The Tale of Nedelina

Continuation of “Notes from the Underwear.”

Part One

Johnny Grisafi told me to listen to Jethro Tull. I was in the basement and listened to “Benefit.” I liked it. I really did. Last summer I was at Al White’s Music on Oregon Ave and picked up a Jefferson Airplane Book. It took a while to learn it. It had the lead and rhythm parts to “After Bathing at Baxters.” I had two tracks on my tape recorder and did them both. I also improvised parts of the lead. Anthony Vacanti couldn’t believe it. I played the tape for him. Anthony couldn’t improvise. He was envious. Johnny Grisafi came to give me “Stand Up” the first Jethro Tull, and we talked in the basement where I recorded rock songs on my tape recorder.

Dr. Allan said I should go to a small College. But I wanted to go to Penn State. When I was 15 I had seen student protests on TV. I wanted to be part of it. I wanted to be with other young people at a large campus. We would overcome. Emotions, strong ones, come to me with songs. I cry when I listen to music but people don’t make me cry. They grimace. How can you respond to that? July 1971 and I had to work at The Melrose. The girls at the night shift had it much worse. I’d hate that. My friend Darlene would be listening to something, maybe Pink Floyd, and want to go into the woods. There are no woods in South Philadelphia however. This is why I wanted to go to Penn State. Darlene was going there too. I told her that in a month she would have her woods. They said I was an introvert because I was in the basement so much with my guitar and tape recorder. I made Anthony Vacanti jealous again with my performance of “Wild Thyme,” so what was wrong with my behavior? My feeling is that you are doing something right if people envy you. And, believe me, they hate it. Especially when a girl can improvise lead guitar riffs. Consequently I made a firm decision to continue with my personal excellence no matter what the cost.

I shall now skip this imbecilic summer and begin my first semester at Penn State. My mother hated that I was in a coed dormitory. I didn’t care. I would just take classes and play my guitar. I wanted to major in Music.

Anne Stemple is my roommate and she appears to be decent person. I have no way of knowing this for sure. Only time and its delightful consequences would determine the accuracy of my first impressions. I had my guitar out and was playing “Aqualung” when Anne arrived. We introduced ourselves. She had a ton of stuff, just like me.

From the bottom of my heart, I want to say how complex and intricate are those moments when you meet a new person, get to know them better, and as night comes on, share confidences. Maybe you have experienced this. After the lights are out, we keep speaking. Both of us, of course, had seen our names on the official room assignment forms way back in July. We joke. I tell her she must have thought I was really weird with my Hungarian name and she says I must have thought she was a hick. We laugh. The lights are out. I am now part of it. The revolution. I am free.

Anne was asleep I think. I was still awake. I brought too much stuff. I brought my clarinet, of course. I had played clarinet in the HS band which I took up when I was 7. Johnny Grisafi helped me with guitar much later and I soon surpassed him. It’s just my way. Anne, I was sure, would ask about the amp and I would tell her that I’d practice with headphones, so she wouldn’t hear a thing. I meant it. I had already gotten into trouble practicing for the HS dance. This is why Dr. Allen, I’m sure, told my patents I should go to a small college. He imagined I guess, that I’d soon be in a weird clique and in a coma before Christmas break. There might have been some truth to this. But I’ll be honest. Psychiatrists always seem to look on the dark side. I bet you agree.

Orientation began. For two days I met hundreds of people, and no one was over the age of 19. It was like Pleasure Island in Pinocchio but no one turned into an ass. There would be time for that. Anne and I are on the first floor of Leete in North Halls. The first weekend someone named Roger had a party on the second floor. They were all stoners, it seemed. Some guy who looked like Jimmy Page caught my attention. He was gorgeous so I assumed he played guitar. He didn’t. It seems like such a waste to look like Jimmy Page and not play lead guitar.

“Ned! How was the party?”

“It was ok. Lots of weed. Oh, and some guy was going on about the Holy Grail.”

She smiled, “This place is a trip. I just hope the study hall is quiet.”

Soon immersed in classes, I discovered that I loved the Music Department. I had to take creepy requirements like Geo Sci and a language. Even biology which I had already Aced in High School with Mr. LaMaistro. But I had Music Theory and Music History. And I loved Music History. Prof Deborah Bush taught it and she was great. John Morgan from Leete was also in my class. Today she played the “Dresden Amen” on the piano and asked, “Does anyone know what this is?” I raised my hand and said “Is that a motif from ‘Parsifal?” Prof Bush responded, “That is indeed a motif from “Parsifal.” I felt good. After class, John Morgan kidded me about it and imitated her, repeating, “That is indeed a motif from ‘Parsifal.’ ” But this, I’m sure, gives you some idea that I was on my way. I then went to the New College Diner with John Morgan. He wasn’t my boyfriend, but definitely after me and still a nice guy and we always ordered sticky buns, but never as many as when we were stoned on any given Saturday Night.

I love the New College Diner and so does everyone else. It’s crowded. John Morgan gets a booth and I sit across. He says that I have talent. John plays bass and wants to form a group. And he has his eye on me for sure. The waitress takes the order and we drink coffee. The diner radio plays “The Crystal Ship,” by the Doors.

“I love this. Don’t speak, Ned!” So we listen.

It’s not entirely clear to me if people are still struck this much by music, but when a song that you loved came on, you couldn’t concentrate on anything else. The waitress came with the food at the faux bridge (“a thousand thrills a thousand girls.”) and I’m sure she didn’t think we were rude because it was normal when you heard something like “The Crystal Ship” coming out of nowhere to just go total oneiric.

“I’m tired of this dimension,” John said. It came out of nowhere.

Well, John was always pretty trippy, but this sounded like a total self-parody.

“Oh?”

“Yes, there’s a place where I can go when I feel low…”

“Lennon…”

“Fuck you.”

“What???”

“You know everything. Just listen, Ned.”

John Morgan had never said Fuck You to me, but I let it go. I mean, if the proto, Ur-Lennon song, “There’s a Place,” meant that much to him, I sure as hell wasn’t going to interfere. And really, I mean, isn’t it always like this that it’s always the neglected B side of a 45 that you discover and means the most to you because the record company thinks it’s inferior which means that it has to be better? And in this case, I felt for John Morgan I really did. That harmonica and the vocals. Haunting. This is boring you.

OK. I’ll wake you up. Here. John Morgan wanted to be mysterious and abstracted because being in psychedelic outer space was, at this moment, the best way to get into my pants and John Morgan knew exactly what he was doing even though, I’m sure, The Doors and John Lennon meant a lot to him. Life is complex. We all need someone and you use what works.

“Someone has Duane Allman’s name and dates in cement.”

“Where?”

“By Pattee.”

“I’m a space cowboy
Bet you weren’t ready for that
I’m a space cowboy
I’m sure you know where it’s at, Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…”

“So?”

“Well here’s the thing. It’s a sign. About the group. This is the time. The time is ripe. You know?”

“Oh sure. Yes, it’s ripe.”

John Morgan got the check.

I say good buy and said we’d talk about the group. I’d play lead of course and we could practice after midterms. We had some ideas for a drummer and rhythm but the nucleus was there.

I then proceeded to McLanahan’s to purchase feminine hygienic devices of which I was in sore need and returned to North Halls to study my music theory and Geo Sci (ugh). Roommate Anne was gone, I think at the movies with Spunky Pete. “Gone with the Wind” was in theaters again and Spunky Pete must have been in torment for the 4 hour duration.

