Sophomore year was off to a wacky, wild start. It was like that science fiction novel in which something in the past has gone wrong because of time travel and things are a bit off. We're on a path to a very different future than the one we had in mind only last year. There's very little one can do to get it back on track other than getting back in that time machine and going back to the point where somebody dropped their glasses off the the side rail, or got off the thing and stepped on a prehistoric butterfly.
My new roommates were an odd lot. I knew that going in. I had my new gay boy, Stewart, in one bedroom. In another was Yoshi, who played the flute. I was in the master because I had signed the lease. (Or rather, my parents had.) Dad had been up to rescue the shit box, which had abjectly broken down on a trip to DC. I got as far as Rhode Island and Dad had to come up and and we towed that thing the rest of the way. That lesson did not stay learned because I supposedly fixed the leaky gasket and got the overheating under control, but then, since it had been too hot too long, everything else started to fail. I got it up to Boston, but now it was festooned with parking tickets and could not be started. Dad came up, signed that lease and went to the street to find the shit box (that little tin steed that had gotten me this far), and found it towed. We followed the signage to the lot and found that it had been already ransacked for parts. So we (Dad again) signed the title over to the cigarette smoking attendant. There was some small dialog:
"That your shit box?"
"Yep."
"It''s gonna set you back $75 for the tow."
"How much if we just leave it for scrap.?"
"$75."
Dad's already fishing out the dough, shaking his head.
The title was in the glove box. The smell of gas was overwhelming. I became alarmed about the cigarette. I could see us going up in a fireball. It would fit right in.
"So long, old steed."
"So, Cal, now you're a foot soldier."
Even Zoltan's chorus was whacked. The old accompanist was gone and in his place was the towering figure of a guy Zoltan introduced as Justin Van Dyke. I swear he showed up stoned. We'd all soon learn that he mostly cut through difficulties without faltering. On the rare occasions when he did hit a clam or, on one occasion at least, have to stop and stare balefully at Zoltan, Eminescu would say, as he never did of Justin's predecessor,
"Van Dyke, my boy, you read very well. Very, very well. I realize that what the page before you is asking is awkard. I'm sure you'll prevail next time."
(Clapping his hands, we'll begin all over again. And sure enough, Justin Van Dyke, no longer reading prima vista now, would prevail.) Most of us there who were not barbarians were in awe. Let the record show, also, that in that first semester of my sophomore year, we were singing some whacked stuff. Some nonsense by Samuel Barber. More "American Impressionism." It was too hard and a little too well made for the basses to do anything but struggle through it with grim respect.
Another whacked thing was that Van Dyke was in so many of my classes. Harmony Two, there was Justin. Form and Analysis: there, again, was Justin. I think that the thing that finally broke the ice was the foolishness that happened in Annie Fuch's class. I'll get to that. It proved the beginning of a great friendship.
It was also whacked that Mara was not willing to take my calls. She totally shut me out. This was the most hurtful thing I had endured since I was back in High School, enduring the most hurtful thing that Adelle had dished out. "We brave their absence." Except that I don't. I'm not cut out for bravery of that sort. I yelled and screamed and wept and fasted. I wrote bad poetry and bored the likes of Xenia and Rod to death.
It was a chaotic, messy start. For the first time, now, I was cut off from the institutional food, and had very limited funds on which to manage a household. I learned that vendors at Boston's Copley Square Farmer's Market sold off stuff at close of business Fridays starting at 5:30 or so. I took the train down there and was poking around at the appointed hour. I was looking for something I thought I might be able to cook, something that would have a long shelf life. I returned to my apartment building lugging a twenty pound sack of potatoes that I'd scored for a half-dollar. Then followed the potato creativity test: I did them baked, fried, hash browned, scalloped, au gratin, with eggs, in stew, and, as a grand finale, in New England corn chowder. Of course all of these cooking adventures required other ingredients. My roommates ponied up for these, and it was like stone soup for awhile. At last, about two weeks in to the potato extravaganza, Yoshi and Stew confronted me in the kitchen as I hauled out the now half-full sack one more time. Stewart took the lead in his effeminate whine,
"Cal, sweety..."
"Yes, what's up with you two?"
"...we can't eat another potato."
Yoshi, the model of Japanese politeness, stares at the floor.
"Yosh, you also rebel?"
He nods, raising his head revealing a face haunted by the trace of half a grin.
"You know what, you guys. Neither can I. Let's hit Charlie's and get us some slices."
So the bag of potatoes went back under the sink and was forgotten. But there was an epilogue. One evening after a late night at our customary tasks as composers, pianists and flute players, practicing, rehearsing and hunched over a spinet in a practice room, we returned home to a stench the likes of which we'd never experienced.
"Jeezus!"
"Don't say that. That's blasphemy, Cal!"
"Sorry, Stew, but hey, did you cut the cheese?"
"Phew!"
Yoshi is holding his nose, taking his tenor up a notch. I'm looking around for the the offense. Perhaps a small animal has gotten in here and died. I open the cabinet and sniff under the sink. The force of the odor is like a punch in the nose. I almost toss my cookies. From beneath the sack of potatoes I see a puddle of thin, grey liquid.
"Oh...hell, it's the potatoes. I had no idea they could turn so vile!"
I grabbed the sack and walked it's dripping, offensive, disgustingly soft contents out to the street. I couldn't even make it to the trash can. I tossed the sodden mess beside the brownstone steps, where nature and Winter in Boston worked the final magic of decay. I never smelled that sack of shit again. Though I looked in Spring for the remains, there was no trace. It took a awhile before I choked down another French Fry.
On the topic of my fair young lad, Stew Littlefield, I had the idea that he'd be good for at least an experimental roll in the hay. The difficulty was his personality. I hadn't experienced the swish and dish lifestyle up close. All of Goode's and Davis' chums were intelligent, civilized people. Nay, they were the cream of the crop, and likely only harbored me, in my uncouth raw splendor because I was cute. That is not to say I didn't try climbing in bed with Littlefield. Once. The discovery here was that no matter how much I liked the idea of homosexuality as an arts cult, and as a cultural form going back to Socrates (and - certainly - antiquity greater than that, equal to the duration of the species), I myself was not made to be a practitioner. After wallowing around with Mr. Littlefield for part of an evening, despite my enjoyment of his fair visage, there was no way that I could really be a gay man. I was hopelessly, permanently straight. Stewart figured this out in a very short time and banned me from his room. Following this, the irritating whine of his voice and the superficial prissiness of his personality began to really pall. I became in league with Yoshi in torturing him incessantly. Eventually, of course, there was a cessation. He moved out. Perhaps I'll get to that tale if my narrative starts to flag. It was a laugh riot.
