“I must be keeping you from your classes,” she said meekly.
“That’s okay,” he answered. “I’m just happy I can do something for David. I mean — he’s a real nice guy.”
Mrs. Davidson looked into Jason Gilbert’s eyes and murmured, “You know, your parents should be extremely proud.”
“Thank you,” Jason Gilbert whispered. And ran off, a dull ache in his heart.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 3, 1954
One of the great joys of living away from home and not at prep school is being able to stay up all night. Now and then it’s actually for something serious like finishing a paper that’s due the next day.
Mike Wigglesworth is an expert at this technique. He sits down at his typewriter at around seven in the evening with a few notes and a half-dozen Budweisers. He pecks out a first draft before midnight and then spends the wee small hours mixing in an appropriate quantity of bullshit. For the latter process he stokes up with coffee. Then he goes to breakfast, eats a dozen eggs and bacon (he’s a crew star, after all), and drops off his paper. Then he goes to sleep until the afternoon, when he gets up to go down to the Boathouse.
But last night all three of us had a respectable reason for staying up. To hear the outcome of the national elections. Not that any of us really gives a damn for politics. It’s just a nice excuse for getting gently plowed.
Typical of that provincial rag, this morning’s
As I sat at breakfast reading through the Crime, a sudden notion struck me. Maybe that unprepossessing guy at the next table eating Wheaties will someday be a senator. Or even President. The thing is that you never know who’s going to make it. Dad once told me that FDR was pretty kooky as an undergraduate. So much so, he was blackballed by the Final Club that took his cousin Teddy.
The Harvard freshmen are still sort of formless caterpillars. It really takes some time to find out who’ll become the rarest butterfly of all.
The only thing I’m certain of is that I’ll remain a caterpillar all my life.
From the
GILBERT TO LEAD YARDLING SQUASH TEAM
Jason Gilbert ’58 of Straus Hall and Syosset, Long Island, has been elected Captain of the Freshman Squash Team. Gilbert, who attended Hawkins-Atwell, where he captained both the squash and tennis teams, is undefeated at the number-one slot thus far this season. He is also seeded seventh in the Eastern States Junior Tennis rankings.
“Gilbert, you deserve a medal,” Dennis Linden remarked. “If you hadn’t thought so quickly, that little nerd D. D. might actually have killed himself.”
The proctor had called him in not merely to commend Jason for his paramedical heroics, but to share with him a fresh dilemma. In other words, to impart some dubiously good news.
“We’ve got another roommate for you,” Dennis announced. “I personally chose him at a meeting of the proctors — because I really feel you could be a stabilizing influence on him.”
“Hey, this isn’t fair,” Jason protested. “Do I have to be a nursemaid again? Can’t I just have someone normal?”
“Nobody at Harvard is normal,” Linden philosophically replied.
“All right, Dennis,” Jason answered, with a sigh of resignation. “What’s
“Well,” the proctor started nonchalantly, “he’s a teeny bit … aggressive.”
“Well, that’s okay. I’ve taken boxing lessons.”
Linden coughed. “The problem is — he fights with swords.”
“What is he, some foreign student from the Middle Ages?”
“Very witty.” Linden smiled. “No, actually he’s a hotshot on the fencing team. His name’s been in the
“Oh great. Who’s he tried to kill so far?”
“Well, not exactly kill. He’s living in Holworthy with a very sensitive Chinese fellow. And every time they have the slightest argument, this Ackerman gets out his sword and waves it at the little guy. The kid is now so petrified, the Health Department had to give him pills to sleep. So, clearly, we’ve just got to separate them.”
“Why the hell can’t you give me the Chinaman?” Jason complained. “He sounds like a sweet guy.”
“No. He gets along okay with roommate number three — a music type. So the proctors figured we’d let well enough alone. Besides, I had the notion that a guy like you could teach that character a lesson.”
“Dennis, I’m here to take courses, not teach manners to Ivy League hoodlums.”
“Come on, Jason,” the proctor cajoled, “you’ll turn this guy into a pussycat. And you can count on getting something positive put on your record.”
“Dennis,” Jason said in valediction, “you’re all heart.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
January 16, 1955
Jason Gilbert had us all in stitches yesterday at our pre-midyear blast. We recruited some carefully selected lovelies from the local junior colleges with the best reputation for their students’ promiscuity. (Newall claims he scored as he drove one of them back to Pine Manor, but we only have his word for it. Really clever guys can bring back evidence.)
Old Gilbert has a way of taking charge of every party. First of all, he’s so damn handsome we have trouble keeping our own dates’ attention. And then when he starts telling stories, we’re all rolling on the floor. Apparently, he’s just gotten a new roommate (he won’t say what happened to the other one), and the guy’s a sort of maniac.
As soon as Jason tries to go to sleep, this nut pulls out a sword and jumps around the living room like Errol
