Oliver's Story

  “Blank, when it comes to textiles, many blanking ‘noble’ Harvard names played very sordid roles. Take, for instance, Amos Brewster Barrett, Harvard class of 1794. . . .”

  Holy shit—my family! Did Vogel know that I was out there listening? Or did he give this lecture to his mob of students every year?

  I scrunched down in my seat as he continued.

  “In 1814, Amos and some other Harvard cronies joined forces to bring the industrial revolution to Fall River, Massachusetts. They built the first big textile factories. And ‘took care’ of all their workers. It’s called paternalism. For morals’ sake, they housed the girls recruited from the distant farms in dormitories. Of course the company deducted half their meager pay for food and lodging.

  “The little ladies worked an eighty-hour week. And naturally the Barretts taught them to be frugal. ‘Put your money in the bank, girls.’ Guess who also owned the banks?”

  I longed to metamorphose into a mosquito, just to buzz away.

  Orchestrated by an even more than usual cascade of epithets, Don Vogel chronicled the growth of Barrett enterprise. He continued for the better (or the worse) part of an hour.

  In the early nineteenth century, half the workers in Fall River were mere children. Some as young as five. The kids took home two bucks a week, the women three, the men a princely seven and a half.

  But not all cash, of course. Part was paid to them in coupons. Valid only in the Barrett stores. Of course.

  Vogel gave examples of how bad conditions were. For instance, in the weaving room, humidity improves the quality of cloth. So owners would inject more steam into their plants. And in the peak of summer, windows were kept closed to keep the warp and filling damp. This did not endear the Barretts to the workers.

  “And dig this blanking blanking fact,” Don Vogel fumed. “It wasn’t bad enough with all the squalor and the filth—or all those accidents not covered by the slightest compensation—but their blanking pay went down! The Barrett profits soared and yet they cut the blanking workers’ pay! ’Cause each new wave of immigrants would work for even less!

  “Blank blank blanking blanking blank!”

  Later that semester I was grinding in the Radcliffe Library. There I met a girl. Jenny Cavilleri, ’64. Her father was a pastry chef from Cranston. Her late mother, T’resa Verna Cavilleri, was the daughter of Sicilians who had emigrated to . . . Fall River, Massachusetts.

  “Now can you understand why I resent my family?”

  There was a pause.

  “Five o’clock tomorrow,” Dr. London said.

  Chapter Nine

  I ran.

  When I left the doctor’s office I felt much more angry and confused than when I had begun. And thus the only therapy for therapy seemed to be running hard in Central Park. Since our chance reunion I had managed to con Simpson into working out with me. So whenever hospital commitments gave him time, we’d meet and circumambulate the reservoir.

  Happily, he never asked me if I ever followed up with Miss Joanna Stein. Did she ever tell him? Had she diagnosed me too? Anyway, the subject was conspicuously absent from our dialogues. Frankly, I think Steve was satisfied that I was talking to humanity again. I never bullshit with my friends and so I told him I had started seeing a psychiatrist. I didn’t offer details and he didn’t ask.

  This afternoon, my session with the doctor had me very agitated and unwittingly I ran too fast for Steve. After just a single lap, he had to stop.

  “Hey, man, you go this one alone,” he puffed. “I’ll pick you up on number three.”

  I was pretty tired too, and so I slowly jogged to get my own breath back. Nonetheless, I trotted by some of the many athletes who appear at eventide in multicolored, multiformed and multipaced variety. Of course the New York club guys would go by me like a shot. And all the high school studs could dust me off. But even when I jogged I did my share of passing: senior citizens, fat ladies and most children under twelve.

  Now I was flagging and my vision slightly blurred. Sweat got in my eyes and all I vaguely could perceive of those I passed was shape and size and color of their plumage. Hence I can’t accurately say just who was running to and fro. Until the incident I now relate.

  A form was visible some eighty yards ahead of me, the sweatsuit blue Adidas (i.e., quite expensive) and the pace respectable. I’ll groove along and gradually pick off this . . . girl? Or else a slender boy with long blond hair.