“No shit though,” I thought. “John Morgan and I are gonna have a band.We will kick it.”

A week later and the Music History midterm is finished! I am exhausted, I put everything into this and studied all week. So I wander back to North Halls and skip lunch. I lay on the bed and go blank. That enormous void I love so much. There are sounds from the next room, just chatting and so I get up, my first idea being to close the door, but then thinking I should be social, I go in.

Christine and Kathy with Anne, my roommate, were discussing things. I listened.

“Not always.”

“I thinks it’s true.”

“Naw,” says Anne, who then turns to me.

“Hey Ned, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Kathy says that the only way you can really know someone is to have sex.”

I had to think a moment.

“Well that would put a new spin on the Greek proverb, ‘Know Thyself.’ ”

They just stared at me having no idea what I meant and I didn’t expect them to. O God. I won’t let this get to me. I am determined to stay in a great mood. And believe me, I was more than thrilled when I discovered that I aced it. Yes, and more than that. Next to the A, Deborah Bush had written, “Stop by my office.”

So I did.

Saturday and there’s gonna be a huge keg party which I want to avoid since I have a lot to do. I was surprised that Prof Bush invited me to her house it’s nice to be close to your teachers and anyway I told them at the Study Hall and went in the room to make sure, Bakely stops by and is disappointed I won’t be at the party, I am becoming popular yes and I missed most of the home games too so Bakely is giving me grief for missing Cappelletti play but I’m sure I was at the Nov 6th game, and our new stadium is supposed to be the largest in the civilized world or something and looks like a crater from the air as I’m told which to me, at least, is completely cosmic since it’s called Beaver. So much for GeoSci and I’m out…

It was at four because she said that some friends were coming over later. I’m nervous and I’m usually never nervous even when performing.

“Yes, I’m into the Romantic period. I mean not everything. Clarinet. Oh sure. I still keep up with it and…”

“Musicologists are usually the first to go when there’s a budget crisis in a college. How is your theory class?”

“Fine. And I messed up on the second question. I was about to leave it blank but then at least remembered Poulenc.”

“Well, it didn’t take away from the exam. Not at all. The musicians in Les Sixwere reacting against Wagner and hyper-romanticism…”

I was still nervous and losing my concentration. So it was good that she excused herself and went to get the tea.

My mind roamed around. Doing my laundry that morning, I saw a few people by the TV watching a Star Trek rerun. I was in 8th grade when this show came on and I thought of Darlene telling me to watch it instead of stupid Batman. She said this show was special but I didn’t even watch it once. And now people in Leete are getting up in the morning to watch it. I had to hand it to Darlene that she was ahead of her time. And Batman was indeed stupid. Well, this thought was humbling and I realized that I was feeling overwhelmed in Deborah Bush’s living room. The she came with the tea.

“Oh yes, sugar….that’s fine.”

“I forgot to mention that they worked on Cocteau’s “Wedding on the Eiffel Tower.”

“Who?”

“Les Six. Well five of them. Louis Durey refused to participate in the project. I believe he was upset because of something Cocteau said about Ravel.

“I’ll have to see it.”

“They’re doing it here next Fall at The Playhouse. The Theater Department has a new director with whom I’m collaborating”

There was a pause and she did something. I was apologetic but not sure why I was apologizing. When tension is this bad you have to, I mean, it’s good to just be polite and I tried to be polite. I got my coat and said goodbye and almost forgot my bag but got that too.

Walking down S. Atherton going very fast I just miss the Chevy, run some more and pass Old Main. I want to get home and and am feeling nauseous.

The Quad is noisy and at Holmes Hall the morons are blasting Pink Floyd from some window. I get into Leete and the keg party is going full steam and I almost trip over a puddle. I just want to get to my room. I think I’m about to throw up and run into the men’s bathroom which is closest. Bakely is puking too and I then know I have enough time to go around the hall to the women’s. But nothing happens. I go to my room and sit on the bed. Anne isn’t there.

I have to end this. This has to end.

I go to see John on the third floor. I feel that I’m sure to find him. So I knock but he’s not there. I knock again. I am crying now. I go back down to the first floor and pass again by Mike’s. I hear Weed and Nardotti doing their comedy act. The women’s wing is empty except for Di Beissinger coming out of the shower. She sees me and knows I’m upset.

“What’s the matter?”

“Went to see John Morgan.” I didn’t know what I was saying.

Then she gets this “knowing” look and says, “We were worried about you.”

“What?”

“We know.”

“You know what?’

“Let me take off this towel.” I follow into her room.

“You’re suffering. You have to grow up. It’s difficult. I mean, you like men. I can tell you like men.”

“Wait.”

“Ned, just listen. I want to help. We all want to help. Hey, look! Let’s wipe those tears.” (she wipes my eyes with Kleenex. She shows that she cares and that they all want to help. I am so glad. Right.)

“You know Scott Mechanic?”

“The pre-med guy with the water bed?”

“He’s nice. And gentle. He said to me last week, ‘what gives me most pleasure is knowing the pleasure that I’m giving the girl.’ Can you believe that? And he never gets emotionally involved. He’s just there to help. Like a dentist!”

“What???”

“And he gets a checkup from Ritenour every week too. Trust me. He always shows me the lab results. What more can you ask for?”

“I don’t understand. This is no business of…listen, Di…” I didn’t finish.

“People are talking about you. They all know.”

This set me off. And I forgot to mention this. I seem shy but you don’t want to set me off. You just don’t do it. I assumed that no one would ever do that. But Di didn’t know me in High School. See, I got spoiled. After a few years at Southern, everyone knew not to set me off. Di didn’t know.

But something happened. I stood there a moment. Then ran out of the room. I went down the hall out into the quad. I wanted to hide. I had to do something first though. It was important that I do this thing. Towards the Forum and around I stop, five people passing. I ignore them and take out some paper. I want to write a note to Professor Bush. Just to explain, but I have her phone number so, but I’m too embarrassed to speak with her now and she said there were people stopping by her house so it is best to leave a note under her door at the Music Building and so I go to the Music Building from the practice rooms I hear the pianos and there’s a sign too, a student quartet is doing a concert tonight I see the sign for the concert I leave the note and have to keep moving to think I want to think about this I have to think about it, she will get the note Monday and then I’ll call tomorrow no I will call Monday. I come up towards Pattee and know I will get sick now there are three people passing by, I let them pass by and go to the grass to throw up. I sit. No one is here but I can stay here I look normal. I feel dizzy but try to get up. I decide to wait and relax no one can see the mess it’s in the grass. I just breathe now, it’s easier to breathe and I relax. I feel so much better now. I am sitting up with my hands around my knees. I breathe deeply look ahead of me look down and see that there is something on the path that some person wrote when the cement was fresh

Duane Allman 1946- 1971

……………………………………………………………………………………

No, Al White’s store was not on Oregon Avenue it was on Broad Street, Broad Street and Oregon and it is easy to remember this when I am waiting for the bass clarinet sitting at my left to come in at the right time I got into the Pit for the Thespian Show “Stop the World I Want to Get Off.” Professor Bush says it is good practice the guy who plays the leading role is good Pielmeister and always comes in on time even at piano rehearsals they said he was the greatest person because for the most part actors are a pain I really cannot deal with them and the entire music department is a slave to these gigs because the student concerts have maybe 3 people in the audience while the Thespians get a full house in Schwab Auditorium so there can be a sense of occasion and you know someone is listening I may have a solo somewhere I think “Who Can I Turn To” which I’m not sure about it was added in the London Production. We are breaking now which is good The bass clarinet is Robert who had the button missing in English class I didn’t know he was a musician at the time so I wrapped in cardboard a needle and thread and it was a surprise I know he likes me so when he comes to audition he thinks it’s fate. I feel so badly that I cannot return his interest. But I love these men so much I love them I really do. They believe in something pure something tender How I would like to believe in tenderness. and they believe in women and they remember the girls they could not get and they remember kindness and they remember their mother’s breasts but I just can’t I just can’t I just can’t……..screw them.

and John Morgan is still are still jamming. I love rock.

