No Fortunate Son

Chapter 1

Patrick Golden was resigned to an outwardly enviable life. As he sat at a table on the top deck of his posh three-story home on Belvedere Island, he had no inkling that the first in a series of squalls was forming over the waters just beyond his vision. He finished his breakfast, and then watched as the Golden Gate Bridge gradually materialized from a shroud of fog. When at last the great orange northern tower was fully visible, he stood and then lifted his tray of dishes from the top of a stack of unread sections of the Sunday newspaper. Glancing by chance at the obituary section, which until then had been concealed from view, he gasped when a photograph of his friend, Charles Comstock, leaped at him from the page. With his mouth hanging open in shock, he sat and hurriedly read the death notice. When he was finished, he felt troubled for an unidentified reason, in addition to the obvious one. Although the obituary didn’t provide any significant information about Charles that he didn’t already know or surmise, it unearthed a muddled memory that had been buried deep in his subconscious.

Lost in thought, he walked to the railing. The feel of the bracing wind on his still-youthful face and the smell of salty ocean air helped him think. After several minutes spent mentally dissecting the article, he was still unable to bring the memory into focus. Sitting again at the table, he scrutinized the obituary once more. When he reached the next-to-last sentence, which announced a memorial service for Charles to be held at the Mayflower Charitable Foundation Building in Boston, a wave of emotions suddenly washed over him. Oh my God—Morgan!

Standing again at the railing, he gazed out at the dissolving fog until he could clearly discern the bridge’s distant southern tower. He wiped a tear from his cheek and then walked into the kitchen, carrying the newspaper with him. There he encountered his blonde, twenty-one-year-old daughter, Susan. Tall, attractive, highly intelligent, but moody, she seemed to Patrick to be a younger version of his ex-wife, Sandy.

Good morning. You’re up early for a Sunday, he said. What time did you get home last night?

I have no idea. It was late, okay? And I’m up early because I’m playing tennis with Jessica.

Are you playing here?

No, we’re playing at her club. What’s with all the questions?

I was just curious.

Have you been crying or something?

No.

Susan began peeling the banana she was holding. It sure looks like you have been.

Patrick removed his wireframe glasses and then wiped tears from his green eyes. "A friend of mine died this week. I just discovered his death notice in the New York Times. Reading his obituary stirred up a lot of memories."

Since when do you read the obits?

I don’t.

Susan rolled her eyes. Okay …

I read it by accident, Patrick said, realizing her confusion. It was Charles Comstock, my roommate at Berkeley. He was my best friend back then and quite unique.

What made him unique?

Well, he came from a really influential, wealthy East-Coast family, and he was brilliant. My God, he could paint, write poetry, play the piano, and speak French, Italian, and German just as well as he spoke English. And he had unbelievable political and social connections too. Knowing him changed my life in so many ways.

Susan took a bite of banana. What ways?

Patrick thought for a moment about divulging the transcendent change that Charles had made to his life but then decided against it. He taught me a lot about art and music, he told his daughter. Before I met Charles, I actually thought Botticelli was pasta and Rachmaninoff was a Russian beef-and-noodle dish. Let’s just say that before I met him, I was a cultural pygmy.

Lovely metaphor, Dad. Oh, by the way, I won’t be home for dinner. Jessica and I are going to eat at the San Francisco Yacht Club. It’s my turn to buy, so I hope you don’t mind if I put it on your account.

"It sounds more like it’s my turn to buy," Patrick said under his breath.

What?

Yeah, yeah, fine. Put it on my account. Are you going to your mother’s anytime soon?

Susan left the kitchen and started down the stairs, with Patrick following closely behind her. I don’t know—maybe, she said.

You really should go see her. You’ve been back from college for three weeks, and you haven’t gone over there once.

Okay, okay, I’ll think about it. Will you stop badgering me?

Before Patrick could respond, Susan slammed her bedroom door.

Patrick walked down another flight of stairs to the lowest level of the house and knocked on the guest-room door; he got no answer. He knocked again and then walked in. Jim, you awake?

Jim Bennett, sleeping on his stomach with one long arm dangling off the bed, startled awake with a loud snort. Why the hell are you waking me up in the middle of the goddamn night? he said. You call this hospitality?

