Eli’S Children: Bright College Years

By Gerard G. Nahum

When an envelope arrives in the mail filled with letters of acceptance, congratulations, and salutations from Laurelton University, Joshua Clafston is transformed from someone quite ordinary into a blossoming prodigy. Now no longer a boy or even an adolescent, Josh finally takes the first step on the irrevocable road to manhood.

After he embarks on his journey into the unique, uncensored world of higher education, Josh is soon immersed in the uncertainties, angst, and exhilaration that accompany his academic demands and social obligations. While learning how to negotiate the line between pretension and maturity, he obtains sage advice on what to do when life does not turn out according to plan. Joshs fellow students, who are intellectually curious, playful, politically active, and eccentric, help to shape his ideas, hopes, and perspectives on life. As Josh searches for grounding and truth in his Ivy League education, he grows and changes through experiences that include losing his innocence, discovering the steadfastness of true friendship, and realizing the limits of love.

Elis Children weaves together a tapestry of inspiration, purpose, friendship, justice, love, tolerance, and betrayal as a college student attempts to answer the age-old questions of life and learns to embrace the notion of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480822924

Gerard G. Nahum

Gerard G. Nahum relies on his experiences as an undergraduate, medical student, and professor at Yale, Stanford, and Duke Universities for inspiration. He is a physician with hobbies that include education, philosophy, sports, and aviation, with a particular interest in the theory of knowledge. He has previously published sixty scientific and medical articles as well as a book entitled Predicting the Future: Can We Do It? And If Not, Why Not?

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Part 1

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1

The Letter

After resting on my laurels for the best part of the summer, August brought with it a sense of foreboding. I was due to arrive at school by the end of the month and I'd be living away from home for the first time, facing a new and foreign environment by myself.

On April 15, I knew I'd be attending Laurelton in the fall. That's when an envelope arrived, filled with letters of acceptance, congratulations, and salutations. In a matter of hours, I was transformed from someone quite ordinary into a blossoming prodigy who had slipped through childhood humbly unnoticed. Whenever the name Laurelton was mentioned, people just about clutched their chests and beckoned for a glass of water. Did I know that it was one of the oldest universities in the country? Did I understand what a great honor it was to be accepted? Could I imagine the advantage I'd wield after graduating from such a prestigious institution?

News of my acceptance spread quickly. Classmates began to address questions to me on subjects I knew nothing about and hung on my every word. At first, my answers were slow and uncomfortable, but as my confidence grew, so did the quality of my responses. I soon learned to deliver lengthy dissertations on just about any topic. Within weeks, I became confident enough to express the last word in most discussions without even a risk of challenge. I underwent a complete metamorphosis from a novice at most everything to an authority on almost every subject. The remarkable thing was that nothing had changed except for the attitudes of those around me.

My father tried to remain a sobering influence, but even he couldn't disguise his obvious satisfaction at my acceptance. Once all the initial shock and congratulations had passed, he led me to his study and motioned for me to close the door.

Josh, you know this comes as quite a surprise to us, he said. A very pleasant one, but a jolt nonetheless.

I gave a self-conscious nod. He glanced outside toward the ships off the coast shrouded in the midmorning fog. Then he turned back to me with a penetrating gaze.

What you now have is a chance to study at one of this country's finest universities, he said. I know you realize just how fortunate an opportunity this is, so I won't belabor it any more than to say you'll be joining a unique and exclusive company and that the competition will be more than you've ever known.

I felt my heart race.

You'll have very rewarding and disappointing times, he went on. But on the basis of everything you've shown me of your character and aptitude until now, I'm confident there will be no one in the group more deserving or talented than yourself.

His remark caught me off guard, and it was difficult for me to maintain my composure. Never before had he issued me a compliment of such sweeping proportions. A gnawing feeling gripped my stomach and I broke out in a sweat. I swallowed hard to stave off further signs of fluster and my momentary loss of calm passed without notice.

I wasn't able to accept an opportunity of this type at your age, he continued. But since I am considerably older than you with significantly more experience, I have some recommendations that may be of use. Aside from these and a few suggestions concerning a suitable course of study, I'm afraid I don't have very much more in terms of advice.

His manner turned sad, and he glanced toward a portrait of my grandfather on the wall. It was of a thin man of about thirty years in an impeccable pin-striped suit seated atop the corner of a large redwood desk. Beside him was a gleaming silver nameplate that read Martin G. Clafston, President, New England Glass. In his left hand, he held a multicolored glass figurine of a pirouetting ballerina. His hair was closely cropped, and his broad smile conveyed both warmth and confidence.

I was channeled into business at your age out of necessity, he continued. My plan had been to become a physician. At first, your grandfather was disappointed that I'd decided not to continue in the family business, but eventually, he became convinced that medicine would make me happiest, and he gave me his full support.

He walked to a table at the center of the room and poured two glasses of water, one of which he raised toward me. It was hot and humid, and we were both beginning to sweat. I accepted it gratefully, and he returned to the window's ledge overlooking the sea. We took several sips and listened to the sounds of the surf echoing below.

My thoughts wandered to my father's circumstance at my age. Everything had changed for him upon the untimely death of my grandfather. He was only nineteen years old when he found himself presiding over family affairs and assuming the presidency of a large and complicated enterprise. The responsibility was both awesome and immediate. My father's omission of a university education under such weighty pressures could be easily understood, but I knew that he now he stood at a disadvantage because of it.

