anyway. But he was tricky smart and really charismatic so he always had lots of smart boys around. You have a lot of students who love you, you make a big mark. Albert sat alone in Princeton for years and years and thought about that damned unified field theory. He didnt like the quantum and everybody knew it. God does not throw dice, I said. Something like that, she answered, but worse. Albert understood everything about all the quantum papers that got published. He was really good at math. But he never spoke up except to point out where it was stupid. He had missed the expansion of the universe and it convinced him never to trust math that couldnt be deduced from observation. And that bothered them?

Oh, no. They werent bothered. It just proved to them that he was an idiot, she said. What? Well, theyd all moved on. Everyone had accepted Relativity, which was Alberts big contribution, but then the science had moved on. It always does. Whenever theres a paradigm shift283, there are always some who dont buy in. They get left behind. Ernst Mach was at one point the preeminent physicist in all of Germany. But he died believing in the luminous ther. I dont even think he believed in atoms. Most of the guys of his era insisted that matter must be smooth, continuous. When did he die? I asked. I dont remember exactly, but it was not far one way or the other from Alberts paper on Brownian motion, she said. But he wasnt the last. Even when I was in grad school most of the professors had been taught that in college, and you could tell with some of them that they didnt really get the molecular model even as they taught it. Wow. Its not that weird, Henry. Things change quickly. Your grandmothers father probably remembered the Civil War. That would explain some things, I said. Like what? Never mind. Where were we? she asked. Einstein spent too much time by himself, I said. Yeah, well, he was too isolated, she said. If hed been part of the larger conversation he wouldnt have been so obsessed with the unified field theory. Or maybe he would have gotten more input and would have figured it out before he died. Or something. Trying to figure everything out by yourself sometimes doesnt work out so well. Thats what the bartender from the divinity school said. What? she asked. Not important, I said. So youre going to call me in the next few days and tell me who I need to request as an academic advisor? I asked.
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Henry would correctly understand this as a reference to Kuhn.

Yep, she said, lighting a cigarette. Thank you maam, I said, thinking we were done. So youre almost done with college, she said. Yes, maam, I said. She paused and took a drag. Hows that checkerboard of yours looking? Gack, I said. I had to think. I guess worse. She waited for me to finish my answer. Its like the squares arent even solid. If you look in close theyre not even solid squares. The concept is losing its meaning. She chuckled. Have faith, Henry. College has been good for you and grad school will be good for you, too. Your checkerboard will come back. How has college been good for me? I asked. Ask me after you graduate, she said. Yes, maam. Talk to you later Henry. Good night, Mrs. W.

Chapter 46: Goodbye to All That And then, just like that, my happy home broke up. I admit I didnt really see it coming. Im aware of the calendar, I knew the semester was coming to a close, but it didnt seem to occur to me that everything was going to have to change. I sent in my grad school acceptance papers and selected somebody Id never heard of but whom Mrs. W assured me was the right kind of person to have as an academic advisor. The semester wound down in slow motion. We had a last meeting of Stoneys math club at the House of Pizza. It was fun, it was sad, it was odd. We were all talking about what we were doing next year. Stoney was off to Stanford. I was going to Pasadena, Michael had a job, Leah was doing some abstract math deal at MIT, Beanie (he hated Beanie but nicknames tend to stick) was off to do something about artificial intelligence at Michigan State, and Cecil just said he had a job, with an air of mystery. A job? Leah asked. With whom? Letss just say with government, he answered, then started handing us all Xerox copies of a sheet covered with a matrix of letters and numbers as though it were one last problem for the club. Wed already ordered our pizzaLeah and I were splitting one last Everything, Stoney and Michael were splitting one last Ellis Special, Beanie and Cecil went their separate meaty waysso we didnt have much to do until it came other than look at the matrix. After wed looked at it a few minutes, Leah spoke up. Your job is with the United States government? she asked. Everyones eyebrows shot up. Yes, of course, said Cecil. Because this is encrypted code, Leah said. No shit? said Stoney, actually taking an interest for the first time. Motherfucker, said Beanie, only the way he said it, Id swear he managed to communicate that complex word in a single syllable. We all studied in silence for a few minutes. Okay, so the periodicity is one, six, five, said Leah, then mumbled something about having dabbled in codes before. All of us said some version of Oh, yeah, I see it now. We looked at it and the beer drinkers drank their beer. As per normal, my waster still hadnt arrived. This is a prime number deal, Stony said. Try 971. We all pored over it for a few more minutes. Stoney refilled his beer from the pitcher.

I think 977, Leah said. With that it just puzzled out. I got THE NSA HAS DETERMINED THAT THIS CODE IS SUITABLE FOR SENSITIVE TRANSMISSIONS. I looked up at Stoney, who was looking at me, frowning. We both looked at Cecil. What? he said. Youre working for the National Security Agency? Stoney asked. Lets say Ill be working for a sister agency. What did you get? Cecil asked. The NSA has determined that this code is suitable for seinsitiBe transmissions, said Leah, with emphasis on the capitalized B, probably noting an inaccuracy in the coding the rest of us had missed. Stoney, Cecil and I all nodded. Michael was still looking at the sheet. You know there are lots longer prime numbers, he said, after a pause. That would make it much, much harder to solve. Like maybe a seven or eight digit one that we dont all know. Ill tell them they need to tighten it up a little, said Cecil, trying to gather up all the matrix sheets. As our pizza came Cecil asked us all to forget wed ever seen the matrix sheets. That last Large With Everything still sticks out as the best pizza Ive ever eaten.284 We had a good dinner and made our goodbyes. And then I never saw most of those wonderful people ever again. I lived with Stoney and Michael, of course, so I saw them until we graduated, then once I ran into Stoney in an airport years later. But that was it for the smartest and most interesting group of which Ive ever been a part. I hadnt planned on attending my own graduation ceremony but Mrs. W told me I had to go. Even if it doesnt seem important to you, your presence will be important. Youll see. Plus I want to see you in a cap and gown. Okay. There werent any surprises the last few weeks of school. Theyd figured out that Stoney and I were tied for valedictorian and somehow it worked out that our tests and papers were due well before the end of the semester. They didnt officially announce anything, but Chancellor Heard had a nice reception for Stoney and me with some important people. When Mrs. W heard that I was going to a reception at the Chancellors house she hung up on me and called Michael and made him and Stoney promise to take me to a good mens store and buy me new shoes, a suit, some ties, some shirts and a new belt. When I thought we were done Stoney went on to buy me a navy blue blazer and
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Sadly, House of Pizza is no more.

