Read Joe College: A Novel Online
Authors: Tom Perrotta
Joe College: A Novel (14 page)
“Well.” I smiled nervously at Polly as I selected my room key from the Roach Coach key chain and slipped it into the lock. “Here goes nothing.”
I blinked and
staggered slightly as we entered the common room, almost as if several flashbulbs had exploded at once. My immediate impression was of a large group of people, all of them staring expectantly at me, waiting for a signal to leap up and shout
Surprise!
staggered slightly as we entered the common room, almost as if several flashbulbs had exploded at once. My immediate impression was of a large group of people, all of them staring expectantly at me, waiting for a signal to leap up and shout
Surprise!
Letting go of Polly’s hand, I blinked a few more times and tried to get a handle on the situation. It quickly became clear to me that the room was not as crowded as I’d thought. Sang and Ted were there, looking about as uncomfortable as it’s possible to look when you’re trying to pretend that everything’s cool. Nancy wasn’t present, nor was Max, though for a second I assumed that he was, since his parents were sitting on the couch, one on either side of a person it took me a surprisingly long time to recognize as Cindy. Part of it was that the bottom of her face was concealed by a Kleenex she was weeping into, but mainly it was just that it made no sense to see her flanked by the Friedlins, both of whom were patting and stroking her as though she were their adopted child. It felt unreal, like I’d stepped into one of those dreams where you find your dead grandmother working the drive-thru window at McDonald’s.
“Well, well.” Gail Friedlin glared at me, her red-rimmed eyes brimming with accusation. “Looks who’s back from the big party.”
“You have a visitor,” Howard Friedlin said, his voice containing both a taunt and a warning.
“Is something wrong?” Polly asked.
I brushed the question aside with an unconvincing shake of my
head and turned back to Cindy. She balled the Kleenex inside her fist and sat up straighter, sniffling to pull herself together. My initial shock had faded by now, displaced by a raw surge of annoyance. It was bad enough that she called me all the time, I thought, disrupting my schoolwork. But to ambush me like this on the Friday before vacation was just plain rude.
head and turned back to Cindy. She balled the Kleenex inside her fist and sat up straighter, sniffling to pull herself together. My initial shock had faded by now, displaced by a raw surge of annoyance. It was bad enough that she called me all the time, I thought, disrupting my schoolwork. But to ambush me like this on the Friday before vacation was just plain rude.
“You know,” I said, forcing myself to sound casual and friendly, “I’m not sure this is the best time.”
“I’ve been calling you for weeks,” she said, her voice trembling like she might start crying again at any second. “You never called me back.”
It was strange: Cindy wasn’t wearing anything that lots of girls at Yale wouldn’t have worn—jeans, sneakers, denim jacket—but on her the effect was entirely different; one glance and you would have known that she didn’t belong. Her jeans were designer, sausage-skin Sergio Valentis that she’d once told me took several minutes to wriggle into. Her jacket was two-tone, the collar, cuffs, and chest pocket a distinctly lighter blue than the rest of the garment, and her sneakers were just too damn white. As usual, she’d taken great pains with her hair and makeup, and I couldn’t help but wonder what she made of Polly’s wild tangle of curls, her five-dollar vintage dress.
“Look, Cindy, I’ve been really busy. You have no idea what midterms are like.”
“Cindy?” Polly said, finally catching on. “Your secretary?”
She clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as she said it, but it was too late. Cindy didn’t say anything in response; she just stared at Polly for a few seconds, letting the word hang in the air. Her voice was stronger when she finally spoke, as if the insult had given her courage.
“I came to tell you something.”
“Couldn’t it have waited a day?” I asked, surprised to hear myself pleading with her. “I’m going home tomorrow.”
“No,” she said. “I think you need to hear this.”
“Okay,” I told her. “But it better be good.”
Up to that point, I hadn’t been able to give much thought to the purpose of her visit. But all at once, in the brief space between my comment and her reply, I knew exactly why she was here and what I’d been hiding from these past several weeks.
“Oh my God,” I said, before she’d even uttered a word.
The Roach Coach
With exquisite deliberation,
my father lowered himself into the kitchen chair. It was early evening, just after the ritual viewing of
60 Minutes
, which had long ago replaced church as my family’s Sunday obligation of choice. All three of us watched with righteous pleasure as Mike Wallace showed hidden camera footage of dangerous and unsanitary conditions at a poultry-processing plant to a stammering, heavily perspiring executive who moments before had insisted that his company adhered to “the highest possible standards of safety and cleanliness.”
my father lowered himself into the kitchen chair. It was early evening, just after the ritual viewing of
60 Minutes
, which had long ago replaced church as my family’s Sunday obligation of choice. All three of us watched with righteous pleasure as Mike Wallace showed hidden camera footage of dangerous and unsanitary conditions at a poultry-processing plant to a stammering, heavily perspiring executive who moments before had insisted that his company adhered to “the highest possible standards of safety and cleanliness.”
