I wished I shared his confidence. Maybe I could borrow some self-assurance from Scarface, who, though a little shaky on his feet, strutted toward the jukebox. After examining the selections he fed the machine a coin, and within seconds Joe Turner was urging someone to get outta that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans.
“So anyway,” I said, “I interviewed her, along with the guy she was with, and, I don’t know, while we were talking she started looking good to me, and the next morning when we continued the interview over coffee she looked even better and …”
I groped for words that might help him, as well as me, understand.
“And what?” Wonderman urged.
“The thing is, she was kind of ordinary looking, and opinionated. I mean, I didn’t disagree with her because I didn’t know enough about the subject, and yet I … I …”
“Wanted some a that pussy.”
Well, I’d have gotten to it eventually.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“So, did you?”
“Did I what?”
“You know, get you some.”
“You mean did I screw her?”
He remained silent, which I took as a yes.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“She said she was engaged to that guy.”
“And you bein a man of high morale and such, you dint do nothin.”
“Are you saying I should have?” My voice cracked like an adolescent’s.
“You should’ve done what was comforble, and you done it.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What’s the problem, man?”
“I don’t get it.”
“You don’ get what?”
“Why I even wanted to, you know …”
He stared at me for so long I thought rigor mortis had set in. Finally he turned away and laughed, covering his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle his mirth.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You.”
“I’m funny?”
“Funniest man I ever met.”
“How am I funny?”
He gave me another incredulous look. “You the only cat I ever met, prolly ever will meet, who think bout why he wanna fuck somebody.”
“Not fuck some-body. Fuck this body.”
Did I say that right?
“Man, you ejoocated peoples always makin things complcated.” Wonderman swallowed more beer before simplifying things. “Now y’all listen to me, cuz I’s tellin you the God’s honest truth. Most mens, they wanna fuck anythin what ain’t got a dick, and some a thems not too particlar bout that. It be simple, see, so don’ go throwin yo college shit inta the quation. Ifn a woman got a pussy, guy wanna fuck her, which mean guy wanna fuck any woman what’ll letm.”
“But—”
“Course he got his prefrences … tall, short, fat, skinny, smart, dumb. And for sure, most mens prefers someone nice lookin. But when the need arise, and it always do, any woman look good. And don’ be arguin wit me cuz you know I’s right.”
Maybe. His theory explained my chronic horniness, and for sure when I got the urge even a lamppost appealed to me. I hated to say it, but Ellen Drury was looking more attractive to me these days, or at least less repulsive. My eyes wandered over to her during last week’s staff meeting, and I couldn’t help thinking that if she dropped a few pounds—okay, a lot of pounds—she might actually be pretty. She had long lashes, sensuous lips and a creamy complexion, plus of course huge knockers. Eventually I snapped out of it, but I couldn’t discard this appraisal altogether.
I sipped my Coke and recalled something else. Nancy Allabeck turned me on despite her size, and I was this close to shtupping her when her psycho parents showed up. Maybe I was living proof of Wonderman’s theory.
I told him I’d think about it.
“I’s sure you will.”
Before I could ask him what that meant my attention strayed. Scarface had shoved some chairs and tables aside and, though still wobbly on his feet, begun to shake, rattle and roll. His two companions joined him and he draped an arm around each, this time probably for support. They rubbed against him and he rubbed back, after which the three of them began dancing, each to a different drummer.
When the music stopped, they started back toward the bar while I chewed on an ice cube and studied Scarface’s partners. They reminded me of another thing I didn’t understand about women, which was why they looked so good just crossing a room. Even the chunky ones seemed to glide on ball bearings.
“Ain’t bad, ain’t bad at all,” Wonderman observed.
“No, not bad.”
“You like?”
“Of course I like. Who wouldn’t?”
“You want?”
If he only knew. On second thought, he knew only too well. But in case he harbored any doubts I tried to dispel them.
“Hell yes,” I said.
“Well, someday you get.”
He said this with such conviction, I almost believed him.
Chapter 28
Ann McCory’s team lost. The score of the trustees’ final quarterly meeting of the year: Ban Lifters 5, Ban Boosters 4. The slightly closer outcome (the tally was 6-3 the first time around) might give Ann some consolation, but I doubted it. Anyway, I had no time to dwell on her defeat, since I’d resolved to cover the Skolnick speech despite my hatred of speeches. Hermann had consigned the board meeting story to Ellen Drury and I wanted this one, partly to beef up my clippings but also to piss off Miss Drury. So, buttressed by the increased confidence I’d gained from doing a “good job” on the McCory-Byersmith piece, I begged Hermann, all but got down on one knee actually, to let me do the big event. I withheld the reasons for my plea, offering instead the more acceptable rationale that I’d kill myself if I didn’t get the assignment. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but I did engage in histrionics and I’m happy to say they worked, seeing as the editor capitulated.
He appeased Ellen by assigning her a post-speech interview with Skolnick, but for the next couple weeks I wore a bulletproof vest around the office.
Just in case.
