The
Boy in the Tunnel
by
21.
Halfway through the
scream, Tim realized where he had seen the limping guy before: he was Taddlington Taft, the Republican columnist. Though Tim
usually found Taft’s opinions laughably anachronistic, he had to admit that his
latest column, about the death of Southern hospitality, did contain a few good
points. Men should give up their seats on the bus to women, Tim thought, they
just should; and women should allow men to open doors for them, to pay for
dinner, to be the one to call and extend an invitation to a date. “The Southern
gentleman should not be made to feel like a leering, knuckle-dragging
chauvinist because he adheres to the customs of chivalry,” Taft had written,
“nor should the Southern lady decline the offer of chivalry for fear of
appearing unenlightened. In such turbulent times, it is only reasonable to
suggest that some traditions remain traditions because they still have value.”
It was kind of weird to
see Taft, who in his byline photo always looked so composed, so sure of
himself, screaming red-eyed and ragged-throated into the chilly air, the breath
of the scream lingering a moment before dissipating, before being replaced. Tim
wanted to stop the screaming, to comfort Taft somehow, but he didn’t know how.
This kind of anguish had until now been purely theoretical to Tim, the kind of
thing you saw in a movie. Usually there were some doctors around with IVs full
of morphine when someone was screaming this bad.
The scream died out and
Taft took a rattly, sucking breath. Tim tried.
“You’re Taddlington Taft, right? From
the Ambassador?”
Fresh cold air in his
lungs, Dave screamed again. The pain would not leave him, would not even go
back into hiding. The pain had moved in and wanted to be friends. Best Friends
Forever. The pain wrote its name in Dave’s yearbook in purple glitter ink, the
pain and Dave both pricked their thumbs and pressed them together, letting the
blood mingle, signifying how close they’d always be. The pain was going to
organize his bachelor party and keep the stripper quiet about the stuff that
never happened, honestly.
The pain was so great now
that Dave couldn’t remember what it was like not to be in pain, and so the pain
was now bearable. Dave thought how nice it was, in a way, to have a friend like
this, one he knew would never leave him. That’s the
way to look at it. Instead of an imposing, unwanted guest, the pain was a new
partner for life, a friend to keep him company through all the dark times. He
was hoping to make a friend like that in college. Dave smiled, still screaming,
at the thought.
Tim saw the cracked grin
spread on Taft’s face, and he decided, okay, his first impulse was right: this
guy was nuts. A full-on Almond Joy. Taft was beyond
any kind of help Tim could offer. He should probably just go find a phone, call
911 and be done with it. He was supposed to be at Yarrow in ten minutes anyway.
As soon as Tim decided on
this course of action, Taft stopped screaming. The aftersound
of it hung in the air in front of them, then warmed and disappeared.
Dave looked at Tim, at
the terrified expression on Tim’s face. He held up his deformed right hand between
their faces.
“Can you see what he
did?” Dave said.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not just me.”
Dave put his hand down in his lap. It still hurt, but now that he and the pain
understood each other, he didn’t have to make such a big deal about it.
“I think I should call a
doctor,” Tim said, tensing to stand.
“No. You don’t have to
leave. I’ll be gone in a second. I have a meeting to get to.”
“How did it happen?”
Dave poked a testing
finger at the broken ring finger of his right hand. The contact sent fresh
tendrils of pain up his arm. He clenched his jaw and his face shuddered. “I
don’t remember. I have to get to my meeting. The fly died but he told me what
to do.”
Beyond
deranged.
Tim didn’t know how he could help this guy. “You’re Taddlington
Taft, right?”
“My name’s Dave.”
“I liked your column this
week.”
Dave turned his
glistening, bloodshot eyes on Tim. Tim could sort of see a speech being formed
behind those eyes, part admonition, part confession, full of pent-up fury; but
Dave just looked back down at his hand.
“Thanks. What’s your
name?”
“Tim. Tim Levitt.”
Fresh
pain in his leg. Dave knew that name. That name was important for some
reason. It hung in his mind, just out of reach. That name meant something. Tim Levitt was the name of someone he knew, surely, some friend
he had lost touch with. It was fate that had brought them together tonight, to
reminisce. They probably grew up on the same street, played GI Joe together;
Tim probably had the Terrordrome and the USS Flagg. There were no flies in Tim’s house, no green chairs,
no dusty reckonings in colloidal basement air. Tim’s
mom brought them lemonade and peanut butter sandwiches. No flies in the
sandwiches, none floating tortile in the lemonade.
Tim was Joe, Dave was COBRA, launching the Firebat from its central dock on the Terrordrome.
Flies swarmed after the Firebat toward the Flagg, flies dove with the vessel’s payload, kamikazes, to
splat on the broad grey deck. Pulpy fly bodies covered the deck of the ship, a
writhing hairy black layer. No planes could land. The lemonade was yellow but
not lemonade. Mayonnaise on the sandwiches for no good
reason. There were flies here, flies all the time. Dave knew that name.
Tim Levitt. Tim Left It. Tim, Leave.
*******************
Drew’s genitals still felt soft
and shapeless, and he wanted to feel for damage but was afraid to touch
something that seemed so fragile. The pain had settled where his stomach met
his pelvis. He thought it likely he would never have children now.
The voice from the first phone call, before Dick
had arrived in the library, had told Drew to read the Handbook of someone named
Joanie McKittrick, which
Handbook he now had stuffed in a cargo pocket, banging against his knee; but
while had been searching for that volume he had also found the one marked
RICHARD MCGIBBON and had not been able to pass up the opportunity to read it.
