University of Virginia - Corks and Curls Yearbook (Charlottesville, VA)

Page 7 text:

showers daily, drank ginger ale at fraternity parties and was usually in bed by eleven. He oozed friendliness and, although naturally quite envied, subtly forced people to like him in spite of themselves. Quietly quiet, the shortest man in the room, basking in self-confidence because he was so short, sitting in a desk chair from whose height his feet barely reached the floor, was Connecticut born and bred Grant Sayers. The sound of his voice was known to few since, at times, it was necessary in conversation not only to speak to him but to verbally request a verbal reply. He had once termed himself the worlds greatest listener. Phelps had once had a nightmare in which Grant had metamorphosed into a giant ear. He was as New Englandish as a Maine lobster, as obsequious as an appendix, and as intelligent as any mortal should be. He nev- er expressed either love or hate, or, for that matter, any of the emotional postures in between, toward anyone, but it was welleknown that he would go through the trials of Jason for you if you only asked. iiH.T.,, Liner tried to ease the pains of a black and blue ego by lighting another cigarette. He had carried to the University a megalomaniacis View of himself as high as a ten-gallon hat all the way from Sweetwater, Texas; but each semesteris grades contributed to the feeling that he was little better than a needle on a dead cactus. Like Sisyphus, he studied and studied and then . . . and then . . . His one moral accomplishment at the University in his two-and-one-half years was that it now took two beers instead of one before he passed out. His greatest pleasure was making puns, which was a pattern of behavior with him that had the same effect upon others that the consistency of a Hea,s bite does. Everyone in the room could recite backwards the names, ages, appearances, sexual appetites, and family trees of the girls he dated back home, he had spoken of them so often. Back home was generally believed to be the back of his head. For, you see, iiH.T.,, had had three dates - all blind dates e this year, and by each Friday at midnight he would be abandoned, a sad fellow on his knees worshipping the nearest receptacle. From Richmond was Cary Randolph. Cary was probably the only man in the world who could give you the impression of being well-dressed while taking a shower. Now in his fourth year, he had lifted his hefty body to the top of the ephemeral, transient hierarchy of University status. A TILKA, he carried the la- bel of a B.M.O.C. around the Grounds like it was a neon sign. Cary was the type of individual you took pride in knowing and having recognize you with his dolphin-like smile, even though you knew that his life at the University was a continual smile and greeting to those who knew him. He had a strange way of making people that knew who he was, but didnit know him personally, feel as guilty as Oedipus must have felt when he heard the news. He was sitting on the oval throw-rug on the Hoor, back against the door, glancing between the window and Rhettis tumbler of whiskey sours resting above the fireplace. When he wasnit greeting people, Cary,s life consisted of a patient and unassumed waiting v wait- ing for someone to oHer him something to drink. Unless someone offered a pota- tion of their own accord, he would never drink. It didn,t matter what was offered, though, for the taste Cary showed in his selection of clothes completely disintegrated in matters of drink. It was not a question of money or cheapness. It was a matter of principle, like the oath of the Hindu forest dweller to eat only what is offered to him, a principle which at times seemed to cut off his kidneys to spite his liver, but which, nonetheless, often led to great satisfaction. So far that night, he had been offered nothing, but like a comedy mask, the smile remained. The only first yearman in the room was Richard Gotts. Pacing pensively, skillfully smoking his authentic Minceris meerschaum pipe, sniHing the rich smell of Dun-

Page 6 text:

