What the hell? You reread the passage for, what? the tenth time? twentieth? By now the words run together, making even less sense than they did the first time through.

Two-page paper, he said. That sounded fine; two better than five any day. Then he handed out the sheet with this nutty passage. Yeah, it’s in the book; yeah, you maybe noticed it as you read by, or maybe not, since the whole book was greek to you.

This is no good. You get up, walk up to the front door and open it a crack. Freezing. You walk back to your booth, pick up your cup, and refill it. You look over the jukebox; nothing new. Anyhow, you can’t be playing tunes now. Work.

You sit down. You pick up your pen, poise it over your notebook. What? You can’t even think of one of those airy-nothing first sentences to prime the pump. You have no idea what this is about.

Why in god’s name did you take this course? Modern English, Irish, and American Lit. Modern; you figured that meant it would be easier to understand than the Chaucer one you took last quarter. Modern English. That’s what you speak, right? OK.

But no. Well, partly. The Hemingway stories were pretty easy. You joked about Nick Adams. “Johnny Yuma was a rebel, He wandered alone…,” singing down low like Johnny Cash. Wandering through the West. Yuma wasn’t all that cool, though. For cool, you take Paladin. The black outfit, the squint. And the card! “Wire Paladin, San Francisco.” Yes; tres cool. And he didn’t wander, like he was lost; he roamed. Knowing. In charge. Cool.

Work. You look down at the sheet again and your eyes rebel. They just can’t stand to go over those weird words again. You overrule them. You force yourself to look at one, word, at, a, time, trying to squeeze meaning out of them with your eye beams. But they just sit there, inert on the page. For all you can tell, they’re laughing at you.

How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymomum.

What kind of talk is that? Okay, this is supposed to be some kind of dream or fantasy. An image of Shakespeare speaks. And it says

‘Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind. Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. Gaze. Iagogo! How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymomum. Iagogogo!

Still nothing. You close your eyes. You try to think of something. Anything will do. Relax, you tell yourself. No use tensing up, not yet. Have something to eat. Easy does it.

“Fats! Hey, Fats. Can I have a grilled cheese?”

More coffee. Look around, but casually. Be cool. Presently Fats brings the sandwich. Bottom-of-the-bag potato chips. Two dill slices. Festive toothpicks. The toast is rough on your tongue but the cheese is suave, salty, soothing. You’re feeling better. You can work now.

There’s a noise at the door. Noisy people coming in. Many noisy people. Six, eight, nine, they crowd into two booths across from you. They call for service. They don’t look like they’ve been in here before. You glance at them sidelong, taking their measure. No, not our kind. Irv puts up with them because they spend money.

One of them gets up and feeds the box. You brace yourself. As you suspected: Gary Lewis. Then Petula Clark. The intruders get louder. Many very funny jokes. Much hilarity. You practice variations on the scowl and consider looking right at them with one. But why bother? Jerks. Two of them call out for more coffee. You sneer, just a little, then you walk over to the coffee and refill your cup. You saunter back to your personal space. See? Some people belong here, jerks.

One of them gets up and heads for the john. He doesn’t quite make it. Oh, jeez. Irv spots him and yells. “Get the hell out of here, you rotten bastard.” Kid looks stunned; looks at his friends; suddenly it’s quiet, except for the box, and they start trying to figure out how to leave.

That November Saturday in high school when the bunch of you drove to the cabin. Gus had swiped some vodka from his old man’s store. Mixed it with High-C. Went down easy; came up amazingly fast. Shortest party on record. Home in time for dinner, except you weren’t really hungry. Mom smelled it and suggested you stay out of Dad’s way.

You can’t stand the smell of High-C now. The smell here isn’t roses, either. Irv yells for Flash to clean up. Flash hates to have to come out of the kitchen, hates to mop. He shoots a dirty look at no one in particular.

He’s got a problem? You’ve got the problem. How my Oldfellow chokit. My old man chokit. That night of his retirement party. Twenty years in uniform, and now a charcoal-gray suit from Robert Hall; fancy vest; party time. Comes home, grins at you – when was the last time he smiled at all, forget you – and heads for the bathroom. Big noise. You run in to see what’s up. He’s in the bathtub; grinning. You go to bed.

Flash is done. Not a minute too soon. You have to go. Nothing new in the way of grafitti. You glance in the mirror. You try that scowl again. Fierce. Yes. Take that. Richard Boone shouts in fine baritone: “How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymomum!” After a moment you step out. Flash is looking at you, and Fats, and Irv. Irv shakes his head and goes back to the cash register.

You get some more coffee and sit down.

“Othello.”

What? You look up, around. Byers, in the corner, is looking at you.

“Othello,” he says. “Shakespeare: Othello. Desdemona. Iago.”

ah.

Next: Messin' With the Kid