Mitchell College - Thames Log Yearbook (New London, CT)

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my racing T-shirts were more stylish than my only suit. Through twelve drinks I maintained my attention fixed on the band, and when they were out on a break I stared at the door through which they had left me to my depression. On the way home, we stopped twice so I could be sick. jeff left for the west coast a week later, and gave me Chris's phone number as our last exchange. After what I considered a discreet two days I called her. Allo, her mother answered, ending with a period instead of a question mark. Hello, is Chris there? She here. Hold on. Heard in the background, HCRISTINAAAV' Finally her voice. Hello? Hello, Chris? This is Tom . . . After a second, sensing she was going to say something awkward, Finnegan Oh, Hello. How are you? just fine, thank you. Would you like to come over for breakfast Saturday morning? Uh, breakfast? Sure, why not? To quote the Beatles, 'A splendid time is guaranteed for all'! There was a long silence, as if she were weighing each of a hundred factors. All right. About what time?', I get off work at eight, so I'll pick you up about then. Fine, What shall I wear? Dot, dot, dot. Something warm. We can go for a walk along the rest of my dead-end country road. And besides, I think I'm about to run out of fuel oil for the furnace! There was no sound from the other end. She must have been pondering the consequences of running out of heat on a Saturday morning after I've been working through the night. I broke the silence. Well, I'm sure we can find some way to keep ourselves warm, Chris!! and I laughed. She didn't. She didn't say a thing. On a very cold but sunny Saturday morning I picked her up a half-hour late, and as we climbed into the van I gave her a car blanket to wrap around herself, since almost all the back windows were popped out, after innumerable han- dlebars had broken loose during hard cornering coming home from innumerable races. She thought to herself, if anyone else came to pick me up with a windowless van, I would expect to see a race- prepared Porsche in his garage, or maybe his Ferrari put away for the winter. But all he has is a dozen motorcycles lying around like undarned socks. We took off for my place, going much more slowly than usual to minimize the draft.

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the unshoveled sidewalk over a foot deep in the stuff. She was wearing saddle shoes. As she got out of jeff's car she found herself, as if projected into the future, and having just climbed out of my van, looking around for the lights of other house. Which she could not find. She stood dejectedly for a moment at the end of the sidewalk, and, as she resigned herself to the impossible task of leaping to the widely-spaced impressions my boots had made up to the porch, was suddenly swept from her feet into jeff's arms, he carried her up the sidewalk and the flight of stairs which were treacherously iced over from the melted snow which dripped off the roof in the day- time. Even now long icicles hung down in front of her eyes. With difficulty, jeff climbed the steps and entered the screened but snow-swept porch, where the scattered pieces of another motorcycle lay everywhere save for a kicked- open path to the door. We clomped noisily, and Chris tried to follow the echoes off into the black, still night. Every- one poured inside. A while later, the seven or eight people sat or lay around the room, which had more backless sofa-beds than chairs under its low, canted ceiling. Leonard Cohen came from the tiny speakers of my Budget-Priced, Low Grade stereo. From time to time I had to club the top of the receiver to make the left speaker work. After a survey of 'fYes, please's', and No, thank you's I disappeared through the room divider into the kitchen half of the studio. When I returned many minutes later, Chris was staring at the oily motorcycle chain under the dresser and was idly toying with a glop of dust and thread she'd found near her hand. On a reflex, I served her first. She looked at her mug of coffee and the two slices of cinnamon toast on a plate, and thought, I should have told him I haven't eaten for a week - I might have gotten a grape, too. Curious, she excused herself and walked around, through the kitchen, looking for the sink piled high with dirty dishes, and on to the bathroom. There she found the medicine cabinet sparsely occupied by one razor, one blade dispenser, one can of shaving cream, one toothbrush, one tube of paste, one bar of soap, and one deodorant spray. One washcloth, one face towel, and one bath towel hung on the rack. Coming back through the kitchen she noticed in the farthest comer of the ceiling a tiny spider, the food shelves nearly empty of groceries but crammed with spark plugs and carburetor parts, and a cod draft from the cup- board doors beneath the sink. She propped herself against jeff, observed the only other girls present doing likewise with their dates, and saw me talking with a friend about a bike poster which hung over the far bed as I sat polishing a gas tank. Abruptly, she began to feel tired and wanted to go home. Two nights later jeff and Chris invited me, and another couple they knew, to an evening at the Lion's Den, a cozy night spot they frequented. Through the night, Chris danced occasionally with jeff, the other two roamed the dance floor all evening, and I remained at our table and drank twelve whiskey sours, placing the swizzle stick from each in my coat pocket. I wore the only coat and tie I possessed, a rather old and extremely unfashionable tweed with a too- thin drab tie and sickly pale yellow shirt. All my money was continuously funneled into bikes, parts, and accessories,

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Our conversation during the drive concemed jeff, whom we both agreed was a fine fellow and would be sorely missed, and what-kind-of-music-and-books-and-movies-do-you-like. After hearing her choice of each, I commented at moderate length on those subjects. She looked very cold. Once inside fit was still warm, so evidently there was still fuel oilj, we turned on some music and I banged on the stereo to get the left side to work, I asked her to excuse the piston and cylinder I had left on some oily paper on the throw rug by the door, the engine cases which were baking in the oven, and the noisome odor of sizzling Motorcycle Gearbox Oil. We paused for a moment to admire the view from the front windows, and, looking at the long expanse of freshly-fallen snow, Chris asked about neighbors living nearby. I helped her remove the tall winter boots she had worn to clamber up the sidewalk - which I still hadn't been able to shovel. We walked to the kitchen. Okay, Chris, you are in for the surprise of your life. I can make one hell of a breakfast! If it's eggs, bacon, juice, pancakes, sausage, coffee, and toast, that is!', She smiled. What is your pleasure, barefoot miss? Well, would an omelet be too much trouble?v Trouble?! Nothing would be too much trouble for you, my most attractive guest and breakfast companion! Why don't you go ahead and sit down out in the other room and enjoy yourself while I prepare an omelet with all the trimmings? Go ahead, Chris, I'1l be done in a few minutes! Read a motorcycle magazine or something! Go ahead! She agreed and walked back to the other half of the room, where she picked up a TIME and sat on one of the sofa- beds. What's on the cover of the magazine, Chris? I can point out articles of interest you might enjoy. Tell me what's on the cover - I know them all! Itis not the one with the new Kawasaki, is it? In that one is a really good pictor . . . I had opened the refrigerator and discovered one egg remaining in the box. Uh, you're not going to believe this, Chris . . . She came around the corner with a look of apprehension. What? I only have one egg. There was a rather stony silence, and her face appeared a bit strained. Finally she smiled and spoke. That's all right. I'll take something else. Okay, then, how about pancakes? Don,t you need eggs to make pancakes? Uh, heh heh. Yeah. Well, wait!! I grabbed the box from a shelf. We're in luck! If you're not too hungry, we can make a few small ones! How about it?'! Sure, Tom, that will be fine. She went back to the sofa. Our somber silence was broken only by the stereo's plaint for better and more conscientious record care. I'm really sorry about that, Chris. I should have thought of it when I fixed eggs yesterday morning. I realize what you must be thinking. I'm sorry. Okay? No, no, it's quite all right, Tom. Really!