Get back to North Halls and Christie is waiting for me with her clothes off it is supposed to be funny and and actually it is. So we kiss a bit and I take a nap.

I have to say I dozed off and only noticed Christie at some point coming into bed and squeezing my breasts while I just turned over next to the wall and slept some more, Anne also came into the room cause I heard the door open so it must have been Anne and came for her things. I know she has put in a request for another room, and I don’t blame her one bit. I have most of the day off but I have to read “Death in Venice” for my course “German Literature in Translation” which has a great professor and he said that we should read the book at least twice because it’s so dense and it takes a few readings to pick up on all the symbolism so I go to see Stan who majors in German and he gives me advice. I especially want to understand the Dionysian and Apollonian dichotomy that informs the work.

“But why do you have to read it twice?”

“He said to the class to read it at least two times.”

“Why?”

“The symbolism and stuff.”

“But you’re reading it in translation.”

“But I don’t know German.”

“Ok But there’s no way a translation is going to give you any idea…”

“I just want an A in this course. And I told you I don’t know German.”

“Then why did you take the course?”

“Because I’m interested in German literature.”

“But you don’t know German.”

See I often wonder why I go to guys for help instead of women. Gradually an idea explaining this oddity came into my purview. Here it is. They are blunt. With guys you know for sure that they think you’re an idiot. Women do the same thing but in bizarre ways and I am the first to admit that I don’t immediately pick up on it. For my ears, a woman’s cattiness is like a dog whistle. I’d rather know for sure that this idiot Stan thinks I’m an idiot rather than trying to figure out whether or not some girl’s tone of voice designates condescension or approval. Actually there’s no way to win. The best thing possible is not ask for advice at all.

“Listen closely now, Stan! I just want an A. I want to get an A. I want to go to Julliard. I don’t want an admissions guy to see my transcript and say, “this girl got a C in ‘German Literature in Translation. She must be a fucking idiot.’ Am I making any sense? And to place a capstone upon this unfortunate decision to ask you for advice, I’d like to state that I am not a Scott Mechanic war bride floating on a waterbed sea of joy. Au contraire. So to conclude I will simply read this gay shit novella twice and take the exam and hope for the best.”

And guess what? I read it four times and got an A. And here is my take on the thing. Gustav Aschenbach was very repressed and lived during a time of highly neurotic Viennese people and was also modeled after Gustav Mahler which it says in the Intro and lovely Debby Bush assures me that Mahler was a major closet case hysteric which all and sundry can hear for themselves in that dreadful 6th Symphony which Mary Lou Camburn rightly hated so much, so I had to see it all in a pure historical context.

And I was Dionysus. No dichotomy for me. No, Sir. I was the Real Thing and all I really hungered for was to get A’s, get into the Julliard summer program this year, become a musical genius and to love Christie Lightner all the days of my life.

I was in the study hall reading my Music Theory text and reading Time Magazine. I saw Nardotti and Weed. They were planning something funny. Real pranksters and I had to hand it to them. I suspected that they were also complete nihilists. People thought they were gay but there was no indication. It didn’t matter to me.

I read Time. Kubrick was making a film. Clockwork Orange. It sounded like “If,” cause it also had Malcolm McDowell who was playing another thug. I saw “If” at Rittenhouse Square in Philly. This seemed like the same thing. Why do it? I thought about high school and when my family moved. I had my own room. This was in 1967. All at once there were miniskirts. Everywhere. It wasn’t allowed in my high school. But as I said before the revolution was on TV when I hungered to be part of it all, and even Samantha on Bewitched was wearing a miniskirt. So what was the reason? I wasn’t sure. Within this mystery might lie the reason why I liked women so much. In my own room with my own TV I saw it all. But why? Was it my imagination? It seemed unfair that the entire world should be reaching puberty at the same time that I was. It was all too much, too much. You could say that I got used to it but you would be be wrong. In the summer of 1968 I hugged my pillow so hard. The heat and sweat made it all seem so real. The pillow was a boy. Sometimes the pillow was a girl. Mostly it was a girl. See there, I’m still ashamed to write it. It was never a boy. Even still. The entire thing seemed unfair. And while I was changing, the entire world was changing. And it was not my imagination. Not at all. But why the miniskirts?

There were doubts. Remember the first party when Chip Herman fell on top of me and said, “Where is Mommy?” That referred to Vicky and Drew. The stoners wanted a family and they were all children of Vicky and Drew. So one must assume that all humans naturally want and crave this, a nuclear family. The husband and wife, the foundation stone which the builders rejected. And be honest! We are all children of Vicky and Drew. Every one of us. The entire human race. Weed confided this to me who hated the second floor but knew he was he was he was she was she was she was. Vicky and Drew, created from the dust of the earth, the tempted, the fallen, the cursed, and redeemed by the precious stuff that dreams are made of. And our first parents were cast from the garden. But was I further cast out? I finally figured that it didn’t matter. I mean, when you’re out you’re out. Finito.

I had finally arrived at the insight that people will love you if you treat them like shit. It took a while for this to dawn upon me. But once I had seen the results I was a believer. This didn’t mean that you had to be a complete asshole. A feeling of confidence was required. And most importantly, a knowing grin. At first I thought this useful only for men. But now I knew it worked for women too. Long ago I saw Five Easy Pieces with Jack Nicholson. One day, it occurred to me. Just be like Jack. Now in order to achieve full effectiveness, patience was required. For example, if I took my clothes off at a party I would get immediate action but no respect. The guys would want to screw me. With this new realization however, that is, look with contempt at everyone while employing the essential all-knowing Jack grin, results were assured. At first guys would be annoyed, gradually intrigued, and finally, after 3 weeks, want to screw me. Of course I wasn’t interested in the guys, but everyone wants to be wanted so it’s a win win. You just can’t do things on impulse in this world. Everything has to be weighed and thought out. It even helped me in getting straight A’s. Don’t ask me why. I am as puzzled as you are.

There was an exception to this rule. I had a soft spot for suffering people. I usually met them at the Rathskellar on a Tuesday night. Weed was there drinking alone. Christie had to go to Lab, so I pulled up a chair and ordered a vodka neat. It’s seems he was being tortured by a director. It took a while for him to open up. Friends said that he was too intelligent to be an actor. And so this amazing cut up and anarchist was being reduced to the usual shell by cohabiting with actors and being shoved around the stage by idiots.

“Listen, Weed,” I said. “Just ignore what he says. Do crazy shit. Here, for example. Look upstage away from him and make a funny face at Rosalind. Wait. Do you have those chromosomes for doing that curling thing with the tongue?”

Yes. Weed could curl his tongue.

