Western University had lured him from New England in 1964. BJ. went with him.
Though she was now forty-five, her sex life was flowering. She loved very young men, the smoothness of their faces, the hardness of their bodies. She wanted no entanglements or protracted affairs, only release. These man-children had what she desired, and she took it— easily. Her figure was classic, seductive and firm. Her face, always handsome, and now further beautified by a face lift during a Brazilian vacation, was alive with intelligence and humor. Every young Adonis ached for her. She accommodated a goodly number of them.
==========
In Moreland Smith’s office, BJ. gave him a stack of papers to sign. Waiting, she sat on the window ledge and surveyed the campus below.
The athletic department occupied the top floor of the phys.-ed complex, an H-shaped cluster of buildings. Western University’s magnificent gym was one leg of the H. The other leg consisted of intramural gyms; Olympic swimming pool and stadium; handball courts; weightlifting, wrestling and boxing rooms. The connecting part of the H was a three-story building—classrooms on the first two floors, varsity athletic offices on the third,
Directly below the window of Moreland Smith’s office were two square blocks of tennis courts, their artificial surfaces evergreen in the bright California afternoon. Beyond and on both sides of the tennis courts lay huge intramural playing fields surrounded by running tracks complete with sawdust pits for long-jumping and pole vaulting. The H-shaped phys.-ed buildings, the courts and the fields filled almost a square mile of the heart of the immense Western University campus.
Even from a distance, BJ. spotted Henry Steele. It was not merely his green-and-white jacket and his burden of two suitcases and a dufflebag that held her attention; it was that the boy’s innate dignity was not hidden by these awkward burdens or by his weariness. When he drew closer and stopped, overwhelmed suddenly by the sight of the tremendous gym, BJ. caught her breath.
The sun glinted off Henry’s brown hair, giving it red highlights. BJ. speculated that his eyes were blue, his skin smooth, his body hard. From his jacket, she deduced that he was a jock. She hoped he was a basketball player.
Moments later, glancing through the open door of her own office, adjacent to Moreland Smith’s, she saw Henry appear at the top of the stairs that opened in the center of a student’s lounge. He looked around, spotted the “Athletic Department” sign on the door of her suite, and came forward, suitcases dragging. He entered the suite at top speed and did not slow down until he had burst into Smith’s office. The coach, his back to the door, stood studying his playbook. “Hi, Coach Smith.”
The coach turned, annoyed. “Young man, can’t you see I’m busy!”
By now B J. had caught up to Henry. “May I help you?” she asked gently.
Henry did not know whom to address. He stammered at Smith, “You said that—” then turned to B J. “He said that I should see him as soon as I got to Los Angeles.”
“Who are you?” barked the coach.
The boy’s eyes widened. He swallowed. BJ. thought tears would come any moment.
“I’m Henry Steele.” It was a whisper.
Like an electric light snapping on, a smile warmed Smith’s face. “Henry!” the coach said. “I’m sorry, son. I’ve seen so many boys the last few days. Welcome.”
The coach proffered his hand. Henry shook it. His relief and happiness exhibited themselves in a deep, breathy laugh.
But Smith’s mind had already gone back to the charts on his desk. Politely, he asked Henry, “How do you like LA.?”
“It sure is, uh, different, sir.”
“Yes. Well,” Smith said, “Miss Rudolph will take care of you. It’s good to have you with us, Henry.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“This way, Henry,” BJ. cooed. Smiling but firm, she led him out.
In her own office, she appraised Henry at close range as she went to a file cabinet. “Your last name is Steele?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She found his card and walked briskly to her desk, where she picked up a notebook and several envelopes. “This is your playbook, Henry. Bring it to practice Monday. This is the phone number of your tutor, Janet Hays. Get in touch with her before next Friday. You’re to see a Mr. Gonzales about a job. He’ll be on the football field at eight-thirty every morning. Sooner you see him, the better. Here’s a catalogue and enrollment material. This is alumni association material. Your alumni Big Brother is Mr. Howard Brunz. He’ll get in touch with you. Here, in these envelopes, are two tickets to every home game. And here—”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” interrupted Henry. “I prob’ly won’t be needin‘ any tickets. I don’t know anybody to give ’em to.”