Michael bought me three pair of khakis, one pair of Weejuns, and a cordovan belt. It felt very preppie. Im not a preppie kind of guy. Yes, of course you are, said Michael. Youre one of us now. Stony contaminated you. Buy yourself some Polos or Alligators in California and youll be set for the next few years. Now lets get all of this to the cleaners. Thanks, but why are you doing this? I asked. Your birthdays coming up, said Michael, blowing me a kiss. Then one day some movers came and took away all of the furniture Stoney and Michael had bought for our suites living room and in their bedroom back at the beginning of the year and brought back the university-issued dorm furniture. It was definitely a step down. When the year-end dorm room inspection guy came by Milton and Beatriz had decided not to swap their possessions back to their officially-assigned rooms and each stood in the others room for the inspection. The inspector was obviously puzzled by Miltons choice of clothing and furnishings, but the room was in good shape so he didnt say anything. Michael threw one last dinner party, this time on our original dorm room furniture. He served endive salad with a kind of walnut dressing he called Devils Rain, Cornish game hens, wild rice, Brussels sprouts, and crme brulee. The mystery of that meal to me, to this day, is how he got the sugar to crust on the custard. We were all expectant and excited about the future but the whole dinner was surprisingly sad. The conversation was all about next steps and future plans but we knew we were splitting up. I already knew where Michael and Stoney were going, of course. Cisco was going to Tulane Law School, Milton and Doris had another year but were talking about going to Michigan State for graduate studies when they finished. Brian would spend the summer in the Navy and would get commissioned the next year the same day he graduated. Beatriz had one more year of school and said when she graduated she was thinking of getting her Ph.D. in Brazil. The ones who had another year to go had made arrangements to stick together for the following year thanks to Beatriz exceedingly complex but successful social engineering, but nevertheless Beatriz seemed positively glum. It all wound down. And then the big day came. Beatriz stayed over for the graduation ceremony. Mrs. W drove up for the day, and somehow Beatriz and Mrs. W ended up sitting next to each other. Both of them had a way of arranging things, so Im not sure who to credit with that coincidence. After the ceremony, which I do not remember, it was Stoney, Michael and me in our caps and gowns, and Mrs. W and Beatriz in their Sunday best, standing together in

the closest thing we could find to shade. Early afternoon. Michael gave me a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek, then Stoney gave me a strong bear hug with a lit Winston between his lips. Ive loved every minute of it, friend, he said as he hugged me. He pulled back and looked at me, transferring his cigarette from his mouth to his right hand. Same here, bud. Its all been good, I answered. He clasped me in a bear hug again, clapping my back. He let me go and looked at Mrs. W. Dr. W, you are without a doubt the best teacher with whom it has ever been my honor to study, he said. Youve also been a good friend to Michael and me. It all means more to me than I can say. He then kind of bowed in a very courtly way, took her hand and kissed it, and stood. She beamed at him and gave him a half-hug. The door is always open, gentlemen, she said. Come by any time. Thank you maam, said Stoney and Michael, almost in unison. Stoney gave me a thumbs up. Gack, I guess its over, said Stoney. Yep, I answered. I hate to leave, but were expected on Sea Island for dinner, he said, with a sad smile. Later, I said. Later, he answered, then clapped on his aviator shades. He saluted, military style, then turned around and walked away, Michael at his side, to the left. He flicked away his Winston butt, then sailed his mortarboard off to his right like a Frisbee, and disappeared around the corner, black gown streaming but not quite flapping in the breeze. And then he was gone. I turned to look at Beatriz and could feel my eyes start to cry. Thank you, Henry Baida, she said. For what? I asked. For being the best friend a girl could possibly have, she said. She was crying, too. She held me by the shoulders at arms length, as though she knew she was looking at me for the last time, then pulled me in and kissed me full on the mouth. It was a lingering kiss, and it was the most intimate moment of my life, but it didnt feel sexual or romantic. After she kissed me, she held me at arms length again, then gave me a quick hug. She then looked at Mrs. W and gave her a quick bob, almost like a curtsey. Mrs. W looked at Beatriz with a cocked eyebrow and an dubiously inquiring smile, as if maybe she thought we might have been potential romantic partners. In

response, Beatriz smiled shyly and shook her head. She leaned over to whisper a few words into Mrs. Ws ear. Mrs. W gave an equivocal expression, then said That does sound like him. So, to the amazing Dr. Wertheimer, lady of so many wonderful stories and so much important instruction and assistance to those who are important to me, it was a great honor meeting you and sharing this wonderful occasion with you. And to the amazing Henry Baida, gambler, physicist, mathematician, pool player, and every girls one who got away, I love you and will always love you. Goodbye. Then she turned heel and jogged away in her heels and dress, disappearing almost immediately. God damn it! I said. I was crying like a child No, He wont, she said. You knew this was going to happen, I said. Of course. Rituals become rituals because they help you understand whats important. She shook out a Benson & Hedges and lit it with her Zippo. Id forgotten that it had a Gates logo on it. She took me back to Chattanooga for the summer and taught me some stuff to get me ready for grad school. I dont think Id ever understood what it meant to miss someone before.

Part III: 1978 Graduate School

Let me be reverent in the ways of right, Lowly the paths I journey on; Let all my words and actions keep The laws of the pure universe From highest Heaven handed down. For Heaven is their bright nurse, Those generations of the realms of light; Ah, never of mortal kind they begot, Nor are they slaves of memory, lost in sleep; Their Father is greater than Time, and ages not. --Sophocles, Oedipus Rex, strophe 1, as translated by Fitts and Fitzgerald (1939).

The more I know, the less I understand. --Some guy who sounded like Freddie Coleman who was sitting in for Colin Coweherd on The Herd With Colin Cowherd on Christmas Eve, 2011.

Chapter 47: Welcome to Pasadena So there I was in Pasadena. It was hot. Id checked into a Best Western on Colorado Boulevard and it was a lot further away from school than Id expected. I was wandering around town kind of aimlessly, with an unfocused intention of finding a place to live. This was new to me. One thing about Pasadena is that there are lots of college students there. There are several colleges, and several kinds of colleges, so theres lots of student housing, even if its not called that. I had been to my schools housing center, I had walked around taking phone numbers off of Xeroxed notices stapled to telephone poles, I had done what I could figure out to do but I hadnt come up with anything and school started the next day. I had worked at it for just two days but was already discouraged. This problem had not seemed like it would be so difficult to solve. I was sitting on a bench next to a fake waterfall on campus, although I still hadnt taken a class there, when I felt a presence nearby and an old man sat down next to me on the bench. Hola, he said. He was wearing a black cloak over a white robe of some sort, which looked to me to be miserable attire for a hot summer day. He had what appeared to be the worlds longest strand of Rosary beads knotted about his middle as a belt. He was wearing sandals. The old kind, not the new kind. Youre Thomas, I said. Si, he answered. I dont speak Spanish, I said. Se, he said. Jack Benny used to do this same routine with Mel Blanc, I said. I need you to speak English. Si, he said. But I like that Jack Benny routine. Why do you keep popping up? I asked. Que? he asked. I just stared at him. What do you mean? he asked. I remember seeing you at the Hixson Lanes with Ford. Day-drinking on an excuse. Then you were at Rotiers sticking me with the tab, but it seemed like Beatriz had known you for years. Is there some place where we could get a drink? he asked. So all thats true? I asked. True, I dont know, but accurate, si, he said.

