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"While ignorant armies clash by night."
Matthew Arnold
I was supposed to be studying. Or sleeping. Or both. Study first, then a good night's sleep. I had three finals the next day and had just finished looking over notes on Aristotle or Toulmin or some such credit to the destruction of Western culture. Was doing that half stretch, half yawn thing, wondering whether I should study more on that bore Matthew Arnold or hit the sack. If I'd jumped in bed right then and not even given the matter consideration, everything would have been much different.
Just as I was finding those blasted Marguerite poems, Jay walked in the room. He was my suite-mate in the dorms, which is a fancy way of saying that we shared a toilet. "You ready for a break?" he asked. I noticed he had his jacket in his hand.
"Actually, I was considering going on to bed," I told him. Sure wish I'd meant it.
"Come on. I'm buying. Let's get a candy bar or something."
Every time Jay would say something like "I'm buying," I would suddenly notice something that would make me want to leave the room. Sometimes it was smell of my tennis shoes, which would be right under my desk where I'd taken them off right before forgetting to open the window. Sometimes, I would look at my desk and realize that I'd left something in my car. This time, one of our neighbors just at that moment decided to crank his George Clinton tape up loud enough to crack marble. I suddenly looked at my book and realized that I'd didn't give one fraction of a damn about Arnold or this chick he was trying to land with this poems. They could all die on Dover Beach for all I was concerned.
Jay had my coat in his hand before I stood up.
We decided to walk. I had no idea why. It was cold outside. Not bad, but enough to excuse taking the car for a short drive. I had a car. Jay's girlfriend had a car. But we walked. We were too smart.
There was a convenience store next to our dorm. We entered talking about the tests Jay wasn't studying for. He had a Poly Sci test in the afternoon. He was just telling me how he figured he could sleep until ten or so, get up and skim the chapters, and rely heavily on his memory of the classes he managed to attend and remain conscious for. This would "get him by," as he put it. I knew he'd actually sleep until 11:30, be ten minutes late for the exam, and ace the thing like it was an old math quiz. I knew this to be true because Jay had one of those brains that always amaze people and upset them at the same time. About a month before, he got into a fight with his girlfriend, whom he called The Queen. After the fight, he came home and read his psych book in one night. He woke me up at four in the morning to tell me all about it. Said he might change his major. Said something about Jung and Skinner and maybe something about his girlfriend. I only remember naming him something that called the circumstances of his birth into question.
But he could do that. Read a textbook of all things in one night and remember every stinking word of it and remember it long enough to take a test and usually do well, unless the professor was one of those that assigned books they didn't assign reading from. But Jay, who was skilled at landing on his feet, never stayed in those classes for long. I was thinking all this when we walked in the door of the One Way.
I grabbed a Snickers and a Pepsi. Jay got a bag of Cheetos because he knew it would upset his girlfriend to have them on his breath. He went to the cold drink cooler and stopped in front of it. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"Can't find the Nu-Grape." He looked at me, as if for a moment he thought I might have a Nu-Grape in my possession, then yelled at the clerk. "Hey, where's your Nu-Grape, man?"
"Don't carry it," was the reply. "We got Welchs though."
"The Queen don't drink Welchs, thanks," Jay said.
"What's the difference?" I asked. "It's grape soda."
"I don't know. She just insists on it. And I gotta get her Nu-Grape or she'll hit the roof. I used getting it for her as an excuse to get away. She was studying and I was trying to sleep and she was starting to read to me to help her stay awake."
"They got this epitome of grape soda somewhere in this burg?" I asked, starting to remember that my first final was at eight o'clock.
The clerk said, "They got some at the Mini-Mart. Some kind of weird distribution thing. Company says that they won't let too many stores within a mile of each other carry Nu-Grape. Supposed to add to the 'specialness' of the product." He said this making those annoying quote signs with his fingers and I put back the candy and drink fast so we could get out before the guy started some economics lecture that was sure to drive out what little of the Victorian poetry that remained in my head.
"What a geek," Jay said as we walked out. "When we make our first million, let's buy that smuck a life."
