Chapter Twenty-two

“HOW WAS THE PARTY?” asked Paula from her bed.

“How was the river cruise? I hear those things can get pretty wild.”

“Oh, I didn’t go.”

“What?”

“I still feel weird inside.”

“Shit.”

Charlie was calling from a pay phone outside Sammy. In the light of day, the punch station was nothing more than three trash cans. Last night, the place had seemed like a place. An Asian kid had curled himself around one of the cans. He was asleep, hugging his baseball cap in lieu of a teddy bear. If I could get him a pillow and drape a blanket over him, last night would be erased.

“So how was your frat thing?” asked Paula.

“Weird.”

“How so?”

“Nothing happened.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Just drank too much punch and ran into this girl. Nothing really happened.”

And then there was a dial tone. She’d hung up and Charlie had no more quarters. Mrs. Henderson had been very clear about her strict collect-calling policy. It was forbidden, unless it was from a hospital or police station. Charlie thought of waking the Asian kid and asking him for change, but he hadn’t the heart. The anesthetic of sleep should wear off naturally, and the horror of having passed out at the Sammy punch station should be experienced alone, with no one watching.

Sammy loomed in the distance. There was probably change in there. On the dance floor? Beneath the mattress where they’d slept? He needed to call Paula. To confess it all. Or deny it. John preached the latter: that a man should always deny it. Always. Neil had told a Crumb that the truth comes out one way or another. Don’t waste another moment, tell her all the crumby things you’ve ever done.

Sammys must be experienced with infidelities. Perhaps they knew the safest way out. He entered the fraternity house, climbed the stairs, and found the bathroom Nicoletta had used. His bladder was full, and he wanted his mouth to be minty, too, but there in the doorless stall squatted a Sammy.

“Jesus,” said Charlie.

“Making some room for an aigle,” said the defecating Sammy.

“What’s that?

“An aigle? You gotta be shittin’ me, bro. It’s the best sandwich in the world. Aigle time, aigle time!” sang the Sammy. “Aigle, aigle, aigle time!”

“I’m really hungry,” said Charlie.

“Then let’s do it, dude. Let’s aigle out. Hey, toss me some TP.”

A block from Sammy was a greasy spoon whose livelihood relied on the hangovers of Sammys. On Saturday and Sunday mornings, the owner manned the griddle, making the house specialty: fried egg atop a slightly burnt, buttered bagel, slathered with brown gravy. He made each one to order, some Sammys asking for beaucoup gravy, or extra-burnt, or double eggs, or “Mario, melt me some cheese on that aigle, bro.”

“One aigle, two aigle, three aigles,” Mario sang, happily collecting crumpled bills, some pulled from socks, others from punch-stained palms.

“I hear you never had an aigle before,” a Sammy said to Charlie. “Dudes, this is his first aigle. First aigle alert!”

Charlie was last in line, the only non-Sammy. The conversations were about aigles, taking a post-aigle dump, and who’d gotten lucky.

“She wasn’t that wasted,” said a Sammy. He had probably graduated just last year. Still in his suit and wearing a backward baseball cap, he probably took the amazing Amtrak down last night from New York. Haircut Sammys. The worst.

“Love those sports chicks,” said Haircut Sammy.

“Tight,” said a Sammy.

“Flexible,” said Haircut Sammy.

“You do her?” asked a Sammy.

“There was some pen, there was definitely some pen.”

“Full pen?”

“Some pen, okay?” The skinny part of Haircut Sammy’s tie was longer than the fat part. When he became agitated, he’d pull at it, making matters worse. “If I say some pen, that’s what I mean.”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” the Sammy conceded. “Fuck it, I’m getting two aigles.”

“What’s pen?” Charlie asked a Sammy.

“What’s pen? Dude, it’s when you do it. It’s when you put it in.”

Haircut Sammy turned to face them. “Dudes, you don’t talk about pen on the aigle line.” Disgusted, he tugged at his tie.

“Was the girl you penned—did she play lacrosse?” asked Charlie.

“This is the last I’m gonna talk about pen. You don’t talk about pen on the aigle line. You don’t talk about pen when my man Mario’s making beaucoup aigles. But yeah, I think she played stick.”

Charlie pictured the Lacrosse Girl crying into Francis’s shoulder after a confession, stoic Francis willing to absorb her sobbing but unable to hug her back.

“Since it’s your first aigle, it’s on me,” Haircut Sammy told Charlie. “You want beaucoup gravy on it?”

“Yes,” said Charlie.