She supressed a smile. ‘They’re for Mr. Brunz.“
“Ma’am?” He stared at the envelopes. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” She winked at him. She handed him the rest of the envelopes in such rapid succession that he was hard put to find a place for them. When his pockets were full, he held envelopes under both arms and one under his chin. Enjoying herself thoroughly, BJ. put the last envelope in his mouth. He clenched it between his teeth.
“You’re assigned to number three dorm, room twenty-six,” BJ. said. “Now you’re all fixed up. Any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” Henry said. “I guess not.” He picked up his suitcases, and BJ. strapped the dufflebag over his shoulder.
“Where’s dorm three?” he asked. “Out the front door of the building, turn left, go two hundred yards, and there it is. Don’t worry, we wouldn’t let you sleep more than two football fields away from the gym.”
Biting her lip to keep from laughing, she followed Henry out of her office, through the foyer and to the door leading out of the athletic department. Here, after making sure no one was looking, she grabbed one of his buttocks and gave it a friendly squeeze. Startled, Henry looked back over his shoulder at her. “Elevator’s over there,” B J. murmured. “ ‘Bye.” She went back to her office humming.
==========
On the main floor of the athletic building, Henry stopped to stare at the trophy cases that lined the walls. Then, dragging his baggage, he moved slowly from case to case, reading the inscriptions on the cups, plaques, statuettes and citations in the glass-covered displays. At the end of the hall he came to a ramp with a sign above it: “To Gym Floor.”
Despite his weariness, Henry’s eyes lit up. Slowly, he walked the length of the ramp until he reached the semi-darkness of the gym floor. For a moment, until his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw only a yawning blackness. And then, slowly, a miracle took shape.
A vast hardwood floor, gleaming even in his unlit space. Mountain-sides of seats, looming upward on all sides of the playing floor, disappearing finally into the ceiling far above. My God, Henry thought, I can’t even see the roof!
On the wall near him, he spotted a panel of switches. Tentatively, he snapped one on.
High above him, a single bank of lights shone. Henry caught his breath, awed by the half-lit splendor of the gym. Then he snapped on another switch, and another, and another, until all the lights blazed down. A hundred suns! His eyes swept the arena, end to end, floor to ceiling. Ah! Tucked high against the ceiling, a half-block up in the air, were eight glass backboards and baskets, held by long metal legs attached to the roof.
Henry looked again at the panel of switches. Did he dare? With a little smile of anticipation, he snapped on the entire bottom row of switches. A low buzz. A bump! The legs were moving! The backboards, like giant spiders descending in their webs, were lowering on their metal legs!
Henry felt organ music thunder inside him, a majestic Bach-like diapason. Holding his breath, he moved out on the gym floor, spinning, turning, gazing up at the oncoming baskets. His eyes burned; he blinked now in order to see. At center court, he stopped, marveling in disbelief at the expense of hardwood that swept away on all sides. Eight baskets! Four separate court
s—three crossways, the main court longways!
The music swelled inside him. A lump formed in his throat. His heart pounded; his body ached. Never, in his entire existence, had he been so happy! For eighteen years he had lived and worked—why? For this. For this. He was home!
==========
The big man was munching an apple when he came into Room 26, Dorm 3 and found Henry Steele slumped over a desk in deep sleep.
The big man finished his apple and flipped the core into a metal wastebasket, but Henry ignored the dull bong sound. Taking a package of Fritos from the top of the desk, the big man ripped it open. At the crackling of the waxed paper, Henry opened his eyes, though his head still rested on the desktop.
His eyes focused first on a pair of enormous shoes, then moved slowly upward. The shoes were attached to two equally massive legs. The massive legs were topped by great, muscular thighs that almost burst through the jeans that encased them. Above the thighs, a narrow waist widened suddenly into a herculean chest. On top of the chest were ponderous shoulders and a neck so thick with muscle that it seemed wider than the head above it. The head’s face, grinning, peered down. The lower jaw moved up and down, up and down, pulverizing mouthfuls of Fritos. A hand brought another load of Fritos from the bag to the mouth.
