Regeneration

by Allan, Barbara

  Also, all she’d brought to wear were her professional clothes, which didn’t seem appropriate for class, and she wanted to buy some more casual things. Not the sloppy T-shirts and baggy jeans that the girls were wearing these days, the worst fashion statement ever, Joyce felt.

  Didn’t these young women realize that this was the best their bodies were ever going to be? That cellulite and stretch marks and drooping boobs lay inevitably ahead? To hide their figures under a tent of clothing was such a waste. Not to mention another kind of waist, which went unchecked in oversized jeans and stretchy sweatpants.

  When Joyce had been their age, her tight, white Lee jeans used to tell her when to lay off the Ding Dongs and reach for the Metrical. How ironic that the exercise industry, by incorporating spandex in their clothes, had been responsible for spawning so many fat young women.

  Yesterday, when Joyce first entered town, she drove directly to the college, which was only a few blocks from the square on North C Street. She pulled her car into the main parking lot and got out, her high heels crunching on the snow. The school was deserted, except for a few cars by the Administration Building; it was a week after Christmas—a new year, a new beginning—and the students had gone home for semester break. Obviously, the X-Gen corporation was making use of the facilities during the college’s down time.

  She stood by her Honda for a few more minutes, taking in the small campus. The original buildings, Larson Hall and Lockridge Hall, both three-story, red-brick Victorian structures built in the late 1800s, were still there, surprisingly well preserved. Also still standing was the Old Chapel, a building both loved and feared by students and teachers alike when she’d gone there, because it was believed to be haunted.

  Like all incoming freshman, Joyce had heard the tall tales when she arrived, spun around sorority fireplaces and in dorm lounges late at night; apparent urban legends about a young man who hanged himself in the Old Chapel belfry after a failed loved affair. And two female students who pitched over the top railing of the staircase and plunged three stories to their deaths. Then there was the one about a teacher who lost his footing on the stairs, rolled down them and broke his neck.

  And there were reports of other strange occurrences in the building: mysterious lights, disembodied footsteps, sinister apparitions. Even Joyce, late one night, hurrying across campus after a clandestine date with a married professor, trying to get to her sorority before they locked her out, could have sworn she saw a ghostly face in one of the belfry’s windows....

  But which, if any, of these stories were fact and which were fiction was anybody’s guess.

  Behind the Old Chapel, Joyce could see several more modern buildings, constructed with red brick to blend in with the older ones, betrayed by their unfunky modern lines. Curving cement walkways—bordered by great old oaks and maple trees, their giant limbs bare for the winter—led like paths out of Alice in Wonderland, from one building to another.

  Suddenly, Joyce became so emotional that her throat began to ache, and her eyes welled with tears. There was something so poignant about being here, about recalling the excitement, apprehension and sheer terror she had back then, of deciding which path to go down...of endless possibilities and pitfalls...but remembering, too, the feeling of power and indestructibility only the young have, knowing their whole life lay ahead.

  In the Administration Building, a plump, friendly young woman—perhaps a student working there—was roaming the lobby with clipboard in hand, waiting to snag students like Joyce, enrolled in the special session.

  “Smith, Joyce,” the young woman said, checking her clipboard and marking Joyce off a sheet littered with the likes of Jones, Smith, Harris and Johnson. “Welcome to Simmons campus—follow me.”

  The plump woman had long brown hair pulled back with a tortoise-shell clip, and wore a Simmons College sweatshirt, jeans and dark socks with Birkenstock sandals—clearly the ugliest thing ever invented; since when were shoes supposed to be comfortable? They stopped at a banquet-style table where various campus brochures were stacked, and the woman thumbed through a box of alphabetized manila envelopes.

  “Here’s your informational packet,” the woman said, handing the envelope to Joyce. “Class schedule, map of the campus, dorm room key, dorm rules and regs, yada yada yada.”

  “Thanks. It’s still a lovely campus.”

  “Oh! You’ve been here before?”

