I noticed Eugene before I actually met him. There was no way not to notice him. As our train was leaving New York, Eugene, moving from another coach into the one where I sat, managed to get himself jammed in the door between his two enormous suitcases. I watched as he struggled to free himself, fascinated by the hat he wore, a green Alpine hat with feathers stuck in the brim. I wondered if he hoped to reduce the absurdity of his situation by grinning as he did in every direction. Finally something gave and he shot into the coach like a pickle squirting out of a sandwich. I hoped he would not take the seat next to mine, but he did.
He started to talk almost the moment he sat down, and he didn’t stop until we reached Wallingford. Was I going to Choate? What a coincidence—so was he. My first year? His too. Where was I from? Oregon? No shit? Way the hell and gone up in the boondocks, eh? He was from Indiana—Gary, Indiana. I knew the song, didn’t I? I did, but he sang it for me anyway, all the way through, including the tricky ending. There were other boys in the coach, and they were staring at us, and I wished he would shut up.
Did I swim? Too bad, it was a good sport, I ought to go out for it. He had set a freestyle record in the midwestern conference the year before. What was my favorite subject? He liked math, he guessed, but he was pretty good at all of them. He offered me a cigarette, which I refused.
“I oughta quit myself,” he said. “Be the death of me yet."
Eugene was a scholarship boy. One of his teachers had told him that he was too smart to be going to a regular high school and gave him a list of prep schools. Eugene applied to all of them—“just for the hell of it”—and all of them accepted him. He finally decided on Choate because only Choate had offered him a travel allowance. His father was dead and his mother, a nurse, had three other kids to support, so Eugene didn't think it would be fair to ask her for anything. As the train came into Wallingford he asked me if I would be his roommate.
I didn't jump at the offer. For one thing, I did not like to look at Eugene. His head was too big for his lanky body, and his skin was oily. He put me in mind of a seal. Then there was the matter of the scholarship. I too was a scholarship boy, and I didn't want to finish myself off before I even got started by rooming with another, the way fat girls hung out together back at home. I knew the world Eugene came from. I came from that world myself, and I wanted to leave it behind. To this end I had practiced over the summer an air of secret amusement which I considered to be aristocratic, an association encouraged by English movie actors. I had studied the photographs of the boys in the prep school bulletins, and now my hair looked like their hair, and my clothes looked like their clothes.
I wanted to know boys whose fathers ran banks and held Cabinet office and wrote books. I wanted to be their friend and go home with them on vacation and someday marry one of their sisters, and Eugene Miller didn't have much of a place in these plans. I told him that I had a friend at Choate and I'd probably be rooming with him.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Maybe next year.”
I assented vaguely, and Eugene returned to the problem he was having deciding whether to go out for baseball or lacrosse. He was better at baseball, but lacrosse was more fun. He figured maybe he owed it to the school to go out for baseball.
As things worked out our room assignments were already drawn up. My roommate was a Chilean named Jaime who described himself as a Nazi. He had an enormous poster of Adolph Hitler tacked above his desk until a Jewish boy on our hall complained and the dean made him take it down. Jaime kept a copy of Mein Kampf beside his bed like a Gideon Bible and was fond of reading aloud its more prophetic passages, such as that dealing with the inevitability of war between Russia and Germany. He enjoyed practical jokes. Our room overlooked the entrance to the headmaster’s house and he used to whistle at the headmaster’s ancient secretary as she went home from work at night. On Alumni Day he sneaked into the kitchen and spiced up the visitors’ consommé with Ex-Lax. The next day at chapel the headmaster stammered out a sermon about the incident, but he referred to it in terms so coy and oblique that nobody knew what he was talking about. Ultimately the matter was dropped without another word. Just before Christmas Jaime’s mother was killed in a plane crash, and he left school and never returned. For the rest of the year I roomed alone.
Eugene Miller drew as his roommate Talbot Nevin. Talbot’s family had donated the Andrew Nevin Memorial Hockey Rink and the Andrew Nevin Memorial Library to the school, and endowed the Andrew Nevin Memorial Lecture Series. Talbot Nevin’s father had driven his car to second place in the Monaco Grand Prix two years earlier, and celebrity magazines often featured a picture of him with someone like Jill St. John and a caption underneath quoting one of them as saying, “We’re just good friends.” I wanted to know Talbot Nevin.
