CHAPTER ONE

‘Lions at the Door’

I had just gotten back on campus, ready to start the new semester, when there came a knock at my door. As I had the radio turned up and was busy transferring the contents of my suitcase and duffle bag into a closet chest-of-drawers, the knock didn’t register at first. By the second time it did.

I opened the door. Hi. You must be Parker Robinson?

Yep, that’s me. I said.

I’m Larry Magnolia. I’m on this floor, too.

Oh really? Welcome. Nice to meet you.

I leaned forward, indicating a willingness to shake hands but he didn’t take me up on it.

So instead, I said, Why don’t you come on in. I’m just unpacking.

He strolled to the center of the room, a journey requiring at most three steps, it being a small, campus-side single on the 5th floor that was mine for the year.

He said, You just got in, right?

I did. About ten minutes ago.

He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the items I’d brought with me.

He was dressed like he might be on his way to go jogging. He wore track shoes, calf-length socks, cargo pants ––some of the side pockets were bulging–– and a dingy white t-shirt that looked like it had been laundered by being pounded against rocks at the river’s edge.

He looked more wiry than muscular. The skin on his neck and arms was red from sunburn. His head hair was tending towards chestnut, his freckles were tan over pink. He had pale green eyes; transparent, blond eyelashes, and the capper ––a bushy, orange mustache that could have easily served as a prosthetic for a red squirrel’s tail.

Maybe it was the mustache, but he looked too old to be an undergrad. More like a grizzled prospector from out of the Old West. You could almost imagine him trailing a mule behind him.

Do you want to turn that music down? he said. He didn’t say it like a request, but I did as he asked.

Still looking around, he said, I want you to know, I’m going to be your floor counselor this year.

Oh you are? … Oh, that’s great.

I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself.

Still without glancing in my direction, he continued looking around, Yep, I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself, and let you know I’m available. And that my door is always open to you any time of the day or night.

Great. Thanks.

So, if you find yourself, at any time this year, having ‘emotional problems’. If you’re feeling suicidal or depressed –– anything like that–– you be sure and come and see me.

Thanks. I will.

I hesitated to express any more appreciation because the way he had been putting it, he didn’t sound all that sincere.

Finally, he looked directly at me,

… And I’ll be sure to do my best to encourage you to kill yourself.

Oh really? I said.

Let me ask you something: you ever hear of a guy named Mark Cross? Yeah, I thought you might. He was your floor counselor last year, wasn’t he?

Was he?

You know damn well he was. And he was fired because of you.

Are you sure it wasn’t because of his own negligence?

No. It wasn’t his negligence; it was yours. It was because of that little stunt you pulled: sneaking off to Hawaii and playing hooky for a whole semester.

Half a semester, I corrected.

And yet: here you are, back at Columbia. Not expelled. You should have been! But, where is Mark Cross? He’s not here, is he?

I don’t know. Is he?

No, he’s not.

He waited for me to say something more, but I elected not to.

He continued, You must have felt so smug, so superior, playing in the Hawaiian surf while the rest of us suckers were back here working our butts off for our educations.

I may have been surfing at times, but I still kept up with my course work.

That’s not the point! The point is Mark Cross got fired for something you did, something that was your fault.

Is it the baby’s fault if the babysitter never checks on him?

… You ought to have been expelled.

They revoked my scholarship. I’m on probation for this whole year. Isn’t that enough?

No! No, it’s not enough! he said. But I’m going to see to it that you pay a heavy price, Robinson. I plan to be a very conscientious ‘babysitter’. I know the rules around here, and I’m going to be watching over you like a hawk, watching your every move. And I am going to dedicate myself to making sure you never graduate from this college.

He was waiting for a reply, so I said, Gosh, Larry, thanks. What are friends for?

He took another step closer, tilting his head back and jutting forth his lower jaw. It gave me a closer view of his dilated nostrils, now resembling the business end of a double-barreled derringer poking over the back of the squirrel’s tail. He bared his teeth too, but, with his thick mustache, I could only make out the bottom row. Put a pair of wire rim glasses on him and he might look like a florid, angry Teddy Roosevelt.

Don’t you ever –ever!– refer to me as your friend.

I was getting fed up with this. Thanks for dropping by, Larry. I’m kind of busy right now.

All right, I’m going, but just you remember what I said: if you’re ever feeling like ending it all, you be sure and come to see me.

Thanks, Larry, I’ll remember that.

He affected to stroll out of the room the same way he had strolled in.

When he got to the door, I said, By the way, if I do commit suicide, who do you suppose will get the blame for that?

He turned around and marched back to his original spot, once again with his chin leading the way. His bulging neck tendons tugged at the sides of his mouth, as though he were straining to complete a chin-up.