Patrick sat on a wingback chair in the corner of the room and then rested his long legs on the adjacent footstool. Well, sorry to disturb your slumbers, but I thought you’d want to know that our old friend, Charles Comstock, is dead.

Jim sat up and turned his weak blue eyes to where Patrick was sitting. He died?

"Yes, he died. I just read it in the Sunday New York Times."

Shit, was he ill?

Well, it would seem. Do you want me to read the obituary to you?

Jim found his thick glasses, and then he looked at the clock on the nightstand which showed the time to be nine twenty. Yeah, go ahead.

Patrick opened the paper. ‘Charles Alton Comstock—’

Alton? I never knew his middle name was Alton. Such a preppy name, but then he was such a preppy guy, wasn’t he?

Patrick chose to ignore the comment. ‘September 26, 1948, to June 6, 2011. A native of New York City, Charles attended the University of California at Berkeley, where he earned a bachelor’s degree in art history. Following his graduation, he served with distinction in the US Army during the Vietnam War. After traveling abroad for several years, Charles earned a PhD from Harvard University. Upon finishing his education, Charles lived in Florence, Italy, before returning to Massachusetts, where he taught art history at Boston University. Charles’s diverse interests included oil painting, writing, sailing, collecting rare books, and playing classical piano. He is survived by his loving brother, Robert Comstock, of Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts; his devoted life’s partner, Joseph Meyers of Boston—’

Whoa, stop right there! ‘Devoted life’s partner, Joseph Meyers’? Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, do you mean to tell me Charles was queer?

"Yes, he was gay, Jim. Does it matter?"

There was silence for a moment. I guess not. Did you know? He never told me. But then you two were closer than he and I ever were. Hey, just how close were you two, anyway? I mean, you roomed with him, for Christ’s sake.

Very funny.

Seriously, did you know?

I figured it out when we were in college, but he never told me.

Why didn’t you tell me?

Patrick, thinking of the best way to phrase his reply, ran his hand through his hair that, while showing few signs of thinning, was turning from light brown to silver. I guess because he obviously didn’t want anyone to know. Being gay wasn’t very popular back then, you realize. Besides, how was I to know how you’d have taken the news?

Hmm, I’ll be damned. Charles was light in his tasseled loafers.

And you wonder why I didn’t tell you? Shall I keep reading?

Jim pulled the sheet up over his hairy bare chest. Yeah, go ahead.

‘Devoted life’s partner, Joseph Meyers, his beloved nephews, Peter and Richard Comstock, and his adored cats, Salvador and Dali. A celebration of Charles’s life will be held on Saturday, June 18, at 4:00 p.m. at the Mayflower Charitable Foundation Building in Boston. In lieu of flowers, contributions can be made in Charles’s name to the Until There’s A Cure Foundation.’

What the hell is that foundation? Cure for what?

AIDS.

Figures. Did you know about that?

About what?

About him having AIDS.

No, he seemed healthy enough the last time I saw him.

Jim yawned and stretched. When was that?

Patrick thought for a moment. I think it was in New York, right after my divorce, because I remember telling him about it. So probably about seven years ago.

Was he still in the closet?

Yes, so far as I know.

Are you going to the memorial thing?

I’m not sure yet.

Not sure? Why wouldn’t you go? You guys were close.

Because the memorial is being held at the Mayflower Charitable Foundation.

So?

That’s Morgan Thackeray’s father’s foundation. If I go, I’ll undoubtedly see her. Can you imagine how disruptive that could be? Not to mention painful.

What? Come on! After forty-some-odd years?

Right now, it feels more like yesterday.

You’re shitting me.

"No, I’m not shitting you. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to go for a few months without thinking about her, and then—wham—I catch a fragrance in an elevator that reminds me of her perfume, or I hear a song we used to like, and it dredges up all the memories and raw emotions."

Wow, I had no idea you were still carrying a torch for this broad. Shit, she’s sixty-two or sixty-three, like we are. She probably looks like an old bag. Who knows if she’s still alive? Get over her.

I’m hardly carrying a torch for her. It’s more like I’m haunted by her. I still can’t figure out why she did what she did. There’s simply no explanation that has ever made any sense to me.

Haunted by her! What bullshit. You’re still carrying a torch, and you know it. Anyway, why is this thing being held there?

Charles and Morgan used to be good friends, and I’m sure they were still close at the end. Plus, that building probably has room for this sort of thing.

