By the time I finish writing this, the Bicentennial Fourth of July will be over. I did just what I said I would not do, and was an observer at both Operation Sail and the harbor fireworks.
President Kneller conferred our degrees upon us. I was one of only three people among several thousand who stood when he asked candidates for the degree of Master of Fine Arts to rise.
Back in my room, we made love for hours. It was incredible: like they used to say in the Peter Paul Mounds Bar commercials, “indescribably delicious.”
I waited outside for Shelli, thinking this was like a fantasy: the girl who jilted you coming back after so many years – on your 25th birthday, yet – to tell you she was leaving her husband, the man she left you for.
When I started kissing her, I did not think about it, and when I was on top of her, I was beyond thought. Finally I asked the question a man should never ask: “Did you come?”
As I drove back from the airport, as day turned into night, I thought of my life: it’s a great adventure now, but I’m bound to be disillusioned, because I know I’ll never achieve the things I’m setting out to do.
Andy tries to convert people subtly, Josh said. If a group of people are sitting around and somebody says, “‘Starsky and Hutch’ is a pretty good show,” Andy will say, “Yeah, it’s good – but Jesus is better.”
On campus, when I saw Dean Jones this morning, he said, “You still look like a freshman.” I told him I was on my way to take my comprehensive exam for my second master’s degree.
I saw only one person whom I was attracted to: a beautiful kid, about 18 or 19, slim, with curly dark hair, who was wearing a yellow Le Petit Prince T-shirt and cutoff jeans with sneakers and no socks.
On the way to The Bagel, I saw an old drunk puking on Sixth Avenue, and on the way back to my car I saw the same drunk, recovered, jauntily lighting up a cigar in a doorway on Carmine Street.