If that were to happen and I got fired, it would be worth it. Believe me, it would be well worth it.

I answered with stony silence. After a few more seconds of him boring his eyes into me, he once again turned and went out, slamming the door behind him.

I stood for a minute, thinking about the bizarre exchange that had just taken place. I said out loud to the empty room, Gosh, what do you know about that, only ten minutes back and already I’ve made a new friend.

I tried putting the whole unpleasantness out of my mind. There was no way I was ever going to be able to appease him. I would just have to live with it or ––I supposed, if he became too insufferable–– try to transfer to another dorm.

Much later, I was able to reflect on this exchange and think that it was too bad I wasn’t born clairvoyant, or I could have fully appreciated the compound ironies involved here:

#1––having a floor counselor who hated my guts and wished me dead.

#2 ––that he almost got his wish.

CHAPTER TWO

‘The Message’

The campus continued filling up; more students arriving, cars pulling up in front of the 116th Street gate on Broadway, piling their suitcases and trunks into carts, which were then noisily trundled over cobblestones and finally wheeled up on ramps and into the dorms.

By nightfall, campus parties were cranking up everywhere. Music filled South Field, some from live bands playing in the front halls, others from individual students setting their speakers on their windowsills and blasting their playlists out into the night air.

As the hour grew later, the music and the general cater-wauling gradually wound down and finally ceased. The campus became silent again ––at least as silent as it ever gets, given its urban setting. Ever present was the hollow, white-noise background of the great metropolis, sounding like a seashell held to one’s ear.

While the parties had been going on, I had made the rounds, looking up friends and saying hello to acquaintances. However, I was careful to be back in my dorm before midnight. According to the rules laid down by the Disciplinary Committee, I was required to be back on my floor by that hour, each and every night.

However, as I stepped off the elevator, I noticed that at the far end of the hall, a party was still underway in the 5th floor lounge. I decided to wander down and check it out.

The party had clearly been going on for some time. It had reached that mellow stage where the music has been turned low, and partygoers were conversing in hushed tones.

Not only was the music and conversation held low, but the people were low down, too. No one in the room, with the exception of myself, was actually standing. Bodies were draped everywhere on the furniture ––like sea lions lounging on rocks–– and also sprinkled about in pairs and groupings on the floor. Not an orgy by any means; more like the latter stages of a slumber party.

Looking about, I noted that Larry Magnolia was nowhere in attendance. Therefore, I elected to hang out for a while and get to know some of my new floormates.

The group made me welcome. In no time at all, I was flat on my back on the floor with my head resting on an obliging female stranger’s lap ––she was stroking my forehead–– while another one ––I am not making this up–– was holding hands with me while she fed me green grapes and cubes of Swiss cheese off a paper plate. A common feature to nearly all floor parties those first few days back is that they all tended to embody fast-track socializing.

As the assorted eddies of conversation flowed on, the overall volume kept inching up ––especially whenever laughter erupted–– and even though whispered voices sprang up every now and then, urging us all to keep our voices down, inevitably the noise-level continued to climb, with each person’s voice competing with others to be heard above the rest.

All at once, Larry Magnolia materialized in the doorway, showing up virtually the same way he had at my door, when he had stopped by to give me his Reverse Welcome Wagon. His chin was taking the lead again. He marched over to the sound system and jabbed angrily at the off switch.

Party’s over. Lounge is closed. I warned you this would happen if you couldn’t keep your voices down.

Another student dared to challenge him, But lounges are supposed to remain open all night?

And people on this floor have a right to get their sleep! he said, ignoring the detrimental effect his raised voice was having on that objective.

There were some soft boos from the gallery.

Magnolia answered, Tough luck. That’s just the way it is.

At this moment, he happened to notice me lying there and his ire was kindled even higher. Robinson! Just what do you think you’re doing? You’re violating your probation!

Actually, Larry, I don’t believe I am.

Once again, ignoring his own injunction, he shouted at me, Yes, you are! Your curfew says you have to be in your room by midnight!

Actually, I believe it says I have to be ‘physically back on my floor by midnight’. And, as you can see …

If he had been wearing hobnailed boots, I’m sure he would have begun stomping on me right then and there. But as he was wearing thick athletic socks with moccasin soles, he modified his attack from a stomp into a flying kick that struck my upper calf. No harm done except it forced me to uncross my legs and didn’t allow Larry to fully vent his fury.

Get to your room now, Robins-ass, before I kick you down there myself. And don’t ever … ever! try splitting hairs with me again!

