Read The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Online
Authors: Robert Rimmer
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (9 page)
Having Yale in a class was a challenge the Midhaven College professors did
not appreciate. By the end of his junior year he had changed direction
so rapidly that Professor Heatherly, his English professor, told him he
was bewildered as to what might come out of him next. Yale had renounced
as a waste of time the essay he had written previously on sociological
conditions in Shakespeare's time. He had come to the conclusion that
digging into literature and analyzing all the nuances of meaning that
long dead authors probably didn't intend anyway was a waste of time.
To the amusement of the class he started a long argument with Heatherly,
whose book
A Study of Pre-Elizabethan Drama
had been just published by
one of the University presses. To Yale the book represented a colossal
waste of time. A few days before the end of the year, in answer to a
question that Heatherly had asked him, he managed to say so.
Yale enjoyed the sensation his remark had produced. He was sorry that
Cynthia wasn't taking this course so that she could hear him. Most of the
students in the class were largely sponges absorbing, or letting pass
through their minds onto notebook paper, the rehashed wisdom of their
instructors. Seldom did the sponges repel the knowledge. Seldom did they
react to it. The stuff that oozed into their minds never became a part
of their life. It was there as dead weight only. They could squeeze it
out if necessary in about the same form in which it had been originally
assimilated.
When Yale stated, so bluntly, his criticism of Heatherly's book, a
nervous giggle ran through the classroom. Heatherly, a slight man with
thin black hair brushed across his bald head, did not cringe.
"Just what do you think is a better use of time, Marratt?"
Yale, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, answered. He was the
inquisitor. He let himself go. "It's like digging in cemeteries. That's
what I think. What use is it to know where Christopher Marlowe bought
his cigars, or what he did on the night of August sixteenth, fifteen
hundred eighty-five? It's infinitely more use for me to know what manner
of environment produced a man who could think writing such stuff was
important."
Yale liked the sound of his voice. The class which had been dozing was
now at rapt attention. Yale went on. Picking up Heatherly's book from
his chair, he murmured sarcastically, "The ecclesiastical beginning of
drama." He dropped the book disdainfully. "What good is it going to do
me to go into all the ramifications of early Christian drama which,
no matter how you slice it, and how you try to convince yourself, is
completely boring and has nothing to say for present-day problems."
Heatherly felt the class getting out of his grip. He answered Yale
ironically in a well-modulated, classroom manner. "It seems to me,"
Heatherly paused and he let his eyes rove about the classroom.
"It seems to me that I remember a little story about Mr. Marratt that
appeared in the
Midhaven Herald
several years ago. I think it was
before Mr. Marratt was a student at this institution. Let me see, it
was about some gliders. Ah, yes, that was it!"
Yale blushed, knowing what was coming.
"You and some other boy, Mayer something or other, had a wild idea that
you were birds. It seems that you weren't satisfied that the Wright
Brothers had done the same thing more practically years ago. You, shall
we say, 'lifted' a few odds and ends, assembled a glider and whizzed
through the air." Heatherly spoke with gestures, swooping and flaying his
arms. The class snickered. "The fact that you broke your leg, crashed
into a helpless old lady, created a minor scandal because of certain
valuable properties that had gone into the contrivance directly from the
Latham Shipyards, was a small matter. All that, less than three years
ago seemed to have tremendous use to you. Now, let me see, less than six
months ago, I seem to remember you wrote an essay on Shakespeare which,
I understand, was read in your Sociology class, which purported to study
sociological conditions in Shakespeare's time. Now you find the same
type of analysis in my book to be so much tripe. Perhaps, Mr. Marratt,
your values are not completely settled. Perhaps, you are floundering
a bit! If I am to believe my eyes when I cross the campus, I often see
your hands linked with the hand of a certain lovely lady. I can assume
that within this same relatively short period of several years you have
found a new meaning in life. Perhaps a new romance?"
The class roared with laughter. Everyone at Midhaven College was aware
of Yale and Cynthia. Yale blushed, angry with Heatherly for making a
point of his relationship with Cynthia.
