A Life On College Hill Page 8

  He got the name Dee from some bar patron art majors. He often wore a beret, and they assumed he was the artist who’d painted the half dozen paintings hanging in Will’s Bar. The paintings all had the same illegible signature that began with a large letter D. Students started calling him Dee, and he never seemed to mind.

  Dee wandered the bar, striking up conversations. He was always asking about your major or future plans. It was difficult to ignore him because he seemed so much like someone’s grandfather.

  “Hey, kid, where’s that pretty girlfriend of yours?” he asked.

  I didn’t want to encourage him, “She is pretty, she’s not my girlfriend anymore, and I don’t want to think about where she is right now,” I tersely replied.

  “Come on, kid, there’s plenty of girls in Central Valley. Don’t let her get you down, you’ll find another pretty one.”

  “Dee, on my best day I’m just average. Average grades, average height, average weight, and if you can ignore my busted face, average looks.” I paused for a sip of beer. “Just an average guy whose future prospects are way below average.”

  After another sip, I continued, “College girls don’t want average. In fact, girls really want accessories, not boyfriends. They want an athlete, or a rich kid with a cool car, someone who improves their status.”

  Trying to cheer me up, he said, “You’re a young man with a bright future. You should be on top of the world.”

  With resignation in my voice, I replied, “The only thing I’m on top of is this bar stool.”

  “Come on!” Dee replied, “You’re a business major, you’ll soon be working for some big company. You’ll probably make lots of money and live in New York City.”

  “Dee, I’m an accounting major. No big company is going to hire an accountant with a C+ average. No company wants their books to be right 78.5% of the time. Even if I manage to graduate in the spring, I’ll never get a job.”

  Ordering another beer, I considered my future. My mood was foul when I sat down, and Dee wasn’t helping.

  “If my grades don’t improve, I may just skip my last semester. I’ve been killing myself working and going to school. It’s getting me nowhere, so I might as well save my money.”

  “Drop out? What would you do?

  “I’ve been thinking about the Army. Maybe I’ll try jumping out of airplanes. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and break my neck or get blown up.” Suddenly inspired, I said, “Hollywood could make a movie about my life. Can’t you just see it on the big screen?”

  In my best announcer voice, I said, “The Fighting Accountant, starring John Wayne.”

  Describing my vision of the film, I told him the Duke would parachute into battle with a calculator strapped to his back and pencils in his bandolier. He’d have a couple of ledger books hooked to his belt like hand grenades. There would be a dramatic battle scene: Duke crouching in a foxhole, shells exploding all around him. John Wayne would be wearing green eyeshades, crunching numbers on the calculator, and making journal entries in the ledgers. At the end of the film, my character would succumb to severe paper cuts, and the camera would zoom in on a stoic general asking, “Where does America find such men?” Cue taps and fade to black. The script practically writes itself.”

  I thought it was so funny I laughed out loud. Dee looked at me as if I had lost my mind, and maybe I had.

  Not sure, myself, if I was serious, I said, “So there you have it, Dee, my new goal in life is to die young and put an end to my embarrassment.”

  “You shouldn’t talk like that, kid,” he cautioned.

  “I’m almost twenty-two years old. Why the hell does everyone in this town call me kid?”

  Dee became angry. “Twenty-two? Don’t make me laugh! I can’t even remember being twenty-two! Look at me! I’m an old man walking the last mile of my life. It doesn’t matter what I do now, my life is all but over. You’re going to come to one crossroad after another. You still get to make decisions that will shape your future. You’re a dumbass kid, with the world at your feet, and you’re too stupid to realize it.”

  Thoroughly pissed off, I turned away. Dee didn’t have any answers. The answers I was looking for were at the bottom of my beer glass. I just had to drink until I couldn’t feel the pain. I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, resolved to drink it at seventy cents a beer.

  Meghan wasn’t the only problem that had me down. It’s just that she was the one standing in the batter’s box. My hopes for a career were still in the on-deck circle. It would take a few more months before I struck out at that, as well. It seemed like I would strike out at everything in life. College had all been a waste. I had no prospects for a job. I had no future!

  It was going to be my lot in life to be the only college-educated busboy in America. In time, parents would bring their children to Chet’s and point at me. They’d tell their kids this would happen to them if they didn’t do well in school.

  I could already hear the kids shrieking, “No, Mommy, no! Please let me go home and study!”

  I could only handle one failure at a time. If I was going to deal with my other problems, I needed to get past Meghan. It was foolish to let her get under my skin in the first place.

  I kept asking God to help me get through that night. In return, I promised to deal with the rest of my failures as they occurred. It’s just that the twelve months spent with Meghan had been the absolute best year of my life. It was difficult to articulate just how good I felt when we were together. For the first time in my life, I felt lucky to have been born me. I started to drink faster because the memories were coming quicker than the alcohol could dull my senses.

  An agitated bartender jolted me back to reality. I looked at my watch and was shocked to see it was one o’clock. “No more for you, kid. You’re flagged!” he scolded.

  With an equal measure of agitation, I replied, “I’m not finished drinking my twenty.”