Without question, I had been foolhardy in deliberately taking him on. But I was still sore at his earlier treatment. And, truth be told, I was also obviously playing up to my audience, especially my volunteer harem, who were nodding their support and looked like they might be susceptible to that old saw that says women are naturally attracted to ‘bad boys’. Who could be more a more alluring ‘bad boy’ than one who, on his first day back, was already on probation.

The party broke up. I returned to my room and to what I thought was the end of my first night back on campus. Not quite, however.

Utilizing the sink in the room, I washed my face and brushed my teeth and then climbed into bed where I fell asleep almost immediately. I continued sleeping soundly for another hour or two, when I was suddenly startled awake by an unfamiliar sound. Then I heard it again. It was a soft tapping at my door.

I got up to answer it, but before opening the door, I quickly donned a pair of cutoff jeans. My normal habit is to sleep in the buff. When I had packed for the semester, there had been no room for anything as bulky as a bathrobe, so, instead, I elected to use these shorts for making nocturnal trips to the bathroom.

My visitor was barefoot. She, however, must have had room in her suitcase, because she was wearing a white, and tightly cinched, Turkish-style bathrobe. Her hair was wrapped up in a turban and she was carrying a shower kit in one hand and her room key in the other.

We had met briefly, earlier, in front of our mailboxes down in the lobby. Her first name was either Rosalyn or Joslyn –I wasn’t sure which– and her last name was something unpronounceable but sounded possibly Russian or Middle European.

As soon as she spoke, I knew that English had to be her second language. Although I was certain she could speak it far better than I could speak any foreign language myself, nevertheless, her accent was so thick that, unavoidably, it came out sounding comical.

She pouted and held up her key, I am sorry to vake you. I cannot make my stupid key v’rk. Would you help me, please?

She then motioned me with her finger to accompany her. I did so without question, the Rules of Chivalry requiring that I accept her statement at face value. I did, however, silently wonder as we passed by Larry Magnolia’s door, why she hadn’t tried knocking on his door instead, especially since her room was at the dead opposite end of the floor from mine.

Upon arrival, she handed me her key to try. I inserted it in the keyhole. The cylinder turned easily without the slightest resistance.

Oh, thang you so mudge, she said. She touched my arm as though the trick were all in my bicep.

I vant to give you a message.

I yawned. I was super groggy.

Sure. What is it?

She looked surprised, Doun you know?

Not until you tell me? I said.

Doun you know what a message is?

No.

A back message?

Oh, massage! No, no, thank you. Not tonight. I’m pretty beat.

It will help you relax.

Thanks, but I’m pretty relaxed already. Some other time.

I handed her back her key. She snatched it from me and entered her room, closing the door behind her a tad louder than the other sleepers on the floor would have appreciated.

I swung by the bathroom and then returned to my door where I now discovered I had Rosalyn/Joslyn’s problem, only worse. I had locked myself out without my room key.

My room key was in my other pair of pants. Normally, the final thing I do before retiring is transfer the key from one pocket to the other, but I had neglected to do so.

Students getting locked out of their rooms is a commonplace occurrence, especially those first few days back when routines are not established. However, my predicament was compounded by the fact that the person who had the passkey was Larry Magnolia, and no way was I going to wake him up and ask him for assistance.

Instead, I descended to the Dorm Counselor’s room down on the first floor. However, the note on the door said he was away and that all problems should be referred to Larry Magnolia on the Fifth.

I inquired of the Security Guard at the front door, but he said he didn’t have a master key. I would have to wake up my floor counselor. I didn’t feel like explaining, so I fibbed and said he wasn’t in. He said the only other thing I could do was go across campus to the Security Office.

He said, Just show them your ID; they’ll lend you a spare key.

Unfortunately, my ID is also locked in my room, I said.

He chuckled, Well, dressed the way you are, they’ll probably believe you. I’ll call over and let them know you’re on your way.

They don’t do delivery?

I’m afraid not. Not at this hour. Shall I call and tell them you’re coming?

Before saying yes, I paused to consider my options: I knew I could go back up and spend the rest of the night in the Fifth-floor lounge, without blanket, pillow or pajamas, or I could go back and knock on Rosalyn/Joslyn’s door, but in either case, I would still have to make the trip to the Security Office in the morning. With classes starting up tomorrow, I decided I had better take the chilly route now and get it over with.

The guard began phoning while I slipped out through the vestibule.

CHAPTER THREE

‘An Object Badly Out of Place’

Outside, the nip in the air was almost enough to make me change my mind and turn back. Although there had been some rain in the morning, the rest of the day had been sunny and bright. Fall was coming on strong, and the wet dew on the stoop felt as cold as hoarfrost to my bare feet. I was surprised my breath wasn’t coming out white.

