Nedelina in Springtime!

The Tale of Nedeline. Part II

John and I were rehearsing for our concert at East Halls.

“Ok, Ned, but let me know when you modulate.”

“Sure, John, sure. I’ll raise my left pinkie.

“I mean in advance.”

Speaking of Frank Guido, I met him once at the Hub and he was reading Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake” with a half eaten lemon Tasty Pie on the chair.

“Why do you read this shit?”

“Oh….hi Ned… It’s the only thing I like to read now…”

“Finnegans Wake is friggin’ unintelligible and you’re only hoping that Debbie Stander passes by and sees you or any horny girl for that sake. But Frankie baby, from the the bottom of my heart, put down the book and go to the gym. Yes, do weights! Use that last Phys Ed credit for something useful! Yep, do weights and get laid. I’ll help you. Yes! I’ve decided! Just this very moment as a matter of fact. And Listen!!! I refuse to play my clarinet in the pit at Schwab Auditorium ever again, while gazing at your longing eyes singing “Miracle of Miracles” or some other Broadway shit, knowing all the while that you can’t get laid.”

“Really? But you’re…”

“Yes….Frankie baby. But I know women. No one knows them better than me…I….you know…”

“This is great…”

“It’s not great. It’s completely selfish. I just read on the board that you’ve been cast in “Stop the World, I Want to Get Off.” I have one more credit and will have to do this which means that I have a horror of playing the clarinet part to “What Kind of Fool am I?” as you sing, all the while knowing that you haven’t screwed Debby Stander at least a million times pardon the hyperbole.”

Frank the brilliant chaste genius responded with his customery eloquence:

“Neat!”

So Frank went back to Finnegans, the Tastie Pie remainder, and I went over to the Music Building to see Deborah Bush, my advisor.

“Hi, Deb!”

“No Deb.”

“Uhhh, Professor…..”

“Deborah is fine.”

“Gotcha!”

I knew in my gut that I was in for it. She let me have it at once.

“Nedeline, I received your note and the First Movement. You absolutely cannot write a Symphony. I spoke to Barry [he’s the dean!] and he won’t permit it. You will not receive credits for this and no student has ever done anything this preposterous. You are out of your element.”

“But what do you think of the second theme and how I….”

“Let me finish. Please. You failed the Counterpoint class, you’re slipping in every way and now this…”

“I got a C…”

“You can’t write a symphony without having mastered a few other things. Many things. And a C is not enough. No one asked you to write a Symphony, it’s not a requirement, and you’re wasting time with your rock group and….this…this…GUY.

She knew! I cowered in shame and did the dignified thing. I blabbered.

“John is completely cool and encourages me in my classical training. It’s all me, all my own idea…uh, it’s my decision completely to dedicate my life to my lead guitar. But I am flexible and I just considered that I could show my dedication to the great Western Tradition by writing a classical symph…”

“Ok, let’s go through this….”

She picked up the score of my symphony and proceded to demolish it. I can’t lie. This was painful. And even more! I knew that she would return to the issue of our previous passionate relationship and bring that into the matter as well….thus:

“Barry and the entire faculty know about this…John, your relationship with him and quite frankly it is obvious to all that you are having vaginal orgasms which spell death to any musical creativity, serious artistic ambition for a woman of your talent, the end to the hopes which we placed in you, including the raves from Prof Levin at Julliard, the expectations from the New York Philharmonic and by the way are you using birth control?”

“Welllllll, actually no! And I don’t care.”(I kept thinking that Darlene would know the right thing to say. Her vocabulary was much richer in the scatological realm.)

“And for your info…..DEB!…..I don’t care about this anymore. I’m leaving the department for good! I mean it! And snooping on my personal life is a big NO NO! and completely reminds me of what Knox Fowler did to Frank Guido last year during “Twelfth Night” although being a guy he didn’t have to deal with varieties of orgasms, and to tell the truth, I am at this very moment helping him to attain at least ONE orgasm with the belle of his choice in the near future. AND incidentally, I seriously doubt that Clara Shumann, Nadia Boulanger or even…even….Beethoven! were ever ragged about vaginal orgasms and their pros and cons in…..”

And this point I got up to leave. But I hadn’t delivered the crowning bit.

“….And admit it! Even after seeing “Diamonds are Forever” with me last month with Jill St. John, who you claim to adore, even then…even then!…on that very night with me you didn’t have a vaginal orgasm! I hate to say this, I really do, but I shall now take my “Unfinished Symphony” and get out of here. I’m young, full of pep and want to get have fun because because because….it’s the 1970s!”

That seemed to settle it and I went back to the dorm.

I mused to myself while passing Pattee and the Duane Alman memorial:

“Why this? Why this? One day your mother is holding you and saying nice things. She tells you things and you love her and you love your dad. Your dad makes little boats for you to take into the portable swimming pool in the back yard. You get an Easy Bake Oven and call your friend, Darlene, over to electrify horrible cookies. But you believe in a good world. You do! You really do! AND THEN one day you undergo something which you find is surrounded by a million blood taboos, many of them described in the Book of Leviticus with various prohibitions informing you that you are BAD BAD BAD and that Mother Nature is telling you that your time is up. Your one use now is to produce more tiny people who, in turn will, for a precious few years, believe in Santa Claus and Mr. Rogers then grow up, just like me, and be told that they are screwing up their lives because of vaginal orgasms which are bad. I’m outta here.”

And indeed I was! I was convinced, more than ever, that I would make Frank Guido the most longed for lover on campus, employing all that I knew and that I would become a rock star with 4 star reviews in Rolling Stone, groupies galor and lots of vaginal orgasms.

