Ivy League Stripper

by Heidi Mattson

  I turned to see a tall boy in a suit jacket looking down at me. “Uh, yes, I am. Why?” I managed.

  He stepped closer and smiled. “I thought so. All the freshman girls were invited. We figure it’s the best way to scope you all —- you know, check you out.”

  This was supposed to make me giggle and turn on the charm, but the idea of being nameless, a number, killed the thrill for me. I excused myself and left, preferring the familiarity of the Gate, a freshman hangout.

  I’d rather flirt with my friends, the people I like, who like me too. I don’t have anything to prove.

  Why I ventured into a fancy beauty salon a week later is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps I was hoping to look sophisticated when I went home to Bucksport for Christmas break. I didn’t want to let anyone down by appearing unchanged. The stylist had big hair and long nails. I should have known better! She energetically assured me, “I know just what you want, baby. Don’t you worry.” I demanded that she leave my natural blond hair somewhat long, and she did. However, she did a big spiky sort of thing with the front and sides and sprayed it into permanence. (Afterward I had to wash it twice to make it combable again.) Then she charged me twenty-eight dollars. As provincial as Mom in the kitchen with the sewing scissors was, it was better than this! Growing up in the fresh Maine air had affected me. I couldn’t be fooled by excessive fanciness. Nothing is wrong with being real, natural, and honest.

  Through the remainder of my freshman year I earned decent grades, but by doing only what was good enough. From time to time I would think back to my high school teacher, Mr. Tardiff, who’d always told me, “Don’t be satisfied with ‘good enough.’ You’re worth more than that.” I agreed with him. Neither my jobs nor my classes were receiving the attention they deserved. Once, I quit all my jobs and threw myself happily into school work. My grades improved and I enjoyed being a regular student. But a month or so later there was no book money, and my parents’ regular inquiries — “How are your savings for next semester?” — made me feel guilty. Something had to give. If not the money, then school.

  A faraway part of me feared that I would never graduate from Brown. It seemed too big a dream. Just to have made it in to Brown was amazing. But I didn’t dwell on the problems of the future.

  Surely they would work out.

  I was working on today’s problems, gathering dollars here and there, while the giant Ivy League adding machine was tallying my debt, growing every day. I’m thankful I didn’t know how bad it was. My optimism was ignorant. And powerful.

  I had an Ivy League boyfriend, a tall, gorgeous man from New Jersey! Roger Drisent had courted me since the first week of school, when he suggested I apply for a job at Cafe Brooks. I was friendly with him but wouldn’t accept any dates. “I have a boyfriend,” I’d said. I had promised my heart to my devoted Bruce, from Bucksport, who had offered to sell his Corvette so I could go to Brown. I didn’t let him sell the car, but I did consent to be his girlfriend. He was my first lover; we both thought it would last forever. But after Christmas break, I broke up with him. He didn’t want to mix with my new life and I refused to be held back.

  I finally gave in to Roger because I was single and he was so handsome — and persistent. He was a combination of the Doors’ moody lead singer Jim Morrison and the silent Marlboro Man, both in looks and personality. On a warm night in March we walked through the campus to his rented garage. Inside was a huge silver motorcycle. Normally they scared me, but I trusted Roger. He was older and sophisticated. With my arms wrapped tightly around his waist, he drove me around the city. He stopped a few times, to buy white wine, grapes, French bread, and a strange cheese called Brie. Late that night we sat in a campus lounge, helmets, gloves, and coats scattered around us. It was a fantasy come true, new and romantic. I learned how to eat Brie: “The mold is normal; peel off the plastic, though.” I tore off small pieces of French bread for us. I sipped wine out of the disposable wine glasses Roger had bought. I fell in love.

  His parents were New Yorkers, his father an award-winning marketing wizard, his mother a model/actress turned advertising executive and corporate head hunter. They lived in Bernardsville, New Jersey. A driver was available for their less and less frequent days in the city. Roger told me they were mostly retired since his father, Ted, changed his abusive ways and turned to Alcoholics Anonymous and Julie, his mother, survived breast cancer.