Despite his young age, the family business grew and prospered under his guidance. The firm's major products were plate-glass windows, but he commissioned the creation of numerous decorative pieces for the promotion of the business's more standard items, and these were received with great fanfare. Praise for them was so exuberant that the firm was soon beseeched by a wealthy clientele that clamored for new and more innovative designs. Patrons would pay handsomely for the firm's exclusive productions, and they soon became status symbols for the rich. Eventually, however, glass competitors became more sophisticated, and markets became oversupplied. A global economic downturn resulted in decreased demand, and as debts accrued, there was no option but to put the business up for sale. Competing manufacturers presented several attractive bids, and it was sold for a reasonable sum that guaranteed the financial security of the family.

Now, without his own business or a university degree, my father was judged underqualified for most of the positions that would otherwise suit his talents. After two years of fruitless search, and rather than accept a position that was beneath his dignity, he decided to sell our wooded family estate of four hundred acres and move us one hundred miles east to the Atlantic coast and more modest accommodations. His socially preoccupied peers abandoned him when the business failed, so the move also represented a fresh start.

I was nine years old at the time. My sister Sarah was seven, and my youngest sister, Linda, was five. A modest, six-acre waterfront property became our new home. It meant needing to make new friends and a return for my mother to the coastal environment where she grew up. We arrived in early fall, just in time to begin the new school year.

Our new community of Narrettsport had fourteen thousand residents and was nestled in a large bay that once served as a major seaport during the early part of the nineteenth century. There, my father took refuge in the study of the classics that he had been unable to assimilate during his youth. By studying the voluminous works of the great masters, he managed to amass a superior fund of knowledge, so that now even his casual remarks suggested a degree of sophistication reserved for the most highly trained university graduates.

But despite this, the lost opportunity of a formal education was still one of his greatest disappointments. Accordingly, he was determined that I would not fall prey to a similar predicament, and his gallant attempts at forbearance concerning my acceptance to Laurelton met with only limited success.

I had my choice of several universities after graduating from secondary school, he continued, and eventually, I decided on Harringford. I left with a group of friends for summer vacation, and after a week, my mother phoned to say that your grandfather was ill and being taken to the hospital. I returned home immediately and, by the next day, he took a turn for the worse, suffering from a rare form of bacillary pneumonia. I spoke with him briefly that evening about school and plans for a fishing trip together in the fall, but by the following morning, he had succumbed. It all happened very quickly, and none of us had given any thought to what we might do in his absence.

The room became stonily quiet.

Your grandfather's will was read after a weeklong period of grieving, and he'd left the business entirely to your grandmother. She had no idea how to administer such an enterprise, and her first inclination was to sell the factories that were on the edge of our estate. I was due to leave for Harringford three weeks later, and she wanted to complete the sale before my departure. Within a week, there were several bids, and we spoke at length about which to accept.

He glanced outside toward the sea again. Then he tensed his lips and swept his hand through a small arc for emphasis.

"The next several nights, I slept very badly. Your grandfather had devoted much of his life to building the business, and I felt traitorous that we would sell it so quickly after his death. Your aunts, like your grandmother, were in no position to assume responsibility, so it fell to me as my father's only son to continue the enterprise.

"Six days before my scheduled departure for Harringford, I announced to your grandmother my desire to assume the chief executive position of New England Glass. She, too, had been sleeping poorly but insisted that the business was insufficient cause for me to abandon my plans for a medical career. She was determined, but beneath, she was melting with remorse for the loss of your grandfather and all he represented. By nightfall, after a long day of thought, she realized that our responsibilities to our family, to your grandfather, and to ourselves all pointed unmistakably to the course I'd outlined.

"That night, she came to my bedroom and stood in the doorway without a word passing between us. She parted her lips to speak, but her eyes conveyed what I already knew. With a single tear and in a brave but quiet voice, she said, 'Your father would have been very proud.' With that, it was sealed.

The following day, I withdrew my acceptance from Harringford and assumed the helm of New England Glass. I have no regrets, but this is why, he said, motioning to the many open books about the room, I am pursuing knowledge of the fundamentals at my age.

Then he turned and gazed at me squarely.

Thankfully, I have no offer of a presidency or even a substantial inheritance to influence you. You have always done well with very little prodding from me, and now I have every confidence that you will continue to do well against the country's best and brightest at Laurelton.

He paused and looked at me with watering eyes.

I am extremely proud of you, Josh.

A knock came at the door, and my mother called out, Josh ... Louis. Lunch is nearly ready, and I've asked Aunt Estelle to come and join us. Shall we have a toast to our newfound scholar before we eat?

I cowered at the remark. This type of reference, to which I had not yet become accustomed, was both a form of flattery and a source of embarrassment. My involuntary shrinking was not lost on my father, who was visibly amused at my reaction.

Yes, that sounds fine, Emily. We'll be out in a minute.

After she left, he went on, I don't need to tell you that everyone will be very impressed by your acceptance. But remember, neither they nor you have any idea what you'll go through once you get there. The competition will be even more than you can imagine; your compatriots will be just as insightful and determined as you are, some even more.

He paused for a moment before continuing. You'll meet many people who'll be very clever---much more so than you'll give them credit for at first. Whatever you do, don't become complacent. Be sure of your facts before you make any commitments, intellectual or otherwise.

He stopped to drain the final bit of water from his glass. Try to stay humble as long as you can. Don't make the mistake of becoming overconfident. One day---and I have no doubt about this---you'll be a great man, but for now, you're far from a master of everything. You still need a few years to mature and gain some experience.

As we prepared to leave, all I could hear was the crashing of the waves outside. I revisited everything he'd said in my mind. Never before had he spoken so plainly about his past or the circumstances surrounding his ascension to the presidency of New England Glass. I had always assumed it had been his intention to become its chief executive upon my grandfather's retirement and that my grandfather's premature death merely hastened the transition. My father's desire to study medicine was a surprise to me, as were the considerations that had led to his decision to forgo an academic degree.