“Yeah!” a Sammy cheered. “That’s the best way to get it. You bite in, and the egg yolk and gravy drip down your face. Beaucoup gravy aigles rule. Dude, why you keep sniffing your fingers? You get finger pen last night? Dudes, this dude got finger pen!”

“You can talk about finger pen on the aigle line, just not real pen,” said Haircut Sammy. “It’s disrespectful to Mario, but finger pen is okay.”

“Oh my God,” said Charlie, unable to remove his finger from under his nose. “That’s it, that’s what it is. Cool Ranch Doritos. It’s a new flavor. I had it over the summer.”

“Dude. Chill,” said Haircut Sammy.

“If you fooled around with a girl, would you tell your girlfriend?” asked Charlie.

“I don’t have a girlfriend, and if I did, I wouldn’t cheat,” said Haircut Sammy.

“Yeah, cheating is for losers,” said a Sammy.

*

Mario gave Charlie two dollars’ worth of quarters. “Call your mama, tell her about my famous aigles,” said Mario.

“I’m actually calling my girlfriend.”

“One aigle, two aigle, three aigle.”

Charlie had decided to tell Paula the truth. He couldn’t live knowing he was morally inferior to Haircut Sammy, but the Hendersons’ phone just rang and rang. He called for close to an hour, sniffing his fingers, praying to hear Paula’s voice. He was going to trade the sin for an admission of eternal love, maybe even a proposal. “It made me realize how much I love you. Not during the finger pen, but after the shameful finger pen. Will you marry me?”

John said that being in love was the least-efficient mode of existence, like going through life with a piano on your back. That was how it felt at the pay phone. The guilt, the hangover, the desultory Sunday of the post-Sammy party perimeter. The Asian kid had vanished, leaving behind his baseball cap. You can love someone’s essence purely by what they leave behind, thought Charlie, and remembered the Dentyne Paula had left behind at the Plaza. A slick of hot aigle grease ran down Charlie’s shirtsleeve. He punished the sandwich by taking an enormous bite. It was unspeakably rich. A pill the size of a brick, it dissolved in his stomach, its nutrients attaching themselves to un-oxygenated punch. The Sammys had warned Charlie about the aftereffects: narcolepsy, bowel stimulation, a deep, almost deathly satisfaction. Nihilism. They’d told him of the time a Sammy had fallen asleep and shat himself.

“You’ll want to fall asleep, but don’t. Don’t until you’ve evacuated the aigle from your body.”

When the greasy brown bag was a ball crumpled in Charlie’s hand, he was, as the Sammys had said, capable of hibernation. But he used his cool ranch fingers as smelling salts, undeterred by the looks he received as he made his way to the Wawa, where he found a bag of Doritos. He brought the chips to a bench on Locust Walk and poured them over his palms in hope of permanence, but he lost the more delicate scent, the Doritos scattered about his loafers.

While Charlie sniffed in vain, Francis sat next to him, smoothing down the creases of his freshly ironed Dining Commons smock.

“What’s the deal with the chips?” asked Francis.

“I spilled them,” said Charlie.

“How was last night? Must have been pretty good if you didn’t sleep in your own bed. Was it a wild night?”

“Not really.”

“Did you see my girlfriend?”

“Just in the beginning, when we were outside with Sammy Claus.”

“She didn’t get her picture taken or anything? I mean topless.”

“No, not at all.”

“I stopped by, after midnight, but it was too crowded to even get inside.”

After midnight, thought Charlie, the nimble Lacrosse Girl was getting penned.

“Did something weird happen at Sammy?” asked Francis. “She was acting weird this morning. Probably just girl stuff.”

“Probably. She really likes you. I can tell.”

“Thanks.”

Pen, pen, pen, pen.

“And couples should stay together,” said Charlie, “despite all the temptations to cheat.”

“I agree.”

“That fraternity house is a bad place.”

“All I know is, Sammy brothers essentially run Wall Street.” Francis picked a feather off his apron. It wafted down to the Doritos pile, but veered away at the last second. “I’m definitely going to pledge.”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“You’re better than the Sammys.”

“You really think so?”

“By comparison, you’re way classier. Although they’re against cheating, just like us.”

“My dad says I’m middle class.”

“Maybe so but saying you’re middle class is upper class.”

“Thanks. I should get to work.”

“I could help you today, if you want.”

“You’d need twenty-five hours of safety and CPR training, and a uniform.”