So one day I visited their room. Eugene met me at the door and pumped my hand. “Well, what do you know,” he said. “Tab, this here's a buddy of mine from Oregon. You don't get any farther up in the boondocks than that.”
Talbot Nevin sat on the edge of his bed, threading snow-white laces through the eyes of a pair of dirty sneakers. He nodded without raising his head.
“Tab’s father won some big race last year,” Eugene went on, to my discomfort. I didn't want Talbot to know that I had heard anything about him. I wanted to come to him fresh, with no possibility of his suspecting that I liked him for anything but himself.
“He didn't win. He came in second.” Talbot threw down the sneakers and looked up at me for the first time. He had china-blue eyes under lashes and brows so light you could hardly see them. His hair too was shock-white and lank on his forehead. His face had a molded look, like a doll’s face, delicate and unhealthy.
“What kind of race?” I asked.
“Grand Prix,” he said, taking off his shoes.
“That’s a car race,” said Eugene.
Not to have heard of the Grand Prix seemed to me evidence of too great ignorance. “I know. I've heard of it.”
“The guys down the hall were talking about it and they said he won.” Eugene winked at me as he spoke; he winked continuously as if everything he said was part of a ritual joke and he didn’t want a tenderfoot like me to take it too seriously.
“Well I say he came in second and I damn well ought to know.” By now Talbot had changed to his tennis shoes. He stood. “Let’s go have a weed.”
Smoking at Choate was uncategorically forbidden. “The use of tobacco in any form,” said the student handbook, “carries with it the penalty of immediate expulsion.” Up to this moment the rule against smoking had not been a problem for me because I did not smoke. Now it was a problem, because I did not want Eugene to have a bond with Talbot that I did not share. So I followed them downstairs to the music room, where the choir practiced. Behind the conductor’s platform was a long narrow closet where the robes were kept. We huddled in the far end of this closet and Talbot passed out cigarettes. The risk was great and the activity silly, and we started to giggle.
“Welcome to Marlboro Country,” I said.
“It's what’s up front that counts,” Talbot answered. We were smoking Marlboros, not Winstons, and the joke was lame, but I guffawed anyway.
“Better keep it down,” Eugene whispered. “Big John might hear us.”
Big John was the senior dorm master. He wore three-piece corduroy suits and soft-soled shoes and had a way of popping up at awkward moments. He liked to grab boys by the neck, pinching the skin between his forefinger and thumb, squeezing until he had tears. “Fuck Big John,” I said.
Neither Talbot nor Eugene responded. I fretted in the silence as we finished our cigarettes. I had intended to make Eugene look timid. Had I made myself look frivolous instead?
I saw Talbot several times that week and he barely nodded to me. I had been rash, I decided. I had made a bad impression on him. But on Friday night he came up as we were leaving the dining hall and asked me if I wanted to play tennis the next morning. I doubt that I have ever felt such complete self-satisfaction as I felt that night.
Talbot missed our appointment, however, so I dropped by his room. He was still in bed, reading. “What's going on?” he asked, without looking up from his book.
I sat on Eugene's bed and tried not to sound as disappointed as I was. “I thought we might play a little tennis.”
“Tennis?” He continued reading silently for a few moments. “I don’t know. I don’t feel so hot.”
“No big deal. I thought you wanted to play. We could just knock a couple of balls around.”
“Hell.” He lowered the book onto his chest. “What time is it?”
“The courts’ll be full by now.”
“There’s always a few empty ones behind the science building.”
“They’re asphalt, aren’t they?”
“Cement.” I shrugged. I didn’t want to seem pushy. “Like I said, no big deal. We can play some other time.” I stood and walked toward the door.
“Wait.” Talbot yawned without covering his mouth. “What the hell.”
As it happened the courts were full. Talbot and I sat on the grass and I asked him questions I already knew the answers to, like where was he from and where had he gone to school the year before and who did he have for English. At this question he came to life. “English? Parker, the bald one. I got A’s in English all through school and now Parker tells me I can’t write. If he’s such a goddamned William Shakespeare what’s he teaching here for?”