“Great. Well do that to the actress during the rehearsal. Be anarchic, like you used to be at Mike’s. Does this make sense?”

Weed said it made sense.

“And even more stuff like that. Anything you can think of. Flick your tongue at her like you’re bathing her pubes. Capeesh? Like this.” Weed was really impressed when he saw me do this. “And she’ll relax on stage. Believe me, she’s probably just as tense as you. And guess what? After doing the tongue thing thing, she’ll….what’s her name?”

“Cathy Rogers.”

“Right. Now listen, I’m saying this for your own good…”

“Oh I know that. I appreciate it.”

My Vodka arrived.

“But don’t just appreciate it. Do it. Have fun. You only live once.” I took a gulp of Vodka. The idiot put ice in it. “Now this actress, Cathy Something. Is she cute?”

“Yes. But she has a boyfriend.”

“Oh please. When a girl says she has a boyfriend it’s like saying she has a cold. In a week it all clears up. So do the tongue thing. OK?”

“Ok, Ned.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Well I did get into the Julliard program for the summer. I returned to PSU and managed to take a practicum that required writing a string quartet in the style of the First Viennese School. This was strictly a grad course, but I got in. I had a lot on my plate. Luckily I was still with Christie who had switched her major to Anthropology. We were also roommates now.

One night, Vicky was showing slides of her trip to Budapest. Christie, knowing I was of Hungarian descent, wanted to check it out. I couldn’t care less. I had my Allegro to finish, a paper for History 202 and also had to meet Deborah Bush for a meeting the next morning. The slides went on and on. I stayed for Christie but wondered why I was there. After an hour I imagined that even Dante could not imagine a worse hell than having to spend hours and hours watching slides and saying“wow!”It was 11PM and before catching up on the Hundred Years War, I stepped out into the Quad and beheld God’s beautiful tapestry of stars. “This is real,” I thought. “How beautiful the world is.” I felt a pang at having to be so cynical. I had to survive, after all. How I wanted express to someone my feeling of how beautiful this all is. But people would think I was kidding. It wouldn’t be “me.” I couldn’t even confide this to Christie. She’d go off and find someone else less aesthetic, someone hard as nails who could resume pulling her hair at climax and making her scream.

Ok. I did the stars.

Now, People! I’m not making this up. Because even though you assume (and rightly) that I have a lot on my plate what with a string quartet to compose, and a very demanding oversexed red headed girlfriend and a swimming requirement to repeat because I kept drowning the first time, even still, I became involved in a somewhat ridiculous adventure with possibly fatal consequences for a number of people, including yours truly, which I shall now relate.

The allegro was slowing me down. It was here that I had to establish the major two themes and prepare them for future development. A delicate balancing act between originality and adherence to Classical norms was required, and beloved Debby Bush told me something like, “For God’s sake don’t look at Schubert 14, “Death and the Maiden!’ Please if you even attempt something like that, you will be doomed!” So of course, I then proceeded to do the inevitable: I studied “Death and the Maiden.” It didn’t intimidate me at all. What was she talking about? I loved the racing flirtation of the violins, the hectic jumps in the viola, the resigned cello moaning like a lizard in extremis. Let’s just say I was psyched!

On top of this I was scheduled to play my clarinet in Schubert’s 9th Symphony at the Mary Beaver White Memorial Scholarship Fund Students Award Concert that was coming Saturday. That Wednesday I came out of rehearsal and saw Christie leaving The Forum. On the way back to North Halls, she complained about her Anthropology 101 Class. Back in our room she let it all hang out.

“This is what happens! I sucked at Science in high school! I wanted to be an archaeologist!” (this was new to me.) “I wanted to go to Penn!” (also new to me.) “So I thought I would do Anthropology here, go to the University of Pennsylvania, and get my degree in Archaeology there. Now it won’t happen! No way. I’ll never reach my life’s goal. And I’ll never go on a dig!”

I tried my best to calm her. It seems that her adviser, Prof Wellington Chagnon, taught the survey course #101 which was held at The Forum. It was a huge class, and there was, in her view, no way she could stand out because there were 16 teaching assistants, a million students,and she couldn’t get anywhere near Prof Wellington Chagnon. According to Christie, Chagnon would give his lecture, shut the slide projector, and then run out.

I’ll admit that my heart softened while listening to Christie. I could only think, “This is what happens when you don’t fuck your professors.” There was even a tear in my eye. But where the hell was this Chagnon guy? And why couldn’t he see my beautiful girlfriend! I got angry, quite pissed, and went into Nancy Drew mode. I gave Christie a kiss and said, “We will find this fucker!”

The very next day I went with Christie to class. She was right. The Forum was packed. “How can they fit so many people?” I thought. It was like the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Christie and I waited impatiently. We had never been close like this without being able to make out. It was torture. So after ten minutes the lights dimmed and Professor Wellington Chagnon slowly and majestically strode before the huddled masses of students, gradually yet inexorably finding his way to the podium. Let me admit this; even I was impressed. He paused, looked out and squinted out upon a sea of eager faces, longing to hear of his adventures concerning the Yanomamo tribes who dwelt in primitive simplicity along the torrid, steaming Amazonian basin. Right from the start I liked his beard. I’m not saying I’d do him. I just liked the beard.

He begins the lecture. The Yanomamo people were very violent because the women chose the most violent men which meant that the violent genes were handed down thus resulting in even more violent children who in turn grew up to be violent warriors. Based upon Professor Wellington Chagnon’s lecture I had to admit; the Yanomamo seemed pretty fucking violent. But here was the problem: there were no slides of the Yanomamo! Instead, all one saw were photos of Professor Chagnon in the Amazonian wild, dressed in a variety of fashionable Khaki pants. From slide to slide, there was simply no getting away from it; Wellingon Shagnon was a supreme hunk whose khakis preserved their crispness even in the most remote and torrid regions. I had to ask myself, “How does he do it?”

Anyway, I hadn’t planned it well. Schubert was on my mind. The bell rang and a rush of students plunged towards the doors and blocked access to the lecturn. We still tried to follow Prof Chagnon, but in vain. Christie stayed to speak to a teaching assistant so I went back to Leete Hall. I was in a rotten mood for some reason. Too many people. In addition to which I felt that I was being followed by someone. Don’t ask me why. At this point I looked at my desk and saw that my quartet was missing.

Just then Christie came into the room. She came up to me and gave me a note. It was from the teaching assistant.

“Look.”

I read it.

“Pleased be advised that I have scheduled our appointment for May the Second; that is to say, TOMORROW, at the Hungry Eats Diner at Bellefonte, PA at 9:00 AM. Booth 3. Bring paper and pen. Wellington H. Chagnon, PhD, Hubert Adelburg Chair of Anthropology, Pennsylvania State Univeristy, University Park, PA.”

“What does it mean?”

“He wants to meet you. At Bellefonte.”

“I know. I’m scared.”

“Christie, you left the door unlocked. My quartet is gone. The first movement is gone. Someone took it.”

“Oh no! That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“A girl came here this morning. You were at class. She left a note on the desk.”