So are you stalking, me, or something? Why do you keep showing up? He thought for a few seconds. No, I am not stalking you. He handed me a small piece of paper with a phone number written on it. It looked to be one of those phone numbers you tear off of the bottom of a Xeroxed ad stapled to a telephone pole in a college town. You are looking for a place to stay? he asked. Sure. This house is right down the street. We can walk over to look at it. Then rather than call about it we can walk around the corner to talk to the landlord, he said. We. Si. You also need a car. I know a guy. But lets go look at the house. So we walked over to a house on South Mentor Avenue, just south of California. Less than a block from where we were. The house was a little overgrown and in need of s few repairs, but it was a nice house and it was less than a block from school. Mentor deadended into California, and not far from the intersection of Mentor and California Id noticed a diner called Pie n Burger that looked like my kind of place. How much? I asked. $650 per month, he said. Okay, I said. To be peering through the windows of a vacant house with someone who appeared to be a Dominican friar seemed a little odd. The landlord is the laundry in the rear, he said. Excuse me? The French Laundry, which is on Lake Street, owns the property. They bought it wanting to knock the house down to create parking and a rear entrance for their laundry. The city wouldnt allow it so the laundry has left the property vacant for years in protest. The city recently ordered them to clean it up and put a tenant in, so it is suddenly available. How do you know this? I asked. This is in my nature. Wheres the landlord? I asked. He walked me around the corner to the French Laundry. The woman behind the counter is the landlord, more or less. Her name is Susan, he said, as we approached the store.

Susan what? Susan Manigal, he answered. We walked in. It smelled of chlorinated solvents. There were no ther customers in the store but a woman behind the counter. Ms. Manigal? I asked. Yeah, sure, she said. You picking up? she said. No maam, I said. I want to ask about renting the house on South Mentor. Yeah, okay, she said. She wasnt happy. She confirmed the rent, I agreed, she told me to come by tomorrow to sign a lease,, and then kind of threw a small manila envelope with keys at me. It needs work, she said. Si, said Thomas. Hola, Susan. You bringing this reprobate along? she asked me, gesturing at Thomas. Si, said Thomas. Okay. You know you still owe me for that cassock you brought in over Christmas three years ago, she said to Thomas. Si, he answered. How much does he owe you? I asked. $6.87, she answered, after looking at something in a drawer. Here you go, I said. I gave her seven dollars. Thanks pallie, she said. Come back tomorrow and Ill have a lease. We walked back around the corner to the house. I bounced the little manila envelope in my hand. We seemed to be walking back to the house to look inside. After a few steps I asked him Why am I going along with this? I will cook. The house needs much work. Many negotiations with the landlord are needed. I can drive. I am immortal. I can teach you to be a religious man. Very little of that interests me, I said. But youre suggesting we be roommates? Si, he said. We had arrived at the house. I opened the manila envelope and found two brass keys inside. I unlocked the front door. The house was old and musty inside. The floorboards werent in good shape. The kitchen was a mess. The power was turned off.

Is it air-conditioned? I asked. After a fashion, he said. I can work with this landlord. Im guessing that youre not proposing to contribute to the rent, I said. Sadly, this is true, he said. I have taken a vow of poverty. Why am I going along with this? I asked. You are a man of great faith, he answered. I dont think you know me very well, I said. This is always possible, he said. I thought this over for a few minutes. Youll cook? Do laundry? I asked. Si. And Im guessing you dont have a place to stay tonight, I said. This is true, he said. Yeah, so I do have an extra bed at the Quality Inn, I said. Gracias, he said. And we will pass The Colorado Bar o on the way, he said. I dont drink, I said. Si, he said, but I do. And we will need dinner. A burger, perhaps. Or perhaps bistec con frijoles y arroz. We left the house to walk back to the hotel. I locked the front door and walked around the side of the house to look at the back yard. It needed work. The grass was knee-high and there were several large dead pine trees that looked like they might fall over any moment. Not far from the back door there was a small picnic table. On the picnic table was a small opened jar of bright red maraschino cherries. As I watched, a skunk climbed up onto the picnic table, sniffed around bit, then reached into the jar of cherries and pulled one out. I heard Thomas cough in the background. The bar is this way, he said. The skunk ate his cherry and then scuttled away. Here we go, I said.

Chapter 48: My New Roommate The next day we checked out of the hotel pretty early and made the long walk back to the new house. I dropped my suitcase off . Thomas asked for some money to set up housekeeping. I gave him some. I went off to school to sign up for classes and buy my books. The process was very different than undergrad school. Everyone I talked to seemed to be concerned that something was wrong. What with wasnt clear. I got back to the new house at maybe four and there was a van with no license plates parked in the driveway. The lawn was newly mowed and there were some guys working on the air conditioner compressor in the side yard from another van parked on the street. I walked through the wide open front door and there was a surprising amount of stuff already in the house. A couch. What looked like an oriental carpet in the living room. A coffee table. An antique dining room table but no chairs. Pots and pans in the kitchen. A lot if it looked really old. I put my books down on the coffee table and wandered around, looking for Thomas. The two bedrooms seemed to be set up with lamps and single bed mattresses and box springs but no bed-frames. Hola, said Thomas, appearing at my elbow. Youve been busy, I said. Si, he said. I need more money. Okay. I peeled off a few hundreds. His hand stayed out. I peeled off a few more. Gracias, he said. They say the AC will be working before they leave, although they need some part that they cannot get until Wednesday to make the heat work. The phone will be working by Thursday. Water, power okay. Wow. Thanks. Whats the AC repair costing me? Nada. That is the proprietarios responsibility. English, I said. The landlord has agreed to pay, however reluctantly. Gracias again for paying my laundry bill. Cool, I said. Who owns the van in the driveway? You do, he said. Ive never bought a van, I said. I understand your confusion, but you needed one, so now you have one. The Lord works in mysterious ways? I asked.