So I entered Leete Hall and realized that this was the day that Christy was having the Yanomamo mixer at Runkle Hall. I belived that a social occasion of this sort would relieve my mind and provide an opportunity to meet Amazonian guys and discuss the immortal Astrud Gilberto and of course I still intended to cause serious harm to Christie for having dumped me.

First things first, I went to Frank’s room. I had plans.

I knocked. He was there. I walked in.

“Larry here?”

“No. He’s at church.”

“Good. Let’s talk. But please take off this Jefferson Airplane nonsense.”

After a Happy Valley moment of adjustment, I sat on the bed opposite and proceded.

“How are things with Alice?”

“What?’

“Alice. Alice Flemming. She said you’ve been chatting a lot.”

“Yeah, Ned. We’re in the same Victorian Lit….”

“No, please, I mean what are you doing?”

“Wait. I have a question. Alice said something to me the other day.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘How many other girls do you have on ice?’”

“She said that?”

“Yes. What did she mean?”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”

“She thinks you have a main squeeze, you know, a number one with whom you are having oodles of sex, and that you have lots of other women lined up like lozanges in a Pez dispenser to be summoned up on demand should the aforesaid main squeeze dump you. Does that make sense?”

“Wow.”

“No wow. Please. You could’ve figured this out for yourself.”

“I don’t have girls lined up.”

“That will change. Beginning…..NOW.”

I locked the door and did what had to be done. This was missionary activity of the highest order. Yes! This would be my masterpiece. I would, from this point on, create my symphony with people, not notes. And this would not be left Unfinished!

OK. The Andante was slow and the the allegro moderato wasn’t so bad. The finale so so. But it didn’t matter. The first step was completed.

About a half hour passed, maybe more. Then I said.

“Ok, now let me have that record you were playing.”

“Oh Nedeline. Wow. Uh…what record?”

“The San Francisco Crap.”

I bent down and picked it up from the floor.

“After Bathing at Baxters,” I read. Ugh. My stomach turned. I glanced at the songlist, turned to Guido and said…

“Ok Frank, you just attained blast-off. Congratulations! Now listen…from now on, after every encounter of this kind you will play “Wild Tyme” off this record. OK?

“I don’t understand. Why?”

“It’s a thing. A thing that will help keep a steady flow. Capeesh?”

“Ok.”

“One thing more.”

“Yes?”

“Get another roommate. You’re headed for higher things.”

I rushed to Runkle Hall for the Yanomamo mixer. Wellington Shagnon was there with Christie, my ex, now Shagnon’s Teaching Assistant. The Yanomamo guys didn’t care at all about Samba music. They were all into Star Trek and wanted to know how they could meet Lt Uhura. I was sorry that I couldn’t help. Christie was still not speaking to me. I got a rum and coke for myself. “Is the anthropology department paying for this booze? There are Freshman here. The Feds should raid this party!”

I was about to leave. Then I spotted Sheila. Sheila is in the same sorority as Debbie Stander, the girl that Frank likes. I had intended to call her and here she is.

“Hi Sheila.”

“Oh….ahhhh, Nedeline.”

“Hiya! hiya! So how are things at Delta Beta Gamma!”

“The same.”

“Do you know Debbie Stander?”

“Yes, I do. We’re very good friends and she is not a lesbian.”

“Don’t be like this, Sheila. I know that. She has that boyfriend with the Winnebago who stops by on the weekend.”

“Actually they broke up. She’s not dating anyone and is actually studying for classes.”

“That’s tough. I mean, breaking up and having to study and all.

I was full of schemes and didn’t have need of Sheila. She hadn’t really been my friend since the time she came into the room while Christie and I were in motion. It was very awkward.

I headed to the Music Building to see if I had any mail. And get this! Emily Fishman had seen my Symphony at Bush’s office, loved it, and wanted to perform the First Movement at the Recital Hall. This just goes to show. Never give up! No matter how many times people tell you that you’re borderline, just NEVER GIVE UP.

I hurried to lunch and bumped into Frank. He had news. He was taking Archie Shaw’s acting class and Deb Stander had asked him to do a scene with her.

He explained over lunch.

“See Nedeline, I took last year off and worked at the record store. So when I came back this Fall, all the younger Theatre majors who are now seniors see me as this legendary actor from the past…and…”

“You mean you now have a mystique. That’s good. A mystique is something to be treasured.”

“So last week, I asked Archie if I could take his acting class, and he was like sure, sure, just stop by. So I did the final monolgue from”Moonchildren” in class. Well, it made a big impact and now that I think of it, I can understand why. The main character describes his mother dying in the hospital and he sees an old girlfriend and then they have sex in the next room, while his mother is dying, it’s like, you know, sex and death….”

“A winning combo to be sure…”

“You bet! So after class Debbie Stander asks me if I want to do a scene with her and it’s like an entire One Act play! ….Are you OK?”

“This peach cobbler is making me ill.”

“I have a Tums.”

“That’s ok. What’s the play?”

“Lou Gehrig did not die of Cancer.”

“Groovy. Where you guys hooking…meeting up?

“At her place. Runkle.”

After two days of pratice with John, I checked in with Frank.

“How did it go?”

“Oh Nedeline. I’m so depressed!”

“Why?”

“Here’s what happened. I went to Runkle Hall to rehearse the scene, and instead of an ordinary dorm room, Debbie took me to this enormous room with red lights. It was incredible, like something in Vegas.”

This wasn’t difficult to figure out. She had taken him to the Delta Beta Gamma Fuck Room, as we in the biz call it. Sheesh.

“And she was wearing this skimpy garment.”

“Ohkayyyyyy, so what happened?”

“We rehearsed for an hour.”

“Did you jump on top of her at anytime during this hour?”

