The Class (10 page)

Which was driving Jason absolutely up the wall.

And so last night they had a showdown. Gilbert faced this character with just a tennis racket, and as quietly as possible asked what the hell he thought he was doing. The guy responded that he needed extra practice for the Yale meet. Jason then said if he really needed practice, he'd

- be happy to provide it. Only they would have to fight until one of them was dead. Understandably, at first the guy thought Gilbert was just bluffing. But to lend

- his challenge credibility, Jason smashed what was left of the couch into splinters with his tennis racket. After

which he turned to his opponent and explained that that was what he'd make of him if he should lose the match. - Unbelievably, the swordsman dropped his blade and made a fast retreat into the bedroom.

Not only did that put an end to all the mayhem, but the swashbuckler went out the next day and bought them anew couch.

Life in Gilbert's suite was pretty quiet after that. In fact, completely quiet. Apparently the guy's too scared even to talk to Jason now.

ike his famous forebear in antiquity, Socrates Lambros

was uncompromising in his way of life. This meant that no excuse could absolve his son Ted from evening duties at The Marathon. Hence, Ted had not been permitted to join The Class on the September evening when President Pusey had preached so eloquently in defense of academic freedom.

And since he remained imprisoned from the moment he left classes, Ted never got to see a football game and sit in Soldier's Field amid his fellow freshmen simultaneously yelling themselves hoarse and drinking themselves sick. This was among the myriad reasons why he did not feel emotionally a full-fledged member of The Class of '58. He longed to be assimilated with his brethren.

- Hence, when the Freshman Smoker was announced, he begged his father for a dispensation to attend this one occasion in

a Harvard man's career that is avowedly devoted to frivolity.

-Socrates was adamant, but Thalassa took her son's side.

"The boy, he works all the time sO hard. Let him have one free evening. Parakalo, Socrates."

"Okay," the patriarch at last relented. -

And Demosthenes could not have eulogized a leader with

more grateful eloquence than young Ted Lambros lavished on his father.

Thus, on the eve of February 17, Ted Lambros shaved, put on a new J. August shirt and his very best tweed jacket

(secondhand, but almost new), and strode to Sanders Theater. He paid his dollar, which gave him not only entry to the show and all the beer he could consume thereafter, but also door - prizes, which ranged from corncob pipes to sample packs of Pall Mall cigarettes.

Deo Gratias, he was really one of them at last.

At half past eight, an overly made-up master of ceremonies walked nervously on stage to start the evening's entertainment. He was welcomed by a tidal wave of grunts and groans

and unimaginable obscenities from the sophisticated

Harvard

- men. -

The first attraction was the Wellesley Widows, a dozen prim young singers from the nearby ladies' college.

They had scarcely sung a note when from all corners of the

- theater came a hail of pennies and shouts of, "G-et naked!"

The announcer counseled the women to make a hasty retreat. Subsequent performers met similar fates.

The stage show, such as it was, was merely grace before dinner. The real part of the Smoker was waiting, across the corridor in Memorial Hall, where three hundred kegs of beer had been trucked in to quench the freshmen's thirst.

The men were chaperoned, of course. Four deans were present, as were all the proctors and ten members of the university police. The cops had been astute enough to wear their raincoats. And they really needed them.

in no time Mem Hall-scene of so many solemn university

events-was ankle deep in beer. Fights broke out. The proctors who attempted to make peace were rudely punched and shoved onto the liquid floor. -

- Ted Lambros stood watching this melee in total

disbelief. Was this really a gathering of the future leaders of the world?

Just then he was accosted. -

"Hey, Lambros," someone shouted, "you're not even drunk." It was Ken O'Brien, who had gone to Cambridge Latin

- with him, and who was both soaked and sloshed. -

Before Ted could respond, he felt a gush of wetness on his head. A baptism of beer. As the liquid oozed slowly down onto his best tweed jacket, Ted angrily lashed out at Ken,

catching him squarely on the chin. But in doing so he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Or, as it had become, a lake of beer.

He couldn't stand it any longer. Although O'Brien, whom

he'd knocked onto his knees, kept calling almost amicably to please continue fighting, Ted splashed, sick at heart, out of Mem Hall. Never looking back.

T

he Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra holds an annual concerto contest to determine the most talented soloist in the community. The competition is held in the winter so that the victor, usually a senior or grad student, can highlight the orchestra's spring concert.

But there are always eager beavers who try to get their names down early. And Don Lowenstein, the president, has to employ tactful diplomacy to discourage them from screwing up in public.

But his freshman visitor this afternoon, slight, bespectacled, and red-haired, would not be dissuaded.

"Look," Lowenstein somewhat condescendingly explained,

"our soloists mainly go on to be professionals. I'm sure you were a whiz in high school, but-"

"I'm a professional," interrupted Danny Rossi '58.

"Okay, okay, don't get excited. It's just this competition's unbelievably intense."

"I know," Danny answered. "If I don't measure up, that'll be my problem."