We sat for a time without speaking. “I’m from Oregon,” I said finally. “Near Portland.” We didn’t live close enough to the city to call it near, I suppose, but in those days I naively assumed everyone had heard of Portland.
“Oregon.” He pondered this. “Do you hunt?”
“I’ve been a few times with my father.”
“What kind of weapon do you use?”
“Good brush gun,” he said. “Useless over a hundred yards. Have you ever killed anything?”
“Deer, you mean?”
“Deer, elk, whatever you hunt in Oregon.”
Talbot had killed a lot of animals, and he named them for me: deer, moose, bear, elk, even an alligator. There were more, many more.
“Maybe you can come out west and go hunting with us sometime.”
“Where, out to Oregon?” Talbot looked away. “Maybe.”
I had not expected to be humiliated on the court. My brother, who played tennis for Oregon State, had coached me through four summers; I had a good hot serve and my brother described my net game as “ruthless.” Talbot ran me ragged. He played a kind of tennis different from any I had ever seen. He did not sweat, not the way I did anyway, or pant, or swear when he missed a shot, or get that thin quivering smile that tugged my lips whenever I aced out my opponents. He seemed hardly to notice me, gave no sign that he was competing except that twice he called shots out that appeared to me to be well short of the line. I might have been mistaken, though. After he won the second set he walked abruptly off the court and went back to where we had left our sweaters. I followed him.
“Good game,” I said.
He pulled impatiently at the sleeve of his sweater. “I can’t play on these lousy asphalt courts.”
Eugene soon made himself known around school. You did not wear belted jackets at Choate, or white buck shoes. Certainly you did not wear Alpine hats with feathers stuck in the brim. Eugene wore all three.
Anyone who didn't know who Eugene was definitely found out by mid-November. Life magazine ran a series of interviews and pictures showing what it was like to be a student at a typical eastern prep school. They had based their piece on research done at five schools, of which ours was one. Eugene had been interviewed and one of his remarks appeared in boldface beneath a photograph of students bent morosely over their books in evening study hall. The quotation: “One thing, nobody at Choate ever seems to smile. They think you're weird or something if you smile. You get sarced out all the time.”
True enough. We were a joyless lot. Laughter was acceptable only in the sentimental parts of the movies we were shown on alternate Saturday nights. The one category in the yearbook to which everyone aspired was “Most Sarcastic.” The arena for these trials of wit was the dining room, and Eugene’s statements in Life did nothing to ease his load there.
However conspicuous Eugene may have been, he was not unpopular. I never heard anyone say anything worse about him than that he was “weird.” He did well in his studies, and after the swimming team began to practice, the word went around that Eugene promised to put Choate in the running for the championship. So despite his hat and his eagerness and his determined grin, Eugene escaped the fate I had envisioned for him: the other students sarced him out but they didn’t cast him out.
The night before school recessed for Christmas I went up to visit Talbot and found Eugene alone in the room, packing his bags. He made me sit down and poured out a glass of Hawaiian Punch which he laced with some murky substance from a prescription bottle. “Tab rustled up some codeine down at the infirmary,” he explained. “This'll get the old Yule log burning.”
The stuff tasted filthy but I took it, as I did all the other things that made the rounds at school and were supposed to get you off but never did, like aspirin and Coke, after-shave lotion, and BenGay stuffed in the nostrils. “Where’s Talbot?”
“I don't know. Maybe over at the library.” He reached under his bed and pulled out a trunk-sized suitcase, made of cardboard but tricked up to look like leather, and began filling it with an assortment of pastel shirts with tab collars. Tab collars were another of Eugene’s flings at sartorial trailblazing in school. They made me think of what my mother always told my sister when she complained at having to wear Mother’s cast-off clothes: “You never know, you might start a fashion.”
“Where you going for Christmas?” Eugene asked.
“Baltimore? What's in Baltimore?”
“My aunt and uncle live there. How about you?”
“I’m heading on down to Boston.”
This surprised me. I had assumed he would return to Indiana for the holidays. “Who do you know in Boston?”
“Nobody. Just Tab is all.”