“Wow, that’s just the thing, Nedeline! I left our rehearsal and went back. An hour later, I realized that she wanted to do that thing that we did. I’m depressed. I feel like I let you down.”

I began to think to myself. “This was so friggin obvious and I can’t blame Frank one teeny bit. At least see a movie together once, for Chrissake. I was glad I never became involved with Theatre chicks.”

I had a plan.

“Don’t be depressed, Frank. I think we can fix this.”

And I did! First I called Sheila at Delta Beta Gamma. I used my amazing husky voice to impersonate someone from Paramount Studios. “Yes, Ms Ackerman, tell her that I called!”

“I’m sure she will be thrilled to speak with you! Your name?”

“Robert Evans.”

“She’ll call you soon.”

And Debby Stander called me. I wanted to set up a meeting. I did my best to sound like an important dude and suggested a nice place to chat about the amazing job she did in the student film, “Beauty Never Calls in Altoona.”

And she knew just the place to meet!

Before I undertake the continuation of this narrative, I must reveal a few things. After listening to Frank’s tale, I felt a loathing for my own sex and the way they manipulated the other sex. These ruminations also confirmed me in my own dispositions: ie, lesbians never do this shit. Ever. OK. We just don’t have the penis dimension to deal with.

Let’s get to it.

I was invited to the same Vegas sorority room. I pretended to be a talent scout who worked for Evans. I had a disguise. We chatted for a good 20 minutes.

Then I killed her.

Back in the dorm, Emily Fishman called me about my “Symphony in A.” Sure enough, the first movement would be performed by the Penn State chamber group, “Les Arts Terribles” at recital hall on November12th. I didn’t see how this could be done by a chamber group but she assured me that they would add brass, more woodwinds, and percussion from volunteers who were completely psyched by my work.

“And John Whette says it’s the most incredible thing ever and he’s proud to be at Penn State where such a composer is matriculated, screw Julliard and Carnegie Mellon blah blah blah!”

I put down the phone, entered my room and thought,

“This is amazing! I will have the first movement of my symphony performed…. and….. I’m also a murderer.”

“Go Girl!”

I used to think that all people, at least once in their lives, say to themselves, “You can’t go back home.” Well, that’s exactly how I felt after killing Debbie Stander. Things would be different from now on, I had committed a big felony for sure, and I wouldn’t be likely to find my way back home. Not at all.

Anyway, I had to get rid of the body and I did. Riley Dunderson from Holmes Hall had a key to the Creamery. I managed to cop the key in the usual way and broke in at 1AM when no one was looking and stored the stiff in the Agnes Moyste Beaver Memorial Freezer. That’s the big freezer and well….UGH! I had to take out tons of strawberry ice cream containers and bury them outside which made me feel terrible since, as campus propaganda goes, the cows had just delivered the lactic part of the concoction a mere two days previous. This was totally fresh and I genuinely mourned for the ice cream more than I did for Stander.

I really wanted to get my mind on something else. Fortunately I was doing the concert with John at East Halls that night.

We set up our amps and things with Antonio Leary, our tech guy. Jason was on drums and Alice quand du Seigneur was on bass. John and I began with an acoustic set.

That went over well.

Then we took a break and brought out the heavy equipment. As we set up, I saw that Christie was in the crowd. I really worried about this. If I screwed up anything, she’d tell everyone and it would be in the school paper. That’s because she wrote for the school paper. Here’s a sample of what I might expect: “Nedeline K. was doing lead and had everyone in a spell until she squeeled out an atonal riff on ‘Dazed and Confused’ which set all the dogs on campus howling and every cat setting off to produce more cats. Jimmy Page would of rolled in his grave, had he not been very much alive.” etc.

It really really really was going well! We did some slow blues and and then rock. We clocked in two hours and were still going strong.

Finally, we got to the requests. Then it happened.

They all screamed, “Layla! Layla!”

John looked at me briefly. Jason and Alice quand du Seigneur were all set. They knew it like their own mother. I hesitated. I couldn’t bear it. I shouted back to the crowd, “White Room! Idiots! White Room!” Luckily they didn’t hear me. So we did “Layla.” And they were blown away so as to speak.

After a concert, I usually concentrate on getting my guitar and amp stored away properly. After loading the truck, I went back to bask in the love. They adored John Morgan, who I admit is sexy, and Jason.

At this point I did something that I had planned!

With rum and coke in hand I began chatting about the greatest lover on campus. In conversation with every female, I kept mentioning him, and that NO I didn’t have a relationship with him because he was just too hot and that I had my career to think about. I kept it up: “This GUY was so hot that you couldn’t even concentrate on a multiple choice exam. That’s the way it is! He simply leaves you in a coma, and zaps you, like Zeus with Semele (which of course they didn’t get but even still were impressed. Almost frightened!)I told them I was about to call him, pulled out a slip of paper and then said I had to go relieve myself. As I went to the Girls Room, I dropped the paper, knowing that the ladies would pick it up and copy the number.

After ten minutes pretending to do serious business in the stall, I left, returned to the party and asked, “Did anyone see a piece of paper with a phone number on it? Oh my! I appear to have lost it!”

“Paper? No Nedeline. We didn’t see a piece of paper.”

This was a triumph indeed! I slayed at the concert, forgot that I was murderer, and best of all, was on my way to creating a male titan so as to never have the what Sigmund Freud calls penis envy! No way! I had a surrogate who would fulfill my latent male energies while myself having all of the clitoral and vaginal orgasms listed in the Whole Foods Catalogue.

BTW, at this time they still censored the line from “Frankenstein” in which Colin Clive shouts, “Now I know what it’s like to be God!”