“Hi,” the big man said.
“God!” was all Henry could answer. . “No, I’m not God. I’m Tom.”
Henry sat up. The room spun for a second.
“Hi. I’m Henry.”
Rising, he extended his right hand, and Tom’s huge paw gave him a helping pull upward in mid-shake, until he was steady on his feet. He saw now that Tom was about six-foot-six, six inches taller than he was.
Henry rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I went to Coach Smith’s office and a lady told me to come here. I hope there hasn’t been a foul-up.”
“If that’s what the lady said, then I guess we’re roommates.” Tom crumpled the empty Frito bag and shot it into the wastebasket. “You can have that side of the room.”
“Thanks.”
Fighting the stiffness in his back and legs, Henry moved his luggage across the room. The room was L-shaped. At the base of the L was the entrance, two desks, a small icebox and sink. The narrow top of the L held two beds, each parallel to the wall and separated by a narrow walkway leading to a window.
“You want to go get something to eat?” asked Tom. “Let’s go get a hamburger.”
==========
In a booth at the Burger King, they demolished sandwiches and malts.
“They got Burger King in Texas?” Tom queried.
“Oh, sure,” Henry said. “We got all the fine restaurants. Burger King. MacDonald’s. Wetsons. Jack-in-the-Box.”
Tom stared, then decided that Henry’s statement stemmed from true innocence. He grinned.
Henry went on. “Of course, all we got in Elroy is the Elroy Cafe. Nice place. Pecan pie’s super. But all the others—MacDonald’s and all—they’re all within fifty miles of home. That’s nothin‘ in Texas. And if we want seafood, they even got a Fish Palace in Bloodshot Junction. That’s seventy miles away, but worth it. Super catfish.”
“Sounds great.”
They smiled at each other, and then Tom laughed. “So you ran into the horny nympho?”
“The what?”
“Coach Smith’s secretary. BJ. Rudolph, the red-nosed nympho. That’s what we call her.”
Henry was fascinated. “How come?”
“Last season she got hold of our star center right before a big game. He played thirty minutes and scored two points. I never saw a guy play so lousy and be so happy.”
Captivated by the anecdote, Henry forgot to chew for a moment. “How long you been on the team?” he said at last.
“This is my second year on the varsity. You know, it’s a good sign for you—that they stuck you with me. As my roommate. Usually they don’t put a freshman with a varsity guy. You must be pretty good.”
“Oh, I’m okay.” Henry was quite matter-of-fact about his own basketball skills. Without bravado, he merely stated his belief in himself.
“They get you a job yet?” Tom asked.
“I think so. You’got a job?”
“Shit, I go to this old fart’s house who went to school here in 1932. Or maybe it’s 1832. Anyway, he gives me five bucks an hour to wash his cars. Last week I spent four hours on one door handle.”
Henry laughed, impressed. “Hey, I hope I get a job like that!”
Tom finished off his burger. “You make All-American and they’ll make you the crocodile exterminator. Twenty bucks an hour for keeping crocodiles out of the gym.”
Eyes widening, Henry asked, “There’s crocodiles in Los Angeles?”
Tom almost choked on his last bite. “Hell, no, Henry!” He swallowed. “Hey, think I’ll have another burger. You want another one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Gotta build up my strength, so I can make a dynamite impression on Coach Smith at our first practice session.”
Henry pondered this statement briefly. Then he said, “Maybe I’ll have some fries.”
Smiling, Tom led his new roommate back to the counter for additional sustenance.
* * *
II
Dear Dad and Mom,
I’ve heard Rev. Wells talk about PARADISE before. Well, paradise can’t be any better than my first two weeks in college. But classes haven’t started yet. They start Monday. I hope I still love it then, ha ha. (Don’t worry, Mom. That’s a joke.) Also hope, Dad, I don’t get any mumbly professors. Only professor I met so far was over the phone—my tutor, Miss Hays. She talked right out, really clear.