Then I had been followed. I looked on the desk. Sure enough there was a note:

I love him! Oh Nedeline! How right you were! From the dreary depths of those hot summer nights when we were slinging hot veal cutlets at the Melrose Diner and you were towering above me with your precise knowledge of the San Francisco Groups and your expertise in Lead Guitar, how could I know when you said that I would have my woods that I would not only have these sylvan wonders but also the love of a man who is beyond all men, who surpasses the reach of human consciousness, Master of the Yanomamo, Keeper of my heart, Professor Wellington Chagnon, who also allows me to use his first name, and rules, as with an iron hand, the citizens of Bellefonte.

Your friend from South Philadelphia,

Darlene

I had to take action. Darlene had taken my string quartet. I knew it. She had also clearly lost her mind and was shacked up with Wellington Chagnon. The details were still fuzzy but it was all connected. And at this very moment my love for Christie brimmed over as never before. My precious artistic work was implicated with my lover’s desire to have a meeting with her academic adviser. This was some kind of weird Jungian convergence. And to top it all off, we had to go to Bellefonte. No one I know has ever been to Bellefonte. No one goes there. But I would; right into the heart of darkness. Consequently, I decided to skip rehearsal the next day and drive with Christie to her appointment. Yes, we’d be together in this. I didn’t have a car, but Christie did. It was a manual Mercedes and I loved driving it.

We got up at 7:30 and lost no time. Showered, dressed and set out. We jumped into the car. The moment we cleared the parking lot, Christie panicked.

“What will he say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Remind me of putt putt.”

“What?”

“Putt putt…at Point Pleasant. ”

Christie is from Far Hills, NJ. Her folks also have a huge place in Bay Head. This explains why Christie has a Mercedes and why I am driving it.

“This will relax you? Why?”

“It just will, Ned.”

“Ok, What is your favorite hole at the Point Pleasant Putt Putt Green?”

“My favorite hole? She looked down. “You should be in fourth gear.”

“I’m alright in third.”

“It’s straining. You can hear it.”

“But I’m going up a hill. Come on. You forgot the hole.”

“Hole?”

“To relax you. Putt Putt.”

“That’s easy. My favorite hole is the windmill. See, you have to be careful, because the windmill can knock the ball as it turns if you don’t get it just right. Since my dad is a physicist he always gets the hole. Always. He calculates it you see. And he takes the wind into account too. There’s no one else who can do it. The windmill thing terrifies me. I just close my eyes and take a swing. But it’s always hopeless. The windmill just keeps turning and turning and there’s nothing I can do. I’m powerless. And when dad gets it in, he always has, like this smug look on his face and that’s when I want to kill him. I hate him so much you can’t believe. I just dream of seeing his guts spilled onto the dirty rotten urine soaked bathroom floor. Just don’t get me started on this, every night I pray that he drops dead, just like that….every night

“This doesn’t sound like your favorite hole at all.”

“Right, my favorite hole is #8, that’s the bear, he’s so cute and….

We got off the Interstate and into Bellefonte. We were on E Howard and passing a cemetery. As Christie went on about the Bear Hole, I imagined being dead. I felt a glow. The dead don’t worry about finding their advisers. Many buried there never even went to College. All of the homes I saw gave me the creeps. They were just old houses and reminded me of New Orleans. I was going the wrong way and turned around to go back to East Bishop and the stores and sure enough we were suddenly at Hungry Easts Diner. They hadn’t opened so Christie and I chatted in the car.

“Why would Darlene take your quartet?”

“I don’t know.”

“You seem very relaxed about it. I’d wring her neck.”

Well, it amazed even me, but I had been discontented with the first movement and thought of beginning the whole thing again. But even still I agreed with Christie about Darlene’s neck.

“And how do we even know that Darlene is here?”

“I just have a feeling.”

“It’s your women’s intuition, Ned. I just know it. See, I don’t think you give enough credit to your womanhood. Don’t get me wrong, I love you as you are. But you have this…a tough personality. And I think very often you don’t look straight into a mirror and see the inner goddess and embrace your femininity. And you have it! Trust me, when you’re pulling my hair for example you intuit the exact time I’m about to orgasm and you’re always on the dot about that so you see it’s women’s intuition that makes you certain that it’s Darlene and no one else who has stolen the adagio of your string quartet in the style of the First Viennese School.”

She had a point. The diner lights went on. We waited another 10 minutes and went it. The waitress said we could have any table.”

“Table #3.”

“But that’s in the back.”

“We have to meet someone at nine, a big deal professor.” I showed her the note. She seemed nervous.

“Ah, yes. He comes at nine.”

She showed us to the table.

“To start?”

We both decided on coffee.

They say that you’re young only once. I don’t know why they say this. They don’t say that you’re old only once. I think the idea is that you’re supposed to enjoy being young. I wasn’t enjoying it. When I’d wear something crazy, my mother would always say to me, “If they could only see you!” Who were “they?” And why should I care what they thought? I think it was just an expression that my mom picked up from somewhere. But it made me feel from the time I was a kid that there was this invisible audience out there taking note of everything I did and laughing whenever I did something really stupid like buying Clapton’s first solo album and listening to atrocious crap like “After Midnight,” with crap gospel choruses and Bonnie and Delaney and I don’t know who else because there was certainly no trace of Cream or Jack Bruce or Crossroads or yes, the nineteen seventies suck and it’s the end of everything that I once loved and I missed it all and

I’m tripping for sure. The coffee. Someone mickey finned the brew.

“Christie. Christie? How are you?”

She stared at me.

“Hey, Ned. You look really pale. Put your head down between your legs. That always works for me. But where’s the waitress? I want cream cheese for this muffin. Yes. I need cream cheese. I need cream cheese. I need cream cheese. I need cream cheese. I need cream cheese. I need cream cheese…”

Christie was off too. I mean, I knew she liked cream cheese, but she didn’t like cream cheese this much. Sometimes she’d even go without cream cheese for weeks on end. And all at once, musical themes for my quartet came to me. Suddenly the four movements moved into focus before my eyes. This was brilliant. I began to write down the second theme on the napkin. And I didn’t even have a pen. That’s when Darlene appeared and sat next to Christie.

“What are you doing here, Nedelin?”

“I came to protect my girlfriend. Where’s my adagio?”

“What?”

“My quartet. You have it.”

“You’re crazy.”

“That’s not the point right now. I want my quartet. Wait a sec.” I began to write the first theme of the scherzo on the back of the same napkin.

Darlene turned to Christie. “You don’t know how lucky you are! Shaggy wants you to help in his research. It’s just you and me. We’re going to his place. OK?”

Christie wasn’t responding to this at all and still asking for cream cheese. But I was putting it together. Shaggy had to be Chagnon. That would be a given for anyone whose last name was Chagnon. So that piece was in place. But what the “research” was escaped me. Why had Christie been ignored in those vast stretches of The Forum lecture hall and now, out of the blue, be chosen by Wellington Chagnon for a research project as communicated by Darlene, of all people, who wasn’t even taking the class and for all I know was majoring in Computer Science.

“And as for you. Just go home, Nedelin! You’re not wanted here.”

It was difficult to be pissed with Darlene since an entire new and brilliant quartet was emerging from within me. Even still, I let her have it.

“You are insane, bitch! God knows what you’re up to with this Wellington guy, and in Bellefonte of all places so that your insidious experiments can be kept hidden from the light of day and the gaze of all upstanding citizens.” I stood up for this part. It seemed patriotic. “And the only reason I am even listening to you is because, because…..you are the only person I know who actually saw Star Trek during the original run.”

“That’s impossible, idiot! They renewed it for a second year. Why would they do that if I was the only viewer who saw the thing?”