“Talbot? You're going to be staying with Talbot?”
“Yeah. And his family, of course.”
“For the whole vacation?”
Eugene gave a sly grin and rolled his eyes from side to side and said in a confidential tone, almost a whisper: “Old Tab’s got himself an extra key nobody knows about to his daddy’s liquor closet. We aim to do some very big drinking. And I mean very big.”
I went to the door. “If I don't see you in the morning, have a merry Christmas.”
“You bet, buddy. Same to you.” Eugene grabbed my right hand in both of his. His fingers were soft and damp. “Take it easy on those Baltimore girls. Don’t do anything I wouldn't do.”
Jaime had been called home the week before by his mother’s death. His bed was stripped, the mattress doubled over. All the pictures in the room had gone with him, and the yellow walls glared blankly. I turned out the lights and sat on my bed until the bell rang for dinner.
I had never met my aunt or uncle before. They picked me up at the station in Baltimore with their four children, three girls and a boy. I disliked them immediately. During the drive home my aunt asked me if my poor father had ever learned how to cope with my mother’s moods. One of the girls, Pammy, fell asleep on my lap and drooled on me.
They lived in Sherwood Park, a brick suburb several miles outside the city. My aunt and uncle went out almost every night and left me in charge of the children. This meant turning the television set on and turning it off when they had all passed out in front of it. Putting them to bed any earlier wasn’t in the cards. They held on to everything—carpets, electrical cords, the legs of tables and chairs—and when that failed tried to injure themselves by scratching and gouging at their own faces.
One night I broke down. I cried for almost an hour and tried to call Talbot to ask him if I could come up to Boston and stay with him. The Nevins’ number was unlisted, however, and after I washed my face and considered the idea again, I thought better of it.
When I returned to school my aunt and uncle wrote my father a letter which he sent on to me. They said that I was selfish and unenterprising. They had welcomed me as a son. They had opened their hearts to me, but I had taken no interest in them or in their children, my cousins, who worshipped the very ground I walked on. They cited an incident when I was in the kitchen reading and the wind blew all my aunt’s laundry off the line and I hadn't so much as asked if I could help, I just sat there and went right on reading and eating peanuts. Finally, my uncle was missing a set of cuff links that had great sentimental value for him. All things considered, they didn't think that my coming to Baltimore had worked out very well. They thought I would be happier somewhere else.
I wrote back to my father, denying all charges and making a few of my own.
After Christmas Talbot and I were often together. Both of us had gone out for basketball, and as neither of us was any good to the team—Talbot because of an ankle injury, me because I couldn't make the ball go through the basket—we sat together on the bench most of the time. He told me that Eugene had spoiled his stepmother’s Christmas by leaning back in an antique chair and breaking it. Thereafter I thought of Mrs. Nevin as a friend; but I had barely a month to enjoy the alliance because in late January Talbot told me that his father and stepmother had separated.
Eugene was taken up with swimming, and I saw him rarely. Talbot and I had most of our friends among the malcontents in the school; those, like Talbot, to whom every rule gave offense; those who missed their girlfriends or their cars; and those, like me, who knew that something was wrong but didn't know what it was.
Because I was not rich my dissatisfaction could not assume a really combative form. I peddled around on the surface, dabbling in revolt by way of the stories I wrote for Off the record, the school literary journal. My stories took place at “The Hoatch School,” and concerned a student from the West whom I referred to simply as “the boy.”
The boy's father came from a distinguished New York family. In his early twenties he had traveled to Oregon to oversee his family’s vast lumber holdings. His family turned on him when he married a beautiful young woman who happened to be part Indian. The Indian blood was noble, but the boy’s father was disowned anyway.
The boy’s parents prospered in spite of this and raised a large, gifted family. The boy was the most gifted of all, and his father sent him back east to Hoatch, the traditional family school. What he found there saddened him: among the students a preoccupation with money and social position, and among the masters hypocrisy, and pettiness. The boy’s only friends were a beautiful young dancer who worked as a waitress in a café near the school, and an old tramp. The dancer and the tramp were referred to as “the girl” and “the tramp.” The boy and girl were forever getting the tramp out of trouble for doing things like painting garbage cans beautiful colors.