It was all very exciting, not only because it gave me a new perspective on the past but more importantly because he wanted to explain it to me. It was an unmistakable sign that I had come of age. I was no longer a boy or even an adolescent. I was finally taking the first step along the irrevocable road to manhood.

In the brief time we spent in the study, my relationship with my father changed. I now had a sense that I was more his peer. The mere fact that he was confiding such sensitive family matters in me couldn't be interpreted as anything but attributable to the profound impact of my acceptance to Laurelton. Everything was changing rapidly, even within my own family.

His comments about the challenges I could expect at Laurelton were intimidating, but my confidence was buoyed so much by everything else he said that I thought I'd do fine. My ideas about college life were gleaned mostly from movies and hearsay, but I thought that the image he painted of Laurelton was overly severe. I knew about its high standards, and there would certainly be times when I'd feel pressure. But there would be fun times too. There would be parties, dances, and a wealth of people from all around the world to meet. It would be much more than just a sweatshop where I'd have to struggle just to keep my head above water. I'd take advantage of everything from academics to sporting events to clubs to cultural activities.

I didn't think my father was doing justice to all the less tangible aspects of college life. I wasn't sure if it was because he'd never actually been there or if he thought it would be better to warn me about the worst and allow me to discover the best for myself. Either way, I was grateful for his advice.

The doorbell rang. My mother called out that Aunt Estelle had arrived and that lunch was being served. My father smiled and walked to the half-length mirror beside the door and adjusted his shirt. He beckoned me to do the same. Then he addressed me in a lighthearted manner.

This is it---your first test in your new role. Remember, it's only the beginning of what will likely be a very long sequence of challenges. He gave me a wink and added, Try to see if you can keep your head, just for a little while at least.

Then he draped his arm over my shoulder, and we strode out of the study together.

As soon as she saw me, my aunt threw her arms up and bellowed, Oh, it's so wonderful!

She was on the verge of tears. She rambled on about how she'd always known I was a little Einstein from the time I was a year old but that no one had believed her. Once she started, it was impossible for anyone to get in a word edgewise. I could see why my father had warned me. It was going to be tough to deal with this kind of attention.

We sat down to lunch, and the conversation wandered. I thought about how unusual it had been for my father to adopt his new attitude toward me. It was very different from his typically reserved style, but as I discovered, this was no ordinary day, and the expectations for me would never be the same as they were before I'd received the letter. Within only hours, I had been transformed into the embodiment of the famed image that Laurelton conjured up in everyone's mind.

Although many things were still uncertain, one thing was clear: Laurelton was a carte blanche to be displayed whenever a question of accuracy or integrity arose in almost any circumstance. It was equally as valuable in private company as in public and in the presence of elders as well as peers. It was a connection that could not be politely or tactfully challenged. Once the glory of Laurelton was invoked, the slightest skepticism would be met with icy stares of impatience. In name alone if not yet in substance, Laurelton was a veil that was all but impenetrable and a cloak to be worn whenever there was need to traverse difficult or murky waters. From this point forward, it would always be with me, and it would likely be sufficient introduction in and of itself. All this was mine simply based on a letter of acceptance that arrived in April. I had yet to even see the campus.

2

Arriving

In June, I received another letter with literature from each of Laurelton's academic departments. I would sit for comprehensive examinations in English, chemistry, physics, and mathematics after I arrived. Based on my performance, I'd be eligible for different levels of courses within each department. Then I received a tome called Laurelton Undergraduate Courses of Study. It was a green book of 460 pages that contained descriptions of all of Laurelton's course offerings. I spent the better part of a month sifting through it, trying to choose the classes I would enroll in for my first semester.

It was clear that Laurelton would be challenging academically, but there was also another reason I was uncomfortable about leaving home. Quite unexpectedly, I had fallen in love.

Connie was the first girl I met when we moved to Narrettsport. During the summer between our freshman and sophomore years of high school, we went on a cross-country tour together with a group of thirty other teenagers. We had a wonderful time, and I thought we'd remain close after that. But when we got back, she became progressively more distant. I thought that one day she'd come around to wanting to have a relationship with me, but for more than two years, she hadn't.

Then one day in October of our senior year, we had dinner together. Oddly, I'd made a decision just a few days earlier that two long years of rejection by her was enough.

Over dinner, I told her how much I cared for her but that she'd always made it clear that she didn't for me. I told her there were no hard feelings, because she'd always been honest about dating other people, and I wished her the best.

She didn't say much as I drove her home, but when we stopped, she began crying and begged me not to leave. She grabbed my hand and pleaded with me to come inside. It was what I'd always wanted, but it was so out of character for her that I wondered what had happened.

Her parents were out for the evening, and we spent the next two hours in passionate embrace. She was much more sexually experienced than I was, and, to my surprise, she had me skin-to-skin with her in minutes. It was the beginning of a marvelous relationship and an even more wonderful senior year. For the next nine months, we spent as much time together as we could.

But one major difference we had was in our ideas about college. Whereas I set my sights on applying to top-tier universities, she wanted to study at an intimate private college. In the spring when I received my letter from Laurelton, she was accepted to a small college in Maine.

So when the summer came, we knew it would only be a short time before we'd depart for college and our divergent futures. We tried to reconcile how we felt about each other but decided that we'd just let come what may. When she left for college on August 22, I was heartbroken, but she buoyed my spirits by promising to visit me the next month at Laurelton.