  “Yes, you are!” he said. “What’s left is my tip.” He added, “I hope you’re not foolish enough to try and drive home.”

  “I’m not as think as you foolish I am,” I angrily replied.

  That didn’t come out too well, and everyone at the bar had a good laugh. God, how I hate when people laugh at me. I collected up what little money I had on the bar and walked to the parking lot in the rain. No bartender was going to tell me what I could or couldn’t do. I let my car warm up while I tried to sober up. The laughter was still ringing in my ears.

  I turned on the radio, and the first song that played was “The Fool on the Hill” by the Beatles. Well, there was irony for you. Up until that moment, I wanted to believe God was on my side. That song playing, just then, seemed like God’s way of laughing at me. The longer I sat, the angrier I became. Even God thinks I’m a fool.

  What the hell made me think I could pull this off? I’m the village idiot for thinking I could work my way through college. If I had any sense, I would have run when Meghan asked me out. I am the fool on College Hill. Everyone was having a good laugh at my expense, just like always. I wanted the laughter to stop more than I wanted to see another day. Thoughts of the hill and memorial wall suddenly raced through my mind. Maybe I would have my name on a monument.

  I put the car in gear and drove up the alley to Main Street. I turned right, toward campus, and stopped at the intersection of Main and Pine. It was the longest red light in town, so I’d have time to think. It was about one hundred yards up the hill to the wall. Even the Pinto could get up to fifty or sixty in that distance. That would make quite a dent. I knew the kids in this school would call it the dishwasher’s dent. I kind of liked how that sounded. Someone would probably even light a candle for me.

  Central Valley is a small town with small-town cops. They wouldn’t dig too deep and would draw the easy conclusion. The road was wet, his tires were bald, and he missed the turn. It would just be a simple
accident.

  It would be quick and clean, but I wondered how my parents would take that phone call. What the hell, they’d still have the son who makes them proud. That’s the great thing about twins, you have two chances to get one right.

  I looked to the right and, to my amazement, there was Dee. Son of a bitch, he did exist outside the bar. Maybe it was the rain, but he looked like he was crying. I looked to my left and could see all the way up Sigma Street. Central Valley’s elite were having a blast at the Sigma house. Even in the nasty weather, there were people all over the lawn and front porch. Every light in the house was shining brightly. People were visible in every window.

  I looked back to my right and thought, give it one more at bat, one more inning. Turning back to the scene at the Sigma house, on my left, I ached for oblivion. I looked back up at the light. It turned green.

  Consciousness began to seep back into my body around ten o’clock Sunday morning. I gradually became aware that the pounding in my head was accompanied by a pounding on my door.

  TM was yelling, “Duffer, I know you’re in there, wake up.”

  Stumbling out of bed, still wearing Saturday night’s clothes, I opened the door.

  “Duffer, you okay? You look like hell.”

  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I asked, “Is my car out there?”

  “Yeah, it’s right downstairs. When did you start parking in the driveway?”

  “Oh crap, I’ll bet the tow truck is already on the way,” I moaned.

  With a sense of urgency, he said, “Meghan said she needs to talk. She knows you’re working today, and she’s going to sit at Chet’s until you show up.”

  He added, “Do you have any idea what your girlfriend has been up to lately?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend anymore, hasn’t been for weeks,” I answered.

  “Yeah, well do you know what the girl who isn’t your girlfriend has been up to?” he retorted.

  “I have a good idea, but I know you’re going to let me know for sure.”

  “This will probably get me kicked out of the frat, but you and I go way back. I thought you should know Meghan has been at all our parties this semester. She and Eric have been looking pretty friendly. He mixed up an extra potent batch of punch at last night’s party, to make sure the girls got drunk. It backfired because people were puking all over the house and even out on the lawn. We had to open every window to air out the place.”

  He added, disgustedly, “Not even a top ten girl looks hot when she’s puking. It’s a sight I wish I could forget.”

  TM hesitated. “Meghan got really plastered and ended up with Eric. He’s doing a lot of bragging this morning.”

  After a pause, he asked, “Do you need me need to paint you a picture?”

  Confirmation of my worst fears sent me into a deep depression. “That’s a picture I’d rather not see.”

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to leave school after this semester. I’ve been thinking about joining the army. What was it like jumping out of airplanes?”

  With a serious look, TM said, “Jumping was freaking awesome. It was hitting the ground that really sucked. What I meant was, what are you going to do about Meghan?”

  “The wait is worse than the execution. I’m going to get it over with and go talk to her.”

  TM apologized for being the bearer of bad news and left. I was so eager to get going I didn’t even shower. I had to at least put on a clean shirt and blindly reached for one in my closet. Of course, the first one I pulled out was my rec league sweatshirt. That wouldn’t do, so I threw it, along with the pants, into a paper bag. I put on a different shirt and headed down the steps. I moved my car out of the driveway and onto the street, where it belonged, then started for Chet’s.