"Let's settle this right now. Come downstairs and let me listen to you." -

When he returned nearly an hour later, Donald Lowenstein was in a mild state of shock. Sukie Wadsworth, the

vice-president, was now in the office and looked up as he walked in and flopped behind his desk. "Sukie, I've just heard this year's concerto winner. And let me tell you, this freshman Rossi is a genius."

Just then the subject of his praise walked in.

"Thanks for your time," Danny said. "I hope you think I'm good enough to join the competition."

"Hello," said the Radcliffe girl, taking the initiative.

"I'm Sukie Wadsworth, the orchestra V.P."

"Uh-nice to meet you." He hoped she didn't notice how he was staring at her from behind his lenses.

"I think it's very exciting that we'll have a freshman in the contest this year," she added brightly.

"Well," Danny said shyly, "I may just end up embarrassing myself."

"I doubt it." Sukie smiled, dazzling him further. "Don tells me that you're very good."

"Oh. Well-uh---I hope he's not just being polite." There was a sudden awkward pause. And in that briefest of intervals, Danny resolved to make a heroic attempt at impressing this lovely creature.

Of course he'd fail, as usual. l3ut then - he tried to

tell himself that the law of averages might be on his side.

"Uh, Sukie, would you like to hear me play?"

"I'd love to," she replied enthusiastically, and took

Danny

by the hand as they went out to find a practice room. He played a Bach partita and a lightning-fast Rachmaninoff. Inspired by the feminine proximity, his technique was even more impressive than before, but he didn't glance at her for fear of losing concentration.

And yet he sensed her presence. Oh, how he sensed her presence.

At last he looked up. She was leaning over the piano, her low-necked blouse offering a view of great aesthetic interest,

"Was I any good?" he asked, slightly breathless.

A broad smile crossed her face.

"Let me tell you something, Rossi," she began, moving

close enough to place her hands on his shoulders. "You are without doubt the most fantastic guy I've ever had the pleasure of being in a room with." - -

"Oh," said Danny Rossi, looking up at her, nervous

raindrops forming on his brow. "Say-uh-would you like to have a cup of coffee sometime?"

She laughed. -

"Danny, would you like to make love right now?"

'Right here?" -

She began to unbutton his shirt. -

Danny had always hoped that women ultimately would

discover that his brilliant execution of a keyboard passage could be just as stimulating as the execution of a gridiron pass. At last it had happened.

And football players never get to play encores. -

ANDREW ELIOT'S DIARY

March 6, 1955

What makes Harvard-and, I have to admit, Yale- different from every other university in America is its so-called college system. -

Around 1909, Cambridge was turning from a village into a real city, and though some students lived in dorms, Harvard men were scattered everywhere across town. The poorer guys rented cheap hovels along Mass. Avenue, while the overprivileged ones (like my father) lived in really posh apartments in the area then called the Gold Coast (near Mt. Auburn Street). This dispersion was symptomatic of a rigid social separation that perpetuated lots of prejudice. President Lowell thought that it was wrong for undergraduates to live in these hermetic cliques. So he championed the idea of copying Oxford and dividing the university into smaller colleges that would be a mixture of

all types. -

The process works like this. First they admit all of us freshmen into dormitories in the Yard so that-in principle-we get to meet the different kinds of guys that make up one

whole class. After a year of this enlightening experience we're supposed to have found our new diverse and fascinating friends. At which point we'll be ready to spend our next three years down by the river in those exciting little colleges that Harvard snobbishly calls simply "houses." Actually, for some guys this arrangement has some

educational value. Jocks from Alabama find themselves applying to a house along with pre-med types, philosophers, and would-be novelists. And when it does work, this setup really can enrich a person's life as much as any academic course.

But this is far less true where preppies are concerned. Variety is not the spice of our lives. We re like bacteria

(though slightly brighter). We flourish - in our own special environment. So I'm sure the university was not surprised when Newall, Wigglesworth, and I decided to perpetuate our roommatehood for three more years.

Originally, we had wanted to have Jason Gilbert join with

us as a foursome. He's a .really good guy and would help to keep things lively. Also, Newall figured we might profit from the surplus of his feminine admirers. But that was secondary. Dick asked him on the bus back from the squash match

against Yale (which we won). But Jason was reluctant. He had had such unbelievable bad luck with roommates that he'd made up his mind to apply to live alone next year. Though sophomores rarely get this privilege, Gilbert's proctor promised to write a letter of support for him. And Jason suggested that we all select the same house as our first choice so that we could have our meals together and he'd be nearby for our multitudinous impromptu parties. -

Now our only problem was where to apply.

Though there are seven houses, only three of them are really socially acceptable. For despite this bull about democracy,~ most of the masters want to give their house a

distinctive tone, and thus try to select a preponderance of certain types, who reciprocally gravitate toward them.

A lot of guys choose Adams House (named after good old

Johnny, Class of 1755, the second U.S. President), perhaps