“Ok, well explain then how I have never met a single person who watched Star Trek during the original run. Even at Julliard they just knew the reruns! So what did you know and when did you know it? And why is there acid in our coffee? This is Chagnon’s idea, and don’t deny it. This is not what academics with tenure do. So let’s lay it all out here. You’ve taken everything you learned from the parts in Star Trek they had to cut for syndication and have used what you know only to cause evil and destruction and ….I feel sick.”

The waitress was no where to be seen. But I did find the Rest Room. And just in time.

You’re all expecting this because I finally got to meet Annette Funicello. She was sitting right next me.

“Hello Nedeline, it’s so nice to see you! Wow, how much you loved the Mouseketeers when you were a girl! As soon as the music began you’d run to the TV set and pretend to be Mickey! Yes, and your mother was worried that one day you’d bump your head against the television. But you never did. And then your mom would smile.”

This made me tear up.

“Please don’t remind me, Annette. I was so happy then. Actually I was happy right up until I was eleven. Yes, 1964 was my favorite year. And then the mess began. I was never the same. And all the guilt that came with it. Hey, Annette, was Uncle Walt a Catholic?”

“I’m not sure, Ned. But, believe me, Uncle Walt was a decent and lovely man.”

“I always thought so! I loved you in ‘Babes in Toyland.’ And please say hello to Tommy Kirk. You know, ‘The Shaggy Dog’ was the first film I ever saw in a movie theater. This boy turns into….well you know the story. And come to think of it, Tommy was also in ‘Babes in Toyland’…what a small world it is!”

As all good things do in this world, Annette slowly began to fade away and I realized that I was in the backseat of the car. Christie and Darlene were up front and chatting in a chummy way.

“Hey, she’s awake!”

I couldn’t figure out why Darlene was driving.

“Why does everyone drive this car except you?”

“Because my mother would kill me if I got a dent. This way I can say it was one of my friends.”

“That makes sense.”

I never probed further into these “Say Goodnight Gracie” moments. It was best to just let them pass.

“Hi Darlene. Thanks for the Lysergic. What you did is actionable. You should be put away.”

“Go shove it. We didn’t want you on this trip anyway.”

Christie turned around and gushed, “Incredible, isn’t it? Here I was, drowning in self pity about not getting a meeting in some dreary office, and it turns out that Professor Chagnon is going to see me at his Bellefonte home….at…where are we going, Darlene?”

“123 High street.”

“Isn’t there a High Street in State College?”

“All these small towns have a High Street, idiot.” (Darlene addressed this to me, of course.)

“Pardon me, Miss Tumbling Tumbleweeds. Speaking of rural bliss, have you been back home?”

“Ugh, just a few weeks in August. I wanted to die with all the crap humidity. You know, Bruce Trent told me that South Philly was built on a swamp. No wonder we were so miserable.”

“You should go down to second gear.”

“And so where is Bruce Trent from?”

“Kennett Square.”

“Oh excuse me. Well that certainly is not a swamp. And of course Bruce Trent is blessed with the riches of Andrew Wyeth down at Chadds Blister or wherever while we’re stuck with the pathetic Philadelphia Museum and all those silly El Greco’s and Monet’s and Von Gogh’s….oh pity me!”

“See you got her going now….”

“….Picasso’s and Chagal’s sooooo gross! yes….pity me! pitteee meeeee!”

“Kindly screw your self, Ned. And here we are!” Darlene turned left into the driveway. Christie would finally get to see her academic adviser.

Darlene led us into the house, through the dining room, and into the back yard which was heavy with tropical odors. Christie and I were seated at an aluminum table facing the kitchen door. Darlene stood next to Christie. A mysterious figure then slowly approached and shook Darlene’s hand vigorously.

“Hello Ladies! And let’s see….you must be Christie! Hello, hello! Darlene has told me lots about you!”

At first Christie seemed terrified, then a thrilled expression appeared like someone who got a backstage pass and was suddenly alone with Mick Jagger.

“Professor Chagnon….I am so happy to…I mean…I didn’t expect…”

“Don’t mention it! Hey, Darlene, get us some Hawaiian Punch. How’s that sound?”

Darlene suddenly took on a girl Friday manner and went into the kitchen.

“I don’t know you!”

“I’m Christie’s friend, Nedeline.”

“Well, the more the merrier!” He shook my hand. I was thinking how different he seemed from his classroom persona.

“I hope you gals like Hawaiian Punch! Me, I can’t get enough of it!”

He turned to Christie.

“So you want to be an anthropologist!”

“Yes, I…uh….”

“Yes, go ahead! Tell me everything.”

“Well, Professor Chagnon, I love history and the ancient past, I always have. My dream was to be an archaeologist and study at Penn. But my Science grades were bad. Deaths in the family, you know, mostly Aunts. But it weighed me down.”

“Of course, of course.”

“So my hope is to do Anthropology here and…”

“Penn! No, Christie, no! Do you know what will happen to you at Penn? I’ll tell you. You’ll spend one week on a dig and the rest of the year trying to decifer some Akkadian text on a pottery shard! That’s not for you. You want to study living people, like I do. Screw Penn. All creepy snobs from the Main Line.”

I was beginning to like Professor Chagnon. Anyway, we got back to campus by 5 or so. I had an important rehearsal in the evening that I didn’t want to miss. I was happy for Christie. Prof. Chagnon also asked her to be a teaching assistant for the Spring Term. We never did discover what the research was that Wellington was up to, so I suspected that there were many loose ends to the whole thing. When I got back to the dorm, I discovered that the quartet was under my bed. This meant, of course, that Darlene hadn’t taken it. Consequently, contrary to what Christie had suggested, I had no women’s intuition. This was a great comfort. I was still suspicious of Darlene and her various machinations. Never mind! The important thing is that Christie has a mentor.

As far as my own mentor though, things were becoming problematic. I soon had to show the first two movements of my quartet to Prof Bush. She looked it over for a week and then called me to her office. I was nervous.

I don’t know, but do you ever think, “Hey, things have been going very well, lately!” and after this realization you feel in your gut that such a situation is not completely in accord with the world as we know it and can’t possibly continue? Well I had that sensation. I tried to ignore it, but that afternoon at the dining hall while attempting to consume my Turkey With Swiss Cheese Supreme, I couldn’t help feeling that there was more at work than the usual Warnock indigestion. I put that feeling away, and headed to the Music Building for my big meeting with Debby.

As I entered I saw my friend, Celia. She plays the cello and seemed in a hurry. But she had time to say, “Good luck!” She knew this was graduate school stuff and that I might be in for it.

Prof Bush was waiting for me. I stepped into the office.

“Oh, Nedeline. Sit down.”

I sat.

“I was speaking on the phone with Mark just now.”

She was referring to Mark Levin, a respected composer with whom I had studied at my summer Julliard thing. I knew that Prof Bush was, at first, thrilled to speak with him personally and chat about me, although she had to hide it and pretend that he was just another colleague.

It began.

“Let’s start with the Adagio. It’s in Bb major. So why does it take 40 measures before you even begin to modulate to….”

“Oh…right… I was preparing to introduce the section with the diminished 7ths and…”

“Well, with all these 3rds in the cello, what were you thinking of when you decided to…?”

It continued.