No, He doesnt. Hes not at all mysterious. Hes very direct. And He works the same way every time. Hes just very detail-oriented. Back to my point, I thought I was quoting the Bible, I said, although as soon as I said it I realized I couldnt come up with a line from the Bible about the Lord moving in a mysterious way in either English or Greek. The closest I could come was a parody of some sort that may have been from The National Lampoon, which was pretty feeble. No, youre not quoting the Bible. Its not even in Milton, he said. Its one of those things like cleanliness is next to godliness. It sounds like it ought to be true, so you think it must be Biblical, but its not. Wheres it from? I asked. A hymn by a depressed Englishman, he said. And cleanliness is next to godliness isnt true? I asked. Worse. Its Longfellow, he said. Ah, I said. Would you care for a beer? he asked. No thanks, I dont drink, I said. Then I should have one, he said, and pulled a Heineken from the refrigerator. All of the doors and windows in the house were open, but it wasnt oppressively hot. I walked out to the back patio to see what the back yard looked like. It looked better today. There were some low commercial buildings behind the back yard, a row of eucalyptus trees separating the property lines, and a pretty much open, just-mowed back yard from me to there. One of the dead pine trees Id noticed the day before had fallen over recently, probably since the lawn had been mown earlier I the day because the grass was cut underneath the fallen tree. There were new building supplies, too: a pallet of red bricks, a pile of sand, and what looked to be a large sack of clay on the patio near the driveway, none of which had been there the day before. I returned to the kitchen, where Thomas was sipping his beer contemplatively sitting at a new kitchen table and reading a newspaper in a language I could not even identify. He was wearing what struck me as a summer priests uniform: black cotton sort-sleeved shirt with that collar they wear, black slacks, and his sandals. The sandals kind of stuck out. How was school? he asked. It was fine, I said. I looked in the freezer for ice but the tray beneath the icemaker was empty. The only thing in the freezer was a half gallon of Gordons gin.

Tomorrow, Thomas said. What? I asked. The icemaker will be working and we will have water glasses. But I bought you some bottled water. He stood and crossed to open the lower compartment of the refrigerator to show the water. I took a bottle. Other than some bottled water, the only items in the refrigerator were most of a case of Heineken, a six-pack of Schweppess tonic water, and a handful of limes. Thanks, I said. The water was nice and cold. What are the building supplies for? I asked. We need an oven, he answered. What are you taking? he asked. Physics, I said. I turned around and looked at the Amana stove and oven in the kitchen. More specifically, he said. Well, several quantum mechanics things. They wanted me to take Relativity stuff but I think Ive convinced them I know that. They want me to be a well-rounded physicist so my advisor is telling me to take some astrophysics things. Formation of stars, that kind of thing. Whats wrong with this oven? No orbital mechanics? he asked. No, I got all that, I said. Where from? he asked. My high school geometry teacher. Also I was in this club in college. Youre from Chattanooga? he asked. Yes. Was your geometry teacher Margaret Wertheimer? he asked. Yes. How in the Hell did you know that? I asked. Logical deduction, he said. I think Ill have another beer. Do you want one? I dont drink. Back to the oven, I said. And all the building supplies. Ill be right back. Thomas disappeared around the corner into what I assumed was the bathroom, although I hadnt yet had reason to visit it. He returned a few minutes later and reached in to the refrigerator to get another beer.

Not much food, I said. Si, he said. Tonight we will need to eat out. Tomorrow will be better. Where do you want to eat? Back to the oven, I said. What I have in mind is something between the village oven of my youth and a tandoori oven, he said, sipping his beer contemplatively. Whats tandoori? I asked. From India, he said. I travelled there when I was not so elderly. And whats wrong with this oven? I asked, pointing at the one in the kitchen. Nothing at all. Where do you want to eat? he asked. Dont know the area, I said. The places that we can walk to most quickly are Pie n Burger on California and Burger Continental on Lake, he said. Pie n Burger looked promising, I said. My kind of place. Si. But it is better for lunch or eating alone. Back to the oven, I said. If we have this one, I pointed helpfully again, why do you need to spend money on building supplies? No one can make proper bread in a modern oven, said Thomas. Much less nan. None? I asked. Nan, he said. Nan. Si. What is nan? I asked. Indian bread. You will like it. Everyone does. I make good nan. But I need a tandoori oven, he said. So, dinner. Pie n Burger? I asked.

I would advise against it, he said, at least for dinner. Their veggie burger is unreliable. So you want to go to Burger Continental, I said. I think you would like it more, he answered. He finished his beer in a long swallow. I looked out the back door and noticed that there was a large black and white bird perched on the fallen pine tree. It was pecking away at the tree, knocking the bark off at a mile a minute. It was pretty big and had a bright red crest. Hey, you like birds, right? I asked Thomas. Si. Come look at this thing, I said. He came to the door and looked at it mournfully and thentossed his empty beer bottle into the trash can. Whats that? I asked, pointing at the bird. It was like a woodpecker, only much larger. Thomas looked at it with a worried expression, then shook his head. I am sorry, I find I need a real drink, he said. He went back to the refrigerator and returned a few seconds later with what appeared to be a Dixie cup full of gin from the freezer. Ice was already forming on the cup. He knocked most of it back in a swallow. Aaahhh, he said, smiling. The frown returned when he looked at the bird, which was knocking bark off of the downed tree like a machine. So what is that thing? I asked, looking at the bird. That is an Imperial Woodpecker, he said. Some might mistake it for a Pileated Woodpecker, but the crest is different, the bill is the wrong color, and the scapular stripe is different. Not an Ivory-billed Woodpecker? I said. Dont be absurd, he said, finishing his Dixie cup of gin and returning to the freezer for a refill. So why does a woodpecker make you so thirsty? I asked. Im not used to being around you, he said. You have a peculiar effect on the world. He knocked back his second big shot of gin. I didnt know what to make of his comments so I didnt say anything. Thomas looked at his watch. So well leave in a little over an hour, he said. We watched the woodpecker knock the bark off the fallen pine tree. So is that kind of bird common here? I asked. I dont think Ive ever seen it before.

No, not at all. In fact, I need a refill, he said. He went back to the kitchen and returned with his Dixie cup refilled with cold gin. It didnt take long for him to finish it. The guys working on the AC finished up. They turned it on and the air got noticeably cooler. Thomas and I left for Burger Continental exactly when he said we would. It was right around the corner on Lake, so we walked. Do you have any singles? he asked, on the way. Singles? Si. One dollar bills, he said. I took out my wallet and looked. Sure. Why? I asked. There may be belly dancers. What?