jfznside it was warm. At least, inside of Phelps Lambertls room on the West Lawn. He had built a Hre not too long ago, and it lilled the occupants of the room with the hot and alive sense of security that comes on like the sweet breath of a girl on a summerls day. Phelps came from the window sill with a freshly opened can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, the only brand of beer or anything else that he would drink, and With the luxurious smile of relaxation, sank his two hundred-twenty pounds of pure flesh, unmarred by the presence of muscle, into the womb of the leather armchair. Whenever he sat in that chair it sounded like the air brakes on a Trailways bus. Good old Phelps, who had come to the Uni- versity from Rome, Georgia, and whose droopy eyes, eyes that always threatened to fall right out of their sockets, seemed to express man,s absolute indifference throughout the history of the world. It might be said that Phelps was the arche- typal eternal yawn. But others werenit indifferent to him. Not at all. Phelps Lam- bert was also an archetype peculiar to academic communities, the mysterious Sphinx with a can of Pabst for a riddle whose studying consisted of buying the re- quired texts and little more, and whose name somehow always found itself on Dea1fs list. Good old Phelps. Sitting on the bed, staring into the fire, following with his eyes the upward rise of the ashes, ashes like chips of dirty mica, was Martin Vanderslice. He was wearing a faded pair of blue jeans which, he claimed, he hadnit washed in so long that when he whistled in the morning they obediently came out of the closet and to his bed. Equally as faded was his old Explorer Scout green blazer which he were over his reputedly white straight-collared shirt and red tie. Martin was a man of conviction, as was evidenced by the fact that he continued to wear his tennis sneakers with all the fidelity of a mailman, through rain, snow or sleet. Watching the fire, he wound a lock of his dark brown hair around one Finger and gave a short sardonic laugh directed at one of his silent, private jokes. It is needless to say, but said nonetheless, that he lived on Elliewood Avenue. There he brought all the ethnic qualities that came from a reaction to the native provincialism of his hometown Providence, Rhode Island. Of course, standing alongside the hreplace was Rhett Cleghorne III, a native of F lorence, South Carolina, who indeed would be upset if he knew how late in the narrative he was first mentioned. He stood there silently, seriously contemplating the future of the world and seeking the answer in the whiskey sour he held in his hand. He never seemed to drink from it, but there was always a glass in his hand. His friends would wonder if this venerable graduate history sage, when the time comes for him to teach others, would walk into class and set his virginal whiskey sour on the lectern. In appearance, he looked like a pre-fabricated history student: three-piece grey herringbone suit from Eljoys, wing tips, Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, and horn rimmed glasses. He carried his tall and thin body well and always seemed posed in the tradition of the statues representing the great thinkers of the world. He was, in short, a walking, talking, thinking historical calendar. Bob Fletcher was still thinking about the previous week,s basketball victory over Navy, to which he contributed more than his share. He had come a long way from Pittsburgh, to paraphrase the song. He knew that and was proud of himself, but part of his success could be attributed to the fact that he never turned his pride against others. He was reserved and deceptively slow and easy going, as was discovered time and again by girls from Chapel Hill to Radcliffe. The slow shufHe with which he passed in and out of the columns on the Lawn was merely the outward expression of the young man who was too self-assured to run around beating his head against walls that weren,t really there. He was almost the ideal that every hospital waiting room father hoped would become a reality in his son. Almost compulsively clean, tits next to Godliness, you knowl, he took two

Page 8 text:

hillls Royal Yacht tobacco, his head surrounded by the vein-blue smoke clouds of his own making, in his right hand a copy of Ayn Rand,s Atlas Shrugged tthe book mark had not moved in two Weeksl, he glanced at his umbrella, which he kept unopened even in the rain, leaning against a corner of the room. In any discussion of Richard, it should be stated at the outset that he was uniquely offensive. At times, his gall was poetic. Conversation to him meant arguing in circles. A self-admitted scholar of Herodatus and Hegel, he was indeed a Midwest- ern marvel. It was not until he opened his mouth that you could tell he was a native of Des Moines, Iowa. Having thoroughly read the Playboy magazine delinitions of what a first yearman should wear, smoke, read, and think, Richard only regretted that the philosophy department failed to offer a course in Hugh Hefneris philosophical discourses. He found life absurd but failed to accept his own absurdity so that it might be meaningful. If only I could circle the square, he often thought. Eight young men within four walls. Of different backgrounds, different habits, different thoughts. The phenomenon of the bull session has been and always will be the great common ground, the great equalizer. The Thursday night before Mid-WinterIs weekend. In twenty-four hours traditional concepts of time and space would be frozen. But tonight let us have the calm before the storm. iiHey, H.T., who you got comin, to see youiw Phelps laughed. ITm going to see if I cant snake something. Hell, Mary Jane was going to be Hying up from home, but with the weather like this, I told her to wait for Easters. Wait till you see her, H.T. said. iiYeahf, Martin began, II bet sheis just a great honey. Really hot for you, huh, H.T. iiWhoIs your date, slob? H.T. triumphantly stated. iiSharon Lewis, from Hollinsf Martin smiled. Thatls the one you had down for Openings. After that weekend itis amazing that you would get her to come again? Richard said. Much talk about incoming dates. Private delusions of grandeur. Strategies, strate- gies. Things to remember: go to the ABC store, cash check, pick up shirts and suit, get cigarettes tnon-filter, she wont want to smoke any, let her buy her owm see if they let you make reservations at the White Spot, get a bottle of Listerine. IH.T., let me have a smoke, will youtw Phelps asked. H.T. went over and gave him a cigafette. Phelps lit up and suddenly started laughing. IiWhatis so funny, now? H.T. asked defensively. IiDonlt worry, H.T., Tm not laughing at youf, Phelps began. I was just thinkin, about this old woman I met on a bus up to D.C. my first year. You wouldnlt have believed it. She sat next to me and when I took out a cigarette, she asked me for one. Very polite about it. So I gave her one. Well, then I looked at her and she was smiling at me, mouth wide open, and the only tooth in her mouth was this long sharp tooth right in front. I lit a match for her, but she said no thank you, and just bit the Hlter off the cigarette and threw the tobacco part on the floor. And she was so damned happy just Chewin, on that filter all the way to Warrenton that I offered her another one. Then she started talking about how all cigarettes tasted the same to her and did I think she would get cancer. And when she closed her eyes to go to sleep she took out the two filters and put them in her lap. When she slept, that one tooth came over her lower lip and looked like it would draw blood from her chin, if she only had one. She didn,t sleep long because she a