White Summer (Chap. 4)

WHITE SUMMER (chap. 4)



After the Brit. Lit. debacle, I actually knuckled down in my studies for the next few days. In my art history class I did okay on a quiz on Cimabue and wrote a good paper, I thought, juxtaposing Shakespeare’s and Jean Anouille’s interpretations of Julius Caesar for my comparative lit. class. Then Verlaine called.
"Jase, my class was cancelled. I have free time! I can pose for you! You can paint me. " I was headed to a class when the phone rang. "Did you hear me?" My Soash. book was under my arm. "You can finish my portrait!"
I didn’t have the will that Ulysses had, to be lashed to the mast of my academics, to shout above the beckoning sirens. She wasn’t a siren of course. She had made that clear. We were friends. And I would never betray that. But seeing her in the nude... I was an artist.
"Sure," I answered. "I’ll be right over."
She was there standing in the doorway, barefoot, her hair freshly brushed, falling softly to her shoulders, her worn green shift flowing and pooling over her form like water over smooth stones. When she shut the door her shift lifted from her body as if a freakish breeze caught it, swirling it up and depositing it at my feet. She was on her bed, arm bent, leg crooked in our agreed upon pose before I had my palette out of the paint box.
I painted with more intent, more intensively than I had before. Verlaine set the tone. She raised the stakes by posing silent, keeping so still. I called a break when I saw her right arm trembling. We sat on the floor, she beside me smoking a cigarette, gazing at the painting. I could tell she was smiling, knowing that was how I saw her. That my eye was true, my brush stroke sure. She offered comments and suggestions and I listened.
I didn’t finish the painting that day, even though I had been painting for three hours. It was close, but it had to be perfect. She raised her arms and the fabric of her dress cascaded over her. She gave me a hug and let me out.
I didn’t go back to my room but crossed Fee Lane, taking a short-cut to the Fine Arts building to pick up some turpentine. I angled my way around the Spartan limestone dormitories of Foster Quad., a Stonehenge of post-industrial America.
I was skirting the practice field behind the quad. grooving on the scent of new grass when a rough song of curses and grunts from a seething clot of players on the field caught my attention. It was the Rugby team. Hunter was on the Rugby team. The bodies locked in struggle were like a multi-legged beast, red and white banded jerseys ringed around, arms entwined, heads tucked, legs furiously pushing, digging up turf, in an attempt to gain ground as heels slashed back and forth trying to kick the ball out from the center of the heaving mass. It squirted out and a player grabbed the ball and ran down the field passing it to his team mate behind him, then it was passed behind again. I spotted Hunter’s towhead as he slammed into the legs of the runner with the ball. As he was knocked down, the ball popped up and there was a brawl and whistles and Hunter was in the thick of it. He was up, his arms hooked over the shoulders of the player he had tackled and both had mud smeared players behind them hooking their arms around their waists. The referee b dropped the ball between them and they kicked at the ball with their heels until it flew out.
I set my paint box down and slipped my sandals off, let my toes comb through the grass and the slight breeze curry my hair. I lay back on my elbows on the gentle rise under the blue domain of sky graced with clouds and watched the action ebb and flow below me.
All through the fall everything was ‘The Big Red Machine’, ‘The Cream and Crimson’, Harry Gonzo and John Isenbarger. ‘Keep the Ball Rollin’ by Jay and the Techniques was the unofficial song of John Pont’s football team, played over and over again on the campus station, as they plowed their way through the Big Ten and then on to the Rose Bowl in Pasadena . It didn’t really matter that the big game was a U.S.C. blowout, it was a glorious moment for I.U.
And all the while the Rugby team practiced and played in obscurity. Hunter had one of their bumper stickers on his M.G. ‘It Takes Leather Balls to Play Rugby.’ It was too true. Rugby was pure anarchy in team shirts and knee socks; mud, blood and contusions; a place to score and settle scores. The only protection they wore were their jock straps. Hunter would come back to the dorm tell me about the seniors’ infamous orgies.
