A Life On College Hill

by Lawrence F. Dooling

  “Is Randy okay?” she asked Chet.

  “He spent the night in the hospital, but he showed up early for work,” Chet replied.

  Meghan asked, “What did they find at the hospital?”

  Chet laughed, “Nothing worse than a broken nose and concussion.”

  A relieved Meghan said, “At least he had the good sense to finally get himself to the emergency room.”

  Chet told her, “He didn’t go willingly! A policeman found him passed out on Main Street. He practically had to cuff him to get him in the ambulance.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Meghan said. “I should have dragged him there by myself.”

  Chet told her, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. He wouldn’t listen to me when I told him he should go to the hospital. I didn’t want him working today, either, but he can be thick headed. Once he latches onto an idea there’s no reasoning with him.”

  “Is he around? Can I talk to him?” Meghan asked.

  I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to talk to her. A leper cut a more dashing figure than I did that afternoon. It had been almost thirty-six hours since I had slept, showered, or shaved. A small child, in for breakfast with her parents, burst into tears at the sight of my face. Let’s be honest, there’s just no way to look good while you’re wearing a dirty apron.

  I took a quick look in the mirror to make sure I hadn’t thrown up on myself. Then I lost the apron and walked out into the restaurant, pretending I didn’t eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “Here he is now,” Chet said.

  Scolding me as if she was my mother, she asked, “Did you think I was kidding about the coma?”

  “Even I know there’s a difference between a coma and a concussion,” I replied.

  A jolt of pain prevented me from laughing at my own joke.

  Still angry, she said, “A concussion with a broken nose, and you had to walk me home last night.”

  “You were looking after me when you followed me from the party. I would have felt terrible if something happened to you on your way home,” I explained.

  “How do you think I feel? You were found face down on the sidewalk,” she replied.

  “It really wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Thank you for being concerned about me, I appreciate it,” I said sincerely.

  Still angry, she said, “I am definitely walking you home tonight, so you don’t end up in a ditch.”

  “That’s really not a good idea, Meghan,” I replied. I would have felt better if I could remember her last name.

  Furious, she asked, “Why is it not a good idea?”

  “By the time I get done here it’ll be dark.”

  “So?” she replied, just as angrily.

  “If it’s dark when you walk me home, I’ll have to walk you back home because it’s dark. Then you’ll insist on walking me home, again, and then I’ll have to walk you back home. It could go on all night, and tonight I really need to get some sleep.”

  With a bewildered look, she asked, “Are you still delirious?”

  “Possibly, but I’m pretty sure I’m just tired,” I replied. Tired didn’t come close to how I really felt. Every step I took that day felt as if it were up a steep hill. My head felt like it weighed fifty pounds, and the simplest jobs required intense concentration to complete.

  Giving up on walking me home, she changed the subject.

  “Eric told me he was giving you a hard time. You should have told him I didn’t punch you.”

  I couldn’t help smiling, in spite of the pain, as I said, “I didn’t mind admitting a girl knocked me out, because the girl who did it is a real knockout.”

  To my complete astonishment, she blushed.

  Meghan stopped by Chet’s every day for the next week. That was surprising, because I had rarely seen her in the restaurant before our encounter on the porch steps. I assumed her visits had something to do with nursing. Whatever her reasons, every time she strolled through the door my day became brighter.

  Chet’s had the feel of a 1950’s malt shop. That’s probably because it had been a malt shop in the 1950’s. There were six booths and a counter with a dozen seats. There were no waitresses, so you placed your order at the counter and took a seat. I knew the regular customers and, if I wasn’t busy, would bring them a cup of their preferred beverage while they waited for their meal. Chet liked that I took the initiative to make sure his customers were happy.

  Meghan seemed nervous, the first couple of times, coming in by herself. I always wiped off a seat at the counter for her and tried to make sure she felt welcome. I quickly learned that tea was her beverage of choice. While she studied the menu, I would pour her a cup.

  Thick red scabs had formed on my nose and forehead. If the lacerations hadn’t been stitched up, they would have been so much uglier. At that time, I still had hope the missing part of my eyebrow would grow back above my right eye. I was also still hoping it was only an optical illusion that made my nose look slightly askew. At least the headaches were easing up, a little, as each day passed.

  Meghan would examine the stitches and use medical terms I didn’t understand to describe my condition. After the examination she’d order breakfast or sometimes just sip her tea. We’d sit and talk about school, football, the weather, or whatever. I was afraid I would get in trouble because we’d sometimes talk for half an hour or more. If Chet was upset about me slacking, he never let on. Honestly, I think he liked seeing her as much I did.

  One morning Chet interrupted our conversation with a request. He pointed toward Meghan and said, “Randy, I didn’t meet your friend under the best of circumstances. It would be nice if we were formally introduced.”

  His request was awkward because I was certain Meghan thought of me as her patient, not her friend. I tried to laugh it off.

  “Miss Meghan Mallory, allow me to introduce Mr. Chester Gordon, the proprietor of Chet’s Grill, and purveyor of the finest chili in Central Valley.”

  Meghan scolded me with a look. I think she was embarrassed that I had called her Miss.

