Unreal City

Short Story on a Prompt of T.S. Eliot

1

The Smell of Victory

He was not tipsy, he was not inebriated, he was not drunk. Picking his red and white diagonally striped tie off the toilet’s handle and wrenching into the bowl made him realize that the dictionary had a word for his condition.

That word was blotto.

Always be precise, it is the way that people will know you are educated. He turned to be bathroom door looked down the oak wood floor and saw several doorways beyond. They made a mental note to write the monthly check to the landlord. Even grew quiet and listened. But there was no reverberations which meant his roommates were even more soused than he was - which is just barely possible - or more likely they had already left to do those things that Sunday demands.

He closed his eyes and dropped forward until his hands met the parquet white and black with a square of green tile - he knew it well - and again vomited into the turned-up water. After the moment of torment passed, he then smelled through his nostrils the environment that was there to be taken. It could smell Jasmine, scrambled eggs left on the stove, and a very faint heir of lilacs deep beyond. All three of these things were unique to this particular morning of May 14, 1961, in this particular place in Cambridge, MassaCHUsetts, near HAvard. And as everyone knew: the square, the college, and the University – somewhat - were all in the same location near the middle of the town's control.

But he went off his mouth with his Oxford cloth button-down shirt and then proceeded to stand up where he noticed that he did not doubt to hold up his grey slacks. Well, that is embarrassing, it is a good thing that there is no one around.

And then a nubile female form came lost out of one of the bedrooms. She was disheveled from her here down to her toenails, and he could see a bit of her panties below her shirt. It was a man’s shirt, which meant that either it was hers or she had borrowed it from John. The latter was likely because it had a monogram starting with “J” and ending with “K.” The only thing to do was ask.

“My name is Henry. What is yours?” I was speaking in that monosyllabic singsong that one uses when one doesn’t know the level of attainment that the other person has. I was pleased when she rattled off her reply in an easy tone of voice.

“You can call me Patricia, only my parents use the nickname, that would be Patty. They find it amusing.”

“And what do you do,” Pause. “Patricia?”

“I am a freshman at the Harvard Annex.” This was an internal code for a Radcliffe student, and she used it as an insult because among the Radcliffeans it was called Radcliffe Quadrangle. It was not unusual for him to know little about the freshman of Harvard or the women of Radcliffe because he was a senior, and he took a year off between junior and senior years to “find himself.” Which was odd because college is supposed to be where you find yourself. That is the difference between finding yourself publicly, which is the role of college, and privately, which often happens in moments like this.

“What you are studying, if you have made a concentration already.”

“I’m all in for biochemistry and have skipped out of the normal freshman requirements because the prep school had already taught these things.” She then dried her ear with the color of her shirt and asked, almost as an aside, “Do you think that Crick will share in the Nobel Prize for medicine?”

Ignoring the jockey race for the Nobel: “Which school is that?”

“MPS.” Which was short for Miss Porter's School in Farmington Connecticut. This meant that she was either very wealthy or very smart, and probably both. “But you did not answer the question on the prize.”

“I think it’s very likely that this time will be the charm for Crick, Watson, and Wilkins to be sure. And what is your prognosis?”

“The fourth person has recently died.”

“Who is that exactly?”

“Roseland Franklin, of course. She discovered the x-ray diffraction image that Watson used for his idea.”

“I see.” Then he changed the subject: “I would like something to eat. Are you hungry?”

“ I am a bit puckish, what do you have in mind?” which was coded to mean: are you buying or is this a Dutch treat?

It was at this point that he paused. He was famished because the alcohol had put out everything that he had put in for dinner. But he also realized that if he wanted to find out more about this young lady, he was going to have to pay. This was a concern because there was just barely enough money to pay the rent and a bit of food. So the question presented itself in his head: do you want to know about Patricia, right now, on this Sunday?

“I was thinking of taking you to lunch. But it would have to be someplace inexpensive because I am not my father.”

“Who is your father?”

“He works in Boston at one of the expensive law firms. But he thinks that I should be more frugal to teach me the value of saving money.”

With a solemn look on her face: “A very wise policy. What about Waldorf’s or Bickford’s? those should be relatively inexpensive.” Then she giggled.

The word she had meant to say, however, was “cheap.” He looked at her face and then realized she had been looking at his eyes. Not because the eyes were so pretty, that they did have a distinct charm, but she had noticed that his belt was missing and his pants were almost ready to fall. At an impulse, he snatched with his right hand a pair of the loops just to make sure that there was no dropping of the drawers.

Looking at the off-white color of the hall ceiling he then looked back into her eyes and noticed that they were the purest blue of purest blue.

“Then I will get dressed. Do you need to go back to your dorm?”

“I came prepared. I am an only child and have to take precautions so I could extra close in my bag just to be sure.” She then went to John’s room and closed the door. I went back to my room and stood up in the dark gray uniform that Harvard students wore. I spent the remainder of my time cleaning up the kitchen to some small degree since I was the least messy of the roommates. But cleanliness was not a required course.