Or, is it possible that she has nothing to do with this? Maybe Charles left his money to that charity. He was loaded, and he obviously has no kids, right?

That’s possible but unlikely. Damn, I want to go for Charles’s sake, but seeing her would be so incredibly awkward for her and me both. Besides that, it’s not like I could finally get the answers that would put my mind at rest. A memorial service would be a most inappropriate place to hold such an inquisition.

Jim waved his hand at Patrick. Eh, just go. You’d be doing it for Charles.

That’s easy for you to say. You weren’t involved with her.

True.

You know, it’s hard to believe.

What’s hard to believe, Charles’s death?

Patrick had a faraway, wistful look on his face. "Not just that. It’s hard to believe how fast time goes by. The sixties don’t seem that long ago now. Remember how passionately we all felt about things back then? We all had such energy, lofty ideals, and high hopes for the future. Sadly, few of those hopes were ever realized. What’s worse, we now know they never will be. It seems that I’ve accomplished everything I ever will, and that makes me feel expendable. And just what have I accomplished? I haven’t saved the world, my marriage was a disaster, my daughter doesn’t seem to like me, the thought of tax law repulses me, and my friends are dying off. I was happier when I was poor, idealistic, and ambitious."

"Screw poor, idealistic, and ambitious. We all had our heads up our butts back then. I don’t think about the past, and you shouldn’t either. Christ, you made a fortune at that law firm, you retired early, and you are living on this ritzy island in a house designed by an acclaimed architect—namely, me. You should be deliriously happy."

Aren’t you something!

What’s that supposed to mean?

It means you’re being your materialistic self. Do you really think money and big houses can make you happy?

I don’t know, but not having any can sure make you unhappy. Anyway, I’m sorry to hear about poor Charles, but I’m glad you woke me up. I’m having drinks tonight in Beverly Hills with a guy who is going to build a huge shopping mall in the valley, and I’m one of the two architects he’s considering.

When the hell are you going to retire?

Why should I? You make it sound so depressing.

Good point. Do you want something to eat before you leave?

Nah, I’ll stop along the way and get something.

You sure? I can scramble you some eggs.

I’m sure. Just let me take a shower, and then I’ll get out of here. It’s a long drive.

Okay. It was fun seeing you again. Let’s not wait so damn long next time.

You got it. And, Pat, I’d go to that memorial if I were you. Screw Morgan.

Patrick stood up and began walking toward the door. I’ll think about it. Drive carefully, old pal.

Patrick went back up to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then called Barry Reuben. He heard, Barry and Marcia are not able to come to the phone right now. Please leave a detailed …

"Barry, it’s a voice from the past. Patrick Golden. I’m afraid I’ve got some sad news about our friend, Charles Comstock. I saw his obituary today in the New York Times. I guess he died last Tuesday. Give me a call back when you can. My phone number is 415-555-6090.

Patrick couldn’t think of anyone else to inform. He turned to a portly, graying golden retriever lying at his feet. Dylan, do you want to go for a ride to the beach? Dylan merely flicked his tail once in response.

A half hour later, with nearly blind Dylan in the passenger seat of his vintage red Jaguar convertible, Patrick power-shifted through the hairpin turns of Mount Tamalpais and listened to the Beatles’ Abbey Road on the stereo. As the deep, lush forest gave way to rocky terrain and a spectacular view of the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean, Patrick’s mind was forty-three years away.

Chapter 2

When Patrick returned from the beach, he checked his phone for messages. There was one from Barry Reuben.

Patrick, this is Barry Reuben. Thanks for letting me know about Charles. After I got your call this morning, I found the obituary online. What a shame. As a coincidence, Marcia and I are going to be in the East next week, visiting her son and his family in New York. We’re thinking we’ll stay in Manhattan until Thursday morning, and then we’ll take the train to Boston to do some sightseeing up there over the weekend. So we plan on attending the memorial. Are you going to go? It would be cool seeing you. How long has it been? I know it was before I married Marcia, because I still remember the shocked look on your face when I told you we were getting married. Anyway, let me know if you’ll be in Boston. Maybe we can all get together for a bite to eat Thursday or Friday night. We’re flying out tomorrow, but you can reach me on my cell at 415-589-5534. Hope to see you soon.