He sat in his chair vanquished, but Heatherly wasn't finished. He directed
the hour into a discussion of the values in life. Determined to vindicate
himself in the eyes of the class, he ranged world affairs. What was useful
in life? What was tripe? Was it useful to be a Mussolini or a Hitler?
Was it useful to build battleships and airplanes to destroy people? Was it
useful to spend a lifetime in pursuit of the "bitch goddess Success"?
He jumped back on Yale. Was it useful to sit in a place like Mama
Pepperelli's, day after day, drinking chocolate Cokes; reading all the
current magazines without buying them? Was that useful? Maybe Mr. Marratt
would give the class a definition of what was useful and what was tripe?
Yale didn't attempt it. He felt Heatherly's attack was unfair, without
realizing that his own criticism of Heatherly had been a hit below the
belt. Within an hour after the class was over the rumors of what had
happened spread around the college. Like any gossip in a small college
it was chewed and regurgitated endlessly.
Walking toward Mama Pepperelli's that afternoon to meet Cynthia, Yale
regained his sense of humor. He even began to feel a little bit of
admiration for Professor Heatherly.
Sonny Thompson was making Cokes behind the soda fountain when Yale
walked in.
Yale looked around. Cynthia had not yet arrived.
"Hyah, lover -- your red hot flame has not yet honored us with her
graceful appearance." Sonny's manner was always effusive and many times
quite embarrassing to Yale. Yale noticed that several of the other
students in Mama Pepperelli's looked up when he came in and exchanged
glances.
Sonny followed Yale into one of the back booths. "I've got a great idea,"
he said, "I'll get a date this weekend. If you'll toss in your car and
a few bucks' worth of gas, we'll beat it to the City. We can go up the
old Post Road, find a joint to dance, soak up a few beers, and then heave
to with the dates in one of those cozy little cabins. What do you say?"
Yale didn't quite grasp what he meant. "Do you mean stay overnight?"
Yale shook his head, but not convincingly. Spending the night with Cindar
seemed like a warm, good idea. As he had done many times, he imagined
himself burrowed beneath the blankets with Cindar, really making love
to her for the first time. Although he had been with her almost daily
during the past two years, the strict regulations for co-eds had kept
their dates little more than hand-in-hand walks to Mama Pepperelli's,
or a few hours studying together at her dormitory reception room. Or on
Saturdays when there was time to use his car, they would end up parking
for a few hours on a lonely road. He had explored Cindar's body but his
approach to her continued to have the same feeling of reverence. They
both sensed, without saying it, that intercourse in a parked car would
have little beauty or satisfaction. Yet they both knew that given the
right time and place, they would consummate their love.
Sonny could see that Yale was wavering. "Listen, my honorable roommate,
don't tell me that all these months you haven't got into Cynthia's pants.
From what I've heard, in my short career, these Jewish babes are passionate
and go big for a little nooky."
Yale stood up in the booth with a murderous look in his eye. If Cynthia
hadn't walked in just then, he probably would have struck Sonny.
"What gives with you two?" she asked, locking from Yale's face, frozen
with anger, to Sonny's half grinning smirk.
"Nothing. Beat it, Sonny, I'll talk with you later."
But the seed of Sonny's idea took root. Warm visions of making love
with Cynthia stayed with Yale. He broached the idea to her on the way
back to her dormitory. She didn't answer at first. A thousand ideas
slipped wildly in her mind. Mixed with fears of getting pregnant was
her realization that Yale's love for her bordered on adoration. His,
"I love you, Cindar, I need you, Cindar" was at once the expression of
violent emotion, and bewildered fear. She herself had grown up in the
confines of a closely integrated and loving family. Until she had met
Yale her brief emotional life outside of home had been confined to the
quick give and take of high school boys. She had learned to return the
flippant remarks with searing wisecracks and easy banterings about sex
that gave an illusion of knowledge but had little foundation in fact.
In their two years at Midhaven Cynthia had found that the fact of her
religion could produce new and unaccustomed hostilities with veiled
feelings from even those girls that she knew most familiarly. It had
been a pleasant relief to realize that with Yale, for some strange and
unaccountable reason certainly not bearing on his family, the fact of
her Jewishness had absolutely no effect. It had made her only voyage into
Gentile waters easier, or more dangerous. She didn't know. Whatever her
own confused feelings were toward Yale, she was certain of the strength of
his love, and she knew that the love she gave him in return was a clean,
comforting experience.