My own departure came on August 26. The day arrived amid much anticipation among the members of my family. Given my increasing state of anxiety, it came none too soon. Sifting through my belongings and packing my things created a palpable sense of angst for all of us. We'd always been a close-knit family, but as we were coming to realize, my departure would change all that. For better or worse, my leaving was about to mark the end of an era. Our family would be separated for the first time, and I would undoubtedly be changed. Whatever else, we realized that the future would be different from the past.

I sat down to lunch with my parents and sisters for my last meal at home. Oddly, although we were typically a raucous group at mealtimes, this time we were quiet. We had all known I was leaving for four months, and there seemed little left to discuss. Our fondest reminiscences, words of advice, attestations to family loyalty, and tearful good-byes had all been shared many times before. The conversation now turned to such mundane items as the leaky shower in the guest bathroom and a new ladies' shop that opened downtown. My sisters told stories of their friends' trips during the summer and how they looked forward to everyone's return for the new school year. Our meal was delicious, and I thought about how much I'd miss my mother's home cooking. We shared a dessert of fresh strawberries and cream, and then, without an opportunity for anyone to ponder the moment any further, it was time for me to leave.

I went outside and loaded my car with what seemed to be an endless stream of suitcases. Space was tight in my old two-door Ford, and it was all I could do to arrange my bags so that everything would fit. Once they were all safely inside, I walked back to the house to say my final good-byes. It was already a quarter past two. With any luck, I could still complete the two-hundred-mile drive to Laurelton before dusk.

The day was typical of coastal late summer, with fog giving way to blue skies and scattered wisps of high cirrus clouds appearing by midafternoon. The temperature rose steadily to eighty-nine degrees, and the humidity hovered at its usual of 75 percent, making the heat distinctly clammy and uncomfortable. An occasional warm breeze rolled in from the ocean, where there were sailboats stranded in the summer doldrums, their sails luffing in the meager offshore winds.

Laurelton was located at the heart of a small waterfront city by the name of South Winford. The community, whose history extended back to Revolutionary times, served as home to Laurelton for more than 250 years. The college was founded at the beginning of the eighteenth century as one of the first institutions of higher learning in North America. Originally, it was named the Collegiate School of the Colonies, but when it fell on hard times, it was rescued by a British philanthropist by the name of Eli Laurelton. He donated his library as well as some of his fortune to support the school's operations. In gratitude, the school was renamed in his honor.

The city of South Winford comprised just over ninety thousand full-time residents. The student population added eleven thousand to this number during the academic year, and these were largely welcomed by the merchants whose businesses burgeoned in their presence and shunned by the local inhabitants, who felt that their local resources were overtaxed by the outsiders.

The university employed nearly 10 percent of the regional workforce, and as such, it represented a major source of income for South Winford's residents. In return, Laurelton enjoyed a central downtown location with tax-exempt status and access to key municipal facilities and services. Particularly important were the well-kept local highways, the municipal airport, and the civil services provided by the sanitation and fire departments. Museums and exhibitions on the Laurelton campus were open to the public, and local residents frequently took advantage of lectures, performances, and concerts. The relationship between the city and the university was symbiotic: Laurelton had an increasing need to draw on the physical and human resources of South Winford, and South Winford depended on the university's reputation as an outstanding research and cultural mecca to attract businesses and professionals to the area.

Despite the haughty self-image that both the residents and municipal government of South Winford had of themselves, the community was actually quite humble. Like Narrettsport, it was a vestige of a period long passed, and the waterfront served only as a reminder of the ocean's remote influence on the city's early development. Most livelihoods were now earned in the local chemicals and pharmaceuticals industries, which had come to the area during the mid-twentieth century. Reasonable tax rates and a favorable corporate environment resulted in significant capital investments in the city, which provided modern-day South Winford with a balanced economy.

Nonetheless, there was a feeling among the local inhabitants that South Winford was still the influential maritime center it once was. To wit, the city council had voted several years earlier to restore two eighteenth-century sailing ships to seaworthy condition and place them on display at the waterfront's underutilized docks. These ships were sailed about the harbor in celebration twice each year---once on the Fourth of July and again on December 24, the date that the Treaty of Ghent was signed, marking an end to the War of 1812. Although precious few communities even recalled that disastrous conflict with Great Britain, one of South Winford's claims to fame was that the largest and fastest American warships of the era had been serviced in its ports. It was this type of anachronistic attitude that was both charming and infuriating at the same time, and it gave the community its special flavor. South Winford was still rooted in the past by centuries of cultural inertia, and it was making the transition to modern times only with the utmost reluctance.

The drive up the coast was lazy and uneventful. The familiar radio stations of Narrettsport gave way to static, and the blowing wind lent a mesmerizing sound for the rest of the trip. The sun was bright, the air was warm, and the coastal scenery was breathtaking. The drive became mechanical, and I let my thoughts wander.

Life had always been good for me, and now was no different. There was precious little else I could ask for; I was healthy, my family was secure, and I was now headed for what would probably be the most exciting time of my life. Laurelton was precisely the type of university I'd always wanted to attend. I let myself soak up the impact of the moment. The four-hour drive passed quickly.

Twenty miles from South Winford, the weather turned dreary. As the city skyline appeared in the distance, dark clouds collected and merged into a confluent layer of murkiness. A dull gray hue hung over the surrounding landscape so that its colors appeared damped into a continuum of earth-tone haziness. A light drizzle fell, lending a watery sheen to the houses by the side of the road.

Soon, tattered factories appeared, and weathered billboards loomed overhead with messages advertising local dining and accommodations. Traffic lights appeared beside the highway, shining like red and green beacons among the sedated colors of the adjacent terrain.

