January 16, 1955
Jason Gilbert had us all in stitches yesterday at our pre-midyear blast. We recruited some carefully selected lovelies from the local junior colleges with the best reputation for their students’ promiscuity. (Newall claims he scored as he drove one of them back to Pine Manor, but we only have his word for it. Really clever guys can bring back evidence.)
Old Gilbert has a way of taking charge of every party. First of all, he’s so damn handsome we have trouble keeping our own dates’ attention. And then when he starts telling stories, we’re all rolling on the floor. Apparently, he’s just gotten a new roommate (he won’t say what happened to the other one), and the guy’s a sort of maniac.
As soon as Jason tries to go to sleep, this nut pulls out a sword and jumps around the living room like Errol Flynn.
Anyway, by the first week the guy’d already slashed their sofa practically to shreds. What was even worse was the noise. It seems every time he scored, which was no problem since the couch could not fight back, he’d yell out, “Kill!” Which was driving Jason absolutely up the wall.
And so last night they had a showdown. Gilbert faced this character with just a tennis racket, and as quietly as possible asked what the hell he thought he was doing. The guy responded that he needed extra practice for the Yale meet.
Jason then said if he really needed practice, he’d be happy to provide it. Only they would have to fight until one of them was dead. Understandably, at first the guy thought Gilbert was just bluffing. But to lend his challenge credibility, Jason smashed what was left of the couch into splinters with his tennis racket. After which he turned to his opponent and explained that that was what he’d make of him if he should lose the match.
Unbelievably, the swordsman dropped his blade and made a fast retreat into the bedroom.
Not only did that put an end to all the mayhem, but the swashbuckler went out the next day and bought them anew couch.
Life in Gilbert’s suite was pretty quiet after that. In fact, completely quiet. Apparently the guy’s too scared even to talk to Jason now.
Like his famous forebear in antiquity, Socrates Lambros was uncompromising in his way of life. This meant that no excuse could absolve his son Ted from evening duties at The Marathon. Hence, Ted had not been permitted to join The Class on the September evening when President Pusey had preached so eloquently in defense of academic freedom.
And since he remained imprisoned from the moment he left classes, Ted never got to see a football game and sit in Soldier’s Field amid his fellow freshmen simultaneously yelling themselves hoarse and drinking themselves sick.
This was among the myriad reasons why he did not feel emotionally a full-fledged member of The Class of ’58. He longed to be assimilated with his brethren.
Hence, when the Freshman Smoker was announced, he begged his father for a dispensation to attend this one occasion in a Harvard man’s career that is avowedly devoted to frivolity.
Socrates was adamant, but Thalassa took her son’s side.
“The boy, he works all the time so hard. Let him have one free evening. Parakalo, Socrates.”
“Okay,” the patriarch at last relented.
And Demosthenes could not have eulogized a leader with more grateful eloquence than young Ted Lambros lavished on his father.
Thus, on the eve of February 17, Ted Lambros shaved, put on a new J. August shirt and his very best tweed jacket (secondhand, but almost new), and strode to Sanders Theater. He paid his dollar, which gave him not only entry to the show and all the beer he could consume thereafter, but also door prizes, which ranged from corncob pipes to sample packs of Pall Mall cigarettes.
Deo Gratias, he was really one of them at last.
At half past eight, an overly made-up master of ceremonies walked nervously on stage to start the evening’s entertainment. He was welcomed by a tidal wave of grunts and groans and unimaginable obscenities from the sophisticated Harvard men.
The first attraction was the Wellesley Widows, a dozen prim young singers from the nearby ladies’ college.
They had scarcely sung a note when from all corners of the theater came a hail of pennies and shouts of, “Get naked!”
The announcer counseled the women to make a hasty retreat. Subsequent performers met similar fates.
The stage show, such as it was, was merely grace before dinner. The real part of the Smoker was waiting, across the corridor in Memorial Hall, where three hundred kegs of beer had been trucked in to quench the freshmen’s thirst.
The men were chaperoned, of course. Four deans were present, as were all the proctors and ten members of the university police. The cops had been astute enough to wear their raincoats. And they really needed them.