  Roger complained about them meddling in his life, but not too much. After all, they did provide his tuition, room and board, and spending money. He could charge all he wanted at the Brown Bookstore, even magazines and snack foods. And if he returned his library books late it didn’t matter. He didn’t even know how much his fines were. The bills were sent home. To me it sounded perfect. Whatever bills made it to my parents were given straight over to me, with worried expressions.

  As if I didn’t worry enough.

  This second semester I had taken the thirteen-meal plan, rather than the full twenty-meal plan required of first semester freshman. I filled up on each meal. It wasn’t a big problem for me, and it saved me hundreds of dollars. One night Roger invited me to eat with him at the Ratty, the main dining hall on campus, but I was out of dinner credits. It would cost me $13 if I paid, which I wouldn’t do. I wasn’t that hungry, anyway. Roger really wanted my company, however. He and his buddy Ben sneaked me in. I was thrilled; that night dinner was turkey tetrazzini and make-your-own-sundaes. Roger and Ben were good company, too.

  Afterward, the three of us congratulated one another. Ben put me in an affectionate choke hold, saying, “You’re pretty cool, Heidi.” He tossed me to Roger, who gave me a quick kiss, then, from his pocket, pulled out an apple. Stolen from the Ratty. “For my fairy princess!” he said, and presented it to me proudly.

  Breakfast!

  I felt like a true college student. I had even lined up a high-paying job for the summer. I would be house painting with College Pro Painting, an organization run by Brown students. Roger and I were both staying in Providence for the summer break. He was doing construction, and we had arranged to watch my semiotics professor’s house. The house wasn’t on campus, it was in Olneyville, a neighborhood to the far side of the city. Professor Goldman told me, “It’s a historic, artistic area. You’ll love it.” Our jobs were on the east side, where Brown was. Conveniently, Roger’s parents bought him a truck in anticipation of the summer. I planned on riding with him to work. It was going to be perfect.

  After school ended, we had a week before the professor’s house would be ready, so we had planned to go to New Jersey on the motorcycle. The timing was good. We could pick up the truck and I would meet his parents, Julie and Ted, and his sister, Teresa. Maybe I’d even see New York City! The day after finals, by eight in the morning I was energetically packing up Roger’s dorm room. He was in Massachusetts at a motorcycle shop readying the bike for the trip. Sweaty, I wrapped myself in a towel and headed for the ladies’ shower room, two doors down from Roger’s room.

  One girl was already using the good shower. The other stall had a broken ceramic soap dish. I knew it was damaged, but I didn’t know that a girl had cut her arm a few weeks earlier. She and many of the hall residents had reported it to plant operations. And the cleaning lady should have seen it, since she was there most every other day. Eager for my day to progress, I didn’t wait for the good shower. So at a few minutes after nine I was showering, happily anticipating the trip to New Jersey. It was a sunny day and the ride wouldn’t be too chilly.

  I turned my back to the shower head to wet my hair, lifting it from my shoulders with both hands. Until I saw the red splashes on the beige tile wall I didn’t realize I had cut myself. I had just enough time to think, I cut my elbow, what an awkward spot to cut … when a crushing, suffocating weight hit me. I sunk to the floor in a daze, remembering, barely, to squeeze my elbow. As though through a haze, I saw red all around me. On the tile, all over my left arm, and covering my right hand, seeping through my fingers. I pinched
my eyes shut, concentrating hard. Stay awake. The command filled my head. Stay awake. Stay awake.

  A minute or two passed. I knew I had to find help. I crawled over the lip of the shower, afraid to stand lest I lose consciousness. The bathroom was long and narrow, the length of four toilet stalls and two shower stalls. There were a few sinks below a mirror opposite the toilets. I had been in the first shower stall, closest to the hallway door. The girl showering before me had finished and left. But I saw another girl at the far end of the bathroom. She was hazy, blurred by my wavering vision and bleached by the sunlight streaming in the giant window of the hundred-year-old dormitory. She was brushing her teeth, bending over a sink.