  I didn’t gain, so I accelerated toward the blue Adidas. It took twenty seconds to get close. Indeed, it was a girl. Or else a guy with a fantastic ass—and I would have another issue to discuss with Dr. London. But no, as I drew nearer still, I definitely saw a slender lady whose blond tresses were a-blowing in the wind. Okay, Barrett, make like you’re Bob Hayes and pass this runner with panache. I revved up, shifted gears and gracefully gunned by. Now on to newer challenges. Up ahead I recognized that burly opera singer whom I regularly took in stride. Mr. Baritone, you’re Oliver’s next victim.

  Then a figure passed me in a flash of blue. It had to be a sprinter from the Millrose Club. But no. The azure form was that same nylon-packaged female whom I’d calculated to be twenty yards behind me. But now she was ahead again. Perhaps it was some new phenom I should have read about. I shifted gears again to get another look. It wasn’t easy. I was tired, she was going pretty well. I caught up at last. Her front was even nicer than her back.

  “Hey—are you some champion?” I inquired.

  “Why do you ask?” she said, not very out of breath.

  “You went right by me like a shot. . . .”

  “You weren’t going all that fast,” she answered.

  Hey, was that supposed to be an insult? Who the hell was she?

  “Hey, was that supposed to be an insult?”

  “Only if you’ve got a fragile ego,” she replied.

  Although my confidence is shatterproof, I nonetheless was pissed.

  “You’re pretty cocky,” I replied.

  “Was that supposed to be an insult?” she inquired.

  “It was,” I said. Not masking it, as she did.

  “Would you rather run alone?” she asked.

  “I would,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said. And sprinted suddenly ahead. Now she was smoking—obviously just a ploy—but I was damned if I’d be bluffed. Acceleration now took total effort. But I caught her.

  “Hi.”

  “I thought you wanted solitude,” she said.

  Breath was short and hence the dialogue was likewise.

  “What team do you run for?”

  “None,” she said. “I only run to help my tennis.”

  “Ah, the total jock,” I said, deliberately to slight her femininity.

  “Yes,” she said demurely. “And yourself, are you the total prick?”

  How to deal with this, especially when straining to keep running at her pace?

  “Yes,” I managed. Which in retrospect was just about the wisest thing I could have said. “How’s your tennis, anyway?”

  “You wouldn’t want to play me.”

  “Yes I would.”

  “You would?” she said. And slowed—thank God—to walk.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I puffed.

  “At six? The Gotham Tennis Club on Ninety-fourth and First.”

  “I work till six,” I said. “How’s seven?”

  “No, I meant the morning,” she replied.

  “Six A.M.? Who plays at six A.M.?” I said.

  “We do—unless you chicken out,” she answered.

  “Oh, not at all,” I said, regaining breath and wit near simultaneously.

  She smiled at that. She had a lot of teeth.

  “That’s fine. The court’s reserved for Marcie Nash—who, by the way, is me.”

  And then she offered me her hand. To shake, not to kiss, of course. Unlike what I had readied for, she didn’t have a jocklike, crushing grip. It was normal. Even delicate.

 
“And may I know your name?” she said.

  I thought I’d be a trifle jocular.

  “Gonzales, madam. Pancho B. Gonzales.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I knew it wasn’t Speedy Gonzales.”

  “No,” I said, surprised she’d heard about the legendary Speedy, the protagonist of many filthy jokes in many filthy locker rooms.

  “Okay, Pancho, six A.M. But don’t forget to bring your ass.”

  “Why?” I queried.

  “Naturally,” she said, “so I can whip it.”

  I could counter that.

  “Of course. And naturally, you’ll bring the balls?”

  “Of course,” she said. “A lady in New York is lost without them.”

  With that she ran off at a sprint that Jesse Owens would have envied.

  Chapter Ten

  At 5 A.M. New York is dark both physically and metaphorically. From down the block, its second floor illuminated, the tennis club seemed like a baby’s night light for the sleeping city. I entered, signed the register, and was directed to the locker rooms. Yawning constantly, I changed and strolled out to the playing area. Lights from all