In no time Mem Hall—scene of so many solemn university events—was ankle deep in beer. Fights broke out. The proctors who attempted to make peace were rudely punched and shoved onto the liquid floor.
Ted Lambros stood watching this melee in total disbelief. Was this really a gathering of the future leaders of the world?
Just then he was accosted.
“Hey, Lambros,” someone shouted, “you’re not even drunk.”
It was Ken O’Brien, who had gone to Cambridge Latin with him, and who was both soaked and sloshed.
Before Ted could respond, he felt a gush of wetness on his head. A baptism of beer. As the liquid oozed slowly down onto his best tweed jacket, Ted angrily lashed out at Ken, catching him squarely on the chin. But in doing so he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Or, as it had become, a lake of beer.
He couldn’t stand it any longer. Although O’Brien, whom he’d knocked onto his knees, kept calling almost amicably to please continue fighting, Ted splashed, sick at heart, out of Mem Hall. Never looking back.
The Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra holds an annual concerto contest to determine the most talented soloist in the community. The competition is held in the winter so that the victor, usually a senior or grad student, can highlight the orchestra’s spring concert.
But there are always eager beavers who try to get their names down early. And Don Lowenstein, the president, has to employ tactful diplomacy to discourage them from screwing up in public.
But his freshman visitor this afternoon, slight, bespectacled, and red-haired, would not be dissuaded.
“Look,” Lowenstein somewhat condescendingly explained, “our soloists mainly go on to be professionals. I’m sure you were a whiz in high school, but—”
“I’m a professional,” interrupted Danny Rossi ’58.
“Okay, okay, don’t get excited. It’s just this competition’s unbelievably intense.”
“I know,” Danny answered. “If I don’t measure up, that’ll be my problem.”
“Let’s settle this right now. Come downstairs and let me listen to you.”
When he returned nearly an hour later, Donald Lowenstein was in a mild state of shock. Sukie Wadsworth, the vice-president, was now in the office and looked up as he walked in and flopped behind his desk. “Sukie, I’ve just heard this year’s concerto winner. And let me tell you, this freshman Rossi is a genius.”
Just then the subject of his praise walked in,
“Thanks for your time,” Danny said. “I hope you think I’m good enough to join the competition.”
“Hello,” said the Radcliffe girl, taking the initiative. “I’m Sukie Wadsworth, the orchestra V.P.”
“Uh—nice to meet you.” He hoped she didn’t notice how he was staring at her from behind his lenses.
“I think it’s very exciting that we’ll have a freshman in the contest this year,” she added brightly.
“Well,” Danny said shyly, “I may just end up embarrassing myself.”
“I doubt it.” Sukie smiled, dazzling him further. “Don tells me that you’re very good.”
“Oh. Well—uh—I hope he’s not just being polite.”
There was a sudden awkward pause. And in that briefest of intervals, Danny resolved to make a heroic attempt at impressing this lovely creature.
Of course he’d fail, as usual. But then he tried to tell himself that the law of averages might be on his side.
“Uh, Sukie, would you like to hear me play?”
“I’d love to,” she replied enthusiastically, and took Danny by the hand as they went out to find a practice room.
He played a Bach partita and a lightning-fast Rachmaninoff. Inspired by the feminine proximity, his technique was even more impressive than before, but he didn’t glance at her for fear of losing concentration.
And yet he sensed her presence. Oh, how he sensed her presence.
At last he looked up. She was leaning over the piano, her low-necked blouse offering a view of great aesthetic interest.
“Was I any good?” he asked, slightly breathless.
A broad smile crossed her face.
“Let me tell you something, Rossi,” she began, moving close enough to place her hands on his shoulders. “You are without doubt the most fantastic guy I’ve ever had the pleasure of being in a room with.”
“Oh,” said Danny Rossi, looking up at her, nervous raindrops forming on his brow. “Say—uh—would you like to have a cup of coffee sometime?”
She laughed.
“Danny, would you like to make love right now?”
“Right here?”
She began to unbutton his shirt.
Danny had always hoped that women ultimately would discover that his brilliant execution of a keyboard passage could be just as stimulating as the execution of a gridiron pass. At last it had happened.
And football players never get to play encores.