Too Soon for Jeff

by Marilyn Reynolds

  At first I drive in silence, going over Christy’s words in my head, thinking how much I’ll miss Ethan, hoping he’ll remember me when I see him next. And my mom. I feel inside my shirt pocket, being certain I didn’t forget to bring the stamped postcards she handed me this evening. I’m supposed to drop one in the mail to her every night, or every four hundred miles, whichever comes first.

  Jeremy has the big U.S. Atlas open on his lap. He’s pointing his flashlight at Texas.

  “When you drop me off at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport you’ll probably only be about a hundred and fifty miles from Brooker University,” he says. “Hey, we could stop at the Grand Canyon! Look, it’s right here,” he says, shoving the map in front of my face.

  “Jeez, Jer! Are you trying to kill us?” I say, pushing the map away.

  “Sorry . . . But it’s practically on our way. Remember that movie, Grand Canyon, with that black dude, what’s his name?”

  “Danny Glover.”

  “Yeah, that guy. He makes it sound like seeing the Grand Canyon is this amazing spiritual experience. We should go.”

  “You’re wanting a spiritual quest? You don’t even be­lieve in God.”

  “Nature, my man. I believe in nature. Besides, it’s time I found the meaning of life.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows the meaning of life,” I say.

  “All the more reason for me to find it.”

  About three in the morning, somewhere in the Mojave Desert, I pull over to the side of the road. There’s almost no traffic. It’s not at all like the freeways we grew up with. Jeremy and I get out of the car and walk a little way from the shoulder, onto the sand, where we each take a leak. We go back to the car for the ice chest and start unloading sandwiches and sodas. Jeremy hands me one of those Handi-wipe things.

  “What’s this for?”

  “The comforts of home, my man. Don’t you usually wash after taking a leak?”

  “Yes,” I say, handing the package back to him. “But this time I didn’t piss on my hands.”

  We sit eating, looking up at the stars. Jeremy points out and names constellations, but I just look up, amazed. The stars are never this bright at home. I’ve never seen such a bright night sky. It seems like there are about a million more stars overhead than there ever are in Southern California.

  “You’re a little quiet on this first night of Jeremy and Jeff’s excellent adventure,” Jeremy says.

  I tell him about my last conversation, if you can call it that, with Christy.

  “You can’t take her seriously,” Jeremy says. “She’s not the most stable person in the world.”

  “But I have to take her seriously,” I say. “She’s the mother of my son. I can’t exactly get her out of my life.”

  “I wouldn’t be too worried about the effect her instability will have on Ethan.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that at all, until you brought it up.”

  “Many truly great men had very unstable mothers . . . Look at Franklin Roosevelt. Look at Truman Capote.”

  “Very comforting,” I say.

  “And you’re not going to fall for that old cliché about black guys being perfectly tuned sex machines, are you?”

  “I don’t even want to talk about it,” I say.

  “Remember, I roomed with Dashan in New Orleans.”

  “So?”

  “So, I had plenty of opportunity to notice his equip­ment.”

  “And?”

  “And, I’d say the two of you are about equally endowed in the sex machine department. And you are a better debate partner.”

  “Thanks,” I say, sarcastically.

  “Of course, I am purely virgin, but from what I hear and read, one’s skills as a lover have more to do with the finesse with which one uses his tool than with the size of it.”

  I pack up the ice chest and put it back in the car. “Could we maybe change the subject?” I say.

  “Sure. You’re the one who brought it up.”

  “I did?” I say, thinking how tired I am. “Do you want to drive for a while, Jeremy?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m kind of sleepy, but if you’re sleepy too, we could catch a nap before we start out again.”

  “Nope. I’m wide awake. We virgin guys have more stamina than you philanderers do.”

  “I’m hardly a philanderer,” I say, leaning my head back against the seat and closing my eyes. It’s been so long since I’ve had sex I could practically be designated a virgin myself. I don’t know if Jeremy’s really as pure as he says. He’s had a few girlfriends over the course of his high school years. He may be telling the truth about virginity, or he may be following another of his old-fashioned codes, pro­tecting a girl’s reputation by hiding the fact that they had sex. Anyway, he says that abstinence is the wave of the future. He may be right.