Sadly I returned to my roon alone and contemplated my life. This aways happens after an intense occasion. I took out my instrument and strummed the chords to “American Pie.” I disliked the song but couldn’t resist. “Today the music had died,” is a genius lyric. Once you come up with something like that, you can go on forever, which is just what Don Mclean did. I sang every verse and inserted all the people I knew into each cryptic allusion. My life began to pass through my mind. Was it my life? I was sick of everything. And Frank was still asking about Stander. For a long while I thought that she might still be alive, but now transformed into a succuba: that’s a female demon that sucks the life out of you, all the while giving the impression that you’re having a good time.

Well, Frank was having a good time.

Women were lined up, especially on weekends. And I’ll tell you a secret; I actually began to like San Fran LPs, most particularly, WILD TYME, hee hee.

He told me that he was auditoning for summer stock gigs and I asked him about it.

“I’m going to URTA auditions next week.”

“Ugh,” I exclaimed “what’s that?”

“University Regional Theatre Auditions. It’s being held in West Virginia.”

All of these Theatre things sounded dirty to me, and this URTA thing was typical. It sounded like the genital parts of a nasty space alien from Uranus.

“I’m going with some people from the department.”

So Frank and the usual bunch of Theatre peeps set out fot Virginia. I know, because I followed closely in my BMW. I was feeling very protective of Frank because he now officially represented my male energies.

They did their auditions at the Swank Medows Auditorium staying in a trashy hotel.

Even worse, I discovered that eight of the Penn Staters were shacked up in the same hotel room, sharing a single bed. (I was in the Tecumseh Bar and Grill Lounge across the highway.)

There was a Howard Johnson in Prestingsarse and Frank lamented to me over French Toast (it looked tasty, I ordered the same.)

“I’m depressed.”

“Why?”

“I was sleeping last night with….”

“The jumbo bed?”

“Susan Howell…”

“Yeah…?”

“And now she’s really pissed…”

“What?”

“She hates me. I think it’s because I was next to her in the bed….”

“And you didn’t fuck her!” I saw it all.

“I didn’t even think of it.”

Of course you didn’t think of it! What did she expect, Pavlov’s dog?”

“They all expect it. And even worse…”

“What worse…?”

“After an audition I accidentally walked into the Lady’s Room to pee, and Susan said to them, “That’s not a man.”

“Ugh. What a jerk. Look. This pisses me off, Frank. I mean you’ve had the best, the very best, ME for example, and this nasty…”

“Nevermind…”

“Sure, Frank. I’ll forget all about it.”

I didn’t forget.

The next day, I followed Susan Howell into the same Lady’s room, took out my power drill which had been handily plugged into the girly hair drier outlet next to the sink, grabbed Howell and went to it.

Ok. So I murdered for the second time.

And trust me. I was getting used to it.

And my mission was to make people happy. And I didn’t care who stood in the way.

The Symphony and other matters.

Yes girls, many girls, were lining up at 123 Leete Hall to meet Frank. I had done my job well, but not being one to rest on my laurels or anything like that I proceded to check in with dear Emily Tushman who was rehearsing my symphony at the Recital Hall and having problems with the second theme which was very chromatic and displayed all the signs of brilliance for which I’m well known. I even found myself wishing that Richard Wagner hadn’t composed “Tristan und Isolde” so that I could destroy Western Tonality all by myself!

Emily called me at 4PM and I picked up the phone in the hall.

“You must come down here!”

“What?”

“Conduct! You must conduct this yourself, Nedelina! You are the composer, after all.”

“Then why did you volunteer to do this in the first place?”

“It was stupid. See, I wanted to impress Todd Heidiger who dumped moi for Ginny Parker from Scranton last Winter Term and show him how accomplished I am, but helas! men don’t care about women who possess expertise in things symphonic, shit most of these dudes have never even heard a Late Beethoven quartet if such a thing is even possible, but I SWEAR, it is not only possible but real in this case since Todd considers a humble blow job to be superior to anything musical, vast as it may be…and…and…please! I beg you! It’s beyond me. I’m not Lenny Bernstein by a long shot and you almost are! So please be here tonight at Nine Thirty where you can conduct your very own ‘Symphony in A’ thus relieving me of such a gargantuan task. I’m wasted. And I’d kill for a dish of strawberry ice cream!”

She hung up.

This was a complete cop-out of course but somewhat believable since I couldn’t imagine Emily Tushman giving decent head. I felt sorry for this Todd gentleman. Truly.

I went to Recital Hall.

I took the baton from Emily (she was greatful) and conduced.

James and Doug were breathing out their trombones like asthmatic pigeons at Jericho. I brought out the tone, then went after the first Violin (Trish Vander Hill) as well as the entire string section and curbed the violas. In an hour we were ready for tomorrow’s premier.

The only complication was that Frank Guido was opening the next day in “Stop the World I want to Get Off” with the Thespians and I had to play clarinet. SOOOO I had to play in the pit at Schwab Auditorium at 8, go to Recital hall at 10PM for my Symphony and then sleep with Frank at 1 AM so he wouldn’t pine for Debbie Stander and suspect that I had murdered her in Runkle Hall, not to mention the murder of Susan Howell at the Virginia URTA regional Theater auditions where I had decapitated her in the Ladies Room.

I had a lot on my plate.

My Tremendously Big Day

I was up by 5AM. This was essential. I headed to the Creamery, went to the jumbo freezer and got the corpse. It seemed ridiculous that no one in two days had asked for strawberry ice cream; but let’s face it, the temperature was 20 degrees and no one was interested. Even the piping peach cobler at Warnock was a draw. So I put the late, now frozen Debby in my Fender gig bag, zipped it up and headed for the frozen wastes just above North Halls. I was very subtle about it. None of my 47,000 fellow scholars were seen outside which was good, so I hurried along, past Leete Hall and deposited the last remains of Studer upon the fridged ice tundra. Christie’s old shovel proved a charm and within an hour I had completed the first part of my tremendously big day.