“The highest possible standards?” Mike Wallace repeated incredulously. “Those are your words, sir, not mine. Would you say that workers trampling on a chicken carcass and then putting it back on the assembly line represents the highest possible standards of cleanliness for an industry that feeds millions of Americans? Would you say that inspectors who regularly ignore high levels of salmonella and fecal bacteria—
feca/ bacteria,
sir—represent the highest possible levels of safety?”
feca/ bacteria,
sir—represent the highest possible levels of safety?”
“Ha!” my father called out. These were the moments that he loved, when the mighty were humbled. “What do you say to that, you pompous bastard?”
“I don’t … we can’t—” The executive held one hand in front of his face, shielding himself from the camera like a criminal on the TV news. “I must insist that we terminate this interview.”
After Andy Rooney’s closing sermon, my mother remained in the living room to clip and alphabetize coupons from the Sunday paper while my father and I retired to the kitchen to talk business. He opened a spiral-bound notebook and cleared his throat, but
instead of speaking he tilted his upper body to the right at a severe angle. In this awkward position, with the distracted expression of someone who’d just lost a filling, he mapped out the route and timetable I’d be following for the next two weeks.
instead of speaking he tilted his upper body to the right at a severe angle. In this awkward position, with the distracted expression of someone who’d just lost a filling, he mapped out the route and timetable I’d be following for the next two weeks.
“There’ve been a few changes,” he explained.
In fact, the new route was significantly different from the one I’d gotten used to over the previous summer. He’d picked up a couple of new stops—the Department of Public Works in Darwin and a big construction site in Springville—but had lost half a dozen. He exhaled slowly, raising himself into a position halfway between sitting and standing up, and spoke through gritted teeth.
“We don’t go to Union Village anymore.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He worked his mouth into an unconvincing simulation of a smile. “Never better.”
“Can’t you put on some ointment or something?”
“They only go up to Preparation H. For the thing I got, you’d need Preparation Z.”
“Oh well,” I said, ever philosophical about other people’s distress. “Tomorrow morning it’ll all be a distant memory.”
“I don’t know if I can last that long.” He lowered himself back onto the chair as if onto a bed of nails. “I’m tempted to grab one of those steak knives and do the job myself.”
I followed his gaze to the phalanx of gleaming Sliceco knives arranged in ascending order of size along a magnetic strip above the stove. I’d been a Sliceco sales representative for a couple of months my senior year in high school, but hadn’t been able to close on any customers except my parents. The knives turned out to be too sharp to use and now served a purely decorative function in our kitchen.
“Be my guest,” I told him. “Just don’t ask me to assist.”
“On second thought,” he muttered, “maybe a pair of pliers would do the trick.”
“What’s that you were saying about Union Village?” I asked, pulling him back from the abyss of do-it-yourself surgery.
“It’s history.”
“What? Even Via Commercial?”
“Gonesville.” He mimed the act of crumpling a piece of paper and tossing it over his shoulder. “It makes it a lot easier to get to the rest of the stops on time.”
Via Commercial, the industrial park off Vauxhall Road, had been one of the linchpins of my father’s route. He’d serviced three of six plants laid out along the sinuous cul-de-sac, including Re-Flex Industries, where Cindy worked, and where I’d been expecting to meet my fate in the morning.
“What happened?” I asked, torn between relief on my own behalf and concern on my father’s. To lose three prime stops in a single blow was a bitter setback for the Roach Coach.
“The Lunch Monsters.” He spoke the name in a grim, matter-of-fact voice, as if there were nothing even remotely humorous about it.
“The who?”
He shrugged. “That’s what they call themselves. They’re a bunch of bodybuilders who’ve outfitted their trucks with those ridiculous monster tires. They’ve pretty much taken over the entire town.”
“How? I mean, they just can’t just drive up and steal your stops, can they?”
“These guys don’t mess around, Danny.” My father lowered his voice. “Their boss is an Italian from Staten Island.”
“So? What’s that supposed to mean? You’re an Italian from New Jersey.”
“You’re not listening.” He looked away from me, taking a few seconds to peruse the simulated wood grain of the tabletop. “If these guys want your stop, you give them your stop.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My father wasn’t a tough guy, but he knew the rules as well as anyone. Lunch-truck drivers didn’t just hand over their stops without a fight. It didn’t matter how old or small or sick or peace-loving you were; if someone tried to take what was yours, you had to go after them. If you didn’t you were dead meat.