  “Undergrad days—you don’t wanna know what class.”

  The woman laughed. “I worked the special session last year—it’s always a hoot.”

  “A hoot?”

  “It’s funny...I mean, you know, fun to see older people get into the campus swing. Remember that old TV show, Twilight Zone?”

  “Sure.”

  “Remember that episode, where the old folks in the rest home became children again?”

  “I missed that one.”

  “Well, that’s what special session reminds me of. I think it’s very cool. Like parents’ day got way outa hand.”

  “Well...I’m not anybody’s parent.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean any offense! I think it’s great. Never too old to learn, y’know?”

  Never too young to lose some weight, either, Joyce thought bitterly, walking back to her car.

  Mildly bummed now, Joyce drove around the back of the college to a four-story tan building with a futuristic front awning. Taking the elevator inside the lobby up to the top floor, she lugged her heavy Vuitton suitcases—stuffed with every creature comfort she had left to her name (whichever name)—down the narrow tile hallway, past a big communal bathroom, to the room number on the front of her informational packet.

  When she opened the door, a medicinal smell greeted her, telling her that at least the room was clean. She dragged her suitcases in, stacked them in the center of the floor and looked around. Everything in the tiny room was tan: tan twin beds, tan curtains, tan work desks, tan tile floor and tan walls, making her glad she had pledged a sorority here and missed the whole dorm experience.

  Then, again, she thought, dorm life might not be so bad. Add a couple thousand dollars worth of electronic equipment, a computer and picture of Matt Damon, and a girl could feel quite at home...though a voice in the back of her head was substituting a lava lamp, a Smith Corona, and a poster of Mr. Spock....

  She spent the rest of the evening unpacking and cursing the fact that there weren’t nearly enough hangers.

  Some things, at least, never changed.

  On the following morning, a small group of middle-aged would-be college students gathered in a classroom on the first floor of the Social and Behavioral Building. With nervous nods and quick hellos and quicker smiles to one another, they sat at ancient wooden desk-chairs, and quietly waited for the instructor to arrive.

  Besides Joyce, who had taken a front row seat, there were six other women. She had met most of them in the dorm bathroom the night before, and again in the morning, and they were guardedly polite to each other, not knowing quite what to say. First names only, as they’d been instructed.

  And—except for a woman named Sally, whose outdated black coif was obviously dyed—the rest had apparently embraced old age, donning sweatshirts with kittens or apples on them, and letting themselves go gray.

  Joyce wondered if they wondered if she was in the wrong room.

  Scattered amongst the women were three men, which surprised her; she was under the impression that the X-Gen corporation only involved itself in rejuvenating women. After all, when men aged, they got character in their faces; when women aged, they got fucking wrinkles.

  But then, she supposed, men were also being unfairly displaced, so why wouldn’t the company help them, too? A man could just as easily encounter the “young blood, young ideas” bullshit as a woman.

  Anyway, having males around could make the next four weeks a lot more interesting—even if they were overweight and balding—because she had trouble spending time with only women. She just didn’t trust
her own sex—not since her best friend stole her boyfriend back in high school.

  The door to the classroom swung open, and a tall, ruggedly handsome man with an armful of books and papers swept in. He had an easygoing smile, which he flashed to the group, and Joyce could feel the whole room relax. With his thick salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, he reminded her of recent-vintage Sean Connery, particularly if she squinted a little.

  He wore a navy V-neck sweater over a pale yellow polo shirt, faded jeans and brown Hush-Puppies shoes, and he plopped the load in his arms down on the desk in front of the blackboard, at the same time saying, “Hello,” in a low baritone, to which everyone murmured, “Hello,” back.

  Something stirred in Joyce’s memory. Could he be a teacher she’d once had here?

  “I’m Mr. Hanson,” the instructor said.