Patrick slapped together a ham sandwich and then went down to the family room to watch the Giants’ baseball game on TV. Even while he watched, however, he couldn’t stop thinking about the memorial for Charles.

By the time the game was over, Patrick knew he needed to make up his mind, and so he called information to get Robert Comstock’s phone number.

Hello, Robert? This is Pat Golden, Charles’s old friend from college.

Pat, of course! It’s so nice to hear your voice again after all these years. I suppose by now you’ve heard about my brother.

"Yes, quite by accident. I read his obituary today in the New York Times. You have my condolences."

"You read about it? Didn’t Morgan call you? She was supposed to."

I never got a call, Patrick said. Did she have my number?

It was on the paper Charles gave her. Have you changed it since you last talked to him?

I’ve had the same home number for twenty years.

Well, that’s odd.

Maybe not. Perhaps you’re not aware of how difficult it may be for Morgan to see me, and frankly, I’m a little worried about how I might act around her.

Oh, I can imagine. Charles filled me in somewhat on the situation. But it is bizarre she didn’t call you. In the days just before he died, I told Charles I’d notify you, but he was absolutely adamant that it be Morgan. You were the one person he insisted that she call herself. He mentioned it to her and to me repeatedly. Honestly, it seemed a little strange to me at the time that he seemed so obsessed about that one thing. Anyway, now that you know about the memorial, will you be coming?

Patrick sighed. I assume from what you’ve said that Morgan will definitely be there.

Oh God, yeah. She’s a vital cog in this. Joseph Meyers and she are really putting it all together. You knew my brother was gay, right?

Yeah, I knew.

Well, anyway, I don’t exactly know what happened between you and Morgan or how things stand now, but from my perspective, I’d like you to come. You and my brother were really close friends, and he talked about you all the time.

Patrick was silent for a minute, deep in thought. Okay, I will be there.

That’s great. It would make Charles happy. So how have you been?

I’m fine physically, I guess. I’ve put on a few pounds, and I’m beginning to sprout a bit of an extra chin, but nothing too serious to complain about. How about you?

I’ve put on more than a few pounds and lost way more than just a few hairs. It’s the ravages of time. But it beats the alternative, right?

Yes, I suppose it does. Anyway, you may want to let Morgan know I’m coming. It might help prevent any surprises or whatever.

Okay, good thought. I look forward to seeing you on Saturday.

"You too, Robert. Hey, let me give you my cell-phone number in case, for whatever reason, you want to reach me when I’m in Boston. It’s 415-555-3885.

That evening, Patrick stood on his deck keeping vigil over a steak on the Weber as he watched an armada of small sloops plowing the choppy gray waters of the bay, far below. On the table, next to the obituary he had read again, sat a half-empty shaker of martinis. Just as he was about to flip the steak, his cell-phone rang. Hello? he said.

Pat, it’s Robert calling. I just had a call from Morgan to discuss some details about the memorial, and I told her you were coming.

What did she say?

Well, she seemed ashamed and embarrassed that you found out from reading about it in the paper. She also seemed awfully nervous.

Patrick took a sip of his martini. Not surprising. Anything else?

Yeah. She asked if I had your e-mail address. I told her I didn’t.

She wants to e-mail me?

I guess so. Do you want her to have it?

He flipped the steak. "Sure, why not? It’s pegolden@gold.com"

Okay, got it.

Do you have any idea why she might want to e-mail me?

Not really.

Maybe she’s going to ask me not to show up.

No, I don’t think she’d do that. She knows that would be against Charles’s dying wishes.

"Well then, it’s awfully strange she somehow forgot to call me. Anyway, I guess I’ll find out. Go ahead and give it to her."

Will do. See you Saturday.

The first thing the next morning, Patrick checked his e-mails, and there was one from Morgan. It read:

Pat, Robert told me that you will be coming to Charles’s memorial. I sincerely apologize for not calling you. I just could never quite find the courage, and so I kept putting it off. I’m honestly very ashamed of myself, and I hope you can understand. In any event, I think it’s important that we meet and have a talk prior to the memorial. There are things we must discuss. If you’re getting in on Friday, could we possibly meet for dinner? I’ll make tentative reservations for seven thirty at Number 9 Park (that’s also the address). It’s an excellent restaurant right across from the Common, where I can get us a private room. Let me know if you can join me. Again, my deepest apologies for not calling you. Morgan.