Hugging my arms to my chest, I set off jogging in the direction of the Security Office. I glanced up yearningly at my window as I passed beneath it: lights off, shade drawn, it looked like I was having a good night’s sleep.

South Field was practically deserted. Looking across at Hartley and Wallach and John Jay dormitories, only a sprinkling of rooms had any lights on. Those that did had their shades drawn so that each cast an orange, Jack-o-lantern glow out into the quad. The overall effect was equivalent to peeking into the back of an old-time radio, at vacuum tubes glowing in the dark.

As I passed along the front of Journalism and then turned its corner, the herringbone, red-brick sidewalk abruptly gave way to hexagonal grey cobblestones ––no less freezing to the soles of my feet. There were shallow puddles left over from the earlier rain, and, here and there, solitary shoe trails passing through them without altering course. For me, however, the sharp sting to my feet made it worth my while to detour around.

I crossed over College Walk ––technically an actual city street, 116th Street, but closed off at either end by imposing, wrought-iron gates that kept out the city traffic. During gala functions, expensive cars and limousines could often be seen parked along it. Right at this moment it was empty.

I ascended the terraced plaza in front of Low Memorial Library. Low had been the first building constructed on the new campus when the school relocated itself from the southern tip of Manhattan ––where it had formerly been known as Kings College–– to another spot about 5 miles shy of the northern tip. An area that in 1895 was largely undeveloped. Low Memorial Library emerged out of the crop fields to become the campus centerpiece.

As a building, the general look was almost as if a National Monument had wandered up from Washington D.C. and squatted down on Morningside Heights. Architecturally, it was a platypus: part Parthenon, part Jefferson Memorial.

As an iconic centerpiece, it was a resounding success. As a library, however, it was a total failure, the primary reason being there was practically no room in it for any books; plenty of vaulted ceiling space and fancy rotunda, yes, but in terms of space for actual books, it was sorely lacking.

This defect was remedied in 1934 with the construction of the much-larger Nicholas Murray Butler Library, which looked across to the opposite side of South Field. Except for a few specialized collections, Low Library was a library in name only. Instead, it served numerous other functions, mostly administrative, such as housing the Office of the President, as well as, around back, serving as the central location for Campus Security.

Before I angled off to pass along the west side of the building, I took a quick glance back over my shoulder, looking south in the direction of downtown Manhattan. A cloud mass overhead was reflecting back a great deal of the city’s illumination, suggesting a fire out of control somewhere or the lights left on in a hundred outdoor theaters. Shakespeare’s maxim that ‘all the world’s a stage’ was particularly apropos when it came to New York City.

Concurrent with the lateness of the hour, the general, low-volume, white-noise, hum-of-the-hive was virtually the only sound noticeable; the exception being a high jet passing overhead that sounded like tearing fabric.

While continuing to skirt around and avoid puddles, I allowed my mouth to hang open so my teeth wouldn’t chatter. I couldn’t be sure, but it did seem like, beneath the milky glow from the globes of the passing lamps, my breath was coming out white. Still, there was no sign of ice forming on the puddles, and I mused that it must still be too early in the calendar for this to technically be considered Indian Summer.

Running along with me and parallel on my right was a six-foot-high, wooden snow fence pressed up firmly against a seven-foot-high hedgerow. Its function was to cordon off a strip of manicured lawn on the other side. The patch of grass was lit by overhead floodlights extending out and aiming down from the roof of the library. It had the inviting effect of showing off the emerald greenness of the lawn below.

The invitation was for appearance sake only, as the slatted fence and the tall hedgerow effectively put the area out of bounds ––a necessary stratagem for an urban campus. Keep-Off-the-Grass signs were routinely ignored.

As I looked to my right, through the hedgerow the scene on the other side presented a flickering image, somewhat like trying to watch a silent movie while waving your fingers up close to your face.

Suddenly, interposed into this frame of reference was an object badly out of place.

I stopped and stared. A pair of bare feet and legs stuck out from under the shrubbery on the opposite side of the enclosure. Male or female, I couldn’t tell, but from what I could make out, the person appeared not any better dressed than I was. I called over,

Hey! You there, are you all right?

No answer, no movement. I felt the situation required an immediate closer look and quickly searched for a way in. The only possibility presenting itself was to jump the hedgerow, which I estimated I could manage if I backed up enough, got up a good head of steam and timed my leap just right. I retreated a dozen paces from the barrier and then took off running towards it, approaching from an oblique angle.

Just before I got there, I launched myself upwards, springing off my right foot while throwing my left leg ahead of me, as though I were trying to swing up into a saddle on the back of an elephant.

It was an impressive leap in terms of height.

In terms of distance, it fell short.

I came crashing down through the hedge, breaking off stiff branches as