  Hanson? There was a Don Hanson that taught microeconomics her junior year. Old Doom and Gloom she’d called him, even though he wasn’t much older than her, because of his pessimistic outlook on the American economy. On the other hand, he had correctly predicted the oil crisis of the late ’70s, and the breakdown of family values in the ’80s—neither of which she’d given a rat’s ass about in his class at the time.

  Now another of his predictions came to mind....Something about the adverse effect on the economy the Boomers would have in the late twentieth century, and early twenty-first....

  Joyce squinted again, this time trying to make the middle-aged bearded man standing in front of the class into the young clean-shaven teacher she remembered, and couldn’t; but then, almost thirty years had passed.

  And if he was that same teacher, he probably wouldn’t remember her, because it had been so long—though he might know her, because after all, she hadn’t changed that much. Not like these graying relics around her....

  “If you’ll open the packet you were given,” Mr. Hanson instructed, “I’d like to go over a few items before we get started....”

  Joyce got out the contents of her manila envelope but didn’t look at them; she’d already read everything several times the night before in her room.

  “First of all,” he continued, “we’ll be meeting Monday through Saturday, four hours in the morning...then break for lunch...and four hours in the afternoon—I’m the only instructor, by the way, so we’ll all get to know each other quite well.”

  That was all right with Joyce.

  He was saying, “In the evenings you’ll be expected to attend the movie that will be showing in the student lounge....The film will be a point of discussion the following day, so don’t skip it, even in the unlikely event you’ve seen it before. Sundays are yours to do with as you please. Any questions about class procedure?”

  “Can we go into Des Moines?” a male voice asked from the back.

  “On Sundays, yes,” Mr. Hanson said, then added, like talking to a kid, “Just stay out of trouble.” And everyone laughed.

  Hanson came around from behind the desk, and leaned against it, half-sitting, hands folded in front of himself.

  “I also want to touch on the purpose of these classes, because I detect a few smirks on some of your faces....”

  Not her; she may have been “thinking” a smirk, but was positive it hadn’t shown on her face. But some of the classes did sound a little ridiculous—Slang in the ’80s and Pop Culture in the ’90s—like they were game show categories.

  “After all,” Hanson said, “every one of you is a college graduate, most of you with graduate degrees, and all of you with an incredible expertise in your chosen fields. This program you’re enrolled in is open only to the highest achievers.”

  Joyce almost laughed. These old farts were high achievers? Maybe he was speaking to her, not wanting anyone to feel left out....

  “Despite what some of you may think,” Don said, “Puff Daddy is not a new brand of cigarette, the Cardigans are not necessarily sweaters, and Fastball refers to something other than baseball.”

  She knew one out of the three. Puff Daddy was a rapper, right?

  He returned to the instructor’s position behind the desk. “I’ll tell you what makes old age a killer,” he said, eyes panning the classroom, “and it’s not any kind of disease....It’s a cultural killer called a closed mind...tunnel vision...failure to keep up with current trends—like alternative music.”

  Joyce shifted uncomfortably in her seat, thinking of the oldies stations she preferred to listen to.

  “It’s noise,” a male voice behind her said.

  She turned her head to look at the stocky man with a round face and bulbous nose. He wore a green polo shirt a size too small.

  Hanson gave the guy a tolerant smile. “There’s a court in Colorado that punishes youthful offenders by making them listen to Wayne Newton and Tony Orlando. To them, that’s noise.”

  Actually, Joyce agreed with the youthful offenders.

  “I’m sorry,” the stocky man said, “it’s crap and there’s no way I’m going to learn to like it.”

  Hanson drifted over to the stocky man’s seat. “Your name is...?”

  “Rick.”

  “Rick,” Don repeated. “I’m not here to change your personal tastes. You can play Mantovanni or the Cowsills, in private, if you like. I’m just here to make you familiar with the rock and roll that’s out there that came along after Fabian.”

  Mild chuckles erupted around the room, and even Rick smiled.

  Hanson moved to the side of the desk, halfsat on it again. “Let’s play out a little scenario, shall we, Rick? Your line of work is...?”