“They took over the whole town?”
He nodded. “You know Tito? Big red truck?”
“Tito the Snack King? The guy who drives around with the Chihuahua?”
“Drove,” he said pointedly. “They went after him first. He pulled into a stop—this warehouse he’s been going to for years—and these assholes were already there, doors open and everything. Tito’s been around the block, right? He doesn’t say a word, just walks over to the driver’s side of their truck, rips the keys out of the ignition, and throws them on the roof of the warehouse. It’s one of those flat roofs, you know, so the keys don’t slide down or anything. They just sit there. The muscleman driver comes after him, but Tito shows the guy his tire iron, and that’s the end of that. The driver slinks off and Tito goes on about his business. He said that when he pulled out, the asshole was up on the roof on his hands and knees, sniffing around for his keys.”
“Good for Tito.”
“waist. That’s not the end of the story. Same night, Tito takes his dog for a walk. He lives in Elizabeth, but not a bad area. Nice quiet street. Except that night two big white guys jump out of some bushes and work him and the dog over with baseball bats. They don’t take his money or anything. But when it’s over, they fish his keys out of his pocket and drop them down a storm drain.”
“Did they hurt him bad?”
“Bad enough. Broke one of his arms. Knocked out a couple teeth. Killed the dog, though. And you know how much Tito loved that ugly little mutt.”
“Jesus.”
My father tilted himself to the left for a few seconds, then back to the right. Neither adjustment seemed to do him much good.
“Listen,” he said. “They’ve got their eye on this construction site I just picked up. It’s right on the border between Union Village and Springville. These are bad people, Danny. If they come after you, just walk away. I don’t want you getting into a fight with them, understand?”
“They killed the Chihuahua?”
My father jumped up like his chair was on fire and began moving his butt around with both hands in a way that would have seemed obscene, or at least funny, under other circumstances.
“I’m telling you, Danny, these are not nice people.”
There was a
phone in my room, but I only gave it a fleeting glance before flopping down on my bed and reaching for the copy of
On the Road
on my night table. I’d bought the book a couple of summers before, but for some reason hadn’t gotten past the first few pages. The previous night, though, I’d cracked it open again in a fit of restless anxiety, only to find myself startled by its raw hypnotic power. I stayed up until close to three in the morning, my mind racing along with the run-on sentences, the descriptions of driving that just went on and on like the highway itself, as if life were nothing but a perpetual cross-country road trip fueled by diner coffee, crazy talk, and whatever dope and liquor happened to be on hand. It made me want to pick up the phone and wake Matt in the middle of the night—he was staying with Jess in her apartment near Columbia—to find out if he’d ever read it, and how, if he had, he’d ever managed to stand living a normal life afterward, going to classes, eating three square meals a day, only studying the books some stuffy old professor with tuna fish in his beard insisted were the classics.
Man,
I wanted to tell him,
let’s just get in the car and drive,
realizing even as I fantasized about this conversation that neither one of us had a car.
phone in my room, but I only gave it a fleeting glance before flopping down on my bed and reaching for the copy of
On the Road
on my night table. I’d bought the book a couple of summers before, but for some reason hadn’t gotten past the first few pages. The previous night, though, I’d cracked it open again in a fit of restless anxiety, only to find myself startled by its raw hypnotic power. I stayed up until close to three in the morning, my mind racing along with the run-on sentences, the descriptions of driving that just went on and on like the highway itself, as if life were nothing but a perpetual cross-country road trip fueled by diner coffee, crazy talk, and whatever dope and liquor happened to be on hand. It made me want to pick up the phone and wake Matt in the middle of the night—he was staying with Jess in her apartment near Columbia—to find out if he’d ever read it, and how, if he had, he’d ever managed to stand living a normal life afterward, going to classes, eating three square meals a day, only studying the books some stuffy old professor with tuna fish in his beard insisted were the classics.
Man,
I wanted to tell him,
let’s just get in the car and drive,
realizing even as I fantasized about this conversation that neither one of us had a car.
