The Boy in the Tunnel

by Gardner Linn

 

20.

 

Kenya filled three bowls with Cheerios from the seventh of thirty-three hoppers lined along one wall of the labyrinthine serving area at Weston Dining Hall. The cereal was always available, breakfast, lunch and dinner, and the selection was wide and varied and frequently rotated. To a base of twenty perennial favorites—your basic Cheerios, Raisin Bran, Frosted Mini-Wheats, Lucky Charms, etc.—University Food Services Cereal Specialist Rhonda Wilkins added a thirteen-item weekly special selection that she chose from a pool of over seventy-five (and constantly growing) obscure, upscale and international cereals. Some of these specials—Crab Crunch from Japan, for instance—lasted seven days and were never seen again. Others, like the bizarre but impossibly delicious KRÜMMFAUVEN!, inspired red-markered calendar-Xing countdowns and mad rushes on Weston by devotees when they made their quarterly appearances.

         

Kenya didn’t care for the fancy cereals, however, and never strayed from her three-bowls-of-Cheerios dinner. She grabbed a couple of bananas from the fruit cascade at the end of the cereal corridor and headed for the cow-shaped milk dispenser, whose realistic utters never failed to nauseate Kenya as she squeezed a stream of skim over her Cheerios.

         

Kenya circumambulated the dining room and found a small open table in sight of the door, in case Joanie turned up. Joanie was supposed to meet her there for dinner, which they hadn’t shared in a while, but of course she hadn’t shown up. Kenya sat down, peeled a banana and started to slice.

         

“Please am I sitting here?” said a rough Slavic voice somewhere north of Kenya’s head. She looked up into an extravagantly mustached face topped with a rigid wave-like pompadour.

         

“Excuse me?”

         

“Sorry, I say not so good. Please to be sitting here may I?”

         

“I’m sorry, but a friend of mine’s meeting me here.” Kenya gestured to the one other chair at the table and shrugged as politely as she could.

         

“Your friend is being late, Dragan thinks! Not so good friend, huh? Here, I keep company. Such pretty girl should not eat alone.” Dragan set his tray on the table, jostling a glop of grey beef stroganoff off the plate. He sat down and stuck his fork into the slimy noodles. Kenya would just have to eat fast. She gave up on slicing the banana—she’d take the other one to go.

         

“I am seeing you before, I think?” Dragan stuffed a forkful of stroganoff into his mouth, leaving a strand of the sauce on his mustache.

         

“I don’t—“

         

“Yes! Yes! I am RA in Wintertree. I am seeing you on quad, I am sure.”

         

“Okay.”

         

“You know Dragan, for sure, right?”

         

Kenya shrugged and took another bite of Cheerios. She decided her new goal was to keep a mouthful of Cheerios at all times in this conversation.

         

“Oh, you do! You were seeing Dragan in welcome-to-school play! Dragan was small-town freshman, just in college for first time. Dragan drinks too much at party, vomits in stairs! You are remembering?”

         

Kenya grunted assent around her Cheerios.

         

“There is important lesson: do not vomit in stairs! Then Dragan has to clean up. Very messy. Dragan cleaned enough vomit in Serbia. And you are remembering in Part Two Dragan was big-time American footballer quarterback and wants to making the sex with freshman girl. She gets crabs from Dragan! Another lesson: wear condom.”

         

Kenya tried to signal with her eyes that yeah, boy, she understood, boy did she ever. We are on the same page here, totally.

         

“But please be knowing: in real life Dragan has not crabs. Only in play! Only acting!”

         

Kenya wondered if Dragan would notice if she only ate one of her bowls of Cheerios, and how much offense he would take if he did. She decided it was worth a shot. She made a show out of checking her watch.

         

“Oh wow, the time. Listen, Dragan, thanks for sitting with me, but I’ve got to get—“

         

“Now I am remembering! Yes! You are Kenya Cassidy, yes?”

         

Kenya felt something twist inside her. “Yeah.”

         

Dragan is number-one volleyball fan! I am seeing you play all the time! You are like gazelle. Beautiful ball-spiking gazelle.”