I got a job helping take care of the grass on the football field and will probably earn over $200 a month. Pretty good, huh?
My roommate Tom (I told you about him on the phone two weeks ago) is really a nice guy. We don’t see each other much because he’s an upper-classman and it takes them a whole week to pick courses and get enrolled. But when basketball practice starts, Tom and me will go together everyday.
Mom, I had some dates with a pretty girl. Her name is Julie. She’s a sorority girl. I met her at a banquet for freshman athletes. She has a big car and we drive around some. Her father owns a factory.
Dad, this campus is really something. I spent a whole afternoon at the football stadium. Wow! Seats over 75,000. I watched the football guys work out. Some of them live in my dorm. I also visited some men who are important in my career. The basketball team’s trainer is a really nice old guy. His office is bigger than the whole locker room and showers in Elroy gym put together. He spent a whole hour showing me how to bandage my ankles. I visited Coach Phillips, too. He’s Coach Smith’s top assistant. Coach Phillips is from the South, and he’s a lot like you, Dad.
Mom, the food here is super. The training table is like a great big cafe, right in the basement of my dorm. My room is way up on the third floor. I’ve got a mailbox in the lobby all my own, so write me, please.
Haven’t seen Chris yet. I’ll look him up next week, after classes start and I’m really settled.
Dad, I’m working hard on my game. Every morning I go to the gym and shoot around until lunch. In the afternoons I run track and use some of the great muscle machines they have for improving your legs. I get into pick-up games, too, to stay sharp. Then at night after dinner I go back and shoot around some more by myself at the gym.
Well, as Bugs Bunny says, th-th-that’s all f-f-folks. Or was it Porky Pig? Your joking son,
Love, Henry
==========
Henry’s euphoria was indeed genuine. He was with his own kind, young men whose concerns and goals, conversations and interests, coincided with his own. He had described this world as paradise, and he meant it. Henry was truly home.
Nonetheless, three small disturbances had tainted those first weeks slightly, had left him confused for a moment or two.
==========
He had spotted Gonzales as soon as
he walked out on the playing field of the mammoth, empty football stadium. The chunky Chicano was guiding a mower over the grass carpet, leaving a swath of green velvet behind him.
Henry trotted over. “Mister Gonzales?”
Gonzales slowed the mower, then cut the motor. “I’m Gonzales,” he said. He spoke with an accent.
“Hi. I’m Henry Steele.”
They shook hands. “Buenos dias, Henry Steele.”
“I’m supposed to see you.”
“Sure. Here I am. What about?” Gold teeth flashed as the man grinned.
“About a job,” said Henry.
The grin vanished. Suddenly cold, Gonzales snapped, “Okay. This way.”
Henry followed him across the field to a metal box set into the base of the grandstand.
Pointing to the box, Gonzales said disgustedly, “The sprinklers go on at six and off at eight.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, night or morning?”
“Hijo de la—! Night!” Gonzales glared. “Your pay is four bucks an hour. I wish 7 played goddam football.”
“I play basketball.”
“Football, basketball, you’re all the same to me. A bunch of freeloaders! Hell, I’m paying one three-hundred-pound jerk five bucks an hour to watch the grass growl When it gets two inches high, he tells me, so I can mow it. That’s the only yob he can handle. Hell, el burro sabe mas que ell Big dope!”
Fuming, Gonzales walked away.
“Sir?” called Henry.
“What?”
“Uh, where do I pick up my paycheck?”
“Hijo de puta! You haven’t even worked yet, and you want to get paid! Why don’t them coaches cut the crap and just give you guys the money straight out, instead of sending you over here to bug me!”
“Well, I—I just—”
Gonzales waved his arms. “You pick up your paycheck Fridays at Miss Rudolph’s desk.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks.”
“Now leave me alone, man. I got work to do.”
Segal, Jerry Page 8