I was nervous. Not at all like me, but I’m sure that you relate. Even in the 1970’s my crime was not at all acceptable. As I walked back to Leete Hall, I saw a solitary figure sitting under a tree. He had headphones on and was listening to his tape player. I was surprised by this. How could the radio operate in such cold? I passed by slowly and the figure spoke to me.

“Hello!”

He was a possible witness to my presence at a very untimely hour so I answered briefly and asked what he was listening to.

“Ummagumma.”

This was too weird since Darleen had been listening to the very LP on the last Gentle Thursday

“How long have you been here?”

“A long time.”

“Overnight? You’re joking. With that coat?”

“It’s lined. Hey, are you coming from Rec Hall?”

“What?”

“Rec Hall, the concert.”

After a few socratic type questions and answers, I discovered that he thought I had returned from a Jefferson Airplane concert at Rec Hall. This was a problem. The Airplane hadn’t played at Rec Hall since 1968.

“They did White Rabbit, after all! So cooool. And we all sang along! Feed yourrrr Heaaaad,,,,Feeed youuurrr….”

“What’s your name?”

“Daryl. Daryl Hunt. What’s wrong, Brenda?”

“My name isn’t Brenda.”

It was useless. I had too much to do. But let me take this opportunity to openly admit: I was freaked out.

I buried the shovel, brushed the snow from my head and retuned to my dorm room.

I needed sleep! So I took off my clothes, turned up the heat and topped the mattress.

There was a problem. Christie was waiting for me on the other bed.

“Hellloooooooooo! Nedeeeeelinnnn!”

“What the fuuu…? Christie get out of here.”

“Haha!”

I couldn’t handle the devlish glee in her eyes. I felt that I was in the shadow of the Valley of the Dolls. Or even worse: Gentle Thursday. I kept my cool, sat up and asked, “What’s up?”

“Nedelina….Sweetie! I’ve returned to the fold, your long lost prodigal….prodigal….person has returned. And I’ve seen it all, seriously the error of my ways. Shagnon is a creep and I’m through with him! Totally through! You remember how he got Darleen in his tangled web? Well it was…it was because all long he wanted a sordid, disgusting…mange a trois…!

“He wanted to eat three people?”

“You know what I mean! Don’t be stupid. So I’m here! Yes! No anthropology! No more stupid dead bones and Yanomamo dudes who know nothing of Astrud Gilberto! I’m back! The prodigy son has returned!”

She jumped beside me and proceded to intitiate those intimate preliminaries known to all. I didn’t even bother to correct her biblical illiteracy.
I couldn’t resist, SERIOUSLY and as a matter of fact, I truly welcomed her into my arms. Having recently just buried a corpse in the frozen North Halls Tundra, I had accumlated an immense amount of tension and those very fingers that had blasted the A minor chords of “Cowgirl in the Sand” at East Halls with John Morgan, now compliantly and joyfully embraced my (as I finally realized!) soul mate and the rest I will leave to your imagination.

We woke up two hours later. It was 11AM.

“Shit! They had pancakes at Warnock for breakfast!”

I held Christie tightly in my arms. In my entire life I had never experienced such pleasure.

“Christie, we’re late, I love you, I have never loved anyone more. I really really mean it and if it were possible to marry a woman, that’s just what I’d do…please believe me…I’m so happy, I am so glad that you are dropping out of Anthroplogy and now please, come with me to Pattee!”

I had to get to the Library which I did, although my eternal girlfriend cum main sqeezerama, Christie, went for the pancakes but it didn’t matter, I just had to check the campus archives and the lady at Pattee sent me to a Shields guy who sent me to Old Main where I spoke to Hennie Rickenmahr who programmed the concerts in 1968 and said…

“Yes there was that incident of the young man who OD’d. It was after the Jefferson Airplane concert and quite tragic. Where is that “Daily Collegian?” She searched in the cabinet drawers deep within the stacks and pulled out an old issue….

Daryl Hunt. That was his name.”

It was late afternoon. I hurried back to get my clarinet and went to Schwab Auditorium. The role of Littlechap in “Stop the World I Want to Get Off,” is very demanding. The actor spends all of his time on stage. And the word from the Thespians was that Frank was doing great at rehearsals. Jan Clingman said that Frank seemed to possess a new poignance and grace, far removed from his dreadful showing as Feste in “Twelfth Night.” The audience gradually roamed in, the lights went out and the curtain rose. The score is not great stuff, and my part was not demading at all. At 9:30 the Second Act began and we headed into the home stretch. The song everyone knows from this show is “What Kind of Fool Am I” which comes at the finale. I could tell that Frank was truly in the zone and he let it rip:

What kind of fool aaaaaam I!
Who never fell in loooooooove
It seems that I’m the only one
That I have been thinking oooooooooof!

What kind of clown aaaaaam I!
What do I know of liiiiiiiiiifeeeee?
Why can’t I cast away
This mask of play
And live my liiiiiiiiiiiiiffffeeeee!

So far so good, except that Frank was getting a tad pale. I was in the pit, don’t forget. The last verse commenced:

Why can’t I fall in looooooooove???
Till I don’t give a daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn!!!!
And maybe then I’ll knooooooooooooooooooow
What kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind of fooooooooooooooooooooooool I aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa……………

Before he finished the last cadenza he said three words. Most didn’t hear it but I did. He said: “too… much….. sex.”

And then fell on the ground.

Most people thought that this was planned and gave a thunderous round of applause. Nan and the crew instantly rushed onto the stage and lifted him off. The curtain dropped.