  “It’s just Meghan,” she said to Chet.

  He replied, “Like the sign in the window says, I go by Chet.”

  Still trying to make light of an awkward situation, I said, “Chet asked for a formal introduction, and Miss Meghan Mallory just flows together so well.”

  Meghan smiled, smacked me on the shoulder, and said, “My friends call me Meg.”

  That sounded like general information, but it could have been an invitation. I didn’t know many people in my first months at Central Valley. It was incredible to think I might be able to count her among my very few friends.

  The most improbable Saturday night of my life occurred a week after I met Meghan. I had a couple of reasons to be in a good mood that night. There were still a few dollars in my pocket from payday, and I had just experienced twelve hours without a headache.

  I was savoring every sip of an ice-cold beer at my favorite hangout, Will’s Bar. It was only a couple of doors down from Chet’s, and I often stopped there after work on Saturday night. I needed to unwind after another open-to-close shift. It had been a rough thirteen-hour day, but I had to work the hours. My medical bills were almost nine hundred dollars and would take me years to repay. The schedule had me working noon to close the next day. That would give me twenty hours for the weekend. With the rest of my regular weekday hours the next paycheck would be fat.

  About nine o’clock, on that unforgettable night, Meghan stumbled into Will’s with two of her sorority sisters. It was apparent that this was not the first drinking establishment they had visited that evening. She was drunk and close to disorderly. It didn’t take long for her to spot me at the bar. She walked right over and sat on the stool next to me.

  She loudly exclaimed, “Girls, this is the nicest, sweetest, guy in Central Valley.” Her two friends looked at
me and then each other. They rolled their eyes and gave a look that said, she’s bombed out of her mind.

  I gave the girls an embarrassed smile and rolled my eyes in agreement. I may have been nice and sweet, but my face looked scary. My eye was still multiple shades of black and blue. The stitches were out, but the scabs had not yet given way to scars. I seriously debated whether I should be out in public.

  Slurring her words as she caressed my cheek, Meghan said, “Even after I broke his face, he was still nice to me.”

  Her friends didn’t pay attention when I introduced myself. They were busy scoping out the rest of the people in the bar. It was too early for the popular people to show, so they were stuck with me. They decided to sit awhile after I bought them each a beer. No wonder I was always broke.

  Meghan explained that she was celebrating her independence. She spun a semi coherent story about breaking up with Eric. If I understood her correctly, he responded by chugging a beer and belching in her face. Her friends, Sandy and Helen, were supposed to be helping her celebrate. They were bored because Will’s wouldn’t start hopping for at least another hour.

  Buying a couple more rounds couldn’t keep Sandy and Helen in their seats. They wandered around talking with people as they trickled into the bar. Meghan didn’t notice they were gone and continued the saga of Eric. I was happy she was talking to me even if I had stopped listening.

  The front door swung open and in walked the Sigma boys. That was usually my cue to leave. I checked my watch and was surprised to see it was only eleven forty-five. Their party must have been slow because they were early. Taking pains to ignore Meghan, they filed past us toward the tables in the back of the bar. Eric was the last of the group and had a little trouble getting through the door. It wasn’t wide enough to accommodate him and the girl he had on each arm. I was fairly certain they were both in Meghan’s sorority.

  I would never claim to know the written or unwritten rules of a college sorority. Fawning over a sister’s ex, the day after she broke up with him, seemed like a violation. The scowl on Meghan’s face reinforced my belief. She looked for backup and was appalled to find Sandy and Helen already sitting at the Sigma table.

  She turned back to me and said, “I need some air, let’s go for a walk.”

  If I had been given a choice, I would have gone willingly. She grabbed my arm and yanked me off the barstool. I motioned to the bartender to take the money left behind for his tip. Once outside, she pulled me to the left as I tried to turn right toward her sorority house.

  “Don’t you want me to walk you home?” I asked.

  Her bitterness at the betrayal was as obvious as the scabs on my face. “I can’t go back there,” she said.

  We walked south on Main Street away from campus and her house. It was cold, and heavy rain was not far off. I could only imagine her disappointment. Instead of painting the town red, she ended up wandering the streets with me. We walked five blocks to the corner of Main Street and Elm Avenue. This intersection is Memorial Square, home of the town’s civil war monument. We took a seat on a bench at the base of the statue.

  The venom she spewed at her sorority sisters was scandalous. I had just listened to a couple hours of Eric is a no-good bastard. Now I was treated to forty-five minutes of those evil, back-stabbing bitches. She was oblivious to the cold and didn’t notice that it had started to drizzle.

  Her tirade actually made me feel a little better about myself. I had assumed her friends had bailed on her because they didn’t want to look at my broken face. It was obvious, from her rantings, that Sandy and Helen had never been the most loyal of friends.

  I read the names on the monument over and over as she rambled. As much as I liked being with her, there were limits to my endurance. I told her it was getting late and suggested we start for home, but she didn’t take the hint.

  She jumped up from the bench and started to walk farther south on Main Street. “Let’s see what’s down this way,” she said.

  The monument is the unofficial end of the Main Street shopping district. There are few stores on the south end of Main because no one wants to walk that far from campus. We were at the very edge of the town limits when we heard music. Meghan perked up as we found the source. It was Donny’s bar.

