Bomb Cyclone and its Effects on Harvard - 3

A Novella

3

The American way over the last generation has been to attain mediocrity in as expensive a way as possible, while excluding as many as is feasible. For example – raising the price of trains, means more people use cars – and get totaled in crashes. As it was, we made it onto the train – not having time to pick up tickets, which would cost us a bit. I also did not have the students pass - because I did not need one, normally. Then on the train - outside the window, it was a peculiar pattern: in close it was a collage of damaged green and black, but then it would open up to a limitless sky, but the clouds were coming back – they seeped around the edges.

For the 1st 10 minutes, nothing but watching the outside caressed my consciousness: we had found a place by an electric heater, and finally, it was taking out the shuttering gasps of numbness, which had not entirely left. But I realized that Lily was talking to me - when my thoughts were so much more resonant - and the correct response was to answer. Her voice came on like a YouTube (though Dailymotion is better in almost every respect) until finally, it dominated the outer attention:

“Have you been listening to me at all?” Apparently not, instead changing the subject seemed to be the better option.

“Where are we getting off?” Taking the chance this had not been covered yet – the conductors had been lazy, and not come by either the top or bottom layer of this double-decker passenger car. Normally we would be getting off at the last stop - which is to say North Station - but somehow that did not feel right.

“We're going to be getting off at Porter Square, and then take one stop to Harvard.” It would be a wise guess to assume that her - as much as it pains me to say - boyfriend would be at Harvard University, and she had probably said so in part of our conversation which was missed while warming up my legs. But we were interrupted by the conductor. Then the “Lily glance” came into operation. - under the table she pressed my right foot with her left, indicating silence. “We got to where the station was closed, and she forgot her student passed.” She showed the connector her pass and smiled. This is a lie on both counts, but it was made effective by her look - I would never have gotten away with it. It saved us a bit of money on the tickets - though it came with a warning from the conductor not to do it again.

Looking directly at her: “How do you do that?”

“The same way I do a Chopin waltz: I practice. Do not look at me like I have 2 heads: there is a formula, I will teach you sometime.”

Raised an eyebrow: “Anyway on your boyfriend: The key parts cannot be communicated to you, and if he is clever, you will notice the signs anyway.” This should obliterate a great deal of her yammering because it was true: she was going to be under a spell, which anyone else could tell.

“I thought you would say that.” Goodbye Overton Window, hello Overton bomb doors.

The best way to reassure somebody was with touch: in this case, my hand brushing across hers. It did calm her down. Mumbling something about it being the way of the world.

“I do not think you have stunning of the way of the world, have you ever even looked at the boy, or what is more important – a man?”

“Johnny kissed me.” Pretending that it was something more significant than it was. Then it struct - if she were part of the set, never hearing the end of it would be my lot. But instead, she looked at me with a deep glance through her glasses and said:

“I do not think you have had much experience with college men, and they’re a completely different experience from high school boys. Trust me on this.” It was an easy letdown, but we both knew what it was.

From my mouth came: “How did you get to know him anyway?”

It was with a strained difference, next with a bit of pity: “You do not know how things work here, do you?”

“When your time is apportioned by your parents, you only know how things work which they introduce you to. So, I ask again: how did you meet him?” - with a desperate to riposte – but wit did not save me, and in fact, deserted my entire vocabulary. This must be what it is like to be “mundane”. Was not a good feeling at all. As the PBS show said: Sherlock said: “how do you people in this space?” - or something close to that expression. I can look it up because all the quotes on webpages are just simply awful. Mine is the only one who watches the actual program, other people seem to be engaged in some other program that runs at the same time, on the same channel, with the same cast - with remarkably duller dialogue. But then, intelligence is a word for those qualities which elites need, but do not have themselves – the test for it.

“I took a class at night at Harvard, he was one of the TAs in the class.”

It suddenly hit me how cloistered I was - even the concept of taking a Harvard University class was forbidden. Carefully thinking, and decided it would be appropriate to ask what a TA was because it should have been obvious - density was a faux pas. But there was a deep problem with the conversation - and I decided to address it.

“One of the reasons that the set does not like me much is that there is only one kind of humor - wicked.”

“I would say wit.” It was obvious that we'd taken a class with a teacher who was particular about this subject. Remember: in science, nothing is produced, until it can be reproduced; in humanities, it merely needs to be lectured upon.

“Point taken. Need to know, right now, if this...” But before I could finish...

“Is acceptable?” with her eyes during inside her lenses.

“More than that. Encouraged.”

This stopped her. She wanted to like me - almost desperately, I would not have been on this little mission of hers that was not true. Leaning back onto the seat behind her - it was clear that her face was intensely engaging and the pros and cons of what I was saying. Part of the problem was that she was very “I” focused all of the time. That was clear: her problems came before everyone else's, including such people as she regarded as her friends. Blemishes in moral fiber - certainly it was the same for me. But witty was the thing that enriched the conversation that was my life. It is a homing in the background of all things, a levity that makes everything else acceptable. Everything else is (what was the word? Oh yes) l’esprit de l’escalier (“the spirit of the staircase,” a retort after the fact - I know this is from Denis Diderot in his Paradox of the Actor [actually in the original: Paradoxe sur le comédien - parce que c'est en français. Of course, I did not do this until I had consumed Will and Aerial Durant's perspicacious The Story of Civilization.] [It was only later that the man who had introduced me to it tried to get me to bed {bleech} - because Will and Aerial were married when she was only 15 - only he remembered it as 13.]) Do you see what I mean by getting lost in your thoughts? Especially when thoughts of others are so terminally monotonous?

At this point, Lily began speaking: “We are coming into the station, so I will make this brief: I want to be my friend, my only friend - now and forever.”

Did not hesitate: “Yes.”

This underscored the point that we had a clandestine activity from the outside world, and nothing bonds like that. Then, we were coming up to Porter Square, the segue from exurb, to outer suburb, to inner suburb, to city - had been lost all we were talking about was the inner space. From galoshes to glamour in a dream - because now each of us had one thing that she longed for – an intimate to confide in. Plopped ourselves on the train station, and she led us to the T stop - because she knew the way. And now the grind and guffaw began.