I plucked clovers from the berm and twirled them between my thumb and finger content to watch the chaos, Hunter’s pale head bobbing and weaving through the scramble until his ruddy face turned my way and he chopped the air in greeting with his hand. I flashed him a peace sign in response.
Not long after a whistle blew three long trills and he came jogging up the rise. He plopped down next to me, his lungs punching breaths as his chest heaved, dripping sweat, radiating heat, clods of grass clinging to his spikes. I noticed an angry yellow bruise on his calf and a fresh rivulet of blood winding its way down his leg from a cut on his knee.
"Hey, buddy! What brings you here?" He launched an arc of spit into the grass.
"Nothing really. I was on my way to the art building and decided to sit and watch."
"What have you been painting?" He noticed my paint box beside me.
"Landscapes."
"Huh. So what did you think about the play? Pretty intense."
"Makes football players look like sissies."
"You’re damn right on that." Hunter, as if on cue, hooked the back of his thumb beneath the trickle of blood and scraped it up before it reached the top of his knee sock, sucking his thumb as if he were savoring a particularly succulent chicken bone. He yanked out a fist of grass and pressed it to his knee.
"Ancient Indian medicine?" I nodded to the grass beneath his palm.
"Yeah, right," he retorted. "Speaking of which, ol’ buddy. You got any I could borrow?"
"Borrow?"
"Don’t break my balls, Jase. I’ll pay you for it."
"I really don’t. I’ll have to hit Warlock up for it. I’ll see what I can do."
"Thanks, buddy. Anything I can do for you just...you know the rest."
"How about some free advice."
"Shoot."
"I’ve been offered L.S.D. This guy wants me to trip with him. Thinks it’ll be good for my art. What do you think? Should I take him up on it?"
"Whoa, that’s heavy. But why are you asking me? I’m not Dear Abby."
"Your opinion, I guess. What would you do?"
"Go for the Gusto! What do you want me to say? It’s your life, you live it."
"I just-- I don’t know. I’m afraid of getting screwed up."
"That’s your problem, Jase. You’re too afraid. You hold back. Here, I’ll let you in on a little secret, you know why I got those guys together and had them shave your pubes?"
I just sat there staring into his flushed face, his hair plastered to his brow, watching a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his jaw. I didn’t want to hear this.
"To see just exactly what you would do. It was a game with me. You really piss me off sometimes, hanging back, floating through everything like some sort of ghost. And guess what? You didn’t do anything. Oh you yelled and cursed but that was it. You should have decked me. But you didn’t."
"I thought I should go along with it because..."
"That’s just it! You think too much! You know why I like Rugby? You don’t have to think , you just do it." He brushed the grass off his abraded knee and squeezed the cut between his fingers, making it bleed anew. "It reminds me I’m alive! You know why I like fucking? Same reason. If you’re not bleeding or cumming you’re dead, buddy! That’s my philosophy. You can put it in a pipe and smoke it."
"I thought you were pissed I was taking Suzy out?"
"C’mon. No way. Maybe confused. I mean you’re ‘Hippie’. You’re not even Suzy’s type. No offense. She went out with you to get back at me, no other reason, sorry."
"I don’t believe that."
"Hey, believe what you want, it’s a free country. I’m telling you the truth. Listen, I give you credit for punching me that Sunday. But, buddy whatever burden you’re carrying you need to lay it down and leave it. It’s not doing you any good. Whoops, here’s my ride."
He slapped my shoulder and stood, brushing off some of the now dried mud from his shorts. I saw Joey striding across the field toward us, all legs in her cut-offs, her long chestnut hair streaming.
"I haven’t even hit the showers yet." He looked at me, his hands on his hips. I slipped my sandals on. "Think about what I said, okay, buddy?"
"Yeah, I will."
"Good. Don’t forget the grass, it’s for the lady over yonder." He smiled then jogged off catching her up in his arms in the middle of the field before she pushed him away. Her voice carried over the open space. I heard, "disgusting pig" and "take a shower" as I headed toward Tenth Street.
