THE CRAZY ONE IN THE CAR -- episode 30
Going to college 1964-1968
Senior Year - Winter Quarter 1968
First night back at school, the Brotherhood meets to choose the freshmen we’ll invite to tomorrow’s rush function. It takes till midnight and as rush chairman, I must write the invitations and deliver them to the C. U. before 9:00 in the morning. Jerry and Bronko and Graize go downtown to Teddy’s bar “for a few brewskies” and I, instead of writing the invitations and going to bed, stay at the house playing bridge in some pathetic counter-gesture to Jerry and Crow Row Fucking Deux. So I’m up till 5:30 writing invitations for thirty-six freshmen and I manage a nap till 8:30 before taking the invitations to the C. U.
Bob Trueyard, the Phi Delt rush chairman, is coming out as I’m going in.
“David Downs,” he says, “slipping in just before deadline,” punctuating with his sweet poisonous smile.
“Bob Trueyard,” I say, “the early bird,” and with a sweeter smile, “Or just the worm.”
The room is empty. On a table are seven boxes for the fraternity invitations. I take a quick look in the Phi Delt box; six overlap with us.
Back to bed till 1:30. I miss lunch at the house and go to the Grill. Forgot my wallet. I stop for a moment in the doorway to take in the crowd. At the table to my right sit five Phi Psis.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I’m collecting for the Burger, Fries, and Coke for David Downs Fund. You give me whatever coins are in your pocket and however much I get over the price of lunch I’ll put in the jukebox and you pick the tunes.”
They laugh. And they reach into their pockets and put the change on the table.
I go from table to table and finish at the faculty table: Mr. Zollman, English; Dr. Jules, Speech and Drama; Mr. Khorvack English; Mr. Smith, History.
“All my favorites at my favorite table,” I say.
They empty their pockets. Lots left over for the jukebox.
Everybody wins.
The Crows get a good pledge class, even with the four we lost to the Phi Delts. And while I’m not so emotionally involved as I have been in the past, I will give pledging as much attention as I can. The pledge committee has created a program designed not only to encourage appropriate reverence for the Brotherhood but also to develop respect for individual fraternity brothers. In this spirit, brothers no longer refer to pledges as asshole cum stains nor do they force pledges to drop for twenty onto a floor splashed with hot sauce and piss. For their part, pledges, if a brother does resort to such commands, may politely and definitively tell the brother to piss the fuck off.
I’ve written almost two hundred pages of the senior comp novel and a few days ago I gave it to Kerder. This morning I have an appointment with him; the inch or so stack of manila second sheets is on the desk in front of him.
“I didn’t read it,” he says and he slaps his hand flat on the top page, the cigarette in his fingers curling smoke, “and I’m not going to.”
If he meant to take my breath away, he succeeded. I don’t sit.
“Do something workable,” he says. “Use the materials you’ve developed for the novel and write three related short stories along the lines of Salinger’s Glass family stories.” Smoke curls around him; he thinks it makes him look demonic.
I thank him for his time and I take the stack of manila second sheets with me. I’m determined to keep myself maniacally busy anyway, uninvolved with personal issues, staying on the surface of things. So three short stories instead of a novel? Sure. What the hell.
At the Grill Lynn Garner asks me to help her with her senior speech and drama comp. She’ll play the women in eight scenes from Shakespeare; she’s designing and building a basic costume that, with the addition of single pieces, will delineate each character.
“Will you play the men in the scenes? You’ll get to wear a black tux.”
Sure, why not. I have only three short stories instead of a novel to write. And I’ll get to wear a black tux.
And there’s the senior seminar class. Why did I pick the deep dive into Ulysses with Mr. Masters? Ulysses for Chrissakes. I stayed up the night before the first paper was due to read the chapter while writing the paper. Four more papers and an in-class presentation to go.
And another great novel I may one day read.
January 25, 1968
Days go by without my writing anything here anymore because, frankly, nothing traumatic happens to me anymore. There is no longer a Jerry Caraggino and as a matter of fact, I no longer need the Jerry Caraggino.
Mr. Kerder says my fiction writing is fluent and glib. He says I carry the reader along on the strength of my words, but that I say nothing, albeit very well. Yeah, I know, like my life.
Not sure why I keep writing here since I no longer have emotions.
The Crazy One in the Car is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely co-incidental.