The highway rose slowly toward low-lying inland hills and then began a sharp downgrade toward a cluster of skyscrapers. As I approached the outer limits of the city, open spaces gradually gave way to cluttered brick buildings. These were interspersed with shabby wood-framed houses on tiny plots of land. The surrounding streets became narrower and more congested as high-rise apartments pressed outward toward the sidewalks. A green road sign read South Winford / Next 5 Exits and was followed by another that read Downtown South Winford / Next Right.

The off-ramp led to a dingy street lined by a series of abandoned buildings, each bearing a placard reading For Sale or Lease over boarded windows. At the corner, a sign indicated that downtown was three miles away and that the waterfront was four miles in the opposite direction.

The streets were dirty and in disrepair. Battered cars, bearing scars of unfinished bodywork, stood next to signs that read No Parking. Small bands of youths congregated near liquor stores with barred windows and broken fluorescent signs, harassing the passersby. Tattered curtains fluttered from open apartment windows, and frequent dark faces stared out blankly at the rain-soaked sidewalks.

Clearly, this was the wrong side of town. Blocks of rubble passed before a transition to a middle-class neighborhood about a mile from downtown. This was followed by retail businesses, which gave way to three blocks of beautifully landscaped parkland abutting a small region of modern steel-and-glass skyscrapers at the heart of South Winford. Here, the streets were impeccably clean and manicured.

I drove slowly, searching for signs of the Laurelton campus. When the skyscrapers ended, I was on the other side of town. The clean streets and specialty shops gave way again to filthy sidewalks and overflowing cans of garbage. Outside a local diner, collections of women stood in hot pants and miniskirts with their buttocks bulging nakedly beneath their scanty coverings to attract clients. Fire hydrants had sluggish streams of water spewing into gutters that were strewn with litter. Children played outside barefoot, periodically dousing themselves with dirty water to combat the heat and humidity.

The idea that Laurelton might lie beside such a dismal place was sobering. The image I had of a glorious ivory-tower university resting on a backdrop of urban beauty and sophistication was obviously mistaken. Laurelton, ivory or not, would have to be reconciled with the poverty that surrounded it.

I reversed directions and headed back downtown. When the neighborhood improved, I pulled into a gas station to ask directions. A young man with a clean-shaven face and a grease-smeared jacket came out of the garage.

Can I help you? he asked.

Fill her up, I replied self-assuredly.

He nodded dutifully and went about pumping the gas. I got out to check the oil and, to my surprise, it was two quarts low.

It looks like she'll need a couple, I said, replacing the dipstick.

He got the oil from inside the garage and opened the first can just as the gasoline nozzle clicked, signaling that the tank was full. The attendant glanced up from the can in his hand and contemplated whether to pour the oil or remove the gasoline nozzle first.

Go ahead, I offered as I reached for the open can of oil. I'll put it in.

He looked genuinely appreciative and handed me the can as he went to retrieve the nozzle.

Pretty rough area back there, I said casually, gesturing over my shoulder.

Not a place to be at night, he answered blandly.

I nodded as he opened the second can of oil.

Not too bad here, though, I added matter-of-factly.

About as good as it gets 'round here, he replied.

His reference to 'round here gave me an uneasy feeling. I was about to ask if he meant the immediate area or the whole town of South Winford when he looked up from beneath the hood.

You a Laurelton boy? he asked brusquely.

His question took me by surprise.

Well, as a matter of fact, I am. This is my first time to South Winford, and I'm trying to find the campus.

He shook his head slowly and gave a long, low whistle. Here's some advice: you keep heading up those parts, you ain't never gonna find the campus, 'cause first you're gonna wind up dead. They'll cut your throat and feed you to the dogs.

Then he disappeared under the hood. In a moment, he reappeared with a cocky expression on his face.

You know, for a Laurelton boy, you ain't too bright. What the hell do you think they're doin' hanging around on the corners back there? They're waiting for you, boy---just waiting for you to make a mistake. You go back there after dark and you won't last long enough to hum 'Taps'.

He went back under the hood again to retrieve the second can of oil. Then he slammed it shut and walked to the side of the car.

That'll be $12.75.

I reached into my wallet and gave him a twenty-dollar bill. He walked to his office and returned with my change.

As he started back toward the garage, I spoke up. I don't suppose you could tell me how to get to the campus from here? I called out.

He turned and gave me a condescending chuckle. I've lived here all my life and I spend the better part of every day giving directions. If I couldn't tell you how to find it, there ain't no one in this town who could.

A light drizzle fell on his cheeks. The wet gloss gave them an eerie glow. He spit on the ground and let out a pestered sigh of resignation.

Make a left at the corner and go down four traffic lights. Then take a right on Cardinal and cross over the railroad tracks. Take the first left onto Lighthouse and follow it to Oak. Turn right, and it'll be straight ahead of you about four blocks. You can't miss it.

Thanks, I said, visibly relieved.

He pursed his lips and nodded slowly. You don't know it yet, but I'm your guardian angel---'cause I just saved your life.

Then he turned and headed back toward the garage.

His remark left me with a chill, and I was glad to get back into my car. The engine started with a smooth purr, and I felt more secure once I was rolling again.

I followed his directions, and the ghetto streets reappeared within a few blocks. Wood-framed houses again dominated the landscape, but after crossing the railroad tracks, the streets took on a new look. The homes were made of brick, and the sidewalks were well maintained. Gardens fronted all the residences, and the windows were tastefully decorated. The neighborhood appeared to be middle class.