I doubt that Talbot ever read my stories—he never mentioned them if he did—but somehow he got the idea I was a writer. One night he came to my room and dropped a notebbok on my desk and asked me to read the essay inside. It was on the topic “Why Is Literature Worth Studying?” and it sprawled over four pages, concluding as follows:
I think Literature is worth studying but only in a way. The people of our Country should know how intelligent the people of past history were. They should appreciate what gifts these people had to write such great works of Literature. This is why I think Literature is worth studying.
Talbot had received an F on the essay.
“Parker says he’s going to put me in for summer school if I flunk again this marking period,” said Talbot, lighting a cigarette.
“I didn't know you flunked last time.” I stared helplessly at the cigarette. “Maybe you shouldn’t smoke. Big John might smell it.”
“I saw Big John going into the library on my way over here.” Talbot went to the mirror and examined his profile from the comer of his eye. “I thought maybe you could help me out.”
“Maybe give me a few ideas. You ought to see the topics he gives us. Like this one.” He took some folded papers from his back pocket. “Describe the most interesting person you know.” He swore and threw the papers down.
I picked them up. “What's this? Your outline?”
“More like a rough draft, I guess you’d call it.”
I read the essay. The writing was awful, but what really shocked me was the absolute lack of interest with which he described the most interesting person he had ever known. This person turned out to be his English teacher from the year before, whose chief virtue seemed to be that he gave a lot of reading periods and didn’t expect his students to be William Shakespeare and write him a novel every week.
“I don’t think Parker is going to like this very much,” I said.
“Why? What's wrong with it?”
“He might get the idea you're trying to criticize him.”
“That’s his problem.”
I folded up the essay and handed it back to Talbot with his notebook.
“You really think he’ll give me an F on it?”
Talbot crumpled the essay. “Hell.”
“When is it due?”
“I’d have come over before this but I’ve been busy.”
We spent the next hour or so talking about other interesting people he had known. There weren't many of them, and the only one who really interested me was a maid named Tina who used to beat Talbot off when she tucked him in at night and was later arrested for trying to burn the Nevins’ house down. Talbot couldn’t remember anything about her though, not even her last name. We finally abandoned what promise Tina held of suggesting an essay.
What eventually happened was that I got up at four-thirty the next morning and invented a fictional interesting person for Talbot. This person’s name was Miles and he was supposed to have been one of Talbot’s uncles.
I gave the essay to Talbot outside the dining hail. He read it without expression. “I don’t have any Uncle Miles,” he said. “I don’t have any uncles at all. Just aunts.”
“Parker doesn’t know that.”
“But it was supposed to be about someone interesting.” He frowned at the essay. “I don’t see what’s so interesting about this guy.”
“If you don’t want to use it I will.”
“That’s okay. I’ll use it.”
I wrote three more essays for Talbot in the following weeks: “Who Is Worse—Macbeth or Lady Macbeth?”; “Is There a God?”; and “Describe a Fountain Pen to a Person Who Has Never Seen One.” Mr. Parker read the last essay aloud to Talbot’s class as an example of clear expository writing and put a note on the back of the essay saying how pleased he was to see Talbot getting down to work.
In late February the dean put a notice on the bulletin board: those students who wished to room together the following year had to submit their names to him by Friday. There was no time to waste. I went immediately to Talbot's dorm.
Eugene was alone in the room, stuffing dirty clothes into a canvas bag. He came toward me, winking and grinning and snorting. “Hey there, buddy, how they hangin’? Side-by-side for comfort or back-to-back for speed?”
We had sat across from each other at breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day now for three weeks, and each time we met he behaved as if we were brothers torn by Arabs from each other's arms and just now reunited after twenty years.
“Where's Talbot?” I asked.
“He had a phone call. Be back pretty soon.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at swimming practice?”
“Not today.” He smirked mysteriously.
“I broke the conference butterfly record yesterday. Against Kent.”
“That's great. Congratulations.”
“And butterfly isn’t even my best stroke. Hey, good thing you came over. I was just about to go see you.”
“I was wondering who you were planning on rooming with next year.”
“Oh, well, you know, I sort of promised this other guy.”