“Right,” said Charlie. He wanted the proximity of a hot stove so he could work off his sin and was tempted to ask Mario if he could become his apprentice, but Mario’s sandwich had begun to make itself known to Charlie’s small intestine, at first in subtle ways and then more bluntly, squeezing and kneading; he had to hold his stomach as he bum-rushed Wharton’s men’s room. During his many minutes of relief, a custodian whistled his way in and began mopping. Charlie wished there were a polite way to ask for privacy; even though he was winning the war against the aigle, the battle was noisy and involved, and the song in the air was “Amazing Grace.” Ordinarily, Charlie would flush along the way, but he didn’t want to give the custodian the impression that he was finished, for fear of a barge-in, so he waited till the very end to flush. It was a mistake. The whistling stopped as soon as the water gurgled and rose.

“All I did was flush,” said Charlie as he backed his way out of the stall, the contents of the toilet spilling out and sliding along the floor. He and the custodian watched the solid waste make its way, a life-giving stream of toilet water allowing it to settle all the way behind the sinks.

The custodian threw down the mop and withdrew his holstered plunger. He rolled up his pantlegs and positioned himself above the overflowing toilet. There was white in his afro; his bare calves looked dry and scaly.

“I’m really sorry,” said Charlie. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“Shouldn’t have to? Thirty-five years, this is my job.”

With both hands he plunged, violently disturbing the toilet water. Miraculously, it receded, sucking itself back into its hole.

“Wow,” said Charlie.

“Now for the death blow.” With both hands he raised the plunger high above the toilet, brought it down with all his might, then yanked it clear away like a dragon-slaying knight. The toilet belched once, again, then a third time, farting sewage, splattering the custodian’s face. Thirty-five years of undigested aigles must have been waiting in there for this poor man.

“Fuck me,” said the custodian.

“I’ll help you clean up this mess,” said Charlie. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“You want to clean up these turds?”

“Yes. Some of them are mine.”

The custodian removed his shirt; like Jee-Jee, he wore an undershirt, probably the same ribbed Jockey Classic A-shirt. Francis wore one, too.

“I should wear an undershirt,” said Charlie.

“Say what?” The custodian was at the sink, scrubbing his face and hair with soap and hot water.

“I like your undershirt.”

“You a fairy?”

“No, not at all. I just appreciate this type of shirt. The best people I know wear one, and I should, too. A Dignidad shirt, if there ever was one. So, please, tell me how to clean the turds.”

“Well, you’re going to want to put on those big yellow gloves before you go fetch the turds, and you’re also going to want to take off that suit jacket.”

There were many steps to the process, all of which the custodian orated from the sink, atop which he sat directing Charlie. “Remember, nothing’s clean until the mop water runs clean.”

Charlie must have gone over the bathroom floor fifteen times before he could wring the mop of clean water. Only the last few passes involved disinfectant.

“You’ve got to set the stage for the soap,” said the custodian. “If you put it on too soon, the soap won’t work.”

He taught Charlie to save one sink for last, because that was where he’d pour out the dirty water. “That last sink’s your sewer. It gets the bucket water. But you can’t leave that poor sink coated with bucket water. You have to clean that one the best of all. That’s your signature sink, your mark. At least that’s the nonsense I tell myself to make it through the day.”

When the last sink gleamed, the custodian hopped down and shook Charlie’s hand.

“Nice job.”

“Thanks. And thanks for letting me. It was exactly what I needed today. I did something bad last night, and now I feel better.”

“You Wharton students are crazy, but you’re industrious. Know how I know?”

“How?”

“My son goes here. MBA. My only rule is that he has to take a shit elsewhere.”

He was in his undershirt and had thrown the soiled overshirt in the trash.

“Hey, want my jacket? You can have it. Brooks Brothers.”

The custodian tried it on—a perfect fit—then rolled his mop and bucket toward the ladies’ room, whistling “Amazing Grace.”

*

“Hi, Mrs. Henderson. It’s Charlie. May I please speak with Paula?”

“We’re watching 60 Minutes. You should know better, Charlie.”

“Can I call after the show?”

“Can he call you, Paula? She’s shaking her head no.”

“Shit.”

“Language, Charlie.”

“Sorry. Tell her that I love her and that I’m sorry.”

“He says he loves you, Paula. She’s just staring at the TV. She’s not feeling so hot, Charlie. What is he sorry for, Paula? She doesn’t tell me anything. The commercials are almost over. I haven’t missed 60 Minutes since Paula was a little girl.”

“Just tell her I’ll stop at Martine’s tomorrow to see her.”

“She’s going to the doctor’s tomorrow, hon.”

“I can go with her.”

“I’m going with her, Charlie.”

*

Most Monday mornings, Charlie would be on a bus back from New Hope, his lips still moist with their goodbye kiss. On this Monday, he found himself in the lobby of High Rise South, watching students put up Halloween decorations. He wondered who would volunteer to do such a thing, and why it was never him.