To get to the Mini-Mart, we'd have to cross a small grassy area that stood in front of the student union building. This place was called The Field, and was used for various activities like flag football games and tug of war matches between fraternities. During homecoming weekend, tents were set up there so the alumni could come and eat barbecue under one place, get plastered in another, and then relive the old days under another, all within a few hundred yards of their cars. Across the street from The Field was the Methodist church which had a huge parking lot. In that parking lot, between ten at night and three in the morning, would sit a campus patrol car. Sometime the only other patrolman on duty for the whole school sat in the car next to him.
We were about halfway across The Field when Jay noticed the police car idling in the closest space to the street. "Cop on the beat!" he cried. I was just about to conjecture that the civil servant might be sleeping when Jay did something amazing. He stopped walking. Then in one grand gesture, he pointed directly at the police car and ran in the opposite direction.
I followed behind. "What is the matter with you, you moron?" He, of course, was laughing.
The cop turned on his lights almost immediately. That almost made me laugh too. I was doing a combination of looking back at the car and chasing after Jay. I heard a dull clunk, but Jay not slowing down. He was reaching the edge of The Field when the cop was in front of us, waiting. I caught up with Jay, my chest filling and emptying like a spastic whoopie cushion, as the cop got out of his car.
He was enormous. Larger than life. Larger than three healthy, normal lives. He was probably six foot one or so, and must have weighed at least 400 pounds stark naked, which I did not want to imagine. His stomach seemed to be a huge extension of his chest, a big medicine ball that reached a foot into his pants. His arms and legs seemed to have been made from the same place; they looked like four restaurant sized sacks of flour stuffed into clothes. He was wearing short sleeves! His right hand rested on the holster of his gun while his left worked a flashlight over us with surprising adroitness.
"What are you boys doing?" he asked. He seemed to be looking at me, so I looked at Jay, who didn't say anything. Then I was about to say that we were going to the Mini-Mart to buy some Nu-Grape because that was the only stinking store allowed to carry it. That my friend here, the idiot, had a girlfriend with a temper bigger that the cop's inseam, and that she just couldn't drink Welchs grape soda if my life depended on it. That I had to walk my friend to the store because either he was retarded or I was an cretin. But Jay spoke up, and saved me all that trouble.
"We were just walking. We saw you and I wanted to see if you would chase us." He grinned into the beam of light the officer shined in his face. "Pretty stupid, huh? Really, I don't know what comes over me sometimes."
Me either, I thought. The cop just said, "Humph!" and continued to shine the light back and forth from Jay to me. His voice, even in that brief syllable, carried the accent of a thousand Dukes of Hazard episodes. I thought he was going to say something in English, but another police car came and parked in front of the first one, their headlights staring at each other. Out of the other car jumped a policeman who had the sense to wear a coat. He was shorter than the fat cop and wore glasses, but something about his face told me that this guy lifted weights and could crush even Jay's hard-headed skull with one hand. The fat cop went over to the side of the other's car. The second cop had opened his door, but had not stepped out from behind it. I could hear the fat cop telling him about us. His voice sounded like a combination whine and grunt, and immediately I thought of Jabba the Hut discussing money matters with Han Solo.
I stifled a laugh. "What?" Jay whispered.
"Jabba the cop," I said. We didn't look at each other, but I could hear the psst sound of him trying to keep his composure.
"And Redneck Roy," he added.
We stood there for a several painful moments, listening the serious sounding murmurs and mumbles of the two policeman, as we tried not to laugh out loud. After a little bit they both sauntered that self-important police walk toward us, and I knew we were going to jail. I was wishing I was drunk.
Suddenly the fat cop spoke. "We could take you in and hold you on suspicion of criminal activity." He said this matter-of-factly, with an air that he was still weighing the matter. After a moment, he continued. "But we aren't going to do that."
Before we could say thank you or you'd put me in jail at your constitutional peril, the slim cop proceeded to give us a lecture I didn't listen much to, but which I believe included phrases like "there have been reports" and "we don't know if you are criminals" and "keeping officers from serious duty." Near the end he admonished us to avoid the appearance of evil.
They took our names and asked where we were going. We told them, and the fat cop told us to get in his car. He'd take us.