Patrick shaved, showered, and then returned to his computer, which was still open to Morgan’s e-mail. He read it again and then replied. I’ll be there. Seven thirty, Friday, Number 9 Park.

Later that morning, he spoke on the phone with Barry Reuben, and then he booked a flight that would get him to Boston in time to have dinner on Thursday evening with him and Marcia.

Four days later, Patrick settled into his leather first-class seat, sipped coffee, and tried futilely to concentrate on the Chronicle’s sports section rather than on Morgan. What is it she needs to tell me? Will I finally learn the truth? Just how awkward is it going to be to see her again? Outside the window, far below, Lake Tahoe was inching toward him, and it made him think back to the first time he’d seen the lake from the air. How many flights ago was that? Maybe a thousand flights? Indeed, over the course of his lifetime, he had flown well over a million miles, but this flight seemed different. This flight, with each elapsing second and each passing mile, was bringing him back to a past he could neither forget nor escape.

PART TWO

Chapter 3

In 1968, Patrick Golden was in many ways the face of an entire generation of upwardly mobile, postwar, working-class progeny flocking in unprecedented numbers to America’s colleges and universities. Yet his face, the face of a generation, was still too boyish to be considered handsome and was not particularly distinguished. In fact, it had no outstanding features but was comprised of many perfectly agreeable ones. It was neither long nor round and, when not freshly shaved, betrayed only a hint of reddish-brown stubble upon its cheeks. Its nose was neither thin nor wide, as was the case with the mouth, although the lips would be considered full; when open, the mouth revealed straight, generous front teeth, which produced an engaging smile. He had large, gray-green eyes and a head of thick, medium-length hair, which was halfway between blond and brown and was parted on the left. He stood a little over six feet tall and had a slender, athletic frame.

From his seat in a vast lecture hall on the Berkeley campus of the University of California, Patrick checked his watch, saw that it was one minute past three, and then turned his eyes back to Professor Crews on the stage two dozen rows in front of him.

"And so it’s no wonder Twain didn’t publish The Mysterious Stranger in his lifetime; it quite literally could have gotten him run out of town on a rail. Imagine what Victorian America would have thought of these sentiments. Crews extracted a pair of tortoiseshell reading spectacles from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, picked up his bookmarked copy of the paperback from the podium, and began reading. ‘A God who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell—mouths mercy and invented hell—mouths golden rules and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals for other people, and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man’s acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites his poor abused slave to worship him!’"

Crews glanced at the audience briefly and said, To be sure, this antipathy toward the deity was not the rage, and neither were his views on war. He flipped to another bookmarked page. ‘Look at you in war—what muttons you are and how ridiculous! There has never been a just one, not an honorable one—on the part of the instigator of the war. The loud little handful, as usual, will shout for the war. Next the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutations of them, and thus, he will by and by convince himself that the war is just and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception.’ Crews gave another purposeful look at the audience and then removed the spectacles. These may be fashionable notions here today, in the Berkeley of 1968, but they certainly were not in vogue in the Hannibal of 1909!

There was laughter in the auditorium and then applause. Crews held up a hand. "Okay, next Tuesday we’ll finish discussing The Mysterious Stranger. In particular, we’ll analyze Twain’s views on enlightenment and its impact on the human condition. So be thinking about Philip Traum and about what he truly symbolizes. If any of you want to read some more of Twain’s trenchant views on war, you can read ‘The War Prayer,’ which is in your anthology. Keep in mind that Twain also instructed his publisher to release this piece posthumously because—I love this—he told the publisher, ‘None but the dead are permitted to tell the truth.’"

With Professor Crews’s lecture still rebounding in his brain, Patrick made his way up the teeming aisle, out of Wheeler Hall, and into the bright afternoon sun. Done with classes for the day, he was soon off campus and on Telegraph Avenue, where he squeezed through a disorderly mob of placard-carrying war protestors, hippies, dancing Hare Krishnas, panhandlers, and doorway drug dealers—its habitués. Over the pounding of their jungle drums and the clashing of their finger cymbals, he could hear their chants, mantras, and supplications as he hurried past. Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today? Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare. Pot, speed, LSD? Spare change? Hey, hey, LBJ …

By the time he reached Parker Street, six blocks south, the campus’s vibrant influence was gone, its cacophony of noise supplanted by the drone of urban traffic, and the modish student-oriented eateries, clothing stores, and coffee shops replaced by gas stations, pawnshops, and a strand of empty stores whose windows were plastered with psychedelic posters. At the corner, he headed west for another six blocks, until he reached a sagging, singularly charmless three-story apartment house in dire need of paint. There, feeling the familiar stab of pain in his right knee, the result of a high-school football injury and semisuccessful surgery, he avoided the stairs and took the elevator to the top floor.

