University of Louisville - Thoroughbred Yearbook (Louisville, KY)

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“Oh, does it get on your nerves?” “No. Just got out of the army. Used to standing at attention.” (We had to stand completely straight, of course. Slouching took too much room.) “I’m from New York. Always a lot of people in New York.” “Talk about something else, will ya, for God’s sake. What about the weather?”’ “Well, they’re all saying something about showers.” “Shut-up, dammit!” We did go forward, though, edg- ing gradually toward a table with three impersonal looking men handing out brown envelopes. We took one. We each took one, that is. Minutes later, we were actually inside the Lincoln Room. English and Science were the worst, of course. Nearly everybody had those subjects. There was no way to remove coats. It was an oven in there. There wasn’t even enough room to smoke a cigarette, which was fortunate, for several had already been immolated or covered by falling ashes, making them look like the casualties of Vesuvius. It was eternity before we came in- to sight of the professor sitting be- hind a table. He yawned; he actually had enough room to stretch his arms. He was given some of the contents of the brown envelopes. Punched machine cards. (‘‘Hey, | gave you a card, and you gave somebody else my card!” “Look, boy, | can’t tell one hand from another.) We gave each man behind the tables a white card. We received a gray card in return. We were all allowed to keep one flesh-colored card inside the brown envelope. Entering another line, we felt a commotion behind us. A student had fainted. Luckily he had been in the sparse line to philosophy; he’d been able to fall to the floor. A youth wearing a black arm band hopped from behind a table. “He needs air,” the youth said. “There might be some in my foun- tain pen,’ somebody said, handing the person in a black armband a pen. He slipped the tip up the student's nostril and pushed the tiny plunger. The student came to, coughing black ink from his mouth. “Take him into the other half of the room,” said a tableman. Another banded youth helped carry the stu- dent away. Suddenly there was aflurry of strong, aggressive student jabbed at us. We were shoved back and forth. “Sorry,” he said to me. “If | had recognized you, | wouldn't have hit 23

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| headed first for the Lincoln Room. Lincoln, | reflected, the father of Another Country. The line already ran the length of the UC. It sprawled across Eastern Parkway, wound about inside Park- way Field like intestines in a giant viscera and ended some place in the Speed School parking lot. | knew | couldn’t face that line. Standing on the level with the Book- store, | yelled, ‘‘All | want down there is a stamp!” and jumped. The crowd bent; | actually managed to touch 22 the mail counter. Then the crowd re- coiled like the nap of a carpet, bounc- ing me through the bookstore window. | was stabbed in several places by glass fragments. Skewered or not, | still had to register. | left the Bookstore by the back entrance and entered the post office via the package ramp. Running, | dove head first into the lemmings downstairs, burrowing into the crowd like a clam digging into sand. | almost drowned in my fellow students before bobbing to the sur- face. My first whiff of air was solid with cigarette smoke, but | was thank- ful for it nonetheless. The flood of humanity stood, stag- nating, like still water running about six feet deep. We moved along, inches at a time, occasionally talking, al- ways smoking. “You know, the Ro- mans brought this to a fine techni- “Yes, they were quite good at human organization.” “Not organization, | mean this lousy standing around.” v4 La If you have been fo Library i CONTINUE ™) REGISTRATION

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you.” That student was a friend of mine. By now everybody had gone pale, the blood drained from their faces. We gradually passed by the men at the tables. The student with the el- bows walked by saying, ‘Well, I’m finished here, baby. See ya around. Say, if ya survive this thing, meet me upstairs and we'll eat together. I'll be waiting for you.’’ He walked into the other half of the room. Then a strange thing began to hap- pen. We were encased in clothing, like rather loosely tied strait jackets. Our clothes were soggy. Osmosis from the skin outwards perhaps. Now, the Lincoln Room is very big—you’ve heard of cases such as this; steam rose from our bodies. Clouds formed above us. It began to rain indoors. There was even miniature lightning. We were thoroughly wet and miser- able. The movable wall was slid across the room, evidently to control the “weather,” the lightning and rain stopped suddenly, leaving only a 24 fog. Perhaps the room had to be made airtight, for there was hissing. Per- haps all the thunder and lightning had been shifted to the other half, for there was a rumbling from the other side. At any rate, we were busy with the lines and didn’t seem to notice. Finally we were through the last line. The last machine card was push- ed into the last brown envelope. The movable wall was slid back. The other half of the room was empty. They had finished registration. The rest of the process was fast and simple. We filled out various colored forms, giving the requested data about religion, education, and the long numbers necessary to today’s life. Then the last line. Student chec- kers. A sudden flash of sunlight forced its way into the room and disap- peared quickly. | looked up. By bend- ing slightly, | barely saw a small patch of sky. Gray with clouds. ‘Looks like showers are promising,” | said to my- self. There was nothing wrong with my registration. | literally dragged myself up the stairs and out into the open. | lay down on the bench in front of the UC, and looked up at the sky. It was all over. The clouds stirred above me. It began to rain lightly. | didn’t move. The drops were cool and cleansing. The swea t washed from my face. | felt the color come back to my face. Somewhere there was a very faint peel of thunder. But still | did not move. “Good God! What's wrong with that guy on the bench?” “Tired out from. registration, | guess.” “Man, looks like he’s dead!’’ —John Junot