"Yale, don't look as if you asked me to jump off the Empire State Building."
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "It'll take some doing to get me out
of the dormitory overnight, but that's your problem. Who is Sonny Thompson
going to get?"
5
Sonny solved the complications of getting Cynthia out of her dormitory.
"It's quite simple," he told Yale. "I can get a date with Bee Middleton.
Bee lives in Midhaven so all you have to do is have a note from Bee's
mother that Cynthia is going to stay overnight at Bee's. All Bee has
to do is to tell her house mother that she is going home for the week
end. In other words, one note will do the trick." Sonny smiled at his
ingenuity. "I'll write the note. Bee can give it to the house mother and,
presto, we're all set."
Sonny's facile plan for getting the girls free of college restrictions
worked without a hitch. Saturday afternoon they piled into Yale's Ford
convertible and started toward New York. Yale was not too enthusiastic
about having Beatrice Middleton along, since her father was vice president
of the Marratt Corporation.
Liz had tried in the past to promote several dates with Beatrice, but
after one experience Yale decided that it was crazy to go out with a
girl who didn't like anything he liked. He had taken her to the West
Haven Amusement Park. . . .
After one circuit of the lurid jangling splendor he had guided Beatrice
toward the deserted beach. But she didn't enjoy sitting alone, listening
to the night, speculating on the mystery of the stars. She wanted to be
back on the midway, riding the roller-coasters, screaming on the whip,
driving the bump-em cars, eating greasy hot dogs, trying to win the
plaster of paris dogs or cupids for rolling a ball or tossing a loop.
It was such fun Beatrice's eyes sparkled; her cheeks were flushed.
But Yale hadn't been happy. The crowds oppressed him. He felt the sorrow
of thousands of people drifting aimlessly. He wanted to walk the whole
length of the midway quickly to see if the something they were all looking
for was there, buried somewhere in the smell of water-rotted wood in
the tunnel of love or lurking in the dingy back rooms of amusement
palaces where swarthy men and women counted the dimes and nickels
from their concessions while they planned new and bigger lures in
which the people could drown their sorrows. It was crazy. Or maybe all
these people were happy? Maybe they returned to their walk-up flat and
over a cheap linoleum on a kitchen table or in the shadow of carnival
lamps with lush purple fringes adorning mahogany-vanished end tables,
they surveyed their rag dolls and plaster of paris monstrosities, and
congratulated themselves on their ability to win them so cheaply. And
every time they looked at them the noise and gaiety of the carnival came
back to them; the thrill of the coaster ride, the frenzy of the plunge
down after the car had inched wearily to the top of the wooden dragon,
was honey to the monotony of their lives. To Yale it was sorrow. Sorrow
so intense that it made him shiver with the sad misery of it.
Sonny had miraculously produced a couple of bottles of whiskey. After
a few raw slugs, Yale found it somewhat easier to adjust himself. Bits
of Beatrice's inane conversation continued to drift from the back seat
of the car, interrupting his more muted whispering with Cindar. By six
thirty they were a few miles outside of New York City, and had found
a roadhouse that seemed to constitute Sonny's and Beatrice's idea of a
good evening. It was called The Golden Coach. Photographs in the ornate
but run down lobby advertised charcoal broiled steaks and dancing to Red
Pierce's orchestra. Sonny, realizing that they wouldn't be served hard
liquor, had come in equipped with two flasks. They ordered glasses of
ginger ale and giggled while Sonny spiked them under the table.
By the time their steaks arrived they were all feeling very gay.
Sonny entertained them with a tower built of water glasses, salt shakers,
knives and forks that mysteriously hung on the verge of tumbling,
horrifying their waiter.
Cynthia held hands with Yale under the table. The supper room was almost
dark. A glittering dome that revolved on the ceiling cast sparkles of light
among the tables and on the dance floor. "Listen to that song," Cynthia
said. "I want to dance to it." Dizzily they walked to the dance floor.