  “Architectural engineer.”

  “Okay,” Don said. “You’re now a thirty-year-old architectural engineer with thirty-year-old peers in the workplace. But what’s this? Rick has never heard of Tori Amos, and he thinks Garbage is something you put out at the curb for trash pickup!”

  A few more chuckles; some of these people picked up on the references, Joyce among them—well, the Tori Amos part, anyway.

  “How can that be?” Hanson asked, archly. “Has Rick spent his life in a plastic bubble? Suddenly, your coworkers start to look at you funny.” The teacher paused, then asked the man, “You familiar with the movie Dawn of the Dead?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Rick said with a shrug. “Zombies are trying to take over the world.”

  The mall, actually, Joyce thought. A frightening prospect.

  “And how is it, Rick, that some of the people keep from becoming zombies?”

  Rick thought for a moment. “By pretending to be one of them.”

  “Congratulations, First Caller!” Mr. Hanson, still half-seated on the desk, nodded. “You win the free Sheryl Crow tickets. That’s right, Rick, by pretending to be one of them. And if you refuse to conform...to become one of them...they’ll start to come after you. And then you’ll be putting yourself in jeopardy....And everyone else in this program.”

  The room fell silent; all eyes were focused on the engineer. Zombie eyes.

  Hanson stood from where he was seated on the corner of the desk. “I think I’ve made my point,” he said, then added, “But fair warning: Tomorrow I bring the boom box.”

  Gentle laughter rippled.

  “No earplugs allowed. And oh, one other thing...I mentioned that you’re going to get to know each other during the next four weeks, but I caution you against forging any potentially lasting friendships. After this session, you won’t be seeing each other again.”

  Hanson wrote on the board, in huge letters: FIRST NAMES ONLY. And he underlined it three times and added a trio of exclamation marks after.

  New names, new faces, new jobs. Joyce was almost relieved to have an excuse not to get too close to any of these people.

  The instructor reached for some of the papers he had on the desk. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover,” he said, “so what the hell, kids—let’s get started....”

  When class broke for lunch, the small group—minus the instructor, who Joyce assumed didn’t care to eat
the cafeteria food—took one of the winding cement pathways over to the student lounge. The brisk winter air was a welcome slap in the face, waking her up from the drudgery of sitting for four hours.

  Hanson was interesting enough, and she was really enjoying the pop culture makeover, but in this effort to turn her into someone younger, she still had the same old ass, and it ached from sitting so long.

  Inside the cafeteria, which didn’t smell as bad as she remembered, a heavyset facial-mole-sporting woman in a hairnet served up a limited menu of salads and sandwiches. Joyce ordered a small salad with diet dressing, and coffee.

  The other women had already gone through the line and were clustered together at a table near the center of the room. Two of the men, pudgy Steve and a lanky guy named Phil, took their food to one corner, where sports news was playing on a big-screen TV. That left Rick all by himself at another table.

  Joyce couldn’t help feeling sorry for the guy; he had the world-weary look of one who’d suffered too many disappointments in a life that was too soon in running out.

  She took her tray over to his table.

  “Mind if I join you, Rick?” she asked.

  He looked up, chewing a bite of the hamburger held in one hand, and shook his head. She set her tray down and took a seat next to him.

  “I’m Joyce.”

  “Hi, Joyce.”

  It sounded like the beginning of a particularly lifeless A. A. meeting. This guy definitely needed cheering up....

  “I’m hoping to lose another ten pounds,” she said, gesturing toward her spartan lunch. “I don’t want to go through liposuction. I hear it can be really painful.”

  He swallowed, grunted. “At least you don’t have to have hair plugs stuck in your skull. You want to talk about painful. I know a guy who had it done.”

  She winced. “Well, I’m not nuts about having my whole face stretched up and tied in a knot on the top of my head.”

  One of the women at the table not far away said to them, “Do you mind? I’m trying to eat.” She was in the process of removing the skin from a chicken breast.