Last year our world history teacher told us how the ancient Greeks used to go into battle naked. Fighting with swords and shields and spears. Naked. And how they used to hold their athletic contests naked. Running and wrestling and throwing the discus. Naked.
Tough guys.
Tougher than I am.
Walking west toward the university, I miss my clothes. And not just the warmth, not just because it’s only about 65 and the breeze is picking up. I miss the feeling of protection.
But I think that maybe I get what the Greeks were up to. Because being naked outside, out here on the battlefield, it’s like I’ve never been this charged up, this alert, this ready for anything. There’s no chance I’m going to make a mistake, because I’ve got no armor. There’s only this thin layer of naked skin holding my life inside it, so am I going to let a sword or a spear or some kid on a skateboard take me out? No way.
And if I have to run a marathon or jump onto a brick wall to get out of the way of some girl in spandex on a mountain bike, why should I carry a single ounce of extra weight?
Those Greek generals weren’t stupid. Want your warriors and runners to be fast? Want ’em to fight like crazy and be extra careful and completely awake all the time? All you have to do is take away their clothes.
Yeah, so I’m thinking deep thoughts. But mostly I’m having fun. Because after three days of building a prison around my head, I’m out on the town. I’m a free man. Me and John Wayne, we’re men of action.
In real life, no one looks at anyone else very long. I can always tell if someone is looking at me. Most people can, I think. Because when someone does look at you, and you notice it, you look back at them, and they look away, right? Especially strangers. I could never be on one of those reality TV shows where a camera keeps staring and staring, watching everything I do.
But today I can stare at people as long as I want to. Bobby, the Human Hidden Camera. Up close and personal.
Like this guy who’s walking the same direction I am. He’s about eighteen, and he’s got on baggy blue jeans and a snowboard sweater and a beanie, and I’m watching him. When some other kids come toward us, he gets this look on his face, very cool, very into his own head. He swings his shoulders, and he bobs his chin up and down. When the kids are past us, the dudewalk stops, switched off. Then the kid scratches his head, picks his nose, wipes the booger onto his jeans, and takes a kick at a pigeon on the sidewalk. Because no one is looking. Except a lone Greek warrior.
I feel like I’m hurrying, and then I know why. In the back of my mind I’ve known since the second I left my house. It’s because I’m at Fifty-ninth and Kenwood, and the timer in my head tells me that classes at the lab school are just about over for the day and, if I hurry, I can go stand out front and see what’s happening.
Turns out it’s a fairly dangerous idea, because I’m in front of the entrance at dismissal, and there’s no place to keep out of the way. Four doors are draining straight at me with about three hundred kids streaming down the steps and across the lawns, headed for the cars and buses and sidewalks that take them home. Three days ago I was right in the middle of the herd. It’s hard enough to keep from getting trampled when everyone can actually see you, so I scramble to one side and use a bike rack as a safety zone. I lean backward, but only for a second. The metal bars feel like icicles against the backs of my thighs.
I spot Kenny Temple, and I smile because I know he’s saying something funny. He’s always funny. He’s talking with Jay Bender, and they’re laughing and shoving each other. Kenny’s got his backpack over one shoulder and his jacket’s open, flapping. He’s got his sax case in his right hand, and that big red book in his left hand. It’s the fiftieth-anniversary edition of The Lord of the Rings. Kenny hasn’t let it out of his sight since he got it for his birthday three weeks ago. The best part is that the book comes with a full set of maps.
Then Kenny’s onto his bus, and the kids keep coming. A gang of sophomore girls, the popular ones. Maya, Leslie, Carol, Jessica, and three or four others whose names I’ve never learned. Because what would be the point of that? I know Jessica from my honors biology class. But she doesn’t know me.
The girls glide down the front steps like a unit, like airplanes in formation. Jessica’s the wing leader, tossing her head, lips curled in a smile. The others take their cues from her. Jessica’s talking, and the squadron is listening. They’re listening like Jessica is telling them the secrets of the universe, those funny, clever, precious secrets, the secrets that make them the chosen ones. And I’m not the only guy—or girl—looking at them. And they know it.
But I turn away. Because I am a Greek warrior, and they are beneath my notice.
My eyes are pulled back to the steps. Right behind the girls come the soccer gods. In Texas it was the football. At the lab school it’s the soccer. Season’s been over for months, but not the swaggering. That lasts all year. I could easily step out and trip Josh Ackerly, see him stumble and sprawl down the steps. But why should a great warrior stoop to even notice such a pathetic creature? Besides, watching Josh fall might make me laugh out loud, and I have taken a vow of silence.
The traffic thins, and a few teachers mill around the doors. Dr. Lane. Mrs. Berg. Mr. Kaplan. And then the buses pull away, and the flow trickles down to a few stragglers.
Show’s over. School’s out.
I’ve been standing still too long. Now the warrior is cold. I’m tempted to go inside and warm up, but I know I wouldn’t feel comfortable in there. Still, it would be fun to find Mr. Stojis, maybe do a little floating trumpet act for him down in the band room, see if he wants to work it into the program for the spring jazz concert.
But Mr. Stojis will have to wait. I have other things to do. Like keep my feet from freezing out here on the battlefield. If I go a few more blocks, I can relax in a place where I always feel at home, a place with no gray linoleum on the floor, a place that won’t smell like cafeteria food.
So I double-time it toward the big university library. I need to walk on warm carpet for a while. If the ancient Greeks had lived next to Lake Michigan instead of the Mediterranean Sea, maybe they’d have reconsidered the nakedness thing.
Walt’s at the check-in desk again, but he has no authority over me today. Warriors don’t ask permission. I march past his guard post, hidden behind my shield.
Warmth. Heat is a good thing. Cold makes it impossible to relax. Cold plus naked is even worse. But this, this is nice. Cozy and bright. And clean, soft carpets. No broken glass to step around, no dog poop, no half-melted slush.
I burst into the stairwell, and I feel like I’m flying, running up the stairs two at a time. It’s like this body I can’t see weighs nothing. And I know where I’m going. To the third floor. The perfect place, a little fortress where a soldier can get some R & R. I’m headed for one of those soundproof listening rooms. I should be able to smuggle a good CD into one of those rooms somehow. How tough could it be? A CD isn’t that big, right? Maybe hide one under my arm? Then I can block the door and settle into a big soft chair and listen to Miles Davis while my feet thaw out. There are four rooms. All I need is one.
There’s a study group in the first listening room, five serious people, grim. I’m thinking they’re in law school, maybe pre-med. In the second room a guy holding an orchestra baton is facing the wall opposite the door. He’s on his feet, swaying with the music, conducting with all his might. Two people are pacing around in the third room, a man and a woman practicing a theater scene. Very dramatic.
The last room is being used too. But it’s just one person, and she’s only using a laptop. I feel like pounding on the door and yelling, “Hey, this is a listening room, sister. You can tap on that thing anywhere, so beat it!” And I’m about to turn away when I recognize her.
And I pause, and I gulp, and I tap on the door softly and then step inside the room quickly and shut the door behind me.
Because I know this girl, and I’m feeling brave right now. Brave enough to break my vow of silence.
That’s because the girl tapping on the laptop is the girl I met on Tuesday. It’s the blind girl.