         

“Thanks. We really appreciate your support. But really, I do have to get going...”

         

“Please. Is no problem. Have to practice for volleyball, yes? No time for sitting.”

         

“Yeah, practice.”

         

“Okay. Is nice to be meeting you. Dragan will see you at next game!”

         

Kenya stood up and picked up her tray, still heavy with uneaten cereal. “Nice meeting you, Dragan.”

         

“Yes. Please to be saying hello to Joanie for me.”

         

The thing inside Kenya twisted even tighter. “How did you—“

         

“She is being on the team too. She is number-one—no, you are number-one player, but Joanie is being number-two best player.”

         

“Right. Okay. I will.”

         

Kenya hesitated for a second, to see if this was over. Dragan just smiled, so Kenya smiled weakly back and turned to leave, thank god.

         

“I am having one more question,” Dragan said. Kenya rolled her eyes and nearly stamped her feet in frustration. “I am loving bulldogs. As boy in Serbia I have two bulldogs, Rollo and Boris, before they die. I am seeing you have stuffed bulldog, and it is reminding me of Boris—not Rollo so much, but Boris is favorite anyway. I am wondering where Dragan is getting such stuffed bulldog?

         

Kenya froze. He had been in her room. Her fucking room. If he saw the dog, he probably found the gunpowder inside the dog. This was all going to shit.

 

She tried to say something but nothing came out. She couldn’t believe that everyone around her kept eating, like nothing had just happened. They should have stopped, gasped, dropped glasses and broken plates.

         

“You are thinking how is Dragan seeing your bedroom? Is good question. I am warning you. Ron Marston sends Dragan to be spying on you. He is thinking you saw something and he is wanting to know what it is. He is telling Dragan put camera in your room, take pictures of your things. He is getting angry at Dragan for taking pictures of things Dragan is liking, not so much things Ron Marston is liking. Well, Ron Marston is not knowing Dragan is here now. Dragan is warning you, Kenya Cassidy, because Dragan feels things for you. I know you have boyfriend, so no pressuring. But someone, not Dragan, will be coming for you, and will not be nice like Dragan. So you should be running away and hiding. Dragan is knowing a good place to hide, if you like.”

         

Kenya couldn’t think of anything to say. She just turned and walked toward the used-tray conveyor belt. Everyone around her kept eating, oblivious to this complete and total shifting of the way things were. Why weren’t they reacting to this?

         

Kenya dropped her tray. The three bowls shattered, scattering soggy Cheerios and milk across the floor. Every head in the room turned to her. They were all looking at her now.

 

*****************

 

The busy signal woke Dick back up. It was like right in his ear, this harsh aggressive beeping, and as it continued Dick swore it started to say something. Like the beeps were learning actual words.

         

Drew wasn’t here anymore. Dick was alone with the busy signal. His chin was sticky with dried blood, and his tongue couldn’t stay out of the little painful hole where a tooth used to be.

         

Dick stood up and hung up the phone. Aside from the missing tooth and a real fucker of a headache, he seemed to be okay. He was still wearing the tie, though it too was now glazed with dried blood. He jerked it from his neck and threw it to the floor.

         

The voice on the phone had said something that didn’t make any sense. “The Quartermaster has a girlfriend.” Well congratu-fucking-lations to the Quartermaster. How happy he must be, what with a girlfriend and a PR guy to call people in weird underground libraries to brag about it. What an awesome life the Quartermaster must have.

         

Dick’s foot bumped into something on the ground. He looked down at it: the copy of his own Handbook, the thing that had started this whole mess. He picked it up and opened it to the index.