  I am lulled to sleep by the steady drone of the engine. I awaken when the car stops at a gas station and am surprised to see it’s beginning to get light out. I stumble into the restroom, barely waking to do my thing. Jeremy comes in just as I’m washing up.

  “Great. I’m glad to see you working on personal hy­giene,” he says.

  “Where are we?”

  “About forty miles out of Flagstaff,” he says.

  “Flagstaff? I don’t remember Flagstaff when we mapped out our route.”

  “It’s at the south end of the Grand Canyon,” Jeremy says.

  “But I didn’t say we were going to the Grand Canyon.”

  “Well, I’ve almost got us there now. You know the old saying, you snooze, you lose.”

  “Jeremy!” I am now fully awake. I rush back to the car and grab the atlas.

  “I’ve got it all figured out. We’ve got plenty of time to do this and get me to the airport in time. And if I miss my plane, well, I’ll just take another. Spontaneity, my man, feeds the life force.”

  “Where are we?” I say, puzzling over the map.

  “Highway 17, between Phoenix and Flagstaff,” he says.

  I groan. “God, Jeremy, we should be in Tucson, on our way to El Paso. Ten to 20, those were the only highways we needed to take.”

  “You’ll see. You’ll like it. You’ll thank me,” Jeremy says, with this smug look on his face.

  “Shit . . . How do other people end up deciding my life for me? Christy decides to have my baby, you decide to drive my car to the Grand Canyon. Why don’t I have a say in these decisions?”

  “Good question, my man, good question.”

  As much as I know I’ll miss Jeremy when we’re living thousands of miles apart, I’m a little tired of him at this very instant.

  Chapter

  20

  On the way in to Flagstaff, Jeremy tries to convince me to drive to the north rim.

  “No! Damn it. We’re going to the closest point and that’s it.”

  “If we’re going to see it, we should see it at its most impressive. We’re only talking about another few miles.”

  I hang a U-turn and start back down Highway 17 toward Phoenix.

  “No, no, no.” Jeremy yells. “I’ll be good, I promise. Please, please, please.”

  I turn around and head north again.

  The sun is still low in the east when we get out of the car to look across the vast chasm. It is impossible to describe. Breathtaking? Awe-inspiring? Spectacular? Nothing says it. Perhaps breathtaking is best, because even Jeremy has to stop talking when he first sees it.

  The layers of rock embedded in the canyon walls are full of color—red, pink, black, orange, even bright lavender at places, along with the expected tones of sandstone and limestone. Huge towers of rocks jut out of the ancient earth. I know people have told me about this before, and I’ve half-listened. And I’ve seen it in the movies. But nothing has prepared me for this sight.

  Finally Jeremy breaks the morning silence. “See what I’ve done for you, my man?”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. Then we get back in the Jetta and
plan our route from Flagstaff to Dallas.

  We stop around five at some generic Texas motel. It is over a hundred degrees outside and about sixty degrees in our room. I put the car keys deep inside my right front pocket and flop on my stomach on one of the twin beds. No way do I want Jeremy to be able to get my car keys. I loved seeing the Grand Canyon, but it would be just like him to decide on another side trip to Carlsbad Caverns, or who knows where.

  In the morning I swim a few laps in the motel pool, shower, then go to the coffee shop for breakfast. Jeremy is already there, eating biscuits and gravy.

  “Yuck,” I say, looking at the mound of beige stuff on his plate.

  “A Texas delicacy, my man. When one leaves one’s own country, one should partake of the local cuisine.”

  I eat bacon and eggs, then we pack up and leave. I feel great! Free! My real life, my independent life, is about to begin. The sky is blue, the road stretches straight before us. I am on my way to becoming a new person.

  At the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, I help Jeremy unload his stuff. We shake hands at the curb, wishing each other luck, and I drive off, looking for the highway that will take me south to Brooker Springs.