It was then that we found out just how fat Jabba really was. Jay was one of the skinniest little turds I had ever known. Somehow, he managed to make sure I got in beside Jabba. His sweat mixed with some kind of tobacco and I swear something else that reminded me of orange peels. But the worst thing was I couldn't move away from him. Jay got in as best as he could, but could not get the door completely closed. It latched, but the dome light kept coming on when we rounded a corner and the door moved. Jabba, ever vigilant, didn't seem to notice.
Of course we couldn't go straight there. With me gasping for breath and Jay holding the door as if it might try to get away, we slowly pulled out of the parking lot and toward the Mini-Mart. I was trying to stay quiet, but Jay went on chattering like a monkey with Jabba about the radio and the guns that are issued (and those that are not issued but carried, to my horror) and the exciting life of a policeman. This caused Jabba to feel very much better about us, which I didn't like any too well because it meant he had to show us what his pathetic life was all about by taking detour after detour to our destination. Every time I thought we were about to be free, he'd say something like, "Well, I better check this out," and my heart would sink lower as I prayed for oxygen.
We passed a fire hydrant that had been obviously backed into. It was slanted at an awkward angle, but nothing was coming out. Probably some drunk fraternity member hit it, thought it was a dog and took off before the owner could catch him. Jabba, of course, had to go back and inspect it. He turned the car around and drove almost on it, but did not get out of the car. Knowing that he should get out, but was not going to, made me feel that much worse. I longed for Marguerite. I longed for Aristotle. Shoot, if I could have gotten him to let me go, I might have kissed Jabba on the mouth. But no.
He rolled down his window and made the assessment that I had made in my head (which scared me quite a bit). "Some kid, probably drunk, hit it." Then he radioed the station to report the problem. Jay and I heard snickers and choked laughter from the other end as the dispatcher tried to say that the problem had been reported ("Two weeks ago!" a voice in the background yelled) and someone from the city would be out to look at it in the morning. For one brief moment, I felt sorry for Jabba. But then he snapped his radio down and stared in front of him with this "Crime is a dirty business, and only I am ready to take it on" look and I was back to thinking I was going to die and wishing I was very drunk.
After a few more inspections and Jay massaging this guy's ego, we were at the Mini-Mart. When I got out of the car, I almost fainted at having semi-pure air hit me so suddenly. Jabba offered to drive us back to the dorm, but Jay saved his life by telling the cop that we'd like to play a few video games and didn't want to keep him from his important duty. Jabba bought it, drove away with a satisfied leer, and I didn't have to kill my best friend.
We found the elusive Nu-Grape. As we walked out, Jay, who stuffed the bag into a big pocket on the inside of his jacket, said we needed to go through The Field on the way back.
"Why?" I asked. "I don't want to run into Jabba."
"He won't bother us," Jay replied. "We'll just pass by and wave. Besides, I dropped something I gotta get back.
"What?"
"A knife."
"How long."
"Illegal long. Why do you think I dropped it? If they found it on me, we'd be in the pokey now calling The Queen to come and pick us up."
"Great," was all I said and we were on the way.
Finally left to our own devices, we were quiet for awhile. I suppose Jay sensed I was mad at him, because after a few minutes he said, "Appearance of evil? Jabba the cop's appearance is what's evil."
"What a bloutus!" I said. "The guy is larger than life." And before I knew it, we were laughing at our misfortune.
Almost as we stepped on to The Field, I thought something might be wrong. I don't take much stock in omens, but I wish I had then. We were hardly on the grass a minute when one of the campus squirrels ran across our path, scaring me half to death and sending Jay into a fit of hysterics at my panic.
"Very damn funny," I said. After a moment, I asked, "What do you think made him run like that? There are no trees or anything here."
Jay was looking at the Jabba's car, parked in the same spot as before. "Jabba," he said.
"But the squirrel was going in that direction, not away from him."
"Maybe he was invited over for dinner," he said, laughing at the overworn joke.
When we reached the spot where Jay had dropped the knife, he stopped and pretended to tie his shoe. The blade seemed to glow a little, from the green light coming from a pole several yards away, and I was surprised that no one else had seen it. Before I could wonder much about it, Jay stuffed the knife in his jacket pocket using me as a shield against Jabba's probing eyes.