Verlaine’s call had derailed me from the tentative academic tracks I had laid earlier in the day, but I did manage to get some course reading in before dinner. However, after dinner was another matter. Star Trek was on. It was a must see for me, and the lounge was always packed. Later I’d see Warlock about the grass Hunter wanted. I would also tell him I had decided to drop some acid with him. He’d dig that, I was sure.
The chairs were all taken in the lounge when I got down there and I had to pull in an extra from the main meeting room. It was a repeat of an episode I had seen in January, but I sat and watched it anyway. It was about a giant space amoeba, it reminded me of a light show at the Fillmore, that was slowly sucking the Enterprise to certain doom.
It hadn’t been on long when Warlock showed up. He came in and stood by me. It was dark so he probably didn’t notice I was sitting there. I tugged at his shirt and he recoiled. I told him to get a chair but he ignored me and kept staring at the screen . Weird, but I stood and gave him mine and went and got another. He was still standing when I returned.
"Sit down, man," I whispered to him. He whispered something back to me I didn’t quite catch. "What," I asked.
"Klingons everywhere. Can’t- you -see them? Don’t move," he whispered haltingly back , his head swiveling as if it were attached with ball bearings.
"Warlock, man, there are no Klingons in this episode."
"No. I mean here-- in this room! They know-- I know. They’re probing my-- mind. Spock, we’ve got to make a run-- for it! Do it NOW!" He bolted from the lounge slamming the door open, throwing a jagged rip of light through the dark interior. I heard someone bark ,"asshole", as I ran after him. I found his white T-shirt at the foot of the stairs, and grabbed it as I bounded up. I heard a commotion above me. He was standing in the main lobby naked except for his white underwear swinging his jeans over his head like a propeller.
"Klingons everywhere, everywhere, Klingons. Get --back! Stay-- away!" He was frantic. A group of coeds cowered in a corner astounded yet giggling. A couple of guys laughed, shouting insults.
"Warlock, let’s go! C’mon, man, let’s go." I motioned to the front door. But he just stood there in his briefs swinging his pants. Then I hit on a plan that was totally warped.
"Captain!" He looked at me.
"Spock," he said hesitantly, recognition dawning on his face.
"The airlock door won’t stay open forever, Captain. I suggest you hurry. It’s our only escape." He continued whipping his pants over his head, but he sidled over to the doorway and ducked out as I shut it on their laughter.
He dropped his pants and hugged my arms. "Spock, you’ve got to save me. Their probes, they’re in me!" He sounded so desperate, it scared me. I looked into his wild turned on eyes and said under my breath, "You didn’t wait for me. Why didn’t you wait, man?" Then I grabbed his shoulders. "We have to get to the bridge, captain, for me to help you. You must trust me. It’s the only logical solution."
"Bridge, yes the bridge." His eyes rolled up to the galaxied night sky as I gently guided him to our wing and opened the door.
The first flight was easy but on the second floor landing he balked.
"The stairs, Spock!" His eyes were enormous with fear. "They have teeth! The jaws! They’ll tear us apart!"
"It’s a Klingon illusion, captain planted in your brain by the probes. You must trust me?" I turned him so he could look me in the eyes.
"Ye- I don’t, what if---"
"You must not weaken. Close your eyes and I’ll carry you."
I bent down and pushed my shoulder into his stomach heaving him across my back. Thankfully he lay very still as I lumbered up the remaining flight of stairs and pushed through the door into our hallway.
I set him down and massaged my shoulder.
"I can’t see," he whispered softly. "I’m blind, I’m blind." His voice was edging toward panic. He was about to cry.
"Open your eyes," I responded, sharply. By now, I was a little ticked with all this.
"I forget how." I saw an actual tear slip down his cheek.
I was exasperated. How do you teach someone to open their eyes? I didn’t have a clue. "I will blow my magic breath on each of your eye lids," I improvised, "and with each puff they will pop open and you will see again."
It worked. I was floored.
"Oh, wow, ice cream! This is delicious!" His hands pressed to the white wall, he took long licks with his tongue as he ricocheted from one side of the hall to the other."