A singer with incredibly high arched eyebrows sang the words of the newest
popular song, "Remember Tomorrow."
not appreciate. By the end of his junior year he had changed direction
so rapidly that Professor Heatherly, his English professor, told him he
was bewildered as to what might come out of him next. Yale had renounced
as a waste of time the essay he had written previously on sociological
conditions in Shakespeare's time. He had come to the conclusion that
digging into literature and analyzing all the nuances of meaning that
long dead authors probably didn't intend anyway was a waste of time.
To the amusement of the class he started a long argument with Heatherly,
whose book
A Study of Pre-Elizabethan Drama
had been just published by
one of the University presses. To Yale the book represented a colossal
waste of time. A few days before the end of the year, in answer to a
question that Heatherly had asked him, he managed to say so.
Yale enjoyed the sensation his remark had produced. He was sorry that
Cynthia wasn't taking this course so that she could hear him. Most of the
students in the class were largely sponges absorbing, or letting pass
through their minds onto notebook paper, the rehashed wisdom of their
instructors. Seldom did the sponges repel the knowledge. Seldom did they
react to it. The stuff that oozed into their minds never became a part
of their life. It was there as dead weight only. They could squeeze it
out if necessary in about the same form in which it had been originally
assimilated.
When Yale stated, so bluntly, his criticism of Heatherly's book, a
nervous giggle ran through the classroom. Heatherly, a slight man with
thin black hair brushed across his bald head, did not cringe.
"Just what do you think is a better use of time, Marratt?"
Yale, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, answered. He was the
inquisitor. He let himself go. "It's like digging in cemeteries. That's
what I think. What use is it to know where Christopher Marlowe bought
his cigars, or what he did on the night of August sixteenth, fifteen
hundred eighty-five? It's infinitely more use for me to know what manner
of environment produced a man who could think writing such stuff was
important."
Yale liked the sound of his voice. The class which had been dozing was
now at rapt attention. Yale went on. Picking up Heatherly's book from
his chair, he murmured sarcastically, "The ecclesiastical beginning of
drama." He dropped the book disdainfully. "What good is it going to do
me to go into all the ramifications of early Christian drama which,
no matter how you slice it, and how you try to convince yourself, is
completely boring and has nothing to say for present-day problems."
Heatherly felt the class getting out of his grip. He answered Yale
ironically in a well-modulated, classroom manner. "It seems to me,"
Heatherly paused and he let his eyes rove about the classroom.
"It seems to me that I remember a little story about Mr. Marratt that
appeared in the
Midhaven Herald
several years ago. I think it was
before Mr. Marratt was a student at this institution. Let me see, it
was about some gliders. Ah, yes, that was it!"
Yale blushed, knowing what was coming.
"You and some other boy, Mayer something or other, had a wild idea that
you were birds. It seems that you weren't satisfied that the Wright
Brothers had done the same thing more practically years ago. You, shall
we say, 'lifted' a few odds and ends, assembled a glider and whizzed
through the air." Heatherly spoke with gestures, swooping and flaying his
arms. The class snickered. "The fact that you broke your leg, crashed
into a helpless old lady, created a minor scandal because of certain
valuable properties that had gone into the contrivance directly from the
Latham Shipyards, was a small matter. All that, less than three years
ago seemed to have tremendous use to you. Now, let me see, less than six
months ago, I seem to remember you wrote an essay on Shakespeare which,
I understand, was read in your Sociology class, which purported to study
sociological conditions in Shakespeare's time. Now you find the same
type of analysis in my book to be so much tripe. Perhaps, Mr. Marratt,
your values are not completely settled. Perhaps, you are floundering
a bit! If I am to believe my eyes when I cross the campus, I often see
your hands linked with the hand of a certain lovely lady. I can assume
that within this same relatively short period of several years you have
found a new meaning in life. Perhaps a new romance?"
The class roared with laughter. Everyone at Midhaven College was aware
of Yale and Cynthia. Yale blushed, angry with Heatherly for making a
point of his relationship with Cynthia.
He sat in his chair vanquished, but Heatherly wasn't finished. He directed
the hour into a discussion of the values in life. Determined to vindicate
himself in the eyes of the class, he ranged world affairs. What was useful
in life? What was tripe? Was it useful to be a Mussolini or a Hitler?