Just then, the drizzle stopped, and the skies brightened. As I turned right on Oak Street, I caught my first glimpse of the Laurelton campus beyond two blocks of grassy fields. Buildings of varying heights, with their tops adorned with spires and steeples reminiscent of churches, lay in all directions. Straight ahead, there was a large clock tower and several buildings with turrets punctuated the skyline. To one side, there was a row of buildings that abutted together so tightly that their walls presented a solid front outward toward the street. A large stone entryway with an iron gate stood in the middle and opened into a courtyard dotted with trees and statues. Several other ornate stone buildings, all with moats and iron gates, stood silhouetted against the sky.

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As I got closer, it became apparent just how elaborate these structures were. Most were constructed of stone, but there were also some stately, redbrick buildings. Each had an arched entryway with a wrought iron gate. The windows contained small panes of leaded glass and were bordered by sculpted stone figurines of scientists, authors, artists, and industrialists. The rooftops were decorated with spires interrupted by occasional chimneys. Surrounding each building was a moat bordered by a stone wall.

The redbrick buildings were also majestic, but their entryways were smaller. Many had neo-Gothic columns integrated into their designs, and some were topped with turrets and clocks. Most had inner courtyards that were secluded from the bustle of the city, and many had patches of ivy covering their walls.

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When I got closer, I saw there was a large banner strung across a gateway at the center of the campus that read in big blue letters Welcome Freshman Class. A smaller sign was affixed beside the gate that directed incoming freshmen to Vindergate Hall for their orientation packets and keys.

I parked my car and proceeded through the archway, following the signs into a large courtyard. Immediately to the right was a brightly lit building with cheerfully decorated blue signs directing freshmen to the far entrance and down to the basement.

I descended a dimly lit stone staircase. The hallways below were illuminated by incandescent bulbs. The walls, despite a new coat of paint, were grimy. Arrows pointed to an open door at the end of the corridor, where I entered and found a middle-aged woman seated behind a desk surrounded by envelopes and files. She was filing papers and looked up with a friendly smile.

Hello, I said in a cheerful tone. Is this the office for the room keys?

Yes, she answered good-naturedly. You're in the right place.

Great! I thought I was lost.

If you'll give me your name, I'll start gathering your materials together.

Clafston---Joshua Clafston.

She rummaged through a file drawer and pulled out a thick manila envelope with my name written on it in flawless script.

Here you are, she said, smiling as she handed it to me. These are your orientation and registration packets, plus an invitation to the president's reception for the freshman class on Friday afternoon. It contains all the information you'll need before you make your final course selections. It also has the times and places where you're scheduled to take your placement examinations.

She reached into another cabinet and pulled out a small, yellow envelope. This is the key to your suite, she said as she placed the key gingerly into my hand. You'll be in Mosby Hall, room 218, directly across the courtyard.

She picked up a map from the corner of her desk and circled Mosby Hall in red. If you take the flagstone pathway directly to the left when you exit, Mosby will be straight ahead and across the green.

She handed me the map and pulled out another envelope with my name from a desktop file. Here's an information packet with all the schedules for the freshman activities this week. There's also a card inside with the name of your freshman counselor. He'll contact you within the next few days to set up a meeting. If you run into any problems, he'll be your first line of resource to help clear things up.

Then she reached into her top drawer to hand me another key. This key fits all the gates and entryways on the freshman campus, which you'll need to get inside after eight o'clock in the evening.

She closed the top drawer in front of her and gave me a pensive look. Everyone in Mosby is affiliated with Braxton House, which is one of the two newest residential houses on campus. To make the living situations as equitable as possible, all the freshmen who are affiliated with Braxton and Anfield Houses are located in the two oldest freshman dormitories for their first year. The walls at Mosby may not be quite as new as the other freshman quarters, but you'll be surrounded by much more history.

With that, she gave me a sincere smile, and I thanked her for her help. Twilight was slipping into darkness, and I exited the building to the courtyard.

At first, I was confused by her reference to Braxton House, but then I recalled from my summer readings that such an assignment was made to all freshmen. I would be living on the Freshman Yard with all the other incoming students for my first year but would reside at Braxton House together with a smaller number of students thereafter. The residential house concept was a novel system that allowed Laurelton to maintain the feel of a small college despite being a much larger university.

When I exited, shadows covered most of the Freshman Yard, and I was struck by the eerie feeling the dark stone buildings conveyed. A haze of dots engulfed several of the towers in the distance, and these, like gnats, seemed to be in near constant motion. It was difficult to imagine what they might be, but when I looked more closely, I shuddered. They were bats. Because the environment was so foreign, I thought it would be best to take a brief walk around the courtyard before heading to Mosby.

A picturesque oak fence surrounded the grassy courtyard that was bordered by an external ring of flagstone walkways. The courtyard was an open expanse except for half a dozen statues and several large trees that dotted it at infrequent intervals. A nearly contiguous rectangle of buildings surrounded it, and a single, large entryway on one side served as its main entrance with a thirty-foot-high stone archway and an imposing twelve-foot iron gate.

The buildings weren't well marked, and in the sparse light, it was impossible to distinguish between them. I walked to the center of the courtyard to gain some perspective, but after the few turns, I got confused. I made my way back to the periphery and began walking from one entryway to the next in search of Mosby Hall.

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I found it at the southwest corner of the yard. It abutted the university church and was a musty-looking old building with a weathered stone staircase that led up to an outdoor landing on the first floor. The exterior was dimly lit, but there was bright light coming from the lobby and from several of the rooms. I took my bags up the stairs and entered.

The walls of the first-floor lobby had a glossy white sheen and the faint smell of fresh paint. The floor was covered with small black-and-white tiles in a style reminiscent of a public latrine from the 1930s. In the center was a staircase with worn marble steps and an ornate wooden handrail. A bathroom marked Male was to the right, and a sign reading University Chaplain hung on a door to the left. The landing was brightly lit by a single lightbulb that hung from the center of a high ceiling.

