Peter mumbled to himself as he stared at the Coke machine, “No way that guy belongs here. Damn pretender, spawn of some rich daddy, raised to think he’s all that. He’s an idiot – one of those guys who only cares about the weekend parties. A stereotypical Greek, a freakin’ frat boy. That’s all he is. Belongs in a damn fraternity house. What’s he doing in my dorm?”
The vending machine had no answer for him except for the humdrum buzzing from its illuminated red and white panels.
As he put his coins into the vending machine, a wave of anxiety overwhelmed him. Wait… that guy is going to be my neighbor. He took several slow, deep breaths and went to sit down in the dorm common area, where he waited for his nerves to settle.
Anxiety was Peter’s secret, something he kept hidden with great emotional effort. Long ago, he had accepted that he would have to live with this anxiety, its senseless ebb and flow. But a panic attack? That was an entirely different species. The first attacks occurred during his senior year of high school. Four times, he went to the school nurse, only to be told in a most condescending, irritated tone, “It’s just a bit of stress, Peter. Now go back to class and relax, you’ll be fine.” He could have sworn that more than once, he saw the nurse roll her eyes at him as if he were making the whole thing up, assuming he just wanted to get out of class. He desperately wanted to scream, You don’t understand! I am going to die! I can’t breathe, my chest is tight! My arms and legs are numb, I’m dizzy as hell! My heart is going to explode! You’re gonna be sorry when I’m dead!
During one attack, he went to the emergency room. After waiting three hours, he finally told a young doctor of his life-threatening symptoms. “Now, Peter,” the doctor responded, “you’ve checked out just fine. There is nothing wrong here. Everything is fine. Go home and take it easy. It will pass.” Then the doctor put his hand on his knee and patted him as if he was a silly boy imagining monsters in his closet.
Peter went home to die, though he never did. After two more visits to the ER, he came to the realization that there was no option – he would have to endure these cruel and heartless beasts, which, at their pleasure, would continue to attack him in their effort to undermine his humanity and devour his fragile sense of self.
***
Chad Daley arrived two days earlier and had already settled in his new home. This was his first year at the University of Oklahoma, and he had come early to get a feel for the campus and explore must-see haunts of Norman.
In his room, everything was in its place: Posters of Chris Evert, Farrah Fawcett, Led Zeppelin and The Who lined the tacky lime green walls. His 252 vinyl record – all in pristine condition and ordered alphabetically by band and the year released. The lack of any books (textbook or otherwise) was obvious. A nineteen-inch television sat on the built-in desk that was supposed to be used for late-night studying. Encroaching on a quarter of the room sat his most prized possession: a state-of-the-art Yamaha stereo system, boasting four grandiose speakers designed to enhance the squeal of Peter Townsend’s guitar solos and the angry drum rhythms Keith Moon created to vibrate the souls of all youth.
As a young boy, Chad discovered that he had a gift. He did not understand it, nor did he brag about it, but he used it to its fullest. Chad had the rare talent of being able to utilize the minimum to attain the maximum. He was able to do as little as possible while somehow still impressing the masses. He had applied his unique talent to his academic career, putting forth minimal effort yet always somehow making the grade. He lived his life pretending to care about what he was supposed to care about and always had people clamoring to be his friend.
Early on in his life, he learned to use his gift wisely. He would give the impression that he was working hard, while he was only looking for the next eager and worthy female. Ever since Chad had kissed Emily Johnston at her eleventh birthday party, all that mattered to him was girls. He’d just turned ten at that time and thought it doubly exciting that she was an older woman. He never really cared about finding the right one; after all, it was fun and safe to pursue the ‘wrong ones’. That was how he used his gift.