Was it useful to build battleships and airplanes to destroy people? Was it
useful to spend a lifetime in pursuit of the "bitch goddess Success"?
He jumped back on Yale. Was it useful to sit in a place like Mama
Pepperelli's, day after day, drinking chocolate Cokes; reading all the
current magazines without buying them? Was that useful? Maybe Mr. Marratt
would give the class a definition of what was useful and what was tripe?
Yale didn't attempt it. He felt Heatherly's attack was unfair, without
realizing that his own criticism of Heatherly had been a hit below the
belt. Within an hour after the class was over the rumors of what had
happened spread around the college. Like any gossip in a small college
it was chewed and regurgitated endlessly.
Walking toward Mama Pepperelli's that afternoon to meet Cynthia, Yale
regained his sense of humor. He even began to feel a little bit of
admiration for Professor Heatherly.
Sonny Thompson was making Cokes behind the soda fountain when Yale
walked in.
Yale looked around. Cynthia had not yet arrived.
"Hyah, lover -- your red hot flame has not yet honored us with her
graceful appearance." Sonny's manner was always effusive and many times
quite embarrassing to Yale. Yale noticed that several of the other
students in Mama Pepperelli's looked up when he came in and exchanged
glances.
Sonny followed Yale into one of the back booths. "I've got a great idea,"
he said, "I'll get a date this weekend. If you'll toss in your car and
a few bucks' worth of gas, we'll beat it to the City. We can go up the
old Post Road, find a joint to dance, soak up a few beers, and then heave
to with the dates in one of those cozy little cabins. What do you say?"
Yale didn't quite grasp what he meant. "Do you mean stay overnight?"
Yale shook his head, but not convincingly. Spending the night with Cindar
seemed like a warm, good idea. As he had done many times, he imagined
himself burrowed beneath the blankets with Cindar, really making love
to her for the first time. Although he had been with her almost daily
during the past two years, the strict regulations for co-eds had kept
their dates little more than hand-in-hand walks to Mama Pepperelli's,
or a few hours studying together at her dormitory reception room. Or on
Saturdays when there was time to use his car, they would end up parking
for a few hours on a lonely road. He had explored Cindar's body but his
approach to her continued to have the same feeling of reverence. They
both sensed, without saying it, that intercourse in a parked car would
have little beauty or satisfaction. Yet they both knew that given the
right time and place, they would consummate their love.
Sonny could see that Yale was wavering. "Listen, my honorable roommate,
don't tell me that all these months you haven't got into Cynthia's pants.
From what I've heard, in my short career, these Jewish babes are passionate
and go big for a little nooky."
Yale stood up in the booth with a murderous look in his eye. If Cynthia
hadn't walked in just then, he probably would have struck Sonny.
"What gives with you two?" she asked, locking from Yale's face, frozen
with anger, to Sonny's half grinning smirk.
"Nothing. Beat it, Sonny, I'll talk with you later."
But the seed of Sonny's idea took root. Warm visions of making love
with Cynthia stayed with Yale. He broached the idea to her on the way
back to her dormitory. She didn't answer at first. A thousand ideas
slipped wildly in her mind. Mixed with fears of getting pregnant was
her realization that Yale's love for her bordered on adoration. His,
"I love you, Cindar, I need you, Cindar" was at once the expression of
violent emotion, and bewildered fear. She herself had grown up in the
confines of a closely integrated and loving family. Until she had met
Yale her brief emotional life outside of home had been confined to the
quick give and take of high school boys. She had learned to return the
flippant remarks with searing wisecracks and easy banterings about sex
that gave an illusion of knowledge but had little foundation in fact.
In their two years at Midhaven Cynthia had found that the fact of her
religion could produce new and unaccustomed hostilities with veiled
feelings from even those girls that she knew most familiarly. It had
been a pleasant relief to realize that with Yale, for some strange and
unaccountable reason certainly not bearing on his family, the fact of
her Jewishness had absolutely no effect. It had made her only voyage into
Gentile waters easier, or more dangerous. She didn't know. Whatever her
own confused feelings were toward Yale, she was certain of the strength of
his love, and she knew that the love she gave him in return was a clean,
comforting experience.