#
I considered using the Post’s new portable tape recorder to cover the lecture, but after a moment’s thought I discarded the idea. I couldn’t afford to muff this assignment, not after prostrating myself to get it, and I might—no, would—screw it up if I tried working that feckuckteh gizmo, meaning set it up, change tapes, adjust the sound and perform other tasks that even a klutz could handle.
But not me. Using the simplest mechanical device, say a pencil sharpener, made my head hurt. Operating something more complicated gave me a migraine. If I hadn’t been highly motivated, I might not have learned to drive a car.
Taking public transportation on my few dates had proved embarrassing, and worse, precluded making out at the drive-in theater, aka “passion pit.” So I was inspired to master operating a vehicle no matter what the cost, which not unexpectedly turned out to be high. Neither of my parents could teach me, even though they tried valiantly, so they handed me off to a driving instructor. After several close scrapes and near collisions he too was about to throw up his hands when I finally got the hang of things, meaning of essentials such as applying the brakes, passing other cars and straightening the wheel after a turn. Miraculously, I aced the driving test and received my license.
Sadly though, driving skills were nontransferable, so I continued to struggle with working a can opener, changing a typewriter ribbon, replacing a phonograph needle and other demanding tasks too numerous to mention. The Post’s new recorder would require punching buttons, turning knobs and threading tapes, perhaps mid-speech.
So you can see why I went with my trusty pen and notebook.
#
Birds were chirping, flowers were blooming and lawns were greening as I strolled from the Daily Post to the Student Union on the Friday of Aaron Skolnick’s noontime oration. The first sight I saw upon arrival was Ann McCory and T
im Byersmith surrounded by a group of students at the bottom of the steps leading to the Union’s main entrance. Ann was holding forth, naturally, while her fiancé was distributing pamphlets. I stood on the outskirts of the gathering listening to Miss McCory fulfill the pledge she’d made at the Koffee Klatch.
“… And so I urge you to go home, go to class, go to the library, go to lunch. Go anywhere but here, to this event, which your disloyal trustees have arranged and the Devil himself has approved. But if for some reason, perhaps idle curiosity, you choose to attend, do not … I say do not … be taken in by the propaganda you are bound to hear. You live in the greatest nation on God’s green earth, and don’t let that communist tell you otherwise.” Her spiel apparently over, Ann joined her fiancé in handing out pamphlets,
I debated whether to say hello but decided for once to let well enough alone. So I skirted the crowd and began climbing the steps. Nearing the top, I heard, “Nate. Nate Rubin.”
I glanced back. Ann McCory was smiling and waving, so I reciprocated and started back down. Immediately she turned away and just as immediately I felt like an idiot. Calling myself an assortment of names ranging from dummkopf to doo-doo-head, I retraced my steps. After entering the building with my crimson complexion I strolled down the first-floor corridor to the auditorium, already half full though the lecture didn’t start for another twenty minutes.
I’d no sooner taken a third-row seat than I sighted Ellen Drury sitting front-row center. The eye in the back of her head, a twin to the one in front, must have noted my arrival because she turned around and stared at me. I returned the favor and we both raced to look away.
The room was nearly filled when, on the hour, a thin-haired, pasty-faced gentleman wearing the requisite tweed jacket ambled onstage. After stepping to the lectern and leaning close to the mike, he bid us good afternoon. The piercing feedback gave him a scare, so he wisely drew back. Somewhat composed, he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and informed us he was Morton Steadman, the university’s dean of student affairs. He then briefly introduced the man of the hour and shuffled off stage.
Aaron Skolnick entered from stage left looking remarkably like my late grandfather, complete with silver hair, plump face and prominent belly. The audience applauded politely, and after a faint nod of acknowledgment Zaideh launched into his much-publicized address, “Whose Country Is It, Anyway?”
He began with a shrug, then asked, “What can I say? What can I say about the United States of America that you don’t already know? As educated people, you undoubtedly keep up with the news by listening to the radio, watching TV and reading the newspapers. So you know this country is no longer of the people, by the people or for the people … assuming it ever was. Let’s face it, my friends, you don’t run this country, your parents don’t run this country and in fact not even your government runs this country.”
Skolnick sipped from a glass of water sitting on the lectern, then continued. “Now you may wonder who does run the country. Well ask yourselves: Who rigs elections and buys off politicians? Who dictates laws to benefit themselves while burdening the rest of us? And who squanders resources and encourages wars to acquire still more? Also ask yourselves: Who cuts corners in order to cut costs? Who pays workers peanuts in order to boost profits? Who cons the public in order to sell products? Who? Who does these things?”
The speaker paused to survey his audience, and I did the same. Not a creature was stirring, and no one had dozed off yet. But no one had answered his question either, so the speaker did the honors. “Corporations, that’s who does these things … big, fat, greedy corporations, whose executives live in luxury while workers struggle to survive. And yet corporations aren’t the real problem here. They’re merely the byproducts of a system that’s strangling the country, and has been for some time. I refer, of course, to merciless capitalism.
“The worst practitioners of this inhumane system are the Western countries, the so-called welfare states. And the worst of that bunch is America, which thinks it can have its cake and eat it too, that it can care for its employees while kowtowing to big corporations. But as you undoubtedly know, if you eat cake and try to keep it, you merely end up with cake on your face.”