Eugene nodded, still smiling. “Fair enough. I already had someone ask me, I just thought I’d check with you first. Since we didn’t have a chance to room together this year.” He stood and resumed stuffing the pile of clothes in his bag. “Is it three o’clock yet?”
“I guess I better get these duds over to the cleaners before they close. See you later, buddy.”
Talbot came back to the room a few minutes afterwards. “Where’s Eugene?”
“He was taking some clothes to the cleaners.”
“Oh.” Talbot drew a cigarette from the pack he kept hidden under the washstand and lit it. “Here,” he said, passing it to me.
“Just a drag.” I puffed at it and handed it back. I decided to come to the point. “Who are you rooming with next year?”
“He has to check with somebody else first but he thinks it’ll be all right.” Talbot picked up his squash racket and hefted it. “How about you?”
“I don’t know. I kind of like rooming alone.”
“More privacy,” said Talbot, swinging the racket in a broad backhand.
“That’s right. More privacy.”
“Maybe that South American guy will come back.”
“I doubt it.”
“You never know. His old man might get better.”
“It’s his mother. And she’s dead.”
“Oh.” Talbot kept swinging the racket, forehand now.
“By the way, there’s something I meant to tell you.”
“I’m not going to be able to help you with those essays anymore.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“I’ve got enough work of my own to do. I can't do my work and yours too.”
“I said okay. Parker can't flunk me now anyway. I've got a C+ average.”
“I just thought I’d tell you.”
“So you told me.” Talbot finished the cigarette and stashed the butt in a tin soap dish. “We’d better go. We’re gonna be late for basketball.”
“I’m not going to basketball.”
“Because I don’t feel like going to basketball, that’s why not.”
We left the building together and split up at the bottom of the steps without exchanging another word. I went down to the infirmary to get an excuse for not going to basketball. The doctor was out and I had to wait for an hour until he came back and gave me some pills and Kaopectate. When I got back to my room the dorm was in an uproar.
I heard the story from the boys in the room next to mine. Big John had caught Eugene smoking. He had come into Eugene’s room and found him there alone and smelled cigarette smoke. Eugene had denied it but Big John tore the room apart and found cigarettes and butts all over the place. Eugene was over at the headmaster’s house at this moment.
They told me the story in a mournful way, as though they were really broken up about it, but I could see how excited they were. It was always like that when someone got kicked out of school.
I went to my room and pulled a chair up to the window. Just before the bell rang for dinner a taxi came up the drive. Big John walked out of the dorm with two enormous cardboard suitcases and helped the driver put them in the trunk. He gave the driver some money and said something to him and the driver nodded and got back in the cab. Then the headmaster and the dean came out of the house with Eugene behind them. Eugene was wearing his hat. He shook hands with both of them and then with Big John. Suddenly he bent over and put his hands up to his face. The dean reached out and touched his arm. They stood like that for a long time, the four of them, Eugene’s shoulders bucking and heaving. I couldn't watch it. I went to the mirror and combed my hair until I heard the door of the taxi bang shut. When I looked out the window again the cab was gone. The headmaster and the dean were standing in the shadows, but I could see Big John clearly. He was rocking back on his heels and talking, hands on his hips, and something be said made the headmaster laugh; not really a laugh, more like a giggle. The only thing I heard was the word “feathers.” I figured they must be talking about Eugene’s hat. Then the bell rang and the three of them went into the dining hall.
The next day I walked by the dean’s office and almost went in and told him everything. The problem was, if I told the dean about Talbot he would find out about me, too. The rules didn't set forth different punishments according to the amount of smoke consumed. I even considered sending the dean an anonymous note, but I doubted if it would get much attention. They were big on doing the gentlemanly thing at Choate.
On Friday Talbot came up to me after squash practice and asked if I wanted to room with him next year.
“I’ll think about it,” I told him.
“The names have to be in by dinner time tonight.”
“I said I’ll think about it.”
That evening Talbot submitted our names to the dean. There hadn’t really been that much to think about. For all I knew Eugene had been smoking when Big John came in the room. If you wanted to get technical about it, he was guilty as charged a hundred times over, it wasn’t as if some great injustice had been done.
We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to email@example.com.