"Yale, don't look as if you asked me to jump off the Empire State Building."
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "It'll take some doing to get me out
of the dormitory overnight, but that's your problem. Who is Sonny Thompson
going to get?"
5
Sonny solved the complications of getting Cynthia out of her dormitory.
"It's quite simple," he told Yale. "I can get a date with Bee Middleton.
Bee lives in Midhaven so all you have to do is have a note from Bee's
mother that Cynthia is going to stay overnight at Bee's. All Bee has
to do is to tell her house mother that she is going home for the week
end. In other words, one note will do the trick." Sonny smiled at his
ingenuity. "I'll write the note. Bee can give it to the house mother and,
presto, we're all set."
Sonny's facile plan for getting the girls free of college restrictions
worked without a hitch. Saturday afternoon they piled into Yale's Ford
convertible and started toward New York. Yale was not too enthusiastic
about having Beatrice Middleton along, since her father was vice president
of the Marratt Corporation.
Liz had tried in the past to promote several dates with Beatrice, but
after one experience Yale decided that it was crazy to go out with a
girl who didn't like anything he liked. He had taken her to the West
Haven Amusement Park. . . .
After one circuit of the lurid jangling splendor he had guided Beatrice
toward the deserted beach. But she didn't enjoy sitting alone, listening
to the night, speculating on the mystery of the stars. She wanted to be
back on the midway, riding the roller-coasters, screaming on the whip,
driving the bump-em cars, eating greasy hot dogs, trying to win the
plaster of paris dogs or cupids for rolling a ball or tossing a loop.
It was such fun Beatrice's eyes sparkled; her cheeks were flushed.
But Yale hadn't been happy. The crowds oppressed him. He felt the sorrow
of thousands of people drifting aimlessly. He wanted to walk the whole
length of the midway quickly to see if the something they were all looking
for was there, buried somewhere in the smell of water-rotted wood in
the tunnel of love or lurking in the dingy back rooms of amusement
palaces where swarthy men and women counted the dimes and nickels
from their concessions while they planned new and bigger lures in
which the people could drown their sorrows. It was crazy. Or maybe all
these people were happy? Maybe they returned to their walk-up flat and
over a cheap linoleum on a kitchen table or in the shadow of carnival
lamps with lush purple fringes adorning mahogany-vanished end tables,
they surveyed their rag dolls and plaster of paris monstrosities, and
congratulated themselves on their ability to win them so cheaply. And
every time they looked at them the noise and gaiety of the carnival came
back to them; the thrill of the coaster ride, the frenzy of the plunge
down after the car had inched wearily to the top of the wooden dragon,
was honey to the monotony of their lives. To Yale it was sorrow. Sorrow
so intense that it made him shiver with the sad misery of it.
Sonny had miraculously produced a couple of bottles of whiskey. After
a few raw slugs, Yale found it somewhat easier to adjust himself. Bits
of Beatrice's inane conversation continued to drift from the back seat
of the car, interrupting his more muted whispering with Cindar. By six
thirty they were a few miles outside of New York City, and had found
a roadhouse that seemed to constitute Sonny's and Beatrice's idea of a
good evening. It was called The Golden Coach. Photographs in the ornate
but run down lobby advertised charcoal broiled steaks and dancing to Red
Pierce's orchestra. Sonny, realizing that they wouldn't be served hard
liquor, had come in equipped with two flasks. They ordered glasses of
ginger ale and giggled while Sonny spiked them under the table.
By the time their steaks arrived they were all feeling very gay.
Sonny entertained them with a tower built of water glasses, salt shakers,
knives and forks that mysteriously hung on the verge of tumbling,
horrifying their waiter.
Cynthia held hands with Yale under the table. The supper room was almost
dark. A glittering dome that revolved on the ceiling cast sparkles of light
among the tables and on the dance floor. "Listen to that song," Cynthia
said. "I want to dance to it." Dizzily they walked to the dance floor.
A singer with incredibly high arched eyebrows sang the words of the newest
popular song, "Remember Tomorrow."
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