A Life On College Hill Read online

  © Lawrence Dooling

  Print ISBN: 978-1-54397-458-4

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54397-459-1

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are fictious. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is eerie but coincidental.

  Contents

  Top of the First Inning

  Bottom of the First Inning

  Top of the Second Inning

  Bottom of the Second Inning

  Top of the Third Inning

  Bottom of the Third Inning

  Top of the Fourth Inning

  Bottom of the Fourth Inning

  Top of the Fifth Inning

  Bottom of the Fifth Inning

  Top of the Sixth Inning

  Bottom of the Sixth Inning

  Top of the Seventh Inning

  Bottom of the Seventh Inning

  Top of the Eighth Inning

  Bottom of the Eighth Inning

  Top of the Ninth Inning

  Top of the First Inning

  Memories are the mind’s only preoccupation on the beach of my dreams. The sun rises from the ocean and sinks into the bay. Tides relentlessly advance and retreat across the sand. The hands of my watch are as irrelevant as my own.

  The entirety of each person’s life is eventually encapsulated into a brief newspaper obituary. What will be written about my life was all the consequence of one year of my life. My entire existence turned on the events of twelve months in a college town.

  Life in a college town is often vibrant, sometimes raucous. That description applies during the nine months between Labor Day and Memorial Day, but during the three months between Memorial Day and Labor Day a college town could be described more aptly as purgatory. You know something good is coming after you’ve done enough suffering.

  My first year at Central Valley State College very nearly killed me. I survived the experience, made a few friends, and met a girl. Her going home that first summer was the cause of most of my suffering. There was an aspect of having a girlfriend that I had never considered: When you have someone, you have someone to lose.

  I felt lost between worlds during my summer in purgatory. After two years of community college I had transferred to Central Valley. I was officially a member of the class of 1979, but I didn’t feel like I belonged. Transferring to a new school was like walking into a theater midway through the movie. You knew everyone who had been there since the beginning had a better experience. I grew up in Philadelphia, but I no longer considered Philadelphia home. My home would now be wherever I was living, but I didn’t feel much at home living in the town of Central Valley.

  Going back to Philadelphia for summer break, however, would have been worse than purgatory. When my junior year ended, I decided to stay in the Valley. I had to pay rent for the summer months or risk losing my apartment. I signed up for a couple of summer session classes to make the most of my rent money. It’s just that there wasn’t much to do in Central Valley during the summer. Well, other than worry about what my girlfriend was doing at home.

  Central Valley is a remote little college town. It sits deep in the mountains of central Pennsylvania, nestled alongside the Susquehanna River. I’m not saying Central Valley is the end of the earth, but you’re close enough to see it from there. The town’s heyday was in the late nineteenth century, when factories and mills sprang up along the river. Fortunes were made, and a prosperous town emerged.

  Most of the factories closed after the Second World War. Central Valley would have withered, like many small towns in the region, if not for the College. The College pumped countless millions of dollars into the local economy. Central Valley’s Main Street thrived; every storefront was occupied.

  The townies and the students kept their distance but generally got along. The long list of ordinances enacted by the town to help keep the peace was zealously enforced. Any college kid who stepped out of line felt their full wrath.

  Central Valley’s town park, near the river, was one of my favorite spots. Sports fields and picnic pavilions provided entertainment for families. Townies and students alike used the pond for fishing in the summer and ice skating in the winter. Walking and jogging trails paralleled the riverbank. I found myself going there often that summer. After a while, my apartment, which was more a room than an apartment, took on the feel of a jail cell. A long run or walk along the river did a lot to clear my head.

  I often stopped to take in an inning or two of the baseball games that were played on the park fields. Baseball had always been my favorite sport. Watching the games brought back memories of my playing days.

  When I was a kid, people always rambled on about winter, spring, summer, and fall. In my mind there was only baseball season and the rest of the year. On game days I’d put my uniform on as soon as I woke up in the morning.

  For some reason I had to be the first person at the field before a game. I loved watching an empty field come to life as players warmed up, and the stands filled with spectators. Afterward I’d find a reason to linger, trying to keep the feeling alive as long as possible. In the winter, when the fields were covered in snow, I couldn’t look at them. They were so depressing that I had to turn my head as I passed. An empty baseball field feels too much like a cemetery.

  I have no idea why I love the game. In six years of playing organized baseball, I don’t remember a single game where I hit a pitched ball or caught one in the outfield. Yet, there was never a time I didn’t want to be on the field. I wanted to bat even if striking out would end the game. I wanted to be in the field even if an error would lose the game.

  At practice I could hit line drives all over the park, and fly balls rarely eluded my glove. For some reason I couldn’t do it when the other team was wearing a different color uniform. My hands and my eyes would never agree on where the ball was going to be.