Now here is the part that is really strange. When we reached the dorm, the short cop with the glasses was there apparently waiting for us. He was sitting near his car, which was parked at the point in front of the dorm where people usually dropped off or picked up friends so they wouldn't have to park.
"What you boys get?" he asked, a sneer in his voice that went out of style during prohibition. "You know it is past hours to be drinking."
"Just Pepsi," I said before Jay could be cute. "As if it is any of your business." Was that me talking, I thought. Or was Jay using me as his ventriloquist dummy?
"Uh huh," was all Redneck Roy said. But he looked at me with a face that I'm sure scared a lot of the local townspeople's teenage sons. After a moment, he looked at Jay. "What's that in your jacket?"
Now he certainly meant to imply that Jay had a beer in his jacket. But Jay, always thinking just the thing that would put me tightest in a jam, was not aware of what Redneck Roy the Prohibitionist had in mind. He reached his hand into the inside of his jacket. "Now my friend didn't have anything to do with this," he started as he pulled the knife out.
The next thing I knew, I was clutching my shoulder and trying to sit down.
I don't remember closing my eyes, but when I opened them, Jabba was staring right into my face, the smell of chicken wings on his breath. "Looks like you don't have much tolerance for pain, boy."
I was figuring out how I was going to tolerate his breath when I realized that I was sitting in an ambulance. It was pulling away from the dorm. "What's going on?"
"Your friend nearly got you killed. He pulled his knife out on an officer of the law. When the officer shot in defense, the bullet ricocheted off your friend's knife and hit you in the shoulder." He paused. "Darndest thing."
I said, "Yeah, darndest."
The local hospital, knowing that my parents had insurance, thought it best to keep me a night ("or so") for observation, even though I could have gone home after a few hours. The bullet had only grazed my shoulder. I guess I do have a low tolerance for pain. For much of those first few hours I listened to Jabba, who was assigned to keep an eye on me (probably to keep him off the streets), tell stories of his various exploits (including one he considered "juicy" because it included a naked black woman). Listening to the drone of Jabba the Bigot was worse than the shoulder, worse than knowing that I'd have to take incompletes in my classes because I couldn't take the exams, worse than having my parents yell at me for getting shot. I really missed those Marguerite poems then. Hell, I missed Matthew Arnold--personally.
Later I woke up thinking of Arnold. I remembered my professor telling us that Arnold's friends, who saw him as jovial, were shocked that he wrote such dark and depressing poems. I was smiling at the paradox when Jay walked into the room.
"What are you grinning about? Get a sponge bath recently?"
I looked at him, never losing the smile. Jay's presence at that moment seemed fitting. "No. But there's still hope."
"How ya doing, champ?"
"Never better, though I wish you could have rescued me from Jabba's war stories. How's your hand?
"Huh?"
"Your hand. Jabba said that the bullet ricocheted off your knife. Must have hurt your hand some. Don't tell me that Redneck Roy was just a really bad shot."
Jay laughed and sat down. "He's that bad a shot."
"Thankfully." I said. I only meant to think it.
"Yeah," Jay said. "Hey let me tell you what happened."
"Where's The Queen?"
"Oh, she's outside watching a soap on the waiting room t.v. She's getting good at waiting."
Then he told me about how he was arrested on the spot for carrying a concealed weapon and threatening a peace officer. He was handcuffed to a pole in front of the dorm while Roy (who knows or cares what his real name is) called "for backup." When Roy tried to check out my wound, he threw up. After being booked, Jay called The Queen to come bail him out. "Know what she said? 'Where's my Nu-Grape.' I told the bitch where she could come to get it and almost suggested a new way to ingest it, but I didn't want to have to call my folks to come get me."
"My folks are ticked."
"Yeah, I figured. They came by and asked me what happened. I don't think they believed me."
"Don't feel too bad. My dad thinks cops are called by God." That's true. He likens their academy graduation to an ordination to the priesthood.
"Well, what can you say?" Jay asked.
I asked him if he took his exams. He said he was able get incompletes in the two classes he hadn't taken finals for. "They were very concerned about the trauma I had experienced."
"Their words or yours?" I asked.
"Somebody's," he said. "I don't exactly remember."
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