He sang a few notes of a different sort of melody, one that I suspect he made up on the spot. It was simple but sweet. Then I joined in and we sang the song together. Dum dum, dad a dad a dum—in just those “words.” Then, once more. Even as I write this, I rerun our singing of that little tune in my mind. The moment was mystical, inexplicably so. Somehow the day…the delightful aspects of college life…the pleasures of the city…and above all our budding friendship all merged in an overwhelming exhilaration—a joy never to be forgotten by either of us.
Another occasion—this was still during our freshman year—found Arthur and me sequestered late at night in a corner booth of a dimly lit restaurant, V&T Pizzeria on Amsterdam and 110th. Tables were scattered haphazardly throughout the room, covered with red-and-white checkerboard cloths. Our conversations in the past had been mostly fleeting, tucked in between classes or during chance encounters on campus. That night we were relaxed, with seemingly endless hours at hand to share confidences.
We talked about women who attracted us—his were thin and delicate, almost fragile; mine were more full-bodied and sensual. Sports—his Phillies, my Yankees. Then we agreed on something: Lenny Bruce. “Yeah, I’m a dummy,” Bruce would say, “a real dummy, me and my ten Lincoln Continentals.” There were other lines and other comedians. We laughed a lot. Arthur’s humor veered away from the traditional or the obvious. He enjoyed mockery and imitation. His humor lay not so much in the substance as in intonation and mannerisms.
Suddenly it was after midnight. What must the V&T employees have thought about Arthur and me sitting there, hour after hour? Two men, old, tough Italians, watching these two college kids drinking soda, their two or three slices of pizza having been consumed hours ago, their greasy napkins wadded up on paper plates. What could they talk about for so long?
In truth, just about anything. Arthur and I had known each other for only a few months, but we were already old friends. There were many such V&T nights, each exhilarating and exhausting.
Nothing about our friendship up until then excited me more than the day when, as we strolled casually toward a bookstore on Broadway, Arthur somewhat sheepishly, and with the sardonic smile I had come to know, reported that he had just joined a fraternity that was a rival of my own. I stopped walking. My eyebrows shot up. I reached out to shake his hand in an effort to mask my lack of enthusiasm, but he stepped closer to me.
“Now, Sanford,” he said, “listen to me. I am going to give you five reasons why you will be my roommate next year. Here are the five reasons: Your nobility. Your devotion to pursuing a lifetime study of music, the arts, and literature. You find beauty in all of life’s corners—a passion I share. We will form a pact: should either find himself in extremis, regardless of the cause, the other will come to his rescue, notwithstanding his life circumstances at that time. Finally, you’re cool.”
I thought I had heard correctly, but I was puzzled. How could he have joined a rival fraternity yet still wish to room together? Those were the days of stilted social patterns. I figured this must be another twist of his skewed humor. But the serious Arthur had shown itself. His evidently authentic feelings struck me forcefully. I knew it was a singular moment, one never to be forgotten. As my wise grandmother would have said, it was b’shert—destined to be. I raised my hand slowly, shook his, and responded, “Yes—of course.” “Cool” was the style of the day.
Once we started rooming together, Arthur and I would sit long hours at our desks working, or pretending to. Arthur would often act up. “Sanford, perhaps you can assist me with this proof. This is a very interesting one, don’t you think? I find calculus interesting. Really, what would we do without it?” Then he would shout to Jerry Speyer, who had joined us as our third roommate. “Jerry, don’t you find calculus of the utmost interest?”
Jerry would come in and shake his head. “What are you talking about, Arthur?”
“Sanford is going to help me with my homework. He’s my tutor. The way Aristotle tutored Alexander. Isn’t that right, Sanford?”
We took endless notes in class and at lectures. Arthur’s handwriting was beautiful—he practiced it as a draftsman does. He wanted to be an architect.
Jerry’s was lilting but scrunched up. We were extremely mindful of the caliber and value of the education we were receiving and paid close attention. At least I did, but when I would occasionally glance over at Arthur, I often saw his gaze slide from the page to the window. “There he goes,” I would think.
“Now, Sanford, listen to me,” Arthur would typically begin our conversations. Or, “Sanford, let me be clear on the matter.” Or, “Sanford, it’s a very interesting point you raise, but have you considered the alternatives?” Or, “I would like you to give me reasons why the sky is blue, Sanford, and they have to be convincing ones.” Sometimes: “I recommend a trip to the library, Sanford, in order to answer the question at hand. Libraries are one of the best things the planet has to offer, in my opinion.” Then there was the frequent, “Perhaps, Sanford, if I sing this number for you, all will be clear and nothing will be confusing, and we can begin to address the larger, more pressing questions of the day.”
Other times, the assault on our study sessions was more direct. “Sanford,” Arthur would chime in, “shall I play you a song? Would you like that? I think a little tune is just the thing to pick up our spirits. Reading is good for the soul, but you know, I think music is good for the soul,