  Despite all the failure my faith never wavered. Every time I stepped into the batter’s box, I believed I would produce a hit. Each time I ran to the outfield, I was certain I would make a great catch. Some synapse in my brain kept sending a signal that I would succeed. It would only take one more at bat; I only needed one more inning.

  Playing baseball was an obsession for me until I got to high school. I was foolish enough to go out for the school team. It didn’t matter how well I did in my tryout; my rec league reputation preceded me. A lot of people had a good laugh when I was the first one cut. Many of them were supposed to be my friends. The laughter hurt as much as not making the team.

  Ironically, my identical twin brother, Ricky, was born with incredible baseball talent. Every coach in rec league wanted to pick him in the player draft. League rules required brothers to be on the same team. Ricky was so talented, coaches didn’t mind being forced to waste a draft pick on me in order to get him. Ricky made all-state in high school, and he earned a full scholarship to college.

  I often questioned why fate gave him all the ability and me only the desire. You would think the talent might be distributed a little more evenly between identical twins. I didn’t need to be as good as Ricky, I just wanted to be good enough to make a play. It was just my bad luck to have been born me.

  I was a kid trying to play a kid’s game; it’s amazing how much grief I took for it. People weren’t intelligent enough to remember the numbers on our jerseys. Every time I struck out or m
ade an error, people would laugh and say, “The other brother must be the good one.”

  My hearing was excellent even if my hitting and fielding were lousy. If nothing else, the experience taught me to hide my emotions. I never wanted to let people know they had hurt me. Emotion was weakness.

  My greatest distraction that summer in purgatory had been listening to my Philadelphia Phillies on the radio. Central Valley was so remote that television reception was impossible without cable. Unfortunately, cable television didn’t fit into my limited entertainment budget. Radio had to do, unless I could find a bar in town with the game on.

  Financially, I was on my own. I had to pay all my tuition and living expenses. Trying to do all that at minimum wage, plus a few tips, meant I had to work a lot of hours. That was nothing new for me: When I quit playing baseball at fourteen, I had taken a job as a busboy in a diner.

  There are laws regarding how many hours a fourteen-year-old could work. Those laws were not, strictly, adhered to by my employer. Time cards didn’t exist, and payment was made in cash. I worked as many nights, weekends, and holidays as they’d let me. At work no one laughed at me as long as I did my job. Not having a robust social life, most of the money I earned ended up in the bank.

  If you’re willing to live at the subsistence level, bussing tables and washing dishes could be a good career choice. Being experienced in the field, it was easy to find employment in Central Valley. Minimum wage and dish pan hands don’t attract many applicants. If my grades didn’t improve, I was afraid it would become my life’s work.

  As the summer ended, my girlfriend, Meghan, was due back on campus to start cheerleading practice. Purgatory was finally coming to an end. After being apart all summer, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Senior year would be hell if the spell that brought us together had been broken. Three months was a long time, especially when she and her ex-boyfriend lived in the same town.

  The day I first saw Meghan is imprinted in my memory. The night I met her is imprinted on my face. Attending the season’s first football game, at my new school, was practically mandatory. Friends I met at orientation insisted I go or be branded disloyal. The football team was awful, and the game was painful to watch. The cheerleaders, on the other hand, were very easy on the eyes.

  Being attractive is something of a prerequisite for a college cheerleader. The entire squad easily exceeded the requirement. Meghan Mallory clearly stood out, and not just because I thought she was prettier than the others. She took cheering so seriously that she was amusing to watch. It was as if she believed the outcome of the game depended on her performance.

  Meghan was more gifted, athletically, than most of the athletes on the field. She powered through her cheer routines with the strength and agility of a gymnast. Her dance routines were performed with the grace and elegance of a ballerina.

  Her ability to move paled in comparison with her ability to smile. I was watching the game from twenty rows up in the bleachers. Even at that distance, her smile seemed like a lethal weapon. I felt weak in the knees every time she looked in my direction.

  The day that forever altered the course of my life began uneventfully. I was at work when TM walked in needing a favor. TM’s real name is Tom Martin. He was the only person I knew at Central Valley when I transferred. Tom and I had been friends since grade school. His nickname came from the high school basketball coach. There were two Toms on the team, so to prevent confusion, he called them by their initials, TJ and TM.

  TM was a great athlete in high school and played football, basketball, and baseball. He never had a bad word to say about anyone and talked to everyone as if they were his best friend. He had a nickname for everybody, and he called me Duffer. Not that creative since my last name is Duffy, but he had a lot of nicknames to make up. When I was cut from the baseball team, TM was one of the few people who didn’t laugh. He told me I had a good tryout and encouraged me to go out for the team again the next year.

  TM enlisted in the army and left for basic training the day after high school graduation. He was determined to be a paratrooper, like his older brother. He broke his back on his fifth jump and spent weeks in the hospital. He was discharged from the army and enrolled at Central Valley the next year.

