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

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It was her turn. You incredible bastard! You unthinking, unfeeling, heartless, unimpressive, self-centered, clod son-of-a-bitch! YOU WORM! ! I was almost on the verge of tC2.1'S, partly from the pain and partly from the shock of what had happened. I concen- trated very intently on restraining myself. Ever since the first time you opened your mouth, you tumed me off. Ever since your first sermon, I've been una- ble to cultivate my interest in you as a person. Even though I wanted to. But you're a nothing! Two hundred minuses and no plusses! You couldnit even leave a bit of mystery over what kind of person you are. You couldn't let our relationship quietly reveal the facets of your personality. You couldn't make our friendship a series of stones weld overturn to find new secrets and revelations. No, from minute one, you came on like a landslide! 'Hi, I'm Tom Finne- gan, and here's what I think about everything in the worldl' GOD, what GALL! ! ! There was a strong stinging sensation around my nose, and I had to blink my eyes furiously as they glossed over. Warm blood trickled onto my lip. That sight slowed her down a little. She dabbed a Kleenex at the base of my nose. I'm probably as sorry as you are, Tom. I would never have believed that his could happen. But it may do us some good. It will certainly do YOU some good. It will help you to do it right next time? I could hear the plowing rush of my landlady coming across the yard as she hastened to catch all the gory details, and satisfy her misgivings about renting her studio to a non-church-going, motorcycle-riding, unmarried young man. Could you take me home now, please?,' The God damn Yamaha that had burst out across the line on a false start came back around and forced his way in between my Bultaco and the red Maico who had been only inches away from me to start with. I had a nasty vision of the three of us going down in a tangle of handlebars. I dreaded first-lap, first-turn mishaps, as I always pictured myself at the bottom of a twelve-foot pile of bikes and riders. Tom! said a voice which was totally drowned out by the horde of screaming two-strokes. My left hand barely touched my helmet as we all did likewise awaiting the start. Hey, Tom! My helmet was resting on the bars, for God's sake, so ready was I to grab the clutch lever and - Hey, FINNEGAN!!! Somehow I heard that, and looked across the Yamaha and the Maico to the fence, and instantly I spotted Bruce and his girl and a marvelous-looking, long-haired young lady. He was pointing to her and saying something I could not make out. Finally, he stopped, thrust his hand into his pocket, skimmed through his change and keys and held up a coin, a broad smile on his face. Oh? I thought.

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She WAS thinking it. Then I discovered that I had only a quarter inch of milk. Oh, wow, Uh, Chris. What do I say now? You're not going to believe this, either. She said from the other room, What -- no milk? About halfway through our coffee and cinnamon toast, we heard the furnace quit. After learning from the oil company that they could not bring any oil until late evening, I excused myself and went down to the garage stalls and siphoned off a small bottle-full of oil from the tank by propping bricks under two of its legs. I primed the burner and ran back upstairs and into the bathroom to Wash my hands and brush my teeth, which smelled, I thought, faintly like heavy fuel oil. When I entered the studio I observed the thermostate set at seventy- four but reading fifty-eight. Cold air blew from the baseboards. Chris, in the meantime, had pulled the blankets and bedspread from a sofa-bed, she sat on it in a tiny ball, shivering, silent, forlorn, wary. The sun reflected the brightness of the exposed sheets. I took her hint. I crossed the room under her shifting glare and sat next to her. She still looked directly into my eyes, as if to detect the first sign of any advance. I said very quietly, You probably won't believe me if I say I'm sorry about all this. I moved to kiss her lightly and found I had to lean further than I had expected as she withdrew. In order to save my balance I put out my hand awkwardly, and it came to rest on the pile of blankets - directly on her thigh. Too sur- prised myself to do anything else, I followed through and kissed her briefly and softly. When I moved by head back to see the pleasurable expression on her face, I saw her staring very wide-eyed at me. I began to form an apology, but she spoke first. Could I ask, just out of curiosity, what cologne or aftershave is that? Fuel oil, number two! I joked, but she appeared to take it seriously. At this very uneasy moment, I debated whether to move or not to move, as Chris sat perfectly motionless, watching me closely. Seeing in her gaze the rapt invitation I presupposed, I looked at the pyramid of bed covers pulled around her and whispered very romantically, May I come inside your wigwam ?', Stop it, she said. I began to unwrap her covers teasingly, as the furnace sputtered to a halt. Stop it or I'll scream. I was so surprised by her remark that I stopped, looked at her, and laughed softly. I continued my work. No sooner had the chuclde left my lips than she did scream. RAPE! I froze, flabbergasted. RAAAPEl!l As I began to extricate myself, thinking of my nosy landlady only a few hundred feet away, Chris mistook the direction of my movements and flailed away at me with her fist. It caught me on the bridge of the nose. Lights flashed, a formidable shockwave of nausea ran through me, and my nose ached exceedingly. We both sat there for a minute, equally stunned. She probably expected to be beaten angrily into submission. So did I.

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The Yamaha left the line as I grabbed for my clutch, and he shoved my handlebars around in a wide arc that resulted in my falling over and getting my right leg pinned under the rear wheel, while the throttle buried itself in the soft dirt - wide open. By the time I shut off the bike, my Lucky Racing Boot had been chewed away, exposing remnants of my Lucky Racing Sock and a skinned-up Lucky Racing Ankle. While I sat in the doorway of my van as a track official wrapped my foot in gauze, my cheering section walked up. Hi, bikey! Say, that was rare form on the starting line, all right! You're lucky you're still alive!', Well, I don't want to blame anyone in particular, BRUCE, but . . . They all had a good laugh. I spoke to the unknown young lady. And OF COURSE, your name MUST be Penny! 'QAbsolutely correct. And you, Tom, are the sorriest excuse for a motorcycle racer I've ever seen. Oh, please don't prejudge me so, Penny! Usually that doesn't happen until the second or third lap! I got to hob ble over to the bike and try to straighten the handlebars. But I turned to face her again. Are you artistic? She looked mildly surprised. Am I artistic?? she smiled. Do you paint or sculpt? Or photograph ? I paint a little, she fibbed. Why, do you?', No, I don't have any ability myself, AS YOU CAN SEE!!', She laughed. But I admire people who have talent. And I stopped right there, very curious about what would happen next. So do I, she said, smiling. Now let's get these bars straightened before your next race. So I bought her a hamburger with the works.