After banging on the door to apartment 3B and hearing no response, he opened it and then walked in. Whoa, it’s noisy in here! he said loudly. Where is that music coming from? I could hear it blasting all the way down on the street corner.

Even in jeans and a faded navy-blue polo shirt, Charles Comstock looked out of place sitting on the tattered couch of a chintzy apartment. There was something in his manner—something so subtle that it could not readily be identified, but something, nonetheless—that suggested a prince left on a pauper’s doorstep. It wasn’t so much his appearance, for there was nothing obvious about it to differentiate him from his contemporaries. His straight dark-brown hair fell heavily over his forehead, nearly to his eyebrows, and over his ears on the sides, as was the fashion. His serious eyes were the color of old nickels and were framed in round, rimless glasses, which was also the style. And under his long, straight nose, he sported a thick brown mustache, as did many other Berkeley students. Still, despite the mustache and the masculine stubble on cheeks and chin, there was something vulnerable and delicate about his lean face and something subliminally majestic about his bearing.

As Patrick entered, Charles tossed Andre Malraux’s La Voie Royale onto the square coffee table on which his bare feet were resting. "Ah, mon ami, welcome to the fourth circle of hell. That eardrum-piercing music is coming from next door, and it’s driving me quite literally insane. I swear to God, the walls of this squalid, ticky-tacky dump are made of cheesecloth. It’s impossible to study here! I’ve read the same goddamn page four times."

Patrick sank deeply into a yellow, underinflated plastic chair opposite Charles. What a bummer that you have to put up with that.

"Bummer? That’s a gross understatement. Cosmic cataclysm is more like it. I never should have moved in here. I didn’t have to room with Barry. I could have flown out here and found my own damn place. But no, I didn’t want to give up any of my time sailing with my father on the Vineyard, so I settled for this pathetic dump."

It’s too bad you couldn’t have talked Barry into finding a nice place on the north side, like where you and I were intending to live this year.

Oh, Pat, you know Barry. The north side is way too bourgeois for his taste. Besides, he thrives on squalor. He thinks it absolves him of the horrible transgression of having well-to-do parents. Then there’s the fact that he’s beyond—shall we say ‘parsimonious’?

Patrick chuckled; he always enjoyed Charles’s large vocabulary, which he used for its entertainment value and not to show off his considerable erudition. Maybe if you had offered to pay most of the rent? he suggested.

I did offer to pay most of the rent, but somehow he convinced me that living on the wrong side of the tracks would be good for me. You know, I’d see another side of life and all that.

And now that you’ve seen it?

Charles chortled. It makes me finally appreciate having been born filthy rich. Thank you great, great-grandfather Comstock!

Patrick nodded. I could have told you there was little to recommend being poor.

Yeah, but all that glitters isn’t gold.

Oh, how’s that? You’re sailing all summer on Martha’s Vineyard instead of doing janitorial work like I did, and driving a new Corvette instead of a hand-me-down 1959 Chevy Biscayne. You have no idea how much I’d like to trade places with you.

No, you wouldn’t. As Malraux said, ‘Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.’

Huh? What are you hiding?

Nothing, I just felt like quoting Malraux, since I’m reading him. Anyway, I ended up here, and I detest it.

Well, I still feel bad about that. I mean, I’m responsible.

Hey, it’s not your fault that your mom died, and I could have chosen to come out here to find my own place. It’s entirely my fault. So how are things working out with your apartment?

Well, it’s a dump too, but I’m not gonna complain. I was really lucky that Jim Bennett’s roommate dropped out just when my father agreed I could move back to campus. Besides, crummy as it is, it sure as hell beats living home and commuting over here. You should come over and check it out.