“It seems from way you introduce your second theme that you looked at what I told you to avoid. Even Schumann would have helped you on this. But did you even look at the opus 12? And Schumann does have the passion that you like although you think he’s a lightweight. But you are a star after all and feel the need to break ahead, but mastering basic sonata form, as even Mark was telling me just now on the phone, is essential and you can’t come up with tricks like here with this impossible viola passage…..in these measures. Ok, now lets look further on…”

When you stand before the firing squad and they read the charges, does the condemned actually listen to the charges? Does it even matter what you did to warrant being executed? Nope. It’s been decided. Now folks, I’ve never been one of those “deer caught in the headlights” kind of person during times of stress, but this time it happened. I stopped listening. Vague thoughts swam through my head. “She’s always been envious of my connection with Mark Levin.” And I was certain that the performance of his piano sonata the previous week in the Recital Hall was gnawing at her. I then recalled when we first met and she said that musicologists were the first to be fired when a Music Dept had to cut down on faculty. It came into focus. She felt threatened. She was envious. And she was now going to destroy me.

I wasn’t sure as I left. Maybe the quartet really was bad. I couldn’t tell. And this was the Spring Term. I say that because it’s during these months that everyone goes crazy. I left the Music Building. I had planned a time to meet with John at night. I hadn’t jammed with John Morgan in ages and he missed our group. As Prof. Bush was bashing me I figured I would cancel the jam. I reconsidered though because I knew playing rock would cheer me up. John Morgan had rented a floor with two other guys at 101 Nittany Ave. There are too many young bodies in this place, I thought. “Yup, this is why I failed swim class last Spring Term. I wanted to drown.” And the Thespian show kept up the temperature. I loved the way that actor just turned to the audience and sang, “Who can I turn to, when nobody needs me?” Every night, I wanted to look up from my clarinet part and see him. I had to play though and couldn’t take it all in. But he was so good. I could see why Weed loved the Theater. You can take your feelings, all the hurt, the pain, and bring that hurt to all these strange people in the audience. That must be great, I thought. To work it out that way, I mean. And if you’re good, they applaud. They applaud because your emotions are genuine. And maybe those people are feeling or have felt the same things. That is community. Being united in our pain and our joy.

A year later and I was dealing with the same thing. Too many bodies in heat. I can’t say it was bad. I was happy I was headed to see John. I had a quick dinner at Warnock, returned to Leete Hall and got my guitar. In an hour I was at Nittany Avenue.

“Where’s Kevin?”

“He has to study for something. How was it?”

“A bit brutal. Let’s play.”

We still hadn’t gotten much original material. We had a gig soon at East Halls. I suggested working on “Can’t Find My Way Home,” by Blind Faith.

Something seemed different. I was sad. There were no words for it, since this emotion was new to me. He began with the open chords on his 12 string and I couldn’t play.

“What’s the matter, Ned?”

“I think….it’s the sound of your guitar. It’s so beautiful. I don’t want to bury it with my electric garbage.”

John Morgan had this blank look on his face. When people come to know you as a hard ass, they can’t really handle it when deflation sets in.

“Hey, John” I slowly began with no idea where I’d end; “Do you remember long ago at the New College Diner when ‘The Crystal Ship’ came on the radio and….I felt you liked me, and once, when I felt nauseous I was looking for you at Leete but the door was locked and you were out. Long ago.”

“I don’t remember. I was an idiot back then.”

“Hey John, do you think that the only way to know a person fully is to have sex?”

He put down his 12 string and thought about it. He was a mellow guy. It always took him a while.

“Ah, not really. I think that sex is just a way to pass the time.”

“Ok, let’s pass the time.”

The next morning I felt exhilarated. For today is “Gentle Thursday.” Let me explain. In 1967 a bunch of guys at Berkeley decided to protest the Vietnam War by setting aside a day to blow up balloons, throw paper flowers and kiss strangers. This venerable custom then came to Penn State where people got very drunk and celebrated on Old Main Lawn the third week in May. John woke up with a glow and so did I. I had never really experienced a man inside of me. It wasn’t what I had expected at all. So I went with it. John wanted to go to Gentle Thursday. He had an on and off again girlfriend named Molly, but I was the girl he had always set his eyes on. He begged me. What could I do, spit in his eye? I called Christie and she wasn’t in. I suspected something.

“Ok, John, we’ll go.”

“Cool. Let’s do it again. I want you.”

“Why not!”

We went to McLanahan’s and bought balloons. I got some Vodka at the liquor store. I called Christie again and she didn’t answer. John gave me an extra key and I went back to his place where I masturbated. Now this is bad. I have an itch way down where I never had one before. If this keeps up, I’ll never finish the quartet or anything else for that matter.
I had a weird feeling in my gut. There was Spring madness in the atmosphere. The year before it was unbearable. Now it would be worse. How did I know? Christie had seemed remote. Darlene disappeared. John burst my cherry. And I can’t find my way home.

He came back from class. The temperature was rising. Now it’s three and he’s blowing the balloons. I was Franz Schubert the day before. Now I am a space cowgirl with her man. I had to find Christie. Yes, I had taken a drink. And we went to the Old Main Lawn.

Now the idea of an agricultural school is good. This is the economic foundation of humanity. And Penn State was founded upon this principle; that is, to equip future agriculturalists with the means to strengthen themselves with a better understanding of those issues which arise from rotation and fertilization so as to spread our seed and ripen.

Let’s Party!

My head hurts and it has just begun well hey there is Vicky and Drew and Skip and a bunch of people I don’t know from East Halls, now let me tell you about East Halls it’s so huge that people get lost a town unto itself there’s a rumor a story and it’s quite scary about a freshman who was assigned to Curtin Hall and during Orientation Week got lost and never found his way out of East Halls. Nope. And someone said that they saw the skeleton in the basement of Bigler and sometimes in the middle of the Night they hear scratching noises on the doors for some reason he wants to get into Packer because his girlfriend from Scranton is there and he keeps searching, searching forever. Yes. and we call him the Lost Freshman. Everyone is afraid of the Lost Freshman and claim it’s true, he never even got to his first class. and sometimes at the beginning of a term someone will say, did you see the guy who keeps asking where is the HUB because he has to register for Fall classes and then disappears? and the knowing Sophmore will feels chills and say, “Oh God! You just had an encounter with the Lost Freshman!”

We wander around and I see the moon there is always a moon I hate moons usually but not tonight and I thought I saw a goat but it was just shadow so I sit next to John and wonder wonder wonder who bought the onion favored potato chips and then realize that I did….

We spread out the blanket. John wonders about Kevin our bassist who finished his exam and wants to join us. John assured me he planned to meet us at the Old Main entrance. I get up and look around. It’s unbelievable how many people are here with balloons and paper flowers. The people with the guitars are the guys. This sickens me. “Why the hell can’t a woman have a guitar?! Ever heard of Joni Mitchell?”

At this point a memory pops up, involuntarily. I am on the sofa in Philly on Saturday night when my parents didn’t care about my going to bed and “Double Chiller Theater” is on, and I fall asleep. The first film is always a stupid sci-fi thing, but the second film that begins at 1AM is the classic I want to see but I always fall sleep as I did this night on the sofa, in 1964 the happiest year of my life if you may recall. And as I slumber, my consciousness awakens for a brief moment as I hear the following words:

This is Walpurgis night, the night of evil, NOSFERATU. On this night, Madam, the doors they are barred, and to the Virgin we pray.