  The rain had moved out overnight. It was a crisp morning, and the smell of fall was in the air. For the first time in weeks there was purpose in my steps as I walked up Elm Avenue. When I reached the intersection of Elm and Main, I deposited the paper bag in the Salvation Army box on the corner. Turning onto Main Street, toward Chet’s, I was eager to get on with the rest of my life.

  There was a line, and it took a couple of minutes for me to get through the door. Chet had the grill working flat out for the breakfast crowd. The aroma of bacon, and hash browns sizzling in fried onions, overwhelmed me as I entered. The knot in my stomach was gone, and my appetite was back. If I wasn’t so hung over, I would have ordered breakfast.

  Chet saw me coming and handed me a cup of coffee. He motioned with his head that she was in the back booth. I didn’t want Meghan to think I had come running just because she was looking for me. I tried to act surprised when I sat down.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here. I was out of coffee at home and needed a cup,” I said.

  Of course, she was smart enough to know there were three places to get coffee between my apartment and Chet’s. We both avoided eye contact knowing this was going to be our final conversation.

  A quick glance told me she looked as bad as I felt. Meghan looked good in anything, but she didn’t wear a hangover well. Her face was puffy, and her eyes were bloodshot. It must have been one hell of a night.

  She wanted to see me, so I thought she should start the conversation. I leaned back against the booth like it was a firing squad wall and thought, ready, aim, fire. Tell me you and Eric are back together, and put me out of my misery. I’ll wish you well and get on with my embarrassing existence.

  There was only an awkward silence as she stared at her tea cup. Her silence made me feel better. It meant breaking up was difficult. I’d take my moral victories where I could get them. Not wanting to drag my execution out any longer, I fell on my own sword.

  “Meghan, I’m glad I ran into you this morning. We haven’t had much time together, and I know that’s my fault. I’ve been working so much that I haven’t had enough time for you.”

  Now it was my turn to pause and stare into my coffee cup. I expected the words to leap off my tongue, but it felt like chewing glass.

  Finding my voice, again, I said, “You deserve better than that. It would be better for both of us if we just broke up.”

  I thanked the Almighty that it was done. I couldn’t have made it any easier for her. She only had to say okay and walk out the door. I remember thinking it would be nice if she smiled for me, one last time, as she left. Imagining Meghan out celebrating her independence from me momentarily occupied my mind.

  Meghan interrupted my imagining when she shook her head and said, “No, it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”

  She looked at her cup for another minute and then started, “I’m sorry we didn’t have much time together. My nursing classes are insanely difficult, and I’m behind in all my work. Most days I’m spent by the time I get done with cheer practice and studying.”

  With a frustrated look on her face, she said, “I made an effort to come down here and see you a couple of times a week. I never got any kind of a response from you. You didn’t seem upset about us not being together. You never came to any of the games. I thought, maybe, you didn’t care. Honestly, I thought you might have found someone else.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She really did think it was my fault. If it helped bring the conversation to an end, I’d take the blame.

  “I’ve been going to the Sigma parties, after the games, with the other cheerleaders. This is my last year cheering, and that’s just one of our traditions. I’ll admit it was selfish on my part, but you didn’t seem to care.”

  Her facial expression changed from frustrated to upset.

  “Winning the championship was so exciting. I was ready to celebrate, but it’s not like I drank a lot.” She paused as if she was trying to figure out what happened. “The alcohol hit me so hard. It’s like someone spiked the punch.”

&nbs
p; With a look of embarrassment, she said, “You’ve seen how I can get when I’m drunk.”

  I knew all too well what she was like when she drank too much. Was it wrong of me to hope she called him Randy? Even if she remembered, she’d never admit to it.

  With damp eyes and sniffles, she said, “All summer, Eric tried to convince me that he had changed. He gave up drinking and said he wanted to get back together.”

  I turned away, angry that I had to listen to her sob story. I didn’t need to know how she and Eric reconciled. Who would blame her for choosing a potential pro quarterback over a perpetual loser?

  Tears suddenly cascaded down her cheeks. Angry or not, I couldn’t stand seeing her cry. I didn’t hate her, in fact, it made me realize that I still . . . .

  The conversation needed to end before I said something stupid. I leaned over the table and spoke in a harsher tone than I ever thought I could take with her. “Don’t do this to yourself! We both know why we’re here. I just handed you an easy way out, for God’s sake take it and go. You don’t owe me an explanation. You don’t owe me anything!”

  Remembering where we were, I looked around to see if anyone was listening to our conversation. Everyone seemed more intent on their breakfast than our drama. Only Chet had an ear turned our way. I knew he heard. Somehow, he heard every word spoken in his place. Seconds later he was at our table with fresh drinks.

  Chet looked like a concerned parent. “Everything okay here, kids?” he asked.

  Forgetting that he was my boss, I sarcastically replied, “Never better, thanks for asking.”

  Meghan never looked up or acknowledged Chet. As soon as he left, she pushed a tear aside and picked up the conversation. She answered back in the same angry tone I had used, “I don’t want an easy way out! God, Randy, you are thickheaded!”

  Now, I was angry and confused. Why couldn’t she just make it quick and clean? Did I really have to hear the entire story of her night in the sack with Eric? What had I done to make her hate me?