  She was already a few paces ahead of me and yelled, “Let’s try this place!” In she walked without even giving me the chance to open the door for her.

  Donny’s was a townie bar, not the kind of bar college kids frequent, not the kind of bar where college kids are necessarily welcome. We were enveloped in a smoky haze upon entering. It was dimly lit, and my eyes took a few seconds to adjust. When focus returned, I was briefly startled by my own reflection in a mirror behind the bar. The jukebox that lured us in was just to the left of the entrance. There were a couple of tables, each with two or three mismatched, empty chairs. The elaborate, hand-carved, back bar was as ornate as the altar in the town’s church. A shuffleboard table took up most of the wall on the left side of the room.

  There were four patrons worshipping at the bar when we entered. The first stool on the right was occupied by a gentleman who appeared to be in his seventies. He proudly wore a tractor company cap, and a sizable chaw protruded from his left cheek. He politely tipped his cap and smiled at Meghan, revealing both of his tobacco-stained teeth. He was alternating sips of beer from the glass in his right hand and spitting tobacco juice into the cup in his left. If he got them confused, I was going to be sick.

  Two stools down sat a large man of indeterminate age. The plumbing company work shirt he wore was at least a size too small. He was in a trance, the sole occupant of his universe. Judging from the ashtray in front of him, he was to blame for the smoky haze. He had been sitting there long enough to have smoked a pack of cigarettes. Characteristically, the crack of his ass was peeking out between his hiked-up shirt and drooping pants.

  A middle-aged couple sat at the far left of the bar. The way they were cooing and cuddling, I suspected they were tread’n on the cheat’n side of town.

  “Get me a beer, will ya?” Meghan asked as she bebopped over to check out the jukebox.

  I recognized the bartender as a regular customer at Chet’s. I walked up to the bar and asked, “How are you this evening, Henry?”

  He seemed uncomfortable with my familiarity. It was obvious he didn’t recognize me.

  “You had biscuits and gravy with your coffee this morning,” I said with a smile.

  “You’re the kid who works for Chet,” he replied. “How could you possibly remember my breakfast order?”

  “I always remember my regular customers. My name is Randy.”

  He reached out to shake my hand and said, “Call me Hank. I guess I should have remembered that face of yours.”

  Hank had dark, deep set eyes and thick, black, wiry hair. Crumbs needed to be combed from his bushy mustache. His too-tight t-shirt was tautly stretched over a basketball-sized beer gut. Hank seemed like a good guy, but there was something about the look in his eyes that made me think, possible serial killer.

  “Hank, the lady would like a beer,” I announced.

  Hank’s gaze fixated on Meghan. With a lean and hungry leer, he said, “You got a real pretty girlfriend, kid.”

  I took a long, wistful look at Meghan as she danced in front of the jukebox. She was as desirable as she was unattainable.

  Ruefully, I replied, “I’m not her boyfriend, Hank, I’m her babysitter.”

  Hank looked concerned and asked, “Is the baby twenty-one?”

  Hell, I wasn’t quite twenty-one, but I had rarely been asked to show my fake ID since moving to Central Valley. I didn’t know how old Meghan was, and I doubted Hank really cared. Hot girls who looked older than fifteen rarely got carded. They were good for business.

  I used the best line I could think of to get her a beer, “Take a good look at her, Hank. Does anyth
ing get that good looking in under twenty-one years?”

  “No, guess not,” he replied. “What’s the lady drinking?”

  “Doesn’t really matter, I don’t think she’ll be tasting it.”

  “You got time for one round, I close in fifteen minutes.” Hank poured two Yuenglings and pushed them across the bar.

  A smirk appeared on Hank’s face. “I’d bet she has something to do with that crease in your face,” he said.

  “You’d win that bet,” I quickly replied.

  With the fervor of a preacher citing scripture, he proclaimed, “A beautiful woman is always trouble!”

  I tried not to laugh out loud at Hank’s sermon. Meghan had it all. She was one of the most popular girls on campus. What did she know about trouble?

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my last five singles. It was only Saturday, and I was already down to five dollars for the week. It was another reminder that I had to go grocery shopping as soon as I cashed my paycheck.

  I put the five ones on the bar and asked what I owed.

  Still fixated on Meghan, he said, “On the house, kid, I’m enjoying the show.”

  I thanked him, pushed a dollar across the bar, and put the four survivors in my pocket. Glasses in hand, I started toward Meghan. Halfway there, I yelled, “Here’s your beer!”

  She spun around toward me and flashed that smile. Son of a bitch! I froze dead in my tracks. My knees inexplicably struggling to support my own weight. Meghan walked over and grabbed a glass from my hand.

  “Let’s dance!” she yelled over the booming music.

  She broke into one of her cheerleader routines, tearing up the impromptu dance floor, without spilling a drop of her beer. I, on the other hand, was hopefully doing something that would be recognized as the Twist. Half of my beer ended up on the floor. Meghan didn’t notice my lack of coordination and seemed to appreciate having a dance partner. All too quickly, Hank broke up the party.

  “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. I’m closed!” he hollered.