I wasn’t too concerned however. I knew for certain what had led to this Eleven O’Clock number apoplexy. Alas, I had done my work too well! Too well, indeed! I had set things up for him all the while neglecting the gymnastic aspect. You really have to be in shape for this kind of thing. Thus, halving the total student population, one can say with some assurance that after two weeks of 27 thousand coeds, you are just not gonna make it to the end of “What Kind of Fool Am I.”

This was a blessing. I was able get to the recital hall early and prepare to conduct the first movement of my Symphony in A.

This was an experience of some moment for me, difficult to describe yet providing ample food for reflection in the years to come. I have since regarded this concert as capping the first phase of my life while dwelling in this sublunary place of tears and laughter. Everyone showed up on time, the lights dimmed, and I took my place at the podium. I lifted my baton and….

The first theme sounded quietly in the bass as the strings provided the necessary obfuscation of the main phrase so as not to anticipate the complete statement of what was to follow. Thoughts began to arise within me, as the main theme was introduced. My love for Christie, I realized, was embedded in the first theme. It begins to swell in the horns and 20 bars later, we’re off!

As the second theme entered, suggested and supported by the violas, I scoffed at the remembrace of Deb Bush’s remark that my use of counterpoint sucked, because here, in all it’s glory, entered the fugue section (40 bars!) containing what was perhaps my most inspired creation yet; namely, The Warnock Peach Cobler motif. Magnificent! Sublime!. Then, shimmering in the harp, Trish Vander Hall accompanied this theme with a counterfigure that induced a joyful shudder in the hall (I may have imagined this.) At this point I had a brief moment of panic feeling that I had lost count, but once again, summoning up my courage, I lifted my baton and considered how the embellishments of the Peach Cobbler motif on the flutes brought to memory my holding Christie Lample’s head in my hands for the first time at that Freshman “Finding Yourself Meditation Seminar” in Rec Hall during Orientation Week, when the world was young and those quiet zephyrs, subdued with gentle Autumn frost whispered off Mt Nittany.

In Arcadia Sum!

That night I pondered and induced orgasm a few times (ok only once.) And I don’t mean to belabor this, but ever since I had sex with a man, the vaginal thing had troubled me. I was feeling this alternative desire. I can’t explain it exactly, but the pleasure I felt was tangled up with an unconscious need to perpetuate this idiotic species, something that filled me with dread. I had no desire to inflict upon an unsuspecting new human being the horrors of life. And let’s suppose I gave birth to a male. He’d have to endure bullying, possible draft conscription, and worst of all, women like me.

There was a gentle knock on the door. I answered the door and saw a hot blond wearing a trench coat.

“Are you Nedeline Kastarian?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“My name is Sarah Tippington. Inspector Sarah B. Tippington. Here is my card, permit me.”

She handed me her card. It read, “Inspector Sarah Beth Tippington, Senior Agent for Speical Services Old Main #221B.”

“Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

I pulled out a chair. “If you like.”

She sat down and began.

“I apologize for this untimely intrusion. Especially it being the morning. We agents of Special Services are fully aware that a majority of our students find the morning hours most useful in cramming for examinations. I trust that you have no upcoming exams at the present time?”

“Ugh, no, Inspector. Actually I had a very long day, but occupied….completely in matters….artistic.”

“Of course. We know that you were present at Schwab Auditorium last evening and witnessed the untimely dissolution of Frank J. Guido, while singing “What Kind of Fool am I.”

“Yes, Inspector, I was there. I also conducted the first movement of….”

“We have that in our records.” She opened her book.

“11.55 PM. “Leaves Music Hall, followed by tall red head who calls her a slut and moves due south towards town.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“Most certainly. First, please be advised that you needn’t answer without counsel. Are you or have you ever been acquainted with a certain Daryl Hunt, 5'9'’ brown hair, brown eyes, with interest in Pink Floyd?”

“No.”

“That’s good!”

“What’s good?”

“I can trust you. Daryl Hunt died in 1968 of an overdose. You have no reason to know him.”

As you can imagine, I was very tense. Yet despite my nerves, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. I have to say it. Inspector Tippington was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life.

“We have a witness who claims that you were seen at the Creamery yesterday at 5:24 AM with a Fender Gig Bag.”

“Yes. I was there.”

“May I ask why you were there at such an hour?”

“I wanted some strawberry ice cream.”

“I can well understand your longing for such a treat. I myself, at the conclusion of a difficult day defending the rights of honest students from PA and Out of State have often longed for a cup of that delicious dessert.Yet why at such an hour? Surely you are aware that the Penn State Creamery opens its hallowed doors at 9AM?”

“Yes, Inspector. Uh, Aren’t you cold in that trench coat?”

“I thank you for your concern.” She removed the coat. “As you can see, I am wearing a wool sweater from Gimbels.”

“Are you from Philly?”

“Bryn Mayr.”

“That’s cool. I was just at Gimblels last summer with my Aunt Deana who bought me a leather jacket which was her special gift after my dad’s funeral who killed himself because he missed my mother who had walked out on him although I tried my best to cheer him up playing Hot Tuna records, although he still couldn’t get over his depression and as you are no doubt aware that to be the survivor of a parent who has committed…..”

She pulled out the cuffs.

“I hereby charge you with the murder of Deborah Stander. Please come with me.”

“Sarah, you have lovely eyes.”

“What?”

“I said that you have such beautiful eyes. They’re as blue as the sky above. It reminds me of Shelley’s poem….”

“No one…..no….one…. has ever said anything like that to…..me.”

“Well, they should!”

What followed would be like the very next scene in a movie, where you see a train going into a tunnel, except that there was no train, rather a tunnel rushing into another tunnel if such a thing is even possible.