The room numbers were painted on the doors beneath centrally mounted doorbells, and 218 was closest to the bathroom. The sound of water dripping from a leaky faucet resonated through the empty landing. Muted conversations could be heard from the upper floors, but the words were unintelligible. The atmosphere was anachronistic and depressing and made all the more oppressive by its poor upkeep.

I was flustered. This was not the state of mind I wanted to convey at my first meeting with new roommates. These were the people who I would be living with for the next year, and our initial encounter would color our future interactions. I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. I wanted to make sure that our relationships would be equitable. I knew my first impression needed to be forceful enough to display assertiveness while empathetic enough to convey both friendliness and affability. Just how to accomplish all this at the same time was not entirely clear, but I knew I wasn't prepared to do it at the moment. It would be better to step outside and recover rather than to present myself in a way I might regret later. So I placed my bags in a corner of the bathroom and walked outside for a breath of fresh air.

Fortunately, I knew a bit about the roommates I was about to meet. Over the summer, I received a postcard from the university listing their names and points of origin: Brian L. Janson from San Francisco, California, and E. Richard Haverford III from Elk Grove, Illinois. The idea of living with a student from San Francisco was intriguing, as it conjured up images of the well-publicized West Coast lifestyle, replete with hot tubs, skateboards, and dune buggies. The second name had a more serious ring to it. Never before had I met anyone with such a pretentious-sounding name. Everything about it reeked of pompousness, from its anglophile three-syllable family name to its third-generation suffix to its leading initial. It conjured up the image of a middle-aged corporate attorney, not a recent high school graduate!

But I knew that these people were soon to be found in my suite. I took a deep breath and climbed back up the stairs to the first-floor landing. I was determined to make a good first impression, regardless of who awaited my arrival.

I cleared my throat and gave three firm raps on the door. Sweat filled my hands as I waited. Thoughts about how to introduce myself flashed through my mind. I knew that delivering my opening salutation with a minimum of regional accent was important; I didn't want to appear provincial. Concentrating on making my r's harder than usual was also something I needed to remember. A clear, calm voice was also essential, as was good diction. A firm handshake was a must.

I thought it would make a difference who I met first, and I hoped it would be Janson. I'd probably have more in common with someone from a cosmopolitan city like San Francisco than from a small town in the Midwest. I waited a full minute, but there was no answer. I knocked again, but still no one came. I felt my anxiety start to dissipate. No one was in. I felt foolish. All my nervousness had been for naught. I took out my room key and entered.

The door opened into a large, high-ceilinged room that had recently been repainted a bright white. Light from a lamppost outside came in through two oversized windows at the far end. On either side, narrow doors led into two small rectangular rooms that were hardly larger than closets. Within each were a narrow bunk bed and a wooden dresser. There was a brick fireplace in the center room together with three worn wooden desks with chairs. The floor consisted of long oak slats held in place by wooden pegs. It was uneven and, in several places, it creaked and felt unstable.

I couldn't locate a light switch along the wall. As I walked across the room, I found a string hanging from the ceiling that was attached to a central light fixture. I'd only seen such things before in tool sheds and garages. I gave the string a tug, and a glaring naked bulb switched on overhead.

Even in the light, things appeared no better. The floor was covered with dust and dotted with flecks of paint. The walls and the ceiling were riddled with large, irregular cracks. Moldings that had been removed for painting along the walls were not yet replaced, leaving large gaps between the walls and floorboards. The room's only closet door was stuck shut, as were the windows, in part due to the new paint but also because they were made of wood that expanded in the humidity.

Without question, it was the worst living accommodation I'd ever seen. The only good thing was that I was apparently the first to arrive. Clearly, the three of us would need to make the best of an oppressive living situation, so I began thinking of ways to make it as hospitable as possible.

Given the closeness of the quarters, my first thought was that we needed to ensure sufficient privacy. From what I could see, there seemed to be a straightforward solution: there were three rooms and three occupants. The two side rooms were of claustrophobic dimensions, but that was offset by the fact that the larger middle room was the only passage from the front door to the other two, making it inconveniently central. Whoever got the center room would have less privacy, but he'd also have considerably more living space. It seemed like a fair trade.

I couldn't predict how the others would feel about it, but I knew that I put much more of a premium on privacy than space. Since I was the first to arrive, I decided to stake my claim to one of the side bedrooms, and I put my bags in the one nearest the front door.

The immediate problem was to rearrange the furniture. A fait accompli concerning the allocation of space would be much more difficult to undo if everything was in place before they arrived. There was really no reason to suspect they would view the situation differently from the way I did, so I didn't expect any dissenting opinions. As I moved the furniture around, I convinced myself that I was doing them a favor to have everything rearranged ahead of time.

When I was finished, each of the three rooms had a bed, a dresser, and a desk with a chair. It was quite a challenge to squeeze one of each item into the two smaller bedrooms, but after several unsuccessful attempts, I discovered there was only one way to arrange everything to make it fit. When the furniture was properly placed, the side rooms were cramped but livable.

I felt a minor twinge of remorse for usurping the prerogatives of two people I hadn't yet met, but I also realized that there was likely to be an element of Darwinian survival of the fittest in my interactions with them. Besides, I had no question that I'd done the right thing; if anyone raised a differing opinion, I would have objected, anyway. So what I'd done was a way to avoid any unnecessary conflict at our first meeting. In any case, the next roommate to arrive would still have his choice of a room. That thought alone left me feeling comforted.