After about 20 minutes she arrived in a white jumper and navy blue skirt with very tall white boots. The blue skirt was extremely brief: it only covered enough above the mid-thigh. What had changed was her demeanor: she was now much freer because of the new close and a few handy wipes.

“Shall we go to the stream?” she asked.

“Shall we dance?”

We left all carrying our book bags, showed we decided to do anything that resembled work.

2

Turned down from the Waldorf

It was frosty as if under the brown fog of a winter dawn. As they were weaving past the clock, the one that stared imperiously down from its ornate structure with rusted black and Roman numerals to indicate the time. Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours. It was across the street from the “ out of town” news kiosk which gathered people to read the various tabloids, broadsheets, and magazines from all over the world. But even then, we knew that our first choice for sustenance was going to be to be packed because we could already see a line though we did not see the door as yet.

But we passed anyway to see the sign that advertised the sirloin steak, cooked as you like it, and all of the other accouterments of an open establishment. The crowd was wild, and he looked at her perhaps for assurance that the packed white-on-white dining room tables would just not do. Even with the sparkling bits on the walls.

So instead of taking the door as a mob of people left, they turned passing the subway to the Bickford’s. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled. No dancing allowed.

When seated at the less used place of Bickford’s they squeezed into two seats and looked out at Harvard College and the students who would soon leave their place along the quad.

They ordered and then he spoke, almost casually: “ I must admit that I did not spend a single minute inside the Widener.” He was talking about the main library. With books and card catalogs galore.

“I spend every day inside the stacks. It is almost a ritual.” Then she noticed several pages flopping out of his bag and grabbed them without warning. She then flipped through them and saw that they were poetry.

Her voice lept with a caroling triumph: “That Shakespeherian Rag— is it elegant? Is it intelligent?”

He coughed and looked down at the table where the eggs were sitting staring back at him.

“You have found the secret of my paradox.”

“Would you care to give up the fare and deign to share?”

“My conundrum is this: first, I love TS Eliot and strive to duplicate his effects and his nuances of language.”

She frowned: “And what is the second half?”

“Though my love for the poet is unbounded, my hatred of the man gets deeper with each passing day. There are hidden poems that exude the vilest form of eating demonic laughter at those he finds to be his inferior. And I cannot stand that deep in my gut or my soul. So that is in essence my dilemma.”

At this, she touched my hand. But only for a second.

Then it was her turn to confess: “I was testing you on Franklin and her work.”

“I must admit that I am more towards languages and literature, so you have the advantage over me, and I did not want to admit it.” He stared at her plainly and with a slight whimper almost as if he were waiting for rain, while the black clouds while the black clouds gathered.

“It is clear to me from the memories that people visiting the house have remunerated that Roslyn Franklin should be on the stage with Crick and Watson and Wilkins.”

“It sounds like you have this from the source.”

She only nodded but quite vigorously.

“She is not the first who has had the plaudits removed from her name.”

“Could you give me another example?”

“Do you know who Lise Meinter was?”

“Know but I imagine you’re going to enlighten me.” His breath was held, and without either of them knowing it they were much closer together.

“She was the person who figured out the physics of nuclear fission, without which the bomb and all that entails would not be in existence.” Both of them pulled back and each looked away. Mrs. Porter would approve.

There was a heavy pause and he looked across Massachusetts Avenue. Mass Ave was for a short time an in-through-the-out-door one-way street.

Then I asked for some clarification: “What does your father do?”

“While he trained as a physician at the illustrious university, he - among many - works at managing the portfolio of the college. We have people who are known to the detailed newspaper reader.” She enunciated this with a firm nod.

“So you are going to emulate your father.”

She wiggled in her seat, crumpled her brow, and then began: “Only in part because I too have a paradox.”

I rolled my hands for details, so she continued: “My father was only a mediocre physician, but he has the gift for picking the stocks of companies that are extremely promising. But he too, has TS Eliot was, more than somewhat of a bigot.”

“How does your mother put up with this?”

“She stopped sleeping with him some years ago. She also uses his knowledge to her advantage.”

“Again, I’m sure you have something in mind.” And he thought what a fine mind is that makes the connections so specifically and persuasively.

“Have you heard the term birth control pill?”

He looked both ways at the other people chowing down on their brunch and then looked at her.

“It is the holy grail of half of the undergraduate students.” More specifically more the male half. “What I read was that it could only be prescribed to married women.”

“But my mother is married. And if our ob-gyn just happens to know what my results are, the can prescribe what is called ‘the pill’ to my mother. And my father has bought options on the stock of the manufacturer of the pill as part of his portfolio management.”

“Two for the price of one.” His face then betrays a new respect for the other half of the species.

The stray bit of reflected sunlight crossed Patricia’s face for an instant.

“Indeed.” She blushed and then asked: “Would you respect me in the morning?” A spoon could have dropped at that particular moment.

They then proceeded to lunch down their eggs and toast.

When they left, they were like a pool among the rocks: gently drifting with hand in hand. Because when they counted there was only her and him together.

Fin