The manic buzz of Kerouac had stayed in my blood all day, making the thought of calling Cindy even more impossible than it already was. I mean, what was I supposed to tell her? I wished she wasn’t pregnant; I hoped she wouldn’t have the baby. The idea of fatherhood seemed like a kind of insanity to me, a nightmare on the level of paralysis or imprisonment. I actually knew one guy at Yale—Stew Johnson from Burlington, Vermont—who’d had a kid freshman year with his high school girlfriend. His parents had
money, and were paying to support the kid and his mother while Stew finished college. Every now and then the kid came to visit, and whenever I saw Stew pushing the carriage around campus in his untucked paisley shirt and state trooper sunglasses, smirking like the whole thing was some absurd prank played on him by the gods, I smiled politely and averted my eyes from the spectacle of his misfortune.
money, and were paying to support the kid and his mother while Stew finished college. Every now and then the kid came to visit, and whenever I saw Stew pushing the carriage around campus in his untucked paisley shirt and state trooper sunglasses, smirking like the whole thing was some absurd prank played on him by the gods, I smiled politely and averted my eyes from the spectacle of his misfortune.
But as difficult as it was to imagine turning into a hard-luck version of Stew—after all, my parents didn’t have money and weren’t going to be supporting anyone while I finished college—it was no easier to imagine going the route of Larry Messina, this guy who’d graduated Harding High a year ahead of me. Larry was the long time boyfriend of Monica Brady, one of the smartest girls in my class. Monica had received a full scholarship to study engineering at Bucknell, but her plans changed when she got pregnant the night of her senior prom, supposedly the first time the two of them had done the deed. Her father was a bigwig in the Knights of Columbus, and he refused to even consider the possibility of allowing his daughter to get an abortion. Instead a quickie wedding was arranged for late that summer, on what turned out to be a beautiful breezy Sunday afternoon, though the auspicious weather couldn’t quite compensate for the inauspicious absence of the groom, who had allegedly gone to a Grateful Dead concert the night before and disappeared into a two-tone VW van with Oregon plates. Nearly three years later, Larry was still at large in the Deadhead underworld and still spoken about in hushed tones by the people who’d known him, as though he were a draft dodger or fugitive from justice, someone who’d brought nearly unspeakable shame on himself and his family. Meanwhile, Monica had taken a part-time job at Stop & Shop, and whenever I shopped there I tried to avoid getting on line for her register, to spare us both the awkward conversations we always seemed to have about what a great time I must be having in college.
If someone had put a loaded gun to my head, I thought I’d
probably choose Stew’s route over Larry’s, though I wasn’t sure if this was a sign of decency or cowardice on my part. I couldn’t imagine embarrassing my parents the way Larry had. and I couldn’t stand the idea of people I’d grown up with thinking badly about me, especially since a flattering consensus seemed to have developed around town that my life was shaping up pretty well. I’d rather have them feeling sorry for me, like I’d given up the world to pay for one stupid mistake, which was the way everybody felt when they saw Monica Brady biting her lip, trying to remember the price code for eggplant. On the other hand, the last thing I wanted was for Cindy to know that I felt this way, for fear that it would encourage her to actually put me in a position where this hypothetical dilemma would become horrifyingly real, and God only knew what I’d have to do to save myself.
probably choose Stew’s route over Larry’s, though I wasn’t sure if this was a sign of decency or cowardice on my part. I couldn’t imagine embarrassing my parents the way Larry had. and I couldn’t stand the idea of people I’d grown up with thinking badly about me, especially since a flattering consensus seemed to have developed around town that my life was shaping up pretty well. I’d rather have them feeling sorry for me, like I’d given up the world to pay for one stupid mistake, which was the way everybody felt when they saw Monica Brady biting her lip, trying to remember the price code for eggplant. On the other hand, the last thing I wanted was for Cindy to know that I felt this way, for fear that it would encourage her to actually put me in a position where this hypothetical dilemma would become horrifyingly real, and God only knew what I’d have to do to save myself.
Oddly enough, Cindy
and I hadn’t really managed to discuss the situation on Friday night, despite the fact that she’d driven all the way up to New Haven to bring it to my attention. The words were barely out of her mouth when she rose from the couch and walked calmly out of the common room with a dramatic flair I hadn’t known she possessed, turning sideways to slip between me and Polly on her way to the door. I stood paralyzed in her wake, everyone’s eyes on me in the stunned silence that accompanied her departure.
and I hadn’t really managed to discuss the situation on Friday night, despite the fact that she’d driven all the way up to New Haven to bring it to my attention. The words were barely out of her mouth when she rose from the couch and walked calmly out of the common room with a dramatic flair I hadn’t known she possessed, turning sideways to slip between me and Polly on her way to the door. I stood paralyzed in her wake, everyone’s eyes on me in the stunned silence that accompanied her departure.
“Holy shit,” I exclaimed, grinning the stupid grin I reserved specially for moments of crisis.
If it had been left up to me, I would have just gone into my room and laid down for a while, but it was clear from the intensely interested gazes of my audience that something a little more dynamic was required of me at the moment. I touched Polly lightly on the wrist.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I told her. “I’ll be right back.”
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