  I moved toward her, on my knees and good arm. I sensed blood to my left, collecting on the floor in a haphazard trail. I had been crawling for thirty seconds, progressed only a few yards, when she noticed me, still several yards away from her. She gasped and cried, “Jesus Christ! Ill get help!” and ran out, passing me in a blur. I didn’t have time to be angry or even scared. My eyes wouldn’t focus, I felt as if I was forgetting to breathe. I crouched, naked, wet, and bloody, and now, completely alone. I balanced on my knees and forehead, which I rested against the cold tile. I held my bad arm with my good arm and shut my eyes. I was trying to breathe. Telling myself to breathe: in then out, in then out.

  Consciousness shimmered black and gray, then black again. I fought to stay awake, afraid I would stop breathing if I fainted. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but I was still wet from the shower when my breathing steadied. I crawled slowly to the wall by the shower. My towel was hanging from a hook. With my bleeding arm held tightly to my abdomen I reached up with my right arm and tugged on the end of it. The towel fell on the first try. I rested my head on it, still on my knees. After a moment, I crawled right up to the wall and, leaning against it, shimmied gently, pushing myself up with my legs. I held the towel to my neck and focused on breathing. My vision cleared to a light fog. I was suddenly frightened by being alone.

  Very carefully I walked to the door. It was a heavy industrial gray door. I needed only to pull it open and walk through before it closed. I took a few breaths to be sure I wasn’t going to faint, then swung it open with the good arm. The hallway was cold. I was beginning to notice the blood drying on my arms, hands, side, and legs. I noticed but didn’t feel concerned that my towel hung straight down from my neck, covering my bellybutton and very little else. Where had that girl gone? I couldn’t believe she would leave me!

  I made it back to Roger’s room. Relieved that I had left the door open, I slowly walked straight in and sat on a low ottoman. I pressed my elbow with the towel now and hung my head down over my knees. I could hear the girl now: “Someone’s hurt! Where is she?” Then I heard Ben, who roomed right next door, returning from breakfast. He wiggled keys in his door lock. “Ben!” I yelled, trying to remain calm. I looked up to the open doorway of Roger’s room. Ben came into view, jumped at the sight of me, and disappeared. Now I screamed “BEN!”

  He ran in. “Jeez, Heidi. What the hell is it?” Then, “Holy shit, what happened to you?” I looked up at him. I couldn’t speak and began to cry. By now, the girl in the hallway had looked in and seen us. She stood in the doorway, “What should we do? There’s blood in the bathroom! What are we supposed to do?”

  By now Ben was on the phone with campus security. “Room 216, Miller. Thank you.” He hung up and, ignoring the girl, found a sundress of mine and draped it around me. “Jesus, Heidi, you’re naked! That’s why I left the first time I looked in. I thought it was a joke. I didn’t see the blood right away. Most of it’s coming from your left side.” He kept talking while I concentrated on breathing.

  The campus EMTs arrived in five minutes and spent almost an hour stabilizing me, waiting for my breathing and vision to normalize. I was wrapped and strapped and immobilized. “Hey, Heidi, wanna write a note for Roger?” Ben asked. “Yeah, Ben. You write it. Thanks.” As the technicians carried me down the stairs to the ambulance Roger came bounding up. He stopped our progress long enough to ask, “What happened sweetie?” His soft voice and sincere concern crumbled me. I began sobbing. “We’re taking her to Health Services,” one of the EMTs said, then to his partner, ordered, “Let’s move.”

  At the university health center I was transferred to a fresh white cot and surrounded by bustling nurses. A doctor poked through the crowd, took a quick look, and turned away, saying only, “Irrigate.” Two nurses set up quickly. A deep tray was held below my elbow while a long tube squirted a clear liquid into the wound. They knew it hurt and reassured me as I moaned. “This has to be done, Heidi. Just hold still. There, now we have to move over here. Now we have to lift the muscle. Hold still, please. Just a little longer. We have to clean the wound. We need to see what we’re dealing with and we don’t want pieces of porcelain or broken bone in there.” The rinsing continued for several minutes, renewing the pain with every splash and gurgle over my exposed and severed nerves. I could hear the accident being discussed. “The EMT report says it was a broken soap dish in the women’s bathroom. Her elbow was spurting bright red blood. Had trouble breathing. Claims she only slumped; doesn’t think she lost consciousness. It’s a sizable laceration, 4 cm by 1 cm. The EMT visualized tissues beneath the dermis that he didn’t recognize. The bursa was punctured. Some tissues severed. Blood was noted on right leg, no other open wounds noted.” I gritted my teeth and looked. I could see the innards of my elbow joint. “What is the white stuff?” I asked the irrigating nurse. “I don’t know, dear. We’ll have to wait for the doctor.”