We embraced and it started. Somehow, the tension leading up to being arrested sparked my imaginiation and I became very inventive. I handcuffed her to the bed and tickled her tummy. It was fun. I then took the miniature Nittany Lion off my desk and it turned out to be a perfect dildo. We took turns with the handcuffs and it was overall, a fun afternoon.

The pillow talk was interesting.

“By the way, Sarah. Has there been report of a gruesome death in Prestingsarse, West Virginia?”

“Wow! You do keep up with the papers! Yes, it was a sad case. A woman in the Prestingsarse Hotel in West Virginia killed herself with a power drill.”

“Ugh! That’s frightful.”

“Please, let’s talk about our future!”

“You bet. So you don’t mind that I’m a killer?”

“My dear, sweet Nedelina! True love knows no obstacles. I accept you for who you are! Support is everything, and I support you. More than that, I love you. And especially in this case. Murderers suffer discrimination like you wouldn’t believe. Many are put in prison, for life. Imagine what that is like, wasting all those years not being your true self because some douche has put you in jail. Closeted and Imprisioned! I don’t want that for you. No way. Love must triumph!”

As is the case for many of you, my life has been a learning experience. And one thing I’ve learned is that first degree murder is not so big a deal if you can provide orgasms for Masters of Criminal Science. And I don’t mean to sound cynical, quite the opposite. Acceptance is the key and true love knows no limits. True love is divine, heaven sent, and even better with a Nittany Lion dildo.

“And Nedeline! I learned in Behavioral Science #401 that 99% of murder victims have a secret death wish which they put into the Universe, so that the Universe provides a suitable answer to the death wish by seeking out some innocent vessel for the victim’s secret wish. See? So you’re just a victim of someone putting things into the Universe. It happens all the time, trust me, and please do that thing with the school mascot again. I love it!”

After the final O with the mascot, I noticed that the Inspector began to hum a tune. Beginning in a gentle whisper, she commenced singing in full voice:

“For the glory of old State! For her founders strong and great! For the future that we wait, Raise the song, raise the song!”

I recognized at once the melody of our glorious alma mater.

And even better: I finally knew the words!

This was a complete surprise. I wasn’t at all in love with Inspector Tippington. But it seemed that I had to love her or risk incarceration for life. That was a frearful prospect, almost as bad as having to spend another 10 years at University Park getting a PhD. I wanted my freedom. I was, after all, a budding rock goddess and besides I’d never get a Stratocaster with Amp in the clink.

The Undead

She soon had something very inportant to reveal. I was invited to her office in Old Main the next day. She closed the door and immediately checked for bugs.

“Dearest Nedelina, my eternal love! Please listen!”

“Yes, Sarah,”

“Our campus is afflicted with the presence of a vampire. Yes! It is that same Daryl Hunt, whose untimely death you so admirably researched the day when you conducted your lovely symphony….”

“Wow. I can’t believe this. Then you know the….”

“We know all, dear one! Daryl Hunt is an undead creature of the night who preys upon the living. The vampire must have blood or it dies. The blood of the living! My assignment, as Senior Agent of Special Services, is to locate the resting place of this demon.”

“A real vampire?”

“You yourself saw him that early morning with your Fender gig bag. But he soon returned to his foul resting place in East Halls. Yes, East Halls! The one place where a vile undead creaure of the night would come to suck the precious blood of unwary Freshman.”

“How horrible!”

“Be brave, my sweet! We have the forces of good on our side. We shall put an end to his predations, find his coffin and drive a stake through his heart!”

“In East Halls!”

“Yes! Permit me to give you this kit of steak stakes.”

She handed them over to me.

“Meet me at Curtin Hall at 11!”

Inspector Tippington bad me adieu and left.

I dropped on the bed. I had never tripped before, but I reached into my desk drawer and took out a morsel of window pane which had been given me by Johnny Olivieri after I had played “Starway to Heaven” at his wedding.

LDS? What would this be like? Yet, trust me, the thought of saving humanity from undead creatures of the night compelled me to try something new. So I did. And I waited.
And the ground opened up before me.

Yet I was still coherent and met Sarah at Curtin Hall at the appointed hour. It was close to midnight. As we entered the basement of Curtin my mind went on and off. The scent of savoury cheeseburgers from the Melrose Diner in Philly arose and distracted me from my mission. Luckily the Inspector was as tough as a brick.

“Come, child! We have work to do!”

I had come prepared of course with my set of steak stakes and followed her into the dark crypt. I was surprised at the cobwebs that confronted me in the laundry room. “Do the students ever do laundry?” I mused. Of course not! The parties never stopped. Why do laundry during these precious years of youth? Years of promise! Years of Spring!

Yet in the very flower of youth, these unwary freshman basked in their remodelled dorm rooms and microwaves, unaware that the very Forces of Darkness hovered closely, seeking to make them undead creatures of the night like themselves, keeping them in frightful bondage and preventing them from ever fulfilling their GeoSci requirement!

Sarah Tippington beckoned. “Nedelina! I have found one!”

“What?”

“Three coffins! Undoubtably victims of Daryl and all Theater Majors!”

“How can you tell?”

“Theater Majors are most open to the promptings of the Undead! Please, my treasure, I have no time to explain. Ugh….hand me that stake….actually I need three.”

She opened up the two coffins.

“Nedelina, my love, do yoou recognize them?”

I moved over and took a peek.

“Yes. In my Freshman year I saw them in ‘Waiting for Lefty.”

“A godless Communist play to be sure! I wonder not that they were susceptible to the promptings of Nosferatu!”