Chapter 49: We Meet Henrys Sister and a New Cast of Characters. A few weeks into the semester things were settling down. Thomas was, of course, highly eccentric, but he kept house well. He always had something hot for dinner, and it was always good. The following is a typical exchange: Me: Thomas: Me: Thomas: Me: Thomas: Me: Thomas: Me: Thomas: What is this stuff? Aloo gobi. Whats that? Potato and cauliflower curry. And the bread is nan? Si. Its all really good. I especially like the nan. Gracias. So theres no meat in this. Si.

About three weeks after school started I came home and there was an orange Datsun 240Z in the driveway. I found Thomas in the back yard digging up some ground in the back yard as though he was preparing to plant a garden. Whats up? I asked. He was wearing his sandals, back slacks, and no shirt. This is not a sight I would recommend. I need to plant some crocus sativus bulbs, he answered, without looking at me, when he heard me behind him. Theres an orange 240Z in the driveway, I said. Si, he said, continuing at his work. Who owns it? You do, he said. I thought I owned a van, You did. And?

You needed a van to furnish the house. It is now furnished. Well, he had a point. I hadnt give him much more than a couple thousand bucks to work with but hed set up a pretty comfortable household. Some of the stuff in the house seemed to have been his. In response to a question a week or two ago hed told me that one of the paintings in the hall was a Vermeer hed had for a long time. I found this difficult to believe, but it was a beautiful painting in a very ornate frame. So why do we have an orange sports car? I asked. Si. You are a young man. You should have a speedy car, he said. Why in the world do I need a sports car? Girls like them, he said. Girls dont like me, I said. You wouldnt know if they did, he said. And also, perhaps they will like other members of the household. I found the idea that Thomas might be cruising for girls extremely disturbing. Whys wouldnt I know? I asked. Youre too busy looking for whats wrong, he answered. He finished his spadework and stood, shirtless and sweaty. It was even worse than it sounds. After a short respite I will shower, he said. I will water the ground and plant the crocus bulbs in the morning. After I rest we need to go to the grocery store. What do we need at the store? You need to drive your new car, and I need an eggplant and some tomatoes. What are you making? Baigan bartha. Another Indian deal? I asked. Si. So Im guessing no meat. Tiene usted razn. English, I said.

Technically, si. But there will be fresh hot nan. And Ive found some good dal. And good basmati rice. Dal? I asked. Indian lentils. But no meat? I asked. Technically. And some good yogurt. You will like baigan bartha. I will shower as soon as I have had a refreshing beverage. After hed downed two shirtless gin and tonics, taken a shower, consumed another g. and t. in his boxers, which were blue and which informed me much more thoroughly about his physique than curiosity would have ever demanded, we went to the grocery store, him in his summer priest outfit. He insisted on going to a Vons up285 in Altadena, he claimed because it was better than the store at Hudson and California but I think he just wanted to make me take the new car onto the freeway. He also said vaguely that I needed to meet more people. I couldnt remember ever having made a friend in a grocery store so I was dubious. I have to admit the car was zippy. Id never driven a fast car before and I could see the appeal. The Vons on Allen in Altadena was a great grocery store, but not so different from other, closer Vons stores. Good products sensibly organized, but there wasnt any reason for us to have driven up there. I followed Thomas through the aisles as he picked over vegetables. Then, as we passed the packaged Romaine lettuce, I saw what might be a familiar face. She had a tall teenaged boy with her. I stopped. Hera? I asked. She looked up at me and scowled. She had always scowled a lot. It took her a few seconds, but then I had changed a lot since she last saw me. She looked almost exactly the same. Henry? she asked. Guilty as charged, I said. My heavens! she loudly exclaimed, right there in Vons, then swooped me into an enormous hug. She may have been crying, albeit discretely. Its been so long since Ive seen you, she said. Where have you been? Thomas coughed gently.

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In the San Gabriel Valley in the Los Angeles Basin, going up to Altadena is like going up to Jerusalem. Its not like going uptown in New York or New Orleans, where the street numbers go up (well, in New York anyway) . Youre going up in altitude. Altadena is way above the valley floor.

Hera, allow me to introduce my friend Thomas. Thomas, this is my sister, Hera Tronkh, I said. Actually, Im Hera Jones now, but that happened since I last saw Henry! And Thomas, I see you in here all the time! So glad to finally meet you! And both of you, this is my son Candy. Candy, this is your Uncle Henry, she said. Hey, said Candy, waving briefly to us. You never mentioned an uncle, he said to his mother. Henry and I have been out of touch since before you were born, she said. What have you been up to? Where have you been? she asked me. High school. The road. College. Now Im in grad school. `How wonderful that youve pursued higher education! What are you studying? she asked. Physics. I shrugged. Candy loves science! she said. Hey, he said to me. So, like, Mom, he said, turning to Hera, does it strike you as a little bit weird that I learned I have an uncle at Vons when Im almost eighteen? Dont be rude, she said. Henrys been out of touch. Really bud, its not her fault. Were just not a close-knit family, I said. So are you in town for long? Hera asked. Im in a Ph.D. program, I answered. Thats what, two years? she asked. Mom, really, said Candy. Threes more like it. Or when I finish my thesis, I said. Candy? said Thomas, to Candy. Candide. I hate being called Candy, said the kid. And you are what? Thomas asked him. A freshman at Cal Tech.

Good school. Perhaps youll bump into Henry on campus. What are you studying? Some version of biology, I think, he said. The kid actually looked pretty smart. Hes a college freshman, but hes still living at home, said Hera. I guess I just wasnt ready to let go of him. Mother of God, said Candide. He could move in with us, said Thomas. Where would we put him? I askedmk mystified. In the empty bedroom, said Thomas. We have a third bedroom? I asked. Si. Where? I asked. Just beyond yours. I thought you said that was a linen closet. Yeah, Im in, said Candide. Hold your horses, said Hera. Hey, sweetie, said a pretty blonde girl who appeared out of nowhere and kissed Candide on the cheek. Fancy meeting you here. She seemed happy to see him. My sister did not seem happy to see her. Hey, good news, he said to the girl. Im moving in with these guys. With a priest? asked the girl. Why not? Hello, Hera, said a tall, long-legged ash blond woman dressed as though to play tennis. She nodded politely to my sister. Hello, Candy, she said to Candide. Hello, Mrs. Anderson, said Candide. May I introduce my uncle Henry here he looked at me for a cue. Henry Baida, I said, shaking her hand. And this is my friend Thomas, I said. Thomas shook her hand as well.