Yeah, it would be cool to see Jim again. What a funny guy. He’s interesting too because he looks like a big jock but is really very deep. Didn’t he play football?

He was a lineman in high school.

I usually don’t care for jocks, present company excluded. But Jim wasn’t the typical big-muscles-and-puny-brains, vapid kind of guy. I remember him talking a lot about the Greek classics and, of course, he knows a lot about architecture. How is he to live with?

He’s cool. He’s got this shit-eating sense of humor that keeps me laughing. Plus, we have football in common, and he cooks! The only downside is that he’s not exactly tidy. His architecture projects are spread all over the apartment. I mean, I can’t even put my feet on the coffee table, because there’s some cardboard city erected there.

"Wow, sounds like utopia to me. All you have to put up with is a cardboard city. I have to put up with that," Charles said, gesturing at the wall through which the music was pounding.

Patrick nodded his head in agreement. Man, those have got to be some big-ass woofers! It sounds like the Chambers Brothers are actually right in the room with us.

Charles made a megaphone with his hands and then shouted at the wall. Turn it down! I’m trying to study!

In a matter of seconds, the music stopped.

I’m impressed, Patrick said, adjusting the volume of his voice back to normal. They heard you.

Charles’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t possibly have heard me over that din. Besides, he never turns it off during the day, even when I pound on the wall. You’re never here this early, so you don’t know. It’s Jimi Hendrix, the Motor City 5, or the Chambers Brothers from noon until he goes to work around six. Maybe they blew a fuse. Throw me a cigarette, would you?

Patrick tossed his pack of Winstons to Charles, and then something caused him to jump. What was that?

Charles stopped fishing a cigarette from the pack. It sounded like a scream from next door. Maybe he was yelling back at me.

Patrick held up his hand. There it is again! Someone screamed, ‘Oh God, no!’ I don’t think he’d be screaming that at you!

Yeah, that’s freaky. I wonder what the hell is going on over there.

Who lives there?

It’s some totally militant black dude and this lobotomized white hippie chick. His name is Jamal, and I think he’s a Black Panther. Neither of them are students. He works nights as an orderly at Cowell Hospital. She’s always fried on drugs and works at the Top Dog on Durant. You’ve probably bought a kielbasa from her.

Have you ever asked him to turn the stereo down other than by screaming through the walls?

Yeah, I went over there once and complained. I said, ‘Has it ever occurred to you that people are trying to study?’

What did he say?

He said, ‘Go piss up a rope, you honky dork.’ I’m basically afraid of him.

What does Barry think of him?

Charles slid the pack of cigarettes back across the coffee table. "Naturally, Barry worships the guy. He wanted to live with the people, and Jamal, being poor and really into the ‘black is beautiful’ thing, is the veritable apotheosis of one."

Patrick leaned forward and retrieved the cigarette pack which had been intercepted in its journey across the table by a thick course catalog. Harvard Summer School? What’s with this?

Barry is going to go there this summer to spend time with Jennifer, the chick he met last summer at some tennis academy down in San Diego. I guess she lives not too far from Harvard.

Does Sue know that?

Of course she doesn’t know. He told her he’s going to Harvard for purely intellectual reasons. He conveniently forgot to mention the carnal ones. If she knew the truth, she’d totally freak out.

Patrick shook his head. How does he get all these girls?

"Maybe it’s his beard, the ponytail, and the whole unwashed look. Face it. Around here, he’s more with it than we are. I mean, his old VW Beetle is infinitely cooler than my Corvette. Who’d have thought?"

Before Patrick could respond, Charles put his index finger over his lips. Listen, now I hear wailing or something. Is that sobbing? Do you hear it?

They both listened in silence for a minute. I hear mumbling, Patrick said. It’s probably the television.

Probably.

Anyway, I really feel sorry for Sue. I think she’s nice.

Charles shrugged. She’s not bad. I could certainly do without all of her black-light posters and that hideous lava lamp over there. But that was the trade I made. I got the parking spot in the garage, and Barry got to have Sue live here for nothing.

Patrick glanced at the cinder-block bookcase against the wall and studied the lamp which had extruded a ghostly white glob of wax suspended in its blue oil like a fetus in formaldehyde. That thing is so gross. I wonder what Freud would say about it.

"He would have said, ‘Oh mein Gott, ein Penis,’ of course. Anyway, in another two months