And so that had resulted in his smashed testicles, so lesson learned.
What that second phone
call was about, Drew didn’t know, but he figured he’d let Dick deal with it.
Drew now had to focus on finding some safe place to read McKittrick’s
Handbook and figure out what to do next. (What he really wanted to do was to
seal up the hole in 79A and forget all this ever happened, but he had stumbled
into something now for sure and it didn’t seem like getting out was an option
just yet.)
Drew scaled the ladder
and traversed the rope and crawled through the tunnel back to 79A. He took his
own handbook out of his pocket, found the entry for “Hiding places” in the
index and turned to page 59:
The UNWG campus, the Family Delmonico
in particular, affords the reclusive student a number of secluded cubbies and
nooks in which to secret him or herself for reasons of security or simply to
enjoy some well-earned solitude. A partial list of such hideyholes
follows*:
MARY RUTHERFORD HALL:
1. The Van Zandt Stairway – A
false wall in the north wing of the 2nd floor provides access to a
hidden stair, which in turn leads to a little-used closet in the basement of
Miss R. “Little-used” does not mean “never used,” however, particularly if the
custodian needs the wet/dry vac (which she frequently
does after home football games).
2. Room 126, aka The South’s
Lunch Shall Rise Again Room – The historically-preserved bedroom where Robert
E. Lee once recovered from a spell of botulism is officially off-limits to
students, which makes it a particularly good place to hide, if you are not
averse to a little risk. Dim, period-appropriate lighting, bulky furniture and
privacy curtains (which kept prying eyes from alighting on the ailing General)
only add to the eremitic appeal.
3. The Pi Floor – Probably does not actually exist, but if
you’re desperate, you’re welcome to try; maybe you’ll get lucky. According to
famed architect Moll Rankerson, one may reach the Pi
Floor by entering the third-floor bathroom by the north door and exiting from
the south door. Good luck.
HAYES HALL
Oy, where to
begin? This eyesore is nothing but hiding places and secret corridors. Really,
just wait till one of the halls clears out and start yanking on light fixtures;
you’re bound to stumble into something suitable.
WINTERTREE HALL
1. The Auditorium – The network of dressing and storage
rooms above and behind the stage are perfect places to “run lines” with a
paramour or experiment with makeup and tights. For more privacy, try the
catwalk (not recommended for vertigo sufferers).
2. The Sub-Laundry Room – The room under the main laundry
room is kept empty due to the noise and tremors produced by the machines. If
you can find your way into this room, you’ll be rewarded with such an ideal
hermitage you may never wish to leave. (Hint: try doing your delicates in the
farthest machine from the door on the north wall.)
3. The New Party Room – That’s
right, 79A is not the only previously-inaccessible room in the dorm. If you
don’t already know where this is, you’re obviously not one of the cool kids.
SLUKE HALL
1. The Cupola – Unlike Mary
Rutherford’s cupola, with its iron-barred door, Sluke’s
is protected only by an easily picked lock. In addition to seclusion, provides
a spectacular view of campus.
2. The Forbidden Balcony – Accessible only from a window
in Room 319. The residents’ friendship can be bought with Goldschläger.
Did you know that the gold flakes in Goldschläger can
cut tiny holes in your esophagus? Of course you didn’t, because it’s not true.
But tell the Ukrainian girls in 319 that and watch them freak out.(Also, there’s deer blood in Jägermeister,
but you already know that.)
3. The Sluke
Pi Floor – Unlike its Mary Rutherford counterpart, this is one is
empirically real. Same rules apply, just switch east
and west for north and south. But be careful. The Floor is a bit like
Interestingly, Sluke does not
have a Van Zandt Stairway, as Molly Rankerson was
unaware of its presence in Mary Rutherford. Instead, she just put a pillar of
solid concrete where the stairway should be. But it’s possible that some
enterprising Diplomatic Training students might have hollowed out that pillar
and created a new place to hide in there, and may have also used it to cache an
impressive and profitable collection of contraband.
*Be advised: Many of these places are known to most if not
all of your fellow students, and you may be easily discovered (or you may be
the one to discover a fellow already ensconced). If you truly wish to
disappear, you may want to seek advice from someone else’s Handbook, were you
to have access to such a thing.
Should
have just read the footnote first, Drew thought. He stuffed the Handbook
back in his pocket and pulled out McKittrick’s. A
minute of guesswork found the entry for “Your secret place” in the index.
You find it the first week of school and never tell anyone
else about it, not even
There’s an elevator in Thorn Hall—the oldest elevator in Georgia,
in fact, but almost no one knows about it because it’s behind an unmarked door
that everyone assumes is a custodial closet. But the elevator is there, and it
still works, and it goes to places in Thorn that the stairs don’t. The
sub-basement, for instance, which houses Anthony Delmonico’s
collection of rare documents, now forgotten and mildewing.
But what you’re most interested in is the highest point on
the elevator’s dial: the roof. The elevator terminates in the pedestal of the
massive statue of Howard Thorn that watches over the
The roof, however, is not only attractive for its seclusive qualities, but also for the mysteries of its
decoration. The surface of the roof is covered in carved tiles which, when read
in a clockwise spiral from the northwest corner of the roof, tell in pictures
the life story of Anthony Delmonico. You’ll never
finish reading the story.
© 2005 Gardner Linn