***
When Chad passed Peter in the hallway, he cringed. Damn hippie! I’ll be living next to a goddamn hippie. The shoulder-length, straggly hair, that unkempt and oversized beard; it was all too disgusting. Probably hides his joints in that repulsive road kill he calls a beard. Chad knew that those bell-bottom trousers and baggy shirt came straight from the 1960s. Vintage my ass. He got that out of the bottom of some bargain bin at a goddamn thrift store. Chad purposely communicated his lackluster opinion of this guy with his fleeting glance, and he was sure the tramp clearly understood the message. When he closed the door to his room, he went to the window and screamed out, “Holy crap! I live next to a pot-smoking, acid-dropping, out-of-date, wannabe hippie. Lucky me!”
***
A month went by. The neighbors passed each other countless times, both carefully avoiding eye contact with each hallway encounter. There was no point. They lived in different worlds, and both were content with and proud of their own.
One Saturday, Peter caught sight of Chad walking down the hall, dressed in snug white shorts, a crimson button-up shirt, and carrying a megaphone. Oh my God! Peter mused. He’s a mindless, obnoxious, goddamn cheerleader on his way to make a fool of himself in front of 70,000 people at the freakin’ football game! Peter’s opinion of his neighbor plummeted to a new depth that day.
***
Peter sat in the back row of the large theater classroom in Psychology 203, Current Theories in Social Psychology. Roderick Kingsbury, the most feared professor in the psychology department, had just paired up students to work on class presentations, due just before the Thanksgiving holiday. God, how Peter hated presentations, hated working with another human being and actually having to communicate. As long as Peter did not have to interact, he could remain mysterious, hidden. He hoped some might even assume he was intelligent, a thinker – after all, still waters run deep.
After everyone paired up with his or her chosen partner, Peter, as always, was left the odd man out. He dreaded being assigned as the third wheel with one of the twosomes, and he felt the anxiety rising in the form of a lump that started in his stomach and worked its way up into his chest and throat.
“Anyone without a partner?” Professor Kingsbury asked in his always accusatory tone. Peter didn’t look, but he knew the professor’s eyes were peering at him. With great effort, and in slow motion, Peter’s hand began to ascend. God why me? Always the last one picked, always the leftover. Why!?
“What shall we do with Mr. McKnight? How about…”
Before Professor Kingsbury could assign Peter to one of the twosomes, Chad burst through the door and proudly apologized, “Sorry I’m late.” He strutted down to the front row and plopped down in an empty chair, completely ignoring the professor’s glare meant to punish him for having the audacity to enter his classroom late.
Kingsbury pointed his index finger toward Chad and said, “Mr. Daley, you are not to enter my classroom tardy again.”
Chad smiled and nodded.
Kingsbury shook his head as he turned his gaze toward Peter, “You are in luck, Mr. McKnight. Your partner has decided to grace us with his presence.”
“Shit!” Peter said loud enough for several heads to turn. It wasn’t that the language surprised them, but more so that it was the first utterance they had heard from this student in six weeks of class. Peter knew Chad was in the class; he always sat in the front, nestled in between two cheerleader types. Peter religiously sat in the back row in his effort to fade into the woodwork and hopefully into oblivion.
Chad glanced toward Peter when Kingsbury pronounced them partners for the inane project. This was the first time the neighbors’ eyes had made contact since that first day. “Oh damn. It’s that hippie,” Chad said to the two bleached blondes next to him. When they looked back, disgusted snarls appeared as they noticed the unkempt beard.
&n
bsp; Kingsbury passed out the assigned topics to each pair. Peter and Chad’s presentation was to be on, “The Application of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs in a Post-1960’s Culture.”
“Easy enough, if I can just figure out what a Maslow is,” Chad complained.
Peter cast a cruel glare.
With a slight grin, Chad said, “Just kidding, just kidding. Lighten up, flower child.”
Peter’s rolled his eyes as he shook his head.
Later, they met briefly at Bizzell Library to discuss key resources and then divide Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs: physiological needs, safety and security needs, belonging and love needs, self-esteem needs, and the need for self-actualization. Peter insisted he would take the top two and his grudging partner could cover the bottom three. He had already researched self-esteem and self-actualization and did not want to have to do any more work than necessary.
Chad declared he would present on these same two needs. The more Peter insisted, the more Chad dug his heels. Then, all of a sudden, Chad said, “Fine. Here’s what we’ll do. Let’s flip a coin. Heads and I’ll choose.”
