Chapter 14
February 1981
I’m running to the Walnut Street Bridge, but it’s tangled up in a sort of M.C. Escher knot with the Market Street Bridge and about a dozen connecting steep staircases, none of which appear to lead across the immense gulley of the Schuylkill River, and it doesn’t help that even though I know it’s a dream a failing Psych 101 student could analyze, I can’t escape it, but wait; there’s a button that could unravel the gnarled tangle of steps, if I could only reach it, but my fingers are too frozen to touch it, since I’ve forgotten my gloves and can’t feel my hands, and watch in amazed horror as the chasm between the riverbanks gets wider and wider.
Despite our demanding course loads, we did find time to enjoy some on-campus events. On nights when Everett didn’t have basketball practice or a game, we took in movies, a wrestling tournament, and even a gymnastics meet. Fortunately, Temple had a bigger program and Penn didn’t have facilities, so the gymnastics tournament was held at my school.
Bleachers were an understandable barrier, and Everett often forgot to bring a seat pad to prevent pressure sores, so we more often asked to be allowed to sit at floor level on the sidelines, with me finding a folding chair to sit next to him.
People sometimes thought our courtside position was due to some connection to the competing teams. That led to the benefit of introductions to athletes, like Kyle, he of the puppy dog eyes and grapefruit shoulders.
“You used to be a gymnast?” was his friendly presumptive greeting to Everett. Kyle was a red-shirted junior on Penn’s team, he told us after shaking hands. His palm was deeply callused, and thick as leather.
Everett’s chair led to an unsolicited comparison, Kyle also told us, as we chatted between ring and pommel events, that he had been one of two male cheerleaders at his high school in Shreveport, where one of the girls fell in a botched hoisting move and broke her neck. “She’s a quad, quader–”
“Quadraplegic,” Everett finished.
“Can’t even move her arms. You’re not–”
Everett explained his different condition, and even opened up about his lacrosse accident, sparing Kyle one of his fictional tall tales. Perhaps it was the jock kinship. Perhaps it was the fact that he was so damn cute.
Kyle and Everett exchanged phone numbers, hoping to meet at the gym for shared workouts.
“Yeah, right; workouts,” I smirked.
Everett had gone to the gym on his own more often since his transfer to Penn. I tried to contain myself, but I knew what kind of other extra-curricular activities that environment could inspire.
But usually, for such events, it was Everett luring me to his campus, so I had to navigate the public transportation system, and suffer his impatience if I was late, again (his Christmas gift of an electronic wristwatch said as much), as I was one frigid night in February.
7:10. I’d only laid down for a few minutes’ nap, after four classes and a rushed workout at the gym, all the while hoping Everett might notice I’d been working on my shoulders. Calling Everett’s room at Penn got no answer.
7:20. Showered, with clothes thrown on, my down parka made the same odd sounds as the nylon fabric brushed against itself while I fumbled with the almost-broken zipper. I would have forgotten my gloves and ski cap if I hadn’t learned to just stuff them in the parka’s pockets. Almost reaching for my backpack, I remembered it was night, a cold night, and not class time, and I wouldn’t need it. I almost slammed the dorm door shut without my keys.
7:36. The train was late, and packed with sniffling passengers in heavy coats. I felt hot and cold, steaming on the inside from running, face thawing from the hurried race to a stagnant underground stalled train car.
8:04. After a few minutes waiting for a resident to enter the dorm, I snuck in behind him before the door closed. He gave me a suspicious sidelong glance, but I didn’t explain. Hurriedly trotting up the stairs to a door, I knocked repeatedly.
“You looking for Forrester?”
A tall Nordic-looking student with a casual air balanced a stack of books and a six-pack of sodas as he stopped to offer his assistance.
“Yes.”
“He left a while ago.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” He turned away.
“Hey, do you know how to get to the Iron Gate Theatre?”
He gave me directions to Houston Hall, even took me to a hall window and pointed across the quadrangle. I thanked him and tore off down the hall and to the stairs.
8:13. The usher refused to let me in until a burst of laughter seemed to be enough to cover the sound of the theatre door, and my entry.
The house was full, but I knew exactly where to look. The theatre more resembled a small cathedral with arches and stained glass windows. As my eyes adjusted to the bright stage lights and darkened rows of seats, I spotted the familiar shiny bars folded next to a front row aisle seat. Shifting my stance behind the back row, I recognized Everett’s dark curls, the back of his neck, and his alert posture.
In a moment I thought he may have felt my presence, instead, during one moment where one of the actors recited a rhymed jest that made the audience erupt in laughter, instead of looking back to me, Everett turned to whisper some smiling comment to a guy seated next to him.
At intermission, I made my way down the aisle as others jostled past me toward the exit.
“I thought you forgot.” His tone was dismissive. He turned away, refusing my attempt at an apologetic hug. I cut short my travel ordeal, and the truth that I had slept late, when Everett’s new companion appeared, offering a box of Sno-Caps.
“Connor, this is Reid.”
We shook hands. Connor seemed friendly enough, if not a bit confused. Taller than me, and handsome, he gave off an air of confidence.
“What did I miss?” I said, trying to break the ice as some other patrons excused themselves to get past us.
“Are you familiar with this Shakespeare play?” Connor asked with an air that I took as haughty.
“No.”
“You didn’t have Danforth’s class yet?”
“Reid doesn’t go to Penn,” Everett explained. “He goes to Temple.”
Connor offered a glance that packed a sliver of unspoken thoughts, I didn’t know what; dismissal?