This drew Skolnick’s first yuk of the day, and if I hadn’t been taking notes I might have joined in the laughter, seeing as I needed a good chuckle amid all the doom-saying. And yet Zaideh wasn’t through depressing us yet. “The West thinks it can combine a lot of capitalism with a little humanity and everything will be fine. But such a combination merely disarms workers while continuing to exploit them. As a result, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.”
Well that sure sucked. But Skolnick went on to surprise us, or at least me, by saying something positive. “And yet despite the damage wrought by capitalism, you must not despair. For I promise you that good will eventually triumph over evil. How? How will this come about? I’ll tell you how. You. You will achieve victory. You will defeat the system. You will overthrow capitalism.”
Zaideh paused dramatically, à la Frank Harris, but instead of whispering he kept his voice level. “First, however, you must throw off your chains … starting at this university. I don’t mean to sound like an ungrateful guest, but I must say this institution, and others like it throughout the country, are part of the problem. Why do I say this? Because they encourage you to accept the status quo, to embrace the current system, to become good little capitalists. And so you go out into the world and become both exploiter and exploited, an untenable position if ever there was one. For this reason alone I urge you … no, beg you … to question the system. And if you wish to be free, truly free, I encourage you to rebel against it. Yes, my friends, I am suggesting you become troublemakers. In fact, you must become troublemakers!”
Now that idea, of making trouble, appealed to me, mainly because I’d never come close to being a troublemaker. I not only hadn’t made trouble, I’d avoided it at all costs, like a wuss, a wimp, a fraidy-cat.
“Yet if you choose this path, if you do rebel, make no mistake … you will suffer greatly for it. People will treat you like lepers, call you all sorts of names, banish you from their midst. But do not despair, for you can and will triumph, and I’ll tell you how.”
Skolnick sipped his water and regarded his audience. Satisfied he still had their attention, he went on. “You will win this battle by organizing, by uniting with kindred spirits, by supporting each other and combining your strengths, knowing that collective action trumps individual effort every time. Also, by knowing that your cause is just, and the only one worth fighting for.”
Well would wonders never cease. Aaron Skolnick, rabid communist, and Ann McCory, rabid anticommunist, had something in common. They were both fighting for a just cause. But were they both right, or was one of them full of shit? Seemed to me that depended on whether two opposing causes could both be just, a question to which, not being a philosophy major, I had no answer.
Skolnick finally wrapped things up with a flourish. “Now, my friends, I say unto you … go out and make trouble. Yes, lots and lots of trouble!”
That did it. Rather than polite applause, the audience gave the speaker a standing ovation, to which he responded with a grandfatherly smile and then shuffled off stage. I was preparing to leave too when I glimpsed Ellen Drury heading through a side exit for her backstage interview. Maybe someday I’d make trouble for her—return the scowls and toss a few zingers her way.
Trade her tit for tat, so to speak.
Or should that be tat for tit?
In this case, no. Definitely not.
#
I exited the Student Union amid the excited throng and glanced at my watch. A little after one. Which meant I had a crucial decision to make. I could either head for the Post and write the story, thereby ensuring I’d meet my 4 p.m. deadline, or I could fiddle around until my two o’clock Sociology class, in which case I’d have only an hour afterward to write the piece and revise it who-knew-how-many tim
es, depending on Gustav Hermann’s mood.
I had to think this through.
My first thought was that begging for the assignment had been a mistake, since completing it would require skipping class. My second thought was that I probably wanted to skip class. I hated Sociology, which consisted of cockeyed statistics and cock-and-bull theories about—ahem—the nature of society. In fact, the more I thought about it, the clearer it became that I hated college. I’d been expected to go so I’d gone, but now I felt imprisoned. Most professors were arrogant jerkoffs more interested in displaying their wit, so-called, than in teaching anything useful. When they weren’t amusing themselves at our expense, they were lulling us to sleep with their tedious lectures. All my classes, except maybe Journalism and English Lit, seemed like punishment for some unspecified crime.
Which brought me back to my current dilemma. To resolve it I asked myself: what’s more important, attending a pedantic lecture on some nebulous topic or fulfilling my journalistic responsibilities?
The answer, to me, was obvious.
#
After only three drafts, Hermann offered me an effusive “This is okay, I guess,” which I took as his approval. This left me with no classes, no work and no desire to go home at 2:45 on a Friday afternoon. So what next? I returned to the reporters’ table, sat at the far end and thought about nothing in particular. Thankfully the three other reporters present were banging out stories, so they took no notice of my navel-gazing. An unproductive minute or two later I began mulling Aaron Skolnick’s speech. It had inspired me, but to do what? Cause trouble? As I may have mentioned, I’d never caused trouble, or anything resembling it, in my life. But let’s say it was never too late. What kind of trouble could I stir up, and when, where and how?
I thought about this, and then thought about it some more, until I finally thought of an answer.
#
My brilliant idea was to write an editorial, one somewhat sympathetic to an avowed communist, which should cause a ripple or two. But the question was, could just anyone, at least anyone on staff, write an editorial? Or was that strictly the province of Hushley and Charlie Swanson, our managing editor-slash-editorial page director?
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 12