Peter shook his head and muttered, “Whatever. Go on then.” Peter wasn’t sure, but it seemed the fellow was arguing simply for the sport of it.
The coin decided, and they divided the list of needs. They did not see each other again until the day of the presentation. It was not that Peter trusted Chad to do his part of the work, he certainly did not. But, Peter knew communicating with any semblance of civility with one another would be next to impossible.
When the day of the presentation arrived, Peter desperately wanted to skip the class, give Chad his notes and stay in bed; partly because of his propensity for panic attacks in such situations and partly because he felt fluey and knew death was beckoning. However, he knew he had no choice. The presentation constituted one-third of their final grade, and that full-of-himself pretty boy was depending on him. He hated this fact, but he respected his responsibility, though he did not respect the one to whom he was responsible.
CHAPTER 2
An Accidental Friendship
The two walked back to the dorm together. Peter’s impulse was to walk faster and leave Chad behind, but he did not want to be seen as childish. He gritted his teeth and focused on an oak tree at the far end of Lindsey Street.
Chad started jabbering – something about next weekend’s football game – and then he bemoaned that the Sooners were on some sort of probation and something about the possibility of a national championship and someone he called ‘Little Joe’ having a chance to win something called ‘the Heisman.’
Peter pretended to listen as Chad prattled on about football, or at least he assumed it was football. It was all pointless gibberish to Peter. Near the top of Peter’s ‘Twenty Things I Hate Most in Life’ list was America’s obsession with football. He had long ago decided it was a barbaric game that should be banned. The ‘sooner’ the better, he thought. It did occur to him, though, that perhaps Chad was attempting to bring a momentary truce to the ridiculous unspoken feud they each had silently declared after that first glance. He quickly decided the guy was only feeling sorry for him.
Peter was about to turn and walk the other way when Chad said, “Hey, it really didn’t go so bad. I’m sure Kingsbury won’t grade you too hard.”
Peter gave Chad a defiant stare that clearly conveyed, Shut up. We’re not going to talk about what just happened.
Chad ignored the look. He chuckled and said, “Come on! It’s not that big a deal.”
Peter’s glower intensified. “What happened in Kingsbury’s class is never to be talked about or mentioned again.” Peter stated this as firmly as he could in his naturally low, deep voice – a voice that refused to project itself and gave the distinct impression to those who might be listening that his words offered nothing of any importance.
“You’re right. It is forgotten. I’m sure everyone will forget it … even if they noticed. Nothing to worry about. I bet—”
Peter sped up, intending to leave Chad behind.
Chad caught him by the shoulder and said, “Right, not another word. How ’bout a drink later? I mean, we are neighbors. We may as well act like it, at least once a semester.”
“With you? No way.” Peter was about to say, then he thought, I’ve been snubbing this human being all semester. I never used to be this way. Oh what the shit. He blurted out, “Sure. That’s cool.” He then stopped and said, “I’ve got to do something. I’ll be back at the dorm in an hour or so.”
“That’ll work. See ya' then.” Chad darted up the stairs to the dorm.
***
Chad shut the door to his dorm room and lay on his bed. What the hell have I gotten myself into? Shoot! I thought he’d say “No thanks.” And give me that go-to-hell look. Goddam it ! That’s what I get for being nice. Not too worry. Chances are he’ll just slither back to his room and hibernate for the rest of the school year. Yeah. What a pathetic goddamn hippie. He drifted off to sleep.
A knock at his door startled Chad out of satisfying dream of friendly and topless co-eds. He got up, shook his head to shake off the residue of his nap, and answered the door.
A stranger, with a thin and gaunt face, stood motionless. His eyes appeared tired, if not entirely disengaged; they were eyes that seemed to wonder where they were. His haircut was much too short for 1974, cropped and nearly shaven.
Hmm ... What do we have here? A lost ROTC cadet? “What can I do for you?”
The stranger stood, staring.
“Well? What do you want, buddy?”