“Need any help?” he asked.

“We’re good,” said a girl at the base of a ladder, holding a small, warped broom.

“Everything looks very festive.”

“We’ve been at it all morning.”

“I could help, really. These are the sorts of things I never do, but should, you know?”

“It’s just that we sort of have a system going,” said the girl.

“I like the bales of hay. And I’ve never seen a pumpkin that big.”

“It’s the Pennsylvania soil,” she said, then ran up a ladder so the broom could join its green-faced witch. I could watch this all day, thought Charlie. A finger tapped his shoulder.

“Hi,” said Paula. Today was the first truly cool fall day, and she wore a pink turtleneck sweater and white jean jacket, clothes Charlie hadn’t ever seen. She was smiling, too—beaming brightly. “I went to the doctor.”

Her smile proscribed anything but a white lie. He was going to say that he fell asleep in the vicinity of a homely girl, and that was that.

“So, you’re all right?” asked Charlie.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“That’s great. Listen, about the frat party—”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I don’t want to know.”

“Good, because there’s nothing to tell.”

“Do you want to sit somewhere?”

“Sure. We could have lunch, too. I don’t have class today.”

“My mom’s waiting in the car. Let’s sit outside.”

Paula pointed to a wooden bench outside a small chapel about a hundred yards away from High Rise South. It chimed every hour, just a single chime, and Charlie was comforted that he often didn’t know the time. Especially at night. It could be midnight; it could be four.

“I’ve never sat here,” said Charlie.

“First I need a hug.”

“I’m so happy to see you. I’m so happy to hug you.”

“So, the doctor told me some pretty incredible news.”

He thought about the ladder the girl had climbed to reach the witch, and the smell of hay in the lobby.

The smell of hay. They would be the last words to sound inside his skull before he found himself in the back of Mrs. Henderson’s car, the top down, on the way to New Hope. Mrs. Henderson lecturing Paula about womanhood, the wind lecturing Charlie’s boyish locks about manhood.

Mrs. Henderson had made sure to break out a value pack of Kleenex, placing each and every packet in strategic locations throughout the house, including one right in Charlie’s lap. He sank into the couch and watched Mrs. Henderson shake her big proud head. He watched Paula’s pink sweater sleeves, stretched ridiculously, flopping at her sides. Odd, thought Charlie, finding yourself places. Like when he found himself at Disney World, next to Angelina, in the admirable darkness of Peter Pan’s Flight. He didn’t ask how he got there, or try to recall the airplane to Florida, or checking into the hotel. He squeezed Angelina’s hand and thanked all the stars over London that life-bookmarks whisk you away to happy scenes.

Now he tried to avoid looking at the crucifix that Mrs. Henderson wore for the occasion.

“We’re very Catholic, Charlie,” said Mrs. Henderson. “There are certain things we just won’t do. Your mother will understand.”

It had been decided that they would all go to New York tomorrow to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Green.

“This is a family decision,” said Mrs. Henderson. “Some people try their whole lives to have a baby. The doctor told my honey bunny that she couldn’t, unless she had surgery, so I guess this is some sort of a miracle. Your mother will understand, Charlie. Mothers just understand.”

He’d called home earlier, from the Henderson household, which was awash in paprika smells and Christmas music, the soundtrack for keeping it. He wanted to ask his mother if she might adopt the child, so that he could indeed resume being young, but instead just babbled something about a freshman field trip.

“You sound funny, Charlie Bear,” Mrs. Green had said.

“Just don’t like field trips. They treat you like a baby.”

“Suppose I don’t want it?” he’d asked Paula while Mrs. Henderson set the table.

“You heard my mom, it’s like a miracle. I don’t know if I can give it up.”

“It could kill my youth. I mean really ruin my life.”

“If you don’t want to have anything to do with this child, fine. We never have to see one another again. You can go right now.”

“No. I want to stay.”

“Let’s just take it a day at a time,” said Paula, lifting her sweater and bringing Charlie’s hand to her warm belly. “That doesn’t feel like a ruined life, does it?”

He’d been hoping for at least a glass of wine, but there was a glass of milk in front of his plate, just as there was in front of Paula’s and Mrs. Henderson’s. They’d held hands before dinner, and Mrs. Henderson had asked God to bless them all, including baby.

“When Paula was little, she got the flu real bad, slipped in the tub, and cracked open her skull. We all held hands that night, and prayed around the table, just like we’re doing now.”

There was a cartoon that Charlie watched when he was first flu-stricken: a bunny tries to shove a lion into a bowling ball’s finger holes. His feverish mind kept telling him that turn of events was impossible. So, so impossible.