  He joined the Sigma Delta fraternity, the biggest jock frat on campus. Their frat house was a huge mansion, just off Main Street, near campus. The long driveway that led to the house from Main Street was known to most people as Sigma Street.

  TM walked into the restaurant that Saturday in a panic, and said, “Duffer, I’m in a bind, and you’re the only guy that can help me. I have to pick up three kegs for tonight’s party, and my car died. Can you give me a hand when you get off work?”

  TM had no business being a Sigma brother. Most of the brothers were varsity athletes, and TM’s athletic days were over. TM was also a really good guy in a fraternity of arrogant assholes. I had had a number of bad experiences with them in my first weeks on campus, but no matter who the beer was for, I couldn’t refuse TM.

  TM was so grateful I agreed to help him that he promised to get me on the guest list for the party. This was a rare honor for a mere commoner like myself. I told him not to worry about the guest list because I had no intention of mixing with his frat brothers. I got off work at five, and the party started at seven. TM was waiting by my car when I walked out the door.

  “We have to hustle, Duffer. The kegs need to be on ice and tapped an hour before the party.”

  We could only fit one keg at a time in my car, so we’d need to make three trips. TM was almost frantic about being late. To get his mind off the time, I asked him what he was doing in the Sigmas. “No offense, TM, you were a great athlete in high school. Then you started jumping out of perfectly good airplanes.”

  TM laughed and said, “My Dad was chapter president when he was at Central Valley. He still donates money to the frat. I’m a legacy so they had to let me pledge.”

  “Why did you want to pledge?” I asked. “You’re not like those guys.”

  TM had a strange way of talking about women. Every discussion of a female referred to some arbitrary ranking system that only he understood. He rated a girl by how he thought she measured up to the rest of the girls in her class or the entire school.

  TM replied, “Duffer, just come to the party tonight and you’ll see why I pledged Sigma! If we get a hundred girls at a party, at least seventy-five are in the top ten percent of their class. Of the top fifty girls on campus, we consistently get thirty at our parties. We get at least seven of the school’s top ten girls at every party. I’m talking the entire school. There’s always a two to one ratio in the guys’ favor.”

  “No offense,” he said to return my dig at him, “even you’d probably score.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate your confidence in me,” I replied.

  “Duffer, you know what I mean. Just show up tonight and you’ll see.”

  Math was not my strongest subject, and his statistics always left me confused. The point wasn’t lost on me, though; a lot of good-looking women came to their parties.

  We drove up Sigma Street and pulled into the parking lot behind the house. We had to carry the first keg up a flight of six stairs, to the back porch, and into the kitchen. The porch door felt like it was made out of cast iron. TM couldn’t lift much because of his back, so I carried most of the keg’s weight while trying to hold open the heavy door.

  Beer and punch were the standard drinks at parties. There were a hundred different recipes for the punch, but the one common ingredient was grain alcohol. People liked it because whatever fruit juice they mixed with the grain made it taste sweet.

  I could hear some of TM’s frat brothers talking in a big room off the kitchen. None of them bothered to get up and give us a hand. I ran back out to the car and grabbed the bags of ice. Even though it was early November, I was breaking a sweat.

  We repeated
the process with two more trips to the distributor. The kegs didn’t get any lighter, and I was concerned about them rolling around in the back of my car. Visions of the hatch door glass shattering were making me nervous.

  It was six o’clock when we put the last keg on ice. I had busted a gut to make sure the beer arrived, on time, for the party. It occurred to me that the Sigma brothers owed me a pint or two for my efforts. I told TM he could put my name on the guest list.

  If the top ten percent of whoever was going to be there, I needed to smell better than I did. I drove home, showered, and changed into my best jeans and t-shirt. I reached for my jacket but began to have second thoughts. The jacket was worn and torn, not to mention out of style. It wasn’t fit to wear while mingling with Central Valley’s elite.

  Goldman’s Department Store carried a jacket that was popular on campus. It came in school colors, and Central Valley State was embroidered on the front. I couldn’t justify buying the expensive jacket, even though I really wanted to own one. The party would be my excuse. It was worth spending a week’s grocery money to fit in with the crowd.

  It wouldn’t be the first time I blew the grocery money on something other than food. I once existed for three days eating nothing but what people left on their plates at work. The portions were more than generous. Plates frequently came back into the kitchen with half the food untouched. When you’re hungry, you swallow your pride with your food.

  I knew I was in enemy territory walking up Sigma Street, but I felt uncommonly confident wearing my new jacket. That confidence was quickly replaced with anxiety. Standing in a long line of girls, I realized no other guys had made the guest list. There were two large Sigma brothers sitting on the porch as I got to the head of the line. I recognized them as offensive linemen on the football team. Offensive was an apt description.

  “What do you want?” one of them grunted.

  “My name is Randy Duffy, and I’m on the guest list,” I replied.