  It is lonely at first without Jeremy, but soon my atten­tion turns to the bright blue sky and the rolling green hills. How different this looks from home, how much clearer, and more expansive. But no sooner have I been awed by the blue sky than things turn gray, and heavy drops of rain pound down, making it hard to see through my windshield, even with the wipers going at high speed. And then, after fifteen minutes or so of this, all is clear again. Things don’t happen that quickly in California—at least not weather kinds of things.

  I get to within about five miles of Brooker University, but I keep having to stop and ask directions, and then something happens and I’m lost again. Finally, when I stop at the same little market for the third time, the old guy behind the counter unties his apron, hangs it by the door, flips the sign around so it says closed, and tells me, “Follow me, Son. Ah can tell you need a edacashun.”

  He gets into a beat-up old pick-up with a Texas license plate that says “T-R-U-C-K,” and motions for me to follow him. After about a mile on the main drag of Brooker Springs, he turns right onto a narrow, unmarked road. It’s not even exactly paved, it’s just blacktop stuff. After another mile or so, he turns left into a driveway and there, past a row of pine trees, is a big old plantation style building with a sign in front that says Brooker University, Established 1882. My guide waves at me in his rear view mirror and completes the horseshoe-shaped drive that takes him back to the road.

  I park and get out. It seems as if I’ve been in my car for about a year. I stretch and yawn and look up toward the big, white, columned building. A girl with long reddish hair is standing on the broad porch, watching me.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi.”

  “You here to register?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a long way from home,” she says, eyeing my license plate.

  “Yes. Are you a long way from home, too?” I ask.

  “Nope. I grew up just over in Cotton County,” she says, as if I would know where Cotton County is.

  “Come on, I’ll walk with you to registration.”

  “Okay.” I reach into my car to get my wallet and the registration information I got in the mail about a month ago.

  “I’m Jenny Sue Whitehead,” the girl says, sticking her hand out.

  “I’m Jeff,” I say, reaching for the handshake. She has an amazingly firm grip.

  “Jeff what?”

  “Jeff Browning.”

  “Is that it? Your full name?”

  “Jeffrey Dean Browning is my full name.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Jeffrey Dean. You’re in Texas now, Sugar, we like to use more than one name.” She laughs, but I’m not sure if she’s kidding or not.

  The next few days pass in a whirl. I’m majoring in English with a communications minor. That’s what Mr. Rogers advised. I’ve got two English classes, one modern Ameri­can lit and one composition. I’ve got a P.E. class and, of course, debate. My debate teacher, Mr. Slokum, looks like he’s about ninety years old. I hear he knows his stuff, but I don’t think debate will be as much fun as it was with Rogers. I can’t quite see driving Mr. Slokum nuts by singing “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

  From my dormitory window I can see Lake Brooker. Absolutely everything around here is named after this Brooker guy who started the college. The lake isn’t very big, but I guess it’s big enough to contain a lot of fish because I see people fishing out there all the time.

  My roommate, Kevin Brooker, (a distant relation of the founder of Brooker University) turns out to be Jenny Sue’s fiancé. Several couples on this campus are “pinned.” I don’t think people go around pinning each other on the Cal State campuses. Maybe they do, but things seem different here. Anyway, I like Kevin, but he seems like the kind of guy who might only be able to get into a college founded by his great-great-great-grandfather.

  There are about two thousand five hundred students enrolled at Brooker. That’s about five hundred less than were at Hamilton High, so it seems small to me. And there are several buildings spread out over about ten acres, so it never seems crowded.

  One of the first things I noticed in my classes was that the students here are mostly white. There are a few African-Americans, but no Asians, at least that I’ve seen so far, and no Latinos, either. That seems funny, for Texas. It took me a while to figure out what was missing, and then I realized—it was the variety of people and languages I’ve been used to seeing and hearing in California. I’m not complaining, really, it just seems strange.