As Connor offered a Clif-Notes version of the first two acts, I stood, pretending to care. I hadn’t even wanted to see the play, but one of Everett’s classmates was in it, and when he asked me to go with him, I agreed. I always agreed, even if I was busy, or exhausted from my own studies, my own attempt at a life that existed in this annoyingly inconvenient distance from him, and the fatigue of having endured the previous night in his bed as he had yet another fitful night of sleep after our brief round of half-sex.
None of this was spoken, but it hung over us like a storm cloud waiting to burst. My contorted logic reasoned that it was his fault I was late. As the houselights began to dim, realizing that neither Everett nor Connor had made any gesture to move or let me sit with them, I simply said, “Well, I’ll see you after the show.” Then I retreated up the aisle to the back of the theatre.
The audience laughed as the actors, in elegant witty verses, wooed each other as men, and women disguised as men, pretended to be people they weren’t.
The wonders of something called ‘venture capitalism’ were explained to us by Connor as we trekked through the bitterly cold night to O’Hara’s, a café and bar that was popular with Penn students. Connor had invited us, and before I could interrupt with an excuse, Everett eagerly accepted on my behalf without even asking.
Connor had apologized for forgetting the six stairs down to get inside, but Everett, as usual, was resolute, and I shook off Connor’s attempt to assist as I carefully guided his chair down bump by bump.
“I thought this was our date,” I muttered as Connor stood at the bar ordering drinks. The jukebox seemed stuck on a Hall and Oates tribute. We sat at a table where I’d removed a chair for Everett.
“It was, until you didn’t show up,” Everett snipped.
“I went to your dorm.”
“I told you to meet me at my room, and then you were late. It takes me… The building isn’t easy to get into. I gave you the address.”
“I forgot to bring it.”
“Well, there you go.”
“And Clark Kent just came along and saved the day?”
Everett sighed. “I was on my way out and he offered to help, and he was going anyway.”
“How convenient.”
“Are you going to be jealous of every guy at Penn who wants to be my friend?”
“Yes, if you’re gonna dump me at the first sighting of–”
“Now you’re being silly.”
“Wasn’t I the one who came over last night when you called?”
We had agreed upon planning nights when I slept over, which were different than nights when we went to some play or lecture or movie that might or might not become a night spent together. Intuiting the difference became my burden, it seemed.
“Yes, and thank you for that. We had a good time, which we’re not having now, since you’re determined to blame me for you being late.”
“Did you even tell him?” I asked.
“Tell him what?”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, looked away, anywhere but at him.
“Reid, don’t do that. It’s really not becoming.”
“Becoming what?”
“Not everyone needs to know.”
Know what, I simmered. That I loved him, that we were boyfriends? That before college, we had endured a long-distance passion of near-felonious proportions? That only my steadfast refusal to let him destroy our fumbling relationship before and after his accident had brought us back together?
“Here we are, gentlemen,” Connor announced as he placed three mugs of beer on the table with a wet splat.
Once seated, Connor hoisted his glass, offering a toast. Everett and I reluctantly joined in.
Not noticing our cold demeanor, Connor postulated on his expected brilliant future in business, thanks to the glory of Reaganomics. He and Everett continued discussing topics that had nothing to do with me, until Connor noticed that I hadn’t said a word. He abruptly stopped, then awkwardly attempted a segue.
“So, Reeve. How do you know Everett?”
“It’s Reid,” I glared at him, gulped down half of the beer, then set it down a bit too loudly. Despite the chill from our walk, I was burning up inside.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“So how are you guys friends?”
“You’ll have to ask Everett,” I said as I reached for my parka. “Because apparently, I have no idea.” I stood.
“Reid,” Everett frowned.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have an early class and a few trains to miss.”
“Reid. Don’t.” Everett sighed.
“But tomorrow’s Saturday.” Connor seemed confused.
I grinned at him before storming off, “No rest for the lower classes!”
By the time I arrived back at my dorm, having missed the trolley by seconds, chilled from the twenty-minute wait, then the Broad Street train, which was on time, my phone was ringing. I unplugged it, for four days.
His letter arrived on Wednesday. Unlike the silly one-word postcards we’d sent through the fall, this one was typed, no doubt on his electric typewriter, a leftover from an office upgrade after Everett’s father’s real estate firm had expanded.
The almost stuffy diplomatic tone made me smile.
‘You are invited to a mutual apology session and private dinner, Saturday, February 14th, at Seven P.M.’ He’d added the address of a restaurant in Center City.
Saturday. I looked at my datebook. Valentine’s Day. Relieved that our fight had happened the weekend before, I took this as a blessing. Everett’s more mature nature refused to let my impetuous immaturity interfere.
After jotting down the address of the restaurant, I flipped back a few pages to the days where I had scribbled a capital E with a circle, each noting our nights together, our “dates,” and the curving doodles and smiling faces for our weekends together before we’d returned to Philadelphia. Then I dug into my desk drawer and found my 1980 book. Flipping backwards week by week, the notations and little E’s accumulated until I’d lost count through each month.
How could I have been so stupid, so selfish, to think him uncaring? Yes, he was rude to me that night, or so I thought. He would explain it all away, reason with me, argue his way to victory.
Determined to arrive on time, early even, I trekked to the train, my jacket and tie peeking out from my parka, my nose dripping from the chill. I didn’t have a proper overcoat, but knew he’d appreciate my dressing up.
Once downtown, I walked briskly to the Reading Terminal Market. If the floral market there didn’t have what I wanted, I could try a florist in Rittenhouse Square who said over the phone that they did. Both of them would close by six o’clock, so I would have an hour to spare in the cold.
Deciding to just go to the restaurant and wait, I asked for a table in the back, had the waiter remove a chair, and asked for a vase for the flowers. He smiled, as if sensing my obvious eagerness.