Still no response.
Chad’s impatience surfaced just as effortlessly as his friendliness; he had no time for fools. “Jesus! What do you want?” He began to close his door.
“And I thought you were serious. Stupid me. To hell with you.”
“Oh my God! Oh my God! How was I supposed to recognize this?” Chad said, pointing his finger toward the clean-shaven face. “Geez! I didn’t know it was … God, I am sorrrrryyyy. I mean look at you, man! You do resemble a human being. I always wondered what lurked beneath that massive hairball.”
“So now you know. Did you want to have that drink for real, or were you just feeling sorry for me?”
“Of course it was out of pity, but I guess we can try it anyway. At least I won’t be embarrassed to be seen with you now.”
“Charming, aren’t you?”
“It comes so naturally for me.” Chad pointed to his hairless head. “Hey, you didn’t do that because of what happened in—”
“It is never to be spoken of.”
“Yeah, understood. Where you wanna go? Anyplace you hang out at? O’Connell’s is good. Or the Mont?”
Peter smiled and said, “I know a good place.”
Peter suggested a hangout he frequented, The Library – not the Bizzell Library, the university’s library, but The Library, Norman’s best-kept secret. The two-story house, built in 1901, overflowed with books, exclusively textbooks, from any course one could name: anthropology, zoology, and little-known subjects in between. It was the hidden cavern of a real-life urban legend, the lair of someone students called ‘The Professor.’
The Professor prided himself on being the prototypical eternal student: bachelor’s in seven subjects, masters in six, two PhDs, and working on his third. He supported himself by writing essays, term papers, and theses. He had recently completed a doctoral dissertation for an octogenarian fulfilling a lifelong dream before death beckoned.
The Professor reveled in helping needy students. “You must be needy, not lazy,” he would declare to inquirers. If he thought a student lazy, he would dismiss them immediately. “I have no sympathy for lazy,” he would declare. He could work up an essay in two to three hours for twenty dollars; a term paper in two days, guaranteed, for a reasonable fifty dollars; a thesis in two to four weeks, for a hundred or two hundred. The lone dissertation took five months, with a hefty fee of two grand.
What kept Peter returning to this secret den was The Professor’s willingness to provide cheap beer to weary, frustrated students. At times, students would give him a ‘tip,’ as he liked to call the gesture, of a six-pack or two. The Professor would then collect reasonable donations from underage drinkers. “No ID needed here,” he’d whisper to new customers.
The Professor warmly welcomed Peter’s friend – well, his acquaintance, but The Professor would not have understood that. He wore a sweater vest and a narrow, out-of-date tie. Not once had he ever been seen without his tie, though he was known to wear a bowtie on rare occasions. He delicately held his favorite meerschaum pipe in his left hand, leaving his right hand to gesture as he talked. The smell of the pipe tobacco perpetually filled the house with a sweet, slightly piquant aroma.
He took Chad’s hand and gave it one quick shake. “Pleased to meet you. What is it you are studying, Chadworth? Or is it Chadwick?”
Chad held in a smirk and replied, “Chadwick, if you must know. Psychology, at least this month.”
“Oh yes, yes. Chadwick. Yes. Psychology. On the second floor, you’ll find what you need. The west wall. When you need anything, please let me know. I will be so glad to help. Would you care for a cold beer?” The Professor spoke with short, concise sentences, each ending with a quick breath as he prepared to give birth to a new one.
After The Professor slipped into the kitchen, Peter whispered, “He likes people to come and spend time here. Between you and me, I think he likes being needed, but he can only stand a few minutes of human contact at a time. He rarely goes out, and then only to classes. He’ll give generous discounts for running errands for him. Boy, that helped me last year.” Peter paused, shook his head slowly, “Sometimes I admire The Professor and think I’d like that kind of life, but other times I … well, I sort of pity him. Such a waste of a gifted life.”
As Peter made that last statement, Chad contorted his mouth in a peculiar manner, which caused Peter’s face to turn a rosy hue.
The Smoke That Thunders Page 2