A guy passed us and had to comment. "You’re friend is really out of it."
Right, I thought, thanks for your concern.
"Jase, try it man, finest kind!"
Curious, I thought. I was no longer Spock. I arched my right eyebrow as I pressed my hand to his back and continued to gently guide him to his room. We had to stop halfway to let the water burble and spout from the fountain nozzle for five minutes so he could groove on its’ colors.
I prayed his room was not locked as I touched the knob and it turned and the door swung open.
"Can you hear it, man," he asked in a conspiratorial tone, "it’s breathing. In, out, in, out. Oh, wow, I can feel it’s heart beating." Seth, next door was playing the ‘Stones’. I closed the door and locked it.
He spent the next two hours slowly making his way around the room picking up and examining everything. He plucked a wadded candy wrapper from the corner of his desk and turned it over and over in his hand studying the shiny colored foil closely. The texture of the clothes on the floor fascinated him as he crawled around discovering each sock and caressing it lovingly. He sat and riffled the pages of a book with his thumb, wanting to make it into a song. It would be a sure hit. I was bored. But I didn’t dare leave. I didn’t know what Warlock might do while he was tripping and I had no hopes of Wolfman showing up soon if at all. After a while Warlock curled up on his bed hugging his pillow, muttering, "you’re so beautiful". I couldn’t comprehend who or what his pillow was to him at that moment.
I must have nodded off at some point on Wolfman’s bed because the next thing I noticed was Warlock at the window. He had pushed the window pane up as far as it would go and was working at the aluminum corners of the screen, trying to loosen it.
I moved behind him quietly and placed my hands on his bare shoulders. It was like a jolt went through him. I felt his muscles coil with tension, his body twisted violently from my grasp.
"Don’t touch me! Let me die! I need to die!"
I had never seen human eyes look like his, wild, like a cornered animal, death and desperation behind them. A Beatles’ song, of all things, popped into my mind. It was, ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’.
"Relax, man, relax and float down stream. It’s not dying. You’ve hit some bad ripples, is all, just bad ripples in the stream."
His eyes glowed with a deep space stare. He stood there, his whole body shivering as if the temperature in the room had just dropped thirty degrees.
"It is shining. It is being. Feel the warm current, go with it, the sunlight filtering through the over-hanging leaves, dancing diamonds on the smooth water. Do you see them?" His shivering subsided. "Yeah and listen, do you hear that? Ever so faintly, ‘The Yardbirds’ playing. They’re playing, ‘White Summer’ on the far shore. Can you hear it?"
"Yesssss," long and low like a deep sigh, coming from Warlock’s mouth.
I edged over to him and slipped my arm around his shoulder, guiding him to his bed.
"The far shore, lay down on the sweet grass." He crumpled on his bed. "Listen to the beautiful music, the beautiful guitar." But my last words were wasted. He was deep asleep. I went over to the window and silently lowered it and locked it.
When I next awoke, Wolfman was shaking me. I woke with a start and jerked my head to look over at Warlock, still deep asleep.
"What are you doing here, Jase? Why are you in my bed? Hunter kick you out? He have Joey in your room?"
"Warlock dropped some acid," I groggily responded as I sat up. "He had a rough trip. I thought I ought to stay with him." I stood up.
"Thanks man. He looks like he’s sleeping like a baby now. Go back to your room. I need to sleep."
"Sorry. Sure. What’s happening?" I briefly searched for my sandals, hooking them by the toe strap with my fingers. "You’re burning the midnight candle."
"We had a strategy meeting at the Spectator." He sat down and pulled his shoes off. " The administration is coming down hard on us. We have an eviction notice and they’ve given us an ultimatum, either we vacate our building or they’ll forcibly move us." He yanked his shirt over his head and flung it toward the closet. "It’s coming down, Jase and I’m afraid it’ll be coming down hard. It’s time we man the barricades. They’ll be responsible for anything that happens." He flipped the sheet down. "Pull the door to, when you leave."
"Will do." As I walked down the long silent hall I knew I’d never be able to drop acid and come out in one piece.