Inspector Sarah Beth Tippington then took her stakes and hammered them into the two corpses. I shuddered! What was once two human bodies turned to dust. Let me put it this way: I missed North Halls. No matter how isolated and mysterious, this was much worse. North Halls had showers and actual living people. Sarah turned to me.

“Be brave, my child! We have yet to open the third coffin!”

I began to trip again and everything stopped. Really! Inspector Tippington was as if frozen, bolt upright with stake in hand, and I was alone. A vision appeared at the end of the hall, shadowed by the utility lights of the Curtain Hall Laundry. I perceived a male figure holding a guitar. It was Eric Clapton!

“Come to me, Nedelina!” he spoke. “Embrace the Undead, and you shall have all! Like Robert Johnson and myself, your technique shall surpass all!”

Inspector Tippington shouted to me: “Ignore this infernal apparition, dear one! This is not Eric Clapton, but a false image. He brings hell fire with his promises of great guitar technique!”

But…but….my instincts told me that this was Eric Clapton….

“Your…..weekend concert was passible…but overall…..sucked!”

I knew he was right. I began to slowly walk towards the spectre.

“No, my love!” shouted Tippington! “In the name of all that is holy, I banish you to realms of darkness!”

Was this this the LSD? Or real? Nevermind. Sarah Tippington took total control. She lifted the crucifix and banished the unholy spirit.

“Come, my soul mate! The last coffin awaits!”

We walked slowly to an unmarked crypt. Sarah lifted the lid and saw the hideous visage of Daryl Hunt. She took the third steak stake and drove it through the heart. Once again, the undead cry arose and echoed to the rafters. Daryl Hunt was no more.

After the body turned to ash, Sarah asked me.

“Dearest Nedelina! I must ask you! Did you speak with Daryl Hunt on that early, icy morn, my love?”

“Yes….. he called me…Brenda.”

Inspector Tippington’s brow suddenly frowned down like the rugged peaks upon the Burgo Pass and she said to me, “Dear Nedeline! Beware!” She handed me 20 or so cloves of garlic and said, “Please! for the welfare of your soul, place these in your dorm room and let no unwitting stupid roommate remove them. Ever! Now solemnly give me your word!”

I answered, “yes,” and took the cloves.

“And one thing more, my sweet!” Sarah continued. “Tomorrow I travel to Rockford College in Rockford, Illonois. There I shall attempt, with divine assistence, to discover the crypt of the arch Vampire who has engulfed this our precious campus in realms of Darkness. I speak of Knox Fowler.”

“Knox Fowler!?The guy who was head of directing at the Theatre Department and did that dreadful production of ‘Twelfth Night?”

“The very same. Thank you for this evening’s service, my sweet! And now farewell.”

I went back to Leete Hall and placed the garlic cloves at the door and window. I badly needed sleep. In the wee hours, Christie came in and shared the bed. It seemed as if Wellington Shagnon was a distant memory to her. This red headed beauty was, once again, mine. All mine! Her sleek and smooth body lay by my side, radient and immersed in glorious horniness.

The next morning I reached out and felt, to my great suprise Christie’s dove like left breast in the palm of my right hand.

“Ugh…..Ah Christie….when did you get…..?”

“I came around 3, maybe 4 in the morning. The door was unlocked.”

“Why are….?”

“I had a dream, a terrible dream down in Pollock that you needed me, needed me badly. So I came. And I am here! Here for you!”

“Thank you!” Things had been so crazy that I valued her presence. I had never valued it more than now. I didn’t even bother to question why she was at Pollock.

I kissed her long and hard.

She looked at me and said.

“Nedelina…what are those marks…. on your….throat?”

“What?”

She looked again and peered with her cute wrinkled nose that reminded me so much of Albertine’s nose as described by Marcel Proust.

“Two tiny wounds. White with red centers!”

I jumped out of bed and had a look myself in the closet mirror. Just as she had said, the marks were there.

“I’m so sorry!”

“What?”

“I’m so sorry about my review!”

“What?”

“The Daily Collegian. I wrote the review of your Symphony in A!”

She handed me the Daily Collegian.

I must be honest. I had been through so much that the performance of my Symphony in A seemed like an ice age ago. I read:

“Concert at Recital Hall” (by Christy Lightner for the Daily Collegian.)

“Hysterical Post Romantic Mannerism is alive and well as witnessed by this writer at the premier performance of Nedeline Kastarian’s ‘Symphony in A’ last night at Recital Hall. The worst excesses of this lamentable genre were present as a distinguished audience, graced by the presence of Mark Levine from Julliard, gasped for air as dissonances a plenty came intruding into their innocent auriculars while screeching aharmonic cruelties, emanating somewhere from the cellos, made havoc with the delicate nerves of those in attendence. Ms. Kastarian, lauded in certain circles as a prodigy, has here wet her proverbial trousers (or panties, as the case may be) in attempting to compose a musical piece in the classical tradition, which if not Beethoven, does not even attain the morbid late romantic hysteria of Strauss/Hofmannstahl’s “Die Frau ohne Schatten.” After the conclusion of this concert, many were seen eagerly heading to the Corner Room Bar, where their tortured senses could drown themselves in waves of 90% proof spirits.”

I put down the paper.

“Christy! This is great!”

“What???”

“Your review of my symphony has made it a ‘Succes de Scandale!’ You are a literary genius! You’ve made me a Stravinsky!”

“You mean….your happy that I wrote your symphony is terrible?”

“You bet, my love aeterna! But it’s also the way you wrote it! Invoking big guys like Richard Stauss and Hugo von Hofmannstahl!………”

I lovingly grasped her moist hand.

“And WHEN?” No! don’t speak!….I love your review, treasure it, hold each pretentious adjective of it in reverence, and now only only….only…..only….want to…..find Inspector Tippington.”