  A surgeon was called in from a local hospital. Once X-rays were taken, he prepared to begin sewing the insides together. I tried to ask him questions: “What inside parts do you have to sew back together?” He didn’t answer me.

  Does he think I’m merely delirious?

  Then, once he began, I pleaded, “Does it have to hurt so much?” He didn’t answer me. He ignored me, in fact, although the nurse attending him tut-tutted a few times. The pain was exhausting, nearly overwhelming. But the surgeon’s silence scared me.

  At least numb me, please. Don’t just ignore me.

  He was the boss. I couldn’t do a thing but lie still and hope for it to be over. He disappeared the moment he finished. I was left with a sweet chunky nurse, tut-tutting me.

  “I’m Carol,” she told me.

  “Hi,” I said, confused and fatigued. “That was terrible.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “he’s a little rough. But good with the needle and thread. Now, dear, how are you getting home?”

  I had nowhere to go. Professor Goldman’s house wasn’t ready for another week and the dorms were closing. I also needed daily checkups and dressings changed. Campus security drove me back to Roger’s dorm. He helped me call the head of campus housing. I made my case and won permission to stay in a dorm room. I slept soundly, aided by painkillers Carol had acquired for me. When I woke I was alone in an empty dorm — all the students having headed home.

  My mood really came crashing down the next day at Health Services. “You cannot be seen until you pay the summer fee,” the receptionist recited.

  “I was treated yesterday, for an injury that happened yesterday. I was told to come back for a dressing change. I have to pay for that?” I was angry, but I was also depressed.

  Summer didn’t go as I planned. My elbow wasn’t getting better; by August it was still stuck at a ninety-degree angle. I had lost my painting job, but not without trying to manage with my throbbing arm in a sling. I climbed ladders and scraped peeling paint for eight hours a day. I was nearly as fast as the able-bodied men, but I was a liability. The professor’s house turned out badly as well. I couldn’t go outside without attracting the stares of little children and a few adults, too, who were unaccustomed to pale skin and light hair.

  I had only a few months before the first payment for next semester was due. I found a job near the house. A kind Portuguese family man, Charlie, hi
red me to run his snack food distributorship. For five bucks an hour, less than half my wage at College Pro Painting, and all the Gummi-bears and Slim Jims I could eat, I took over the shop. I caught on quickly, and after the first week Charlie started staying home to spend time with his wife and five young children. I placed orders, did the inventory, and handled the in-and-out flow of hundreds of cases of potato chips, candy, nuts, and pickled pig’s feet every week. So tough was the neighborhood, Charlie was required to hire a security guard to ensure I would still be there at five to lock the doors. I learned a lot, from how to deal with grumbling canteen truck drivers to how to clear the sidewalk of one hundred thirty-five cases of chips and popcorn before the local kids did. (The driver refused to bring them inside after unloading his truck. “Not my job, lady”) I ran the place, and the books. It was satisfying, but I saw the rut the owner was in, his family was in, that the delivery men were in. They didn’t earn enough to get ahead. Their children couldn’t afford a school like Brown without a full scholarship. Their situations were exactly what I didn’t want for my future.

  Julie and Ted were closer to my ideal, but even they fell short. They visited us once that summer. They were kind, well dressed, and attractive. I sensed a cautious politeness between them and Roger, and when they discussed Teresa, Roger’s sister, an awkwardness filled the air. I sensed that all the money in the world couldn’t buy this family happiness. It seemed such a waste.