I pass by a tree. Underneath is a shadowy figure which seems familiar. I look closer and I see Darlene. She has a package of Doritos in her left hand and stares up blankly at the moon. Her mouth is closed. Despite the Doritos there is nary a munch. I speak.

“Darlene?”

There was no response. I ask again.

“Darlene. It’s me. Nedeline.”

There is no answer. Slowly her head lowers and her eyes meet mine.

“Hello, Nedeline.”

“Why are you here, alone?”

“I am listening to Ummagumma. See?” Darlene showed me her tape player.

I knew I had to be gentle.

“O sure, Darleen. Ummagumma, ‘Astronomy Domine,’ so cool, that is to say….Are you OK?”

“No.”

“Tell me. I’m your South Philly pal. Rice pudding…The Melrose. Trust me, honey.”

And she did.

“He left.”

Who?”

“My Love.”

I gave an educated guess.

“Professor Chagnon?

And then it all came to me. Christie had taken her place. You see, I had already suspected this before I did it with John. So I had women’s intuition after all.

“Christie?”

Darlene scowled at me.

“Listen, Darlene,” I grabbed the bag of Doritos and opened it. “Here, take one. You need the salt, for the heat, you know?” I offered a chip but she refused. I sensed it might not be the right time to probe further into this matter, but I gave it a try.

“Now, Darlene. Can you hear me? Ok, great. What I can’t figure out is why you trusted, I mean Wellington Chagnon is rather a formidable hunk and I’ll admit that even I was somewhat taken with those slides from Brazil and the, the khaki shorts. And, now just relax there…but knowing all of this, why were you so keen on having Christie be part of this mysterious project and then having him meet her?”

There was a pause. She swallowed a Dorito, slowly looked up and answered with fury in her eyes.

“Because I thought that she was a… L-E-S-B-I-A-N!”

“You know, I kinda thought so too.”

“There’s more.”

“Yes?”

“He wants to change the Yanomamo. He wants to make them less violent. I begged him, ‘No, scientists can’t interfere with the indigenous culture!’”

“Sure. I guess.”

“He wants the Yanomamo guys to meet nice girls. That’s where Christie comes in, and the others. He’s evil, Nedeline, Pure evil.”

“Listen, Darlene, I think it’s a cute idea, this Yanomamo shindig or whatever. And pure evil? Whoa! Listen, honey, despite the rampant drug use and mind boggling promiscuity, this campus is basically a decent place. I mean, look at the football team and all the athletics. A healthy mind in a healthy body! I’m sure this is just a fun project.

“Oh, here you are!” It was John.

Darlene stared at the two of us.

“Oh, another happy couple. That settles it. I’m checking out, kids.”

She then got a pill from her bag and swallowed it with a Dorito chaser. John had no idea what was going on.

“What was that?”

“A Quaalude.”

She stood up and turned. Then she wandered off with her tape recorder still playing Ummagumma, walking softly with the Spring breeze until the evening shadows engulfed her.

John took my arm and we turned back. I thought about what Darlene had said. The idea that Christie could make anyone less violent was hilarious, although I still intended to kill her the next time we met. But Darlene was just as tough and obnoxious as myself, so I had to take her words seriously. And I wasn’t worried about the Quaalude. She could pop three and still take an order for 12 on a Sunday Brunch at The Melrose Diner.

I went back to Leete Hall that night and found the following note on my desk:

“Dear Ned! I’m with Professor Chagnon. We are doing heavy duty research. In the thick of it, you might say! It’s wonderful. Where do I begin? Anyway, I know you were with John yesterday and I think it’s great! I myself have been with a number of men, so my affection for you was based upon a considered understanding of both sexes and the neat things that can each can offer. So it’s great that you have finally done it and are resolving your father issues which I understand have been a source of great pain throughout your miserable and twisted childhood. Go girl! Anyway, I’ve been steeping myself in Claude Levi-Strauss and the writings of my brilliant Shaggy. We are planning a mixer at Runkle Hall this Saturday with the Yanomamo boys and I hope you can come. I think you will be surprised. They are all into Bossa Nova too.

PS. I hope you enjoyed your first retro vaginal orgasm!

Your former soul mate,

Christie Leightner, TA, Antropology Dept. #3201 Carpenter Build. University Park.”

I deserved all of this, you’re thinking. The bit about treating people like shit and all the rest of it. But I had to admit that Christie was now empowered. I was happy for her. I was thrilled that she was driving the Mercedes herself. And I was also looking forward to the Yanomamo mixer at Runkle Hall. The big question in my mind was who cheated on whom first. It seemed really close time-wise, so like the Jesuits, I had to go on the intention alone.

Sometimes I wonder if homosexuality is even real. I mean, before indoor heating, people slept with each other for warmth. It was a matter of survival. Abe Lincoln slept with another man, and it didn’t necessarily mean that he was into Bowie. I am playing the Devil’s Advocate here, of course. I loved Christie and loved her for being another girl, not just for warmth. I was convinced that we’d be back together again, this time on a more equal footing; she with Anthropology and me with my music.

Music? I had forgotten Prof. Bush’s demolition of my quartet. I hadn’t even taken notes from that meeting. So I had a bad night.

The next morning I left a message for the Anthropology Department. I was desperate to speak with Christie. Panic was even setting in. I realized that she was my whole life. Then John called. I was still in my bathrobe and feeling weird.

“Hello? Nedeline? Let’s do some practice today. I have a great idea. “Can’t Find My Way Home,” work on “Sunshine,” and make the whole thing a Clapton tribute. Hey?”

“Sounds great, but.”

“See, you can show off your lead guitar and kill them! I swear.”

“Sure thing, today though I have to work on this quartet.”

There was a pause.

“You said, last night I mean, you said you wanted to concentrate on the band, leaving Classical even and dropping out.’

“Oh yeah, the semiquavers. Brutal.”

“Ned, you are so talented. I mean it! Real rock is dying and we have a chance, a real fucking chance.”

“Wow, John, thanks so much for saying that.”

Di Beisinger came down the hall and gave me a dirty look. She figured that I finally “knew” someone.

“I mean it, Ned! I was at Rec Hall Saturday. I have the subscription and this guy Springsteen was playing. There was a sax player too. Total crap.”

“Let me work on my quartet first. I have to study for the History exam and not drown this time for Phys Ed.”

“Ah, Ok.”

I knew it was coming. And it did.

“So when will I see you again?”

“Tonight.”

I couldn’t believe that came out of my mouth. I knew I’d be in the dorm room alone and it was unbearable. I didn’t care about anything now but finding relief. It seemed like everybody was out. There was a movie in the quad, “The April Fools,” with Jack Lemon and Catherine Deneuve. They knew they would have to leave for the summer soon and were all in a trance.

I almost ran along Nittany Avenue that night with guitar strapped on right shoulder, desperate to see John. The humidity was smothering me and I knew that I was doing the right thing. I knew it. I saw a few squirrels as I passed Pattee Library. Looking up I saw the names of the Great Men; Plato, Newton, Wagner. All dead. I then considered the idiocy of it all. I speak of my life as lived thus far. A phrase repeated itself, “the only way to know someone is…” and I wondered, Is it through art? Through friendship? sex? Then it came to me right there. You can’t know anyone. Nothing outside your own flesh can be fully known. Maybe when it’s over and you have the time to review. Well then? Maybe you can only know Death. And with Death you finally have that match made in heaven.

Layla!!!!!!