Baida? said Candide to his mother. That was my maiden name, she said, trying to smile at Mrs. Anderson. Im Helen Anderson, she said, looking at Thomas and then me in turn. And this is my daughter Fiel. She is a senior at Poly286. I looked at Hera. I hadnt seen her in years but she was still my big sister. Poly is a very good high school in Pasadena, she said. I think Candy and Fiel met at one of their dances. Nah, it was at a Prep287 dance, said Fiel, kind of affectionately hip-checking Candide, the way a soccer player might do. And Ive seen you here before, havent I? Mrs. Anderson said to Thomas. Si, he said. He nodded in a way that seemed almost like a bow. So wheres this place Im moving into? asked Candide. On South Mentor, said Thomas. A block from your school. Both mothers frowned a bit. The eyes of both teens present widened happily and they looked at each other. That is fuc I mean that is awesome, said Candide. He seemed to realize he was worrying the mothers present and turned to Hera. You see, this means I could walk to school. Your objection that you dont want to buy me a car would be nullified. Hera did not seem happy. We have a car, said Thomas. I pulled him aside a few feet. Looking at him face to face he seemed very priestly. Im going along with this? I asked Thomas, while the teens smiled and the mothers frowned. Si. Why? He is a young man. He needs some freedom. You will be a negligent chaperone. Plus, it will be good for your soul and will allow a good spiritual influence on the lives of these two eager young people, he said. Youre purporting to be a good spiritual influence on teenagers?
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Polytechnic School in Pasadena. Highly recommended. Nursery through twelfth grade. From the pictures on the website, it looks like they now wear the same uniforms as Clairbourn School a few miles south in San Gabriel, California. Also highly recommended. 287 Flintridge Preparatory School, for my money the best high school in Southern California.

No. Not me. You will be the good spiritual influence, he answered. Oh, for Christs sake, I said. I really dont think you know me too well. You are a very good Catholic, said Thomas. What? I said to Thomas. Well, Im not sure this is in the budget, said Hera. Thomas and I rejoined them. How much are you asking? Candide asked Thomas. Thomas looked at me. Look, youre talking about moving in and sharing a bathroom and a kitchen with an eccentric gambler and a crazy priest on the basis of a chance encounter in a grocery store, I said. If I have understood Thomas correctly, he was suggesting a few years ago that one of his drinking buddies was an extraterrestrial. I get along with him, but were weird, I said. Thomas made an noncommittal gesture. Im just suggesting you think this through. No, Im cool, said Candide. How much? I calculated. Even though Thomas wasnt paying, the freight for a new roommate should be a third. Im sure its more than we can afford, said Hera, trying to grab Candide by the sleeve and leave, but he was rooted, arm around Fiels waist, much to her mothers frowning disapproval. Hang on, Mom. How much? he asked me. I guess, including utilities, your share would be, what, $250? I looked at Thomas. He kind of shrugged and nodded. Fiel and Candide kind of bounced on their toes in excitement. Henry, dammit, it cant possibly be that cheap, said Hera. Well, it sort of is. I pay $650 a month, plus utilities. So if we split that three ways, it comes to right about $250, as long as he kicks in for long distance calls. Awesome, said Candide. I think we need to talk about this further, said Hera. No, dude, look, Im moving in tomorrow. Thats less than she charges me for living at home. A solid win, he said. Whats the address? Thomas took a small pad of paper out of his pocket and wrote down the address. Sadly, we do not yet have a phone number, said Thomas. I am working on that. I looked at him because this was patently untrue but he didnt register anything when I did. Do you have a friend named Pangloss? Thomas asked Candide.

What a peculiar question, said Mrs. Anderson. I wouldnt say friend, he said. Dr. Pangloss is pretty much an asshole. Hera smacked him on the back of his head like a redneck mother at K-Mart might discipline a seven year-old. He rolled his eyes. Ill be by tomorrow, he said to Thomas. Thomas nodded. Ill have a new key cut, said Thomas. The room is completely unfurnished. And we cannot help you with transportation. We have a small car. You will like it, though. Oh, thats okay, said Candide. Dad left me the keys to his pickup. Well, then, Mr. Tronkh, Candide said. Mr. Tronkh, we will see you tomorrow, said Thomas. Mrs. Anderson, Mrs. Jones, and Miss Anderson, we must bid you a fond buenos noches. It is time for us to go home. I made my good byes with Hera, who was still glaring, promised to stay in touch, and we left. She said we all needed to have dinner together next weekend and I agreed. After I paid for our groceries and we were walking to the new car, I ruminated aloud to Thomas about what had just happened. I guess I dont understand what happened, I said. ? he asked. Well, for one thing, why was Candide so eager to get out of his mothers house? Why was the girl so happy about the idea? Why did both mothers seem so hostile to it? Why did Hera agree to let her son move into my house? She doesnt know me from Adam. Nothing about it made sense. Tiene perfecto sentido, he said. English, I said. It makes perfect sense. Wait, I said, as we approached the new car. Before you explain that, how did you trade a broken down old van for a really fast 240z? The Datsun wasnt working this morning, and the drug dealer who owned it yesterday had a delivery to make that wouldnt have fit in the Datsun anyway. Wasnt working? I asked. Wouldnt crank, he said.

And you fixed it? I asked. I know a guy, he said. Yeah, okay, so you were telling me how everything that happened with my long lost sister and her coterie of children and acquaintances made sense. I do not understand what you misunderstand, he said. Well, why is it that Candide was so eager to move out? Because he is acutely interested in having some privacy, he answered, as I unlocked the car. Plus, sadly, he finds your sisters supervision to be cloying. But surely they can work all that out. Teens always do. You did not look at that girl? Thomas asked. Well surely they can work out ways of seeing each other in private from time to time, I said. You did not look at that girl carefully enough. Why were both mothers frowning? Neither one likes the other and both suspect that their children are having sex. I guess we dont need to call Sixty Minutes on that one. Si. And both are aware that Poly is only two blocks from your new house, so much unchaperoned access will be possible for the two teens. Poly? Polytechnic School. Her high school. The young lovers are a year apart in age, so she is still in high school as he is starting college at a prestigious institution. The difference in their stations in life does not prevent them from longing for access to each other. Access. Si. Why did Hera let it happen?

Your nephew is very clever. To have said no in front of her friend Mrs. Anderson she would have to have admitted that she had been out of touch with you for decades which doesnt happen in the best of families and this would have embarrassed her so he brought it up in a hurry and in front of someone whom your sister views as something of a rival. How could she be a rival? I asked. Her shirt bore the insignia of the Valley Hunt Club, he said. The what? Its like a good Southern country club only more so, he said. I was puzzled. Its a society thing. You wouldnt understand, he said. But why would they be rivals under any set of circumstances? Perhaps they both wanted the same position in the Pasadena Junior League, he said. The what? Never mind. And why do I want my nephew living with me? You find friends by happenstance and are unlikely to meet many here. You should become closer with your family. By this time we were back down Allen to the freeway. I dont think you know me very well, I said. Solitude agrees with me. This will change, you will see, he said. This is all just so weird, I said. Que? I frowned at him for a second, although I was moving along pretty quickly in the new car and that brief frown caused me to miss my exit. What? What is weird? Thomas asked. We go to this out of the way grocery store for no good reason and I run into my sister whom I havent seen since the Nixon administration and end up taking in a nephew I never knew I had because of the machinations of a crazy old priest.