 

Quartermaster, The,

phone call concerning...178

rumors about....184

 

Dick turned to page 184:

 

The Nine Dead Men, according to the more popular rumors, maintain a strict hierarchical organization, so as to promote both responsible leadership and loyal service (and, not coincidentally, intra-society competition). Milo Kirby, or at least a Santa Claus-like perpetuated fiction thereof, always occupies the highest, unnamed rank. The six Dead Men from the sophomore, junior and senior classes take the following titles, in descending order of superiority:

 

Secretary of the Exterior

Sergeant-at-Arms

Corpus Major

Corpus Minor

The Viscount of The Eastern Spiral

Quartermaster

 

Though usually seniors take the top two positions, juniors the two Corpi, and sophomores Viscount and Quartermaster*, nothing in the (allegedly) official rules of the Nine Dead Men prevents a sophomore, for example, from attaining the rank of SecEx. The two freshmen who are admitted near the end of Fall Semester each year, however, share the rank of Undead from the time of their Abduction Ceremony until the Burial and Resurrection Ball at the end of Spring Semester, at which the two graduating seniors are discharged from the Nine Dead Men, and titles are bequeathed for the coming school year.

 

*A NOTE ABOUT THE QUARTERMASTER: Traditionally, the rank of Quartermaster has had strong ties to Wintertree Hall Room 79 (now Rooms 79A and B). For twenty-seven of the last thirty years, the Nine Dead Men have chosen a freshman resident of 79 Wintertree to join their ranks. The room, so the legends say, was assigned to but never occupied by Milo Kirby, and so his adherents have chosen their Quartermasters from 79 Wintertree to honor him, except when the room’s residents have proven too disagreeable even for the likes of the Dead Men. Of course, like all information regarding the Nine Dead Men, this is pure fiction**.

 

**Amateur 9DM scholars may be interested, however, in the case of one Franklin Arnett, who lived in 79 Wintertree from the fall of 1984 to the spring of 1985, the same year that 79A was discovered. Arnett’s residency in the room is verifiable by official DUH records, but there is no record of a roommate until November of 1984, when Russell Boardman joined him in the room and two transfer students from Dalton College became the first residents of 79A. It is unlikely that Arnett had no roommate for the better part of Fall Semester; rather, numerous sources indicate that Arnett did in fact share the room, and that this roommate was responsible for discovering 79A, and that this discovery somehow led to his eviction from Wintertree Hall and the eradication of his records. That is all well and good, you say, but what has it to do with the Nine Dead Men? Calm yourself and you shall hear.

         

Two years later, Arnett caused a relatively major scandal on campus when he tried to stage a revolt against the Nine Dead Men, who he claimed were secretly controlling the University. The big news was not that this shadowy society might have some influence over the University administration—those who believed in the existence of the Nine Dead Men assumed this already—but that someone was publicly claiming to be one of the Nine Dead Men. Arnett said that he had been Abducted by the Dead Men in the fall of 1984, and then was named Quartermaster in the spring, a post which he held for the entirety of his sophomore year. At first, Arnett said, he believed the Nine to be relatively harmless, a group of young men who enjoyed the idea of a secret society as a sort of conceptual art piece. But as his stint as one of the Undead continued, Arnett began to see things that concerned him. What these things were Arnett never said, his tongue stayed by fear or prudence or perhaps lack of imagination. He tried to put his misgivings aside and serve as Quartermaster, but near the end of his sophomore year his superiors asked him to do something he was unwilling to do; in his Student Union diatribes against the Nine Dead Men, he would only say that the request made of him was “unreasonable.”

         

The usual unnamed sources, however, say that this unreasonable request concerned Russell Boardman, who by that time had become a Resident Assistant in Wintertree, and a valued confidant of RLC Ron Marston. The specifics of the request remain a mystery, but one can only assume that Arnett and Boardman forged a bond during their time as roommates, and that Arnett was unwilling to jeopardize that bond simply to please his alleged superiors in a fictitious secret society.

         

Arnett’s crusade against the Nine Dead Men attracted a few supporters, mainly from the black-clad and unwashed segments of the student population, but his revolution fizzled as it became clear that the enemy (if it even existed at all) was unwilling to reveal itself, and though Arnett claimed to know their secret headquarters and meeting places, he had no evidence to back up his claims.

 

Dick closed the book. That was enough bullshit history for now. The main point was that this Quartermaster probably lived in 79 Wintertree last year; and as the only person Dick knew who fit that criterion was Chet, Dick searched the stacks for his roommate’s Handbook.

 

 

© 2005 Gardner Linn