I hadn't eaten yet, and all the moving had made me hungry. I'd seen a brightly lit street with several restaurants a few blocks away, so I went there for pizza and a cup of coffee. I was fortified enough when I left that I felt ready to grapple with whomever I would find in the suite on my return.

3

The Suitemate

When I got back to Mosby, there were footprints leading to the doorway of 218 and a trail of silt along a path from the suite to the bathroom. Someone had arrived in my absence.

I took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and entered. To my chagrin, the suite was again empty. In the center room, by the dim light entering from outside, I could see several bags in disarray and a large metal trunk bearing a heavy lock. One valise lay open, revealing a veritable mess of clothes and papers. I walked to the bedroom opposite the one I'd taken and saw that the shade was fully drawn and that nothing had been disturbed. Then I went across to my room. Everything was just as I'd left it.

It appeared that only one of my roommates had arrived in my absence and that his visit had been brief. I hoped that the slovenly manner in which he left his bags strewn around the room would not be an indication of his future housekeeping acumen. However, I was relieved by his apparent lack of inquisitiveness, since his investigation of the room seemed only cursory.

Which of my roommates had arrived was still unclear. Since I would find out shortly, anyway, I decided there would be little harm in checking for clues. I hoped the bags would provide the answer.

It was difficult to read the tags in the dim light, but switching on the overhead bulb was too risky, since there was no way to cover the large windows that looked out onto the Freshman Yard. I could see that the bags bore the identification of New York's Kennedy airport, but there wasn't any information concerning the point of origin. New York was the logical terminus in the northeast for trips originating from both San Francisco and the Midwest, so it wasn't helpful. The other tags from past trips to Houston, Norfolk, and Chicago weren't of any assistance, either.

The only way to identify the bags' owner would be to shuffle through the papers in the open valise. A name or address on anything would provide an immediate answer and the benefit of being psychologically prepared for the right person seemed to far outweigh other considerations, moral or otherwise.

Just as I began riffling through the papers, I heard voices outside. One was a man's deep voice with a very deliberate cadence, and the other was the faster-paced and much softer voice of a woman. I saw an umbrella pass in front of the window, and then the voices faded. In a moment, I resumed my search, but then I heard the sound of footsteps on the entryway's stone steps. The same voices next appeared in the hallway outside the room and grew louder. Then I heard the jingling of keys outside the door.

There seemed no way out of a very awkward situation, so I quietly replaced the papers and moved cautiously toward my bedroom door. The floorboards squeaked with each step, and I took long strides to cross the room with a minimum of noise. I left the light off, since they must have noticed the darkened interior as they passed.

The key turned in the lock, and the door swung open when I was still several steps away from my bedroom. I turned to face the front door and waited for the light to switch on.

The man in the doorway shook his umbrella just outside the threshold and continued talking in somber tones about the relative merits of satellite versus ground-station weather forecasting to his companion. He wore a black raincoat buttoned up to his neck and a deerstalker hat with the ear covers in place. His collar was turned up, and a dark scarf protruded to the level of his chin. He wore dark shoes, dark pants, and black gloves. His cheeks glowed red and wet from the rain that had just begun to fall outside.

When he entered, he searched for a light switch beside the door. Unsuccessful, he walked to the center of the room where he encountered the pull string for the overhead light. My presence just several feet away went unnoticed until the light clicked on. Then his pupils dilated widely, and he took an involuntary step back as a shocked expression came over his face.

Hello. I'm sorry if I startled you, I said in cheerful tone. I'm your new roommate.

Oh? he replied flustered. Well, yes. I'm afraid I hadn't noticed you standing there.

His midwestern accent was unmistakable. Momentarily, his expression changed from one of surprise to a humorless stare.

I'm Haverford, he said in a proud and deliberate tone, jutting his chin forward and loosening the scarf from around his neck. You must be Janson.

No, I said, my initial smile starting to fade. I'm Joshua.

He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side. Joshua ... Joshua? I'm afraid I don't have a roommate by the name of Joshua, he said condescendingly. You must be in the wrong place. I have one roommate named Janson and another named Clafston. I'm quite sure I received no notification of anyone named Joshua.

His manner was both pompous and insulting. I felt myself starting to take up the defensive, but I answered coolly and without hesitation, My first name is Joshua. Clafston is my family name.

His forehead relaxed and he gave me a thorough survey from head to foot. His tone was less aggressive but was still haughty and irritating. Oh, I see. You're Clafston, then, he replied.

He immediately turned and walked over to his female companion, who was still waiting just outside the door. He placed his arm lightly around her shoulder and guided her into the room. I'd like you to meet Carol Robbins, he said.

Carol gave a smile and took a small bow. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, she said softly.

Likewise. It's nice to meet you too, I replied.

We all stood looking at each other until the lack of conversation made me feel uncomfortable. Haverford took two blankets from under Carol's arm and held them awkwardly under his own. His other arm was curled snugly around her waist, and they looked as natural as two peas in a pod. I assumed they had just made the trip together from the Midwest. As it was up to me to break the silence, I ventured an innocent remark.

So, I take it you just arrived here from Illinois. I trust you had a nice trip.

Carol responded before Haverford, and he deferred to her graciously. Actually, I just arrived from Washington, DC, this afternoon. Richard is the one who made the long trip here from the Midwest.

You didn't travel here together? I asked, puzzled. Washington is certainly a great city. I love it! Do you have family there?

Well, yes, Carol answered. My mother lives there.

The plot thickened. If I was interpreting things properly, Carol had somehow met Haverford and moved from Washington to Illinois to be with him. From my first impression, I judged that this was probably a mistake for her, whether she knew it or not. By all measures, she appeared sweet and refined, while he came across as pretentious and insolent. I answered as