  We’re already scheduled for a debate tournament the first weekend in October. I don’t have a partner yet for Policy Debate. I want to see how things go before I get tied to someone who could end up being lazy, or difficult to work with. It’s going to seem strange, doing that with anyone but Jeremy. This first tournament I’m only going to do Dra­matic Interpretation. I wanted to do the section from Roots, the manhood section that Dashan used to do, partly because I understand it so much better now that I’m a father myself. But Mr. Slokum said not to do that—too ethnic he said. I don’t understand his reasoning, but for now I’m just trying to go with the program.

  Jenny Sue and Kevin keep trying to set me up with some girl, but I tell them I’d rather find my own. One evening, while I’m sitting at my desk working on a paper for my composition class and Kevin is stretched out on his bed reading Sports Illustrated, he says, “Hey Jeff, there’s something I need to talk with you about.”

  He looks so serious, I can’t imagine what’s on his mind.

  “Shoot,” I say.

  “Well. . . You seem to be a healthy, red-blooded Ameri­can boy. Why aren’t you interested in girls?”

  “I just haven’t seen one to be interested in lately,” I tell him. I could be interested in Jenny Sue, but I’m not stupid enough to say that to Kevin.

  “You’re not one of them California homo guys, are you?”

  “No, Kevin, I like girls just fine,” I say.

  “Good. I know you’re not from San Francisco, but I just had to ask anyway, ’cause I couldn’t room with no faggot.”

  It’s a good thing I’m getting acquainted with a lot more Texans than Kevin or I might end up with a very bad opinion of Texans.

  One of the really great things about Brooker U. is that people are super friendly. Teachers, too. And I like my advisor a lot. He worked with me on a plan that will coincide with California Credential requirements, so when I’m ready to start teaching I’ll be qualified in California as well as in Texas. I’m excited about that. I think I’ll be good at it. Maybe not as good as Mr. Rogers, but probably better than Mr. Slokum.

  When I see how the other debaters work, even the other two here on the same kind of scholarship I have, I realize what good training I got from Mr. Rogers. And he made
it fun besides. That’s the kind of teacher I want to be.

  By November I’ve already won two dramatic interpreta­tion events and took a third in an oratory event. Oratory is not really my thing. I only entered because I could do it alone. I still don’t have a debate partner, although there’s this girl, Nicole, who I might talk to about teaming up with me. It’s strange. Even though I can do the debate stuff in front of people, sometimes it’s hard for me to start talking with someone I don’t know. It takes me a while to get acquainted.

  I really like college. I like the people I do know so far, like Jenny and Kevin, and some of their friends. I’m living in a beautiful smog-free place and I don’t even have to lock my car in the parking lot. But sometimes I get homesick, especially for Ethan. My mom wrote that he laughs now, and he can even roll over. I hope he still remembers me when I see him at Thanksgiving. I’m trading my unused New Orleans tickets for a round trip from Dallas to LAX.

  Mom says I should wait for Christmas, but I don’t want to. Besides, I’ll drive home at Christmas. I know she’ll say the weather is bad and it’s dangerous, but that’s what I plan to do anyway.

  I miss my mom, and Steve, and Stacy, at home, and Benny and Jeremy and all my debate friends, but a lot of those people are gone from Hamilton Heights now anyway. And I know they’ll remember me. Ethan is just a baby. I don’t think his memory’s very good yet.

  Chapter

  21

  After a month at B.U. I’ve got a routine I pretty much follow. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I have classes from eight until twelve. Tuesdays and Thursdays debate meets from ten until twelve. In a way it’s a very easy schedule, not like high school where you have to be in classes about thirty hours a week. Here it’s more like sixteen hours a week. But there’s a lot more reading to do and there aren’t any weekly quizzes or homework assign­ments along the way. When it’s time for mid-terms and finals, we have to know the material. No one is watching our progress.

  I study in the library most afternoons, then go for a workout in the gym. Sometimes I get in on half-court basketball with some guys and afterwards we grab a drink together at the student union. One of the guys reminds me a little of Jeremy, always telling long, stupid jokes and using old-fashioned words. He makes me laugh. Some day I’ll tell him the Patty Wack joke, but not yet.