rules, and even more partying.
Walking up the floating stairs leading from the basement level to the main floor of the SUB, I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder as I reached the top step.
I turned to find John, who I hadn’t seen since the night of the French film. He was standing two steps below the top, and for the first time, we stood face to face. He smiled sheepishly.
“You hate me?” he asked.
“Hate you?” I returned. “I don’t even know you.”
Being ice-cold is one of a Scorpio’s many gifts. I am a November baby, and fit the description of my birth sign to a tee. Plus, what I didn’t get from the stars, I learned from my mother.
“I guess I deserve that,” he said. His blond curls were falling in his eyes, but I could see he was genuine. I wanted to reach out and push the hair out of his face, but I kept a tight grip on my copy of The Granite and bottle of Diet Coke. He must have sensed me soften.
“You play pool?” he asked. He was grinning mischievously now, which I found utterly appealing.
“Ben and I are down there,” he motioned to the game room at the bottom of the stairs. “Why don’t you come join us?”
I know. From what I have told you so far, you are assuming I came up with some lame excuse to weasel my way out of embarrassing myself. I probably thought pool was a game for dirt bags and bikers, right?
I grew up in a house with parents who liked to throw parties. Our basement rec room was a seventies relic featuring white, birch-like paneling and a variety of beer signs and lights declaring the “High LIfe” or other such advertising slogan from the times. There was a real Wurlitzer, and a finished bar with four stools in front, a full-size fridge, working sink, and small dishwasher behind. There were two yellow, naugahyde sofas flanking the outside walls, and a faux fireplace with a cheesy plastic log that glowed red when you plugged it in. But my father’s pride and joy was his antique, 1920 Brunswick pool table, set in the middle of the floor like a prom queen alone on the stage.
Yeah, I played pool. But I didn’t tell John this.
Instead, I shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I’m a fast learner.”
***
Downstairs in the game room, I said “hi” to Ben and was introduced to his roommate, Jared. He was from New York, skinny, and moved fast. Ben stepped up to me. Even in a faded Dartmouth t-shirt and khakis with a hole in the knee, Ben looked good.
“Don’t worry,” he said to me with a smile. He was a close-talker, and I needed to take a step back from him to maintain my personal space. “We’ll take it easy on you.”
I walked away with $67 of their money that night.
I assuaged their egos by buying them dinner from Carl’s, a university institution that consisted of a silver lunch truck, and one crusty old New Englander named Carl. Every evening, his silver truck would round the traffic circle at the center of town, and glide into position in the parking lot just outside the SUB. He would crank out his tattered, red and white striped awning, get the fryolators sizzling, and open for business. But there was a special way of ordering your food that made Carl’s what it was.
“Whaddya want?” he asked hurriedly, eyes darting in a million directions as he managed the surges of students that circled his truck.
“Three big guys, abused, and three brown cows,” John ordered for the guys. Translation: three cheeseburger subs with everything and three chocolate shakes.
“Snotties, on the rag!” I called out to him, finishing our group’s order. It was Carl-speak for French fries with melted cheese and ketchup. “And a Diet Coke!”
I know. It was pretty gross. But he did a great business. I feel bad for the students there today, now that Carl’s is but a piece of history. What a drag to have only Pizza Hut and Taco Bell to choose from.
***
We walked back to Ben’s dorm, on the other side of campus from where John
Walking up the floating stairs leading from the basement level to the main floor of the SUB, I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder as I reached the top step.
I turned to find John, who I hadn’t seen since the night of the French film. He was standing two steps below the top, and for the first time, we stood face to face. He smiled sheepishly.
“You hate me?” he asked.
“Hate you?” I returned. “I don’t even know you.”
Being ice-cold is one of a Scorpio’s many gifts. I am a November baby, and fit the description of my birth sign to a tee. Plus, what I didn’t get from the stars, I learned from my mother.
“I guess I deserve that,” he said. His blond curls were falling in his eyes, but I could see he was genuine. I wanted to reach out and push the hair out of his face, but I kept a tight grip on my copy of The Granite and bottle of Diet Coke. He must have sensed me soften.
“You play pool?” he asked. He was grinning mischievously now, which I found utterly appealing.
“Ben and I are down there,” he motioned to the game room at the bottom of the stairs. “Why don’t you come join us?”
I know. From what I have told you so far, you are assuming I came up with some lame excuse to weasel my way out of embarrassing myself. I probably thought pool was a game for dirt bags and bikers, right?
I grew up in a house with parents who liked to throw parties. Our basement rec room was a seventies relic featuring white, birch-like paneling and a variety of beer signs and lights declaring the “High LIfe” or other such advertising slogan from the times. There was a real Wurlitzer, and a finished bar with four stools in front, a full-size fridge, working sink, and small dishwasher behind. There were two yellow, naugahyde sofas flanking the outside walls, and a faux fireplace with a cheesy plastic log that glowed red when you plugged it in. But my father’s pride and joy was his antique, 1920 Brunswick pool table, set in the middle of the floor like a prom queen alone on the stage.
Yeah, I played pool. But I didn’t tell John this.
Instead, I shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I’m a fast learner.”
***
Downstairs in the game room, I said “hi” to Ben and was introduced to his roommate, Jared. He was from New York, skinny, and moved fast. Ben stepped up to me. Even in a faded Dartmouth t-shirt and khakis with a hole in the knee, Ben looked good.
“Don’t worry,” he said to me with a smile. He was a close-talker, and I needed to take a step back from him to maintain my personal space. “We’ll take it easy on you.”
I walked away with $67 of their money that night.
I assuaged their egos by buying them dinner from Carl’s, a university institution that consisted of a silver lunch truck, and one crusty old New Englander named Carl. Every evening, his silver truck would round the traffic circle at the center of town, and glide into position in the parking lot just outside the SUB. He would crank out his tattered, red and white striped awning, get the fryolators sizzling, and open for business. But there was a special way of ordering your food that made Carl’s what it was.
“Whaddya want?” he asked hurriedly, eyes darting in a million directions as he managed the surges of students that circled his truck.
“Three big guys, abused, and three brown cows,” John ordered for the guys. Translation: three cheeseburger subs with everything and three chocolate shakes.
“Snotties, on the rag!” I called out to him, finishing our group’s order. It was Carl-speak for French fries with melted cheese and ketchup. “And a Diet Coke!”
I know. It was pretty gross. But he did a great business. I feel bad for the students there today, now that Carl’s is but a piece of history. What a drag to have only Pizza Hut and Taco Bell to choose from.
***
We walked back to Ben’s dorm, on the other side of campus from where John
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