Si But being around you it is generally far worse than this, he said. Your sister often shops there, but I will admit that it is a little surprising that we met her there on our first visit. You have a strange effect on the world. I wend down the 210 two more exits and doubled back on surface streets. We passed a big Romanesque church in an older part of town. I craned my head to look at it as we passed. Wow, I said, to nobody. Te gustar existe, said Thomas. I was irritated with him for his last mysterious remarks so I didnt prod him to translate.

Chapter 50: Dinner at My Sisters Candide moved in. His furniture was not to my taste but had cost somebody some money. I occasionally saw Fiel around but she never stayed for dinner, although she seemed to like nan. Every time I did see her, when she left our house Thomas gave her an aluminum foil package of his nan. She called him Candy, which he didnt to mind from her. I have to say that Candide was a surprisingly easy addition to the household. He kept to himself, his visits with Fiel seemed to take place discretely and usually when I wasnt around, and he didnt seem to mind that meat was never on the menu. He didnt seem to have a meal plan at the university. If I happened to come home for lunch Thomas always seemed to be feeding tomato or cucumber sandwiches to Fiel and Candide. Once there was a curried rice and avocado deal. As things do, we settled into a routine. Everybody loved Thomas cooking, especially his nan. He also made loaf bread for sandwiches and made his own mayonnaise. He seemed to know a lot about birds, and had bought Candide a pair of binoculars and some books on the subject. Most of the food he cooked was Indian, but he also did some Chinese things and other Asian deals. Despite his apparently long tenure in Wadley, he never cooked turnip greens, rice, squash, sweet potatoes or cornbread. He objected to iced tea, although he never said why. Still and all, we ate well. Not too long after he moved in Candide said over dinner that Hera wanted us over for dinner. Thomas was unenthusiastic. Does she have our phone number? Thomas asked. No. What is this stuff? Candide asked. Im not sure it has a name. I would call it vegetable vindaloo, Thomas answered. I like the sauce but in my youth it was generally prepared with goat, he said. Goat? Candide asked. Sometimes lamb. Or camel, he answered. Youve eaten camel? Candide asked. Only in my youth, he said. I became a vegetarian when I was young. Whys that? Candide asked. I became a Nazorite, he said.

Is that like a Nazorean? Candide asked. No. Not at all. There was no Nazareth in those days. Jesus and James were Nazorites, not Nazoreans. said Thomas. Whats that? Candide asked, scooping up rice, vindaloo sauce, and dal288 with a torn chunk of nan.289 It was a group in Palestine that believed in some things that are not in agreement with modern belief systems. Like? Um, we didnt cut our hair. We took lots of baths. We adhered to the Law, said Thomas. Im going to go out on a limb here and guess Nazorites didnt eat meat, said Candide, eating and without looking up. Tienes razn, hijo mo, said Thomas. They both knew Spanish and I didnt, and since they both knew this my position was that for f Both of them were aware of this. I looked at Candide with a cocked eyebrow because Thomas always ignored me under these circumstances. Im right. No meat, Candide answered my eyebrow. So Mom wants you over to dinner Thursday, he said, to me, mixing some rice with the sauce and shoveling it in. I was eating, too, of course. It was good. Yeah, okay, I said. I told her she had to invite Thomas, said Candide. Por qu has hecho esto sin preguntarme? Thomas asked, crossly. Tengo que calmarla. Cree que giys me estn corrputing alguna manera. Le dije que le tanto se presenta, Candide answered. I cleared my throat in an attempt to get them to speak English. They ignored me. Pero yo soy santo, Thomas answered. S. Claro. Todava tengo los dos para ir conmigo a cenar a casa de mi madre el jueves, Candide said.

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Lentils. Generally cooked until soft. Indian flat bread cooked in a tandoori oven. Keep up.

Est bien, Thomas answered. Okay stop this, I said. Look, Unk. Were just talking. We cant help it if youre Hispinacally impaired, said Candide. What just happened? I asked. Candide got up to get two more beers from the refrigerator, one for him and one for Thomas. Thomas was complaining about having to go to dinner at Moms house and I was telling him he had to come, said Candide. Not at all the way I would characterize the conversation, said Thomas. What would you say, old man? asked Candide. Im being taken to a house with no idea about or respect for about my dietary needs and in which I will be forced to choose between being rude and eating things that are indigestible, he said. Okay, so eat before you go. I only got out of that house by the skin of my teeth and I really dont want to go back. So Id really, really appreciate it if you could just be nice for a few minutes out of your valuable, busy, busy week and make my mom think that Im not being corrupted by two perverts so shell keep writing the tuition checks and I wont have to move back into a house where I never get to see Fiel with her clothes off, he said. More than I needed to know, I said. You two are weird but most of us arent and I really need for this to work out so I can have a semi-normal college life so I need the two of you to suck it up and act normal and have dinner with my mom. He gulped off half of his Heinekin. You two know the lease is in my name, right? I said. Si. Oh, dont pull rank, Unk, said Candide. Thats so yesteryear. This is a democracy/ Oh, fuck no. Not in any respect, I said. Im the landlord and you two morons are tenants. Thomas doesnt even pay rent. Both Thomas and Candide raised their fingers and opened their mouths as though about to say something, then the front doorbell rang. We all froze in place. The doorbell had never rung before. Ill get it, said Candide said, as though this were a momentous decision on his part. He rose from the kitchen table and left towards the front door. After a few seconds

we could hear the door open, then a happy vocalization from Candide, maybe the sound of a brief kiss, then Fiels voice. Look, Candy, the student council meeting got cancelled because Mr. Nunez got sick or something so my Mom isnt coming to pick me up for another hour or so so I figured we could hear Fiel say. Cool! Candide said, with enthusiasm, and we could hear them move towards the back of the house. This is going to lead to trouble, I said. No, they are sensible enough to avoid the obvious pitfalls, Thomas replied. How often is she over? I asked. Thomas didnt answer immediately, and I thought about it for a second. Wait, I said. Si. I am a priest. Candide is confessing his sins to you? I asked. After a fashion, he said. He shrugged. Is he even Catholic? I asked. Si. Hera and I werent raised Catholic, I said. I admit that it is true that Candy does not seem to be aware of the fact that he is Catholic, said Thomas, after a brief pause. So now we need to go have dinner with her, I said. Si. It will be unpleasant, I predict. So the next Thursday we appeared at Heras doorstep on South Madison. The house was a dark brown shingled bungalow that looked almost like a Greene & Greene house. We drove the short distance, which felt silly because it was just a few blocks away, but Thomas really didnt didnt like to walk any distance at all. He never said so, of course. He just always found a reason not to walk if there was a car available. As I was driving them over Candide complained to Thomas incessantly about having to sit in the back seat, arguing that his legs were longer than Thomas so it was only just that Thomas should sit in back. When I told them to stop bickering they just switched to Spanish rather than shut up. When we got there Hera opened the door and happily let us all in. Candide inhaled attentively. So its chicken, rice, biscuits, broccoli with that lemon sauce she

makes, and either carrots or sweet potatoes, he said to me as we walked through the front door. Hera didnt seem to hear. Fixed menu? asked Thomas, standing behind him. Candide nodded. Graven in stone, dude, Candide said to Thomas. Sucks to be you. Hi, Mom, he said, standing in the doorway. Henry! she said, passing Candide to cross to me, still standing on the porch. She hugged me with one arm because she had a wooden spoon in the other hand. She turned. And youre Thomas, I assume? she said. Si, he said. Youre Mexican? she asked. For Christs sake, Mom, said Candide. No, said Thomas. You look Mexican, said Hera. You might call me Palestinian, he said, after a brief pause. Okay, so I also invited Fiel, said Candide, pretty loudly. Whats on the menu? Fiel? That Anderson girl you were dating last year? she asked. Never stopped dating her, Mom. Is it chicken for dinner? By the way, Thomas is a vegan. Whats a vegan? He doesnt eat food produced from animal sources, Candide answered. So vegetarian? she asked, frowning. No, said Thomas. Not just no meat. No animal products. Hera looked at Candide, baffled. No butter, eggs, or milk products. Or honey. His delivery seemed a little smug. Honey? Whats wrong with honey? asked Hera. Bees are part of the animal kingdom, said Candide. So? she asked.

Thomas has foresworn all food products from the animal kingdom. I bet he wont take B-12. The doorbell rang. Hera disappeared to the kitchen, shaking her head. Candide moved to answer the door. Fiel was there, in her soccer practice uniform but without socks or shin guards, wearing those rubber Nike sandals soccer players wear.290 Hey, sweetie, he said. They didnt kiss but he put his arm around her waist in an affectionate gesture and her expression and body language indicated that was fine with her. Hey, Mom, Candide called to the kitchen. Fiels here. Okay, she called back. Will there be anything I can eat? Thomas asked Candide. No. Dude. Youre just going to have to ignore whats on your plate and eat wheats served. Dont be a dick. Suck it up. Shes paying my rent and I dont want trouble. Candide turned back to Fiel and smiled. Thomas sighed. After gazing lovingly at Fiel for a few seconds, Candide led us to the living room. It was comfortably appointed with dark maroon paint on the walls, white trim and molding, and a rosycolored wall-to-wall carpet that, based on the age of the house, must have covered up hardwood flooring that may have been quarter-sawn. Whats for dinner? Fiel asked. Smells like chicken, said Candide. Cool. I like your moms chicken, she said. They looked at each other like people who would rather be somewhere else. I looked at Thomas, who shrugged. Dinner time! Hera called out from the dining room. Candide waved us towardsthe dining room and a large oval dark wood dining room table and we followed. He had accurately predicted the menu. The CHAIrs matched the table and were in a vaguely Queen Anne style. Hera took the seat at the head of the table. Bowls of steaming food were in place as we all sat down. Fiel took the seat next to Hera, Candide next to her, me at the opposite end from Hera, Thomas opposite Candide. Candy? Hera said, when we were all seated. Hera bowed her head and reached out to hold Fiels hand. No one else did the same. Yeah, okay, said Candide, without bowing his head or looking down. Of course, I know this because I didnt either. Everyone else was prayerful. Bless, oh father, thy gifts to our use and us to thy service. For Christs sake, amen. The others all looked up and then we all sat down. People started passing the food around, clockwise. Thomas looked at most of the bowls and passed them on to Hera without taking anything. He managed to find a few broccoli spears with no sauce.
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In Los Angeles County in 1981 there really wasnt a dress code, and nobody much noticed.

So youre a Cathilic priest? Hera asked Thomas. He was wering black pants and a priests collar. I noticed for the first time that he was wearing his sandals. Si, he said. After a fashion. After what fashion? asked Hera. Jesus, Mom, said Candide. I am not a diocesan priest, I am a Dominican friar. Whats the difference? Hera asked. Thomas was looking at the rice and tryong to decide if he could eat it. Dominicans are mendicants, said Fiel. Hes taken orders and a vow of poverty, but hes not assigned to a parish and answers to the head of his order, not to the local bishop. Si, said Thomas. He was scowling at the sweet potatoes. He looked up at Candide. No, said Candide. Lots of butter. But the biscuits are okay. She uses Crisco. Thomas smiled, took three biscuits and some more rice. How do you know about all this? asked Hera. Oh, Im Catholic, Fiel answered. We go to Holy Family, although honestly I like St. Elizabeth better. When I was younger I used to think I wanted to be a nun. Now, not so much.

Tronkh was a Frenchman who taught French literature at Harvey Mudd, then fell in love with a Greek girl and vanished back to France. Hera invites them to dinner. 50. Dinner at Hearsgirlfriend there, Thos along, Hears current husband not because hes stationed in Okinawa H mentions he has no middle name, sis says yes you do its Percival. You can ask hMom if she ever shows up. To Thos: Were just not that close. Thos points out birds in back yard. Candy and Thos begin bickering and never stop. Girlfriend (was first to call him Candy) still in high school, has been accepted to USC. 51. Thos believes that Mrs. W would have been a goddess or oracle in an earlier age, because the world always seems to be so ordered around her. H tells Ed Bork story. Thos knows Ed Bork, says he really was a witch, although Thos has heard hes turned into a wandering mendicant. Henry asks would he be a god, Thos makes a face, of course not. At most a demi-god. H assumes because of his ability to recognize patterns, T says no

youre good at that but everybody can do that. Thos says what makes Henry unusual is that exceedingly odd unlikely things are always happening around him. Points out a rare bird. Says MLK would have been regarded as a prophet in another time, not because of his vision for a more just society, but because his speeches seemed to predict future events. Roxie rides by on a unicycle in a pink coverall. As I was saying, Thomas says. H recognizes Roxie, wonders what shes doing in Pasadena. Thos says Roxies a Yankees fan, always goes to the games when theyre in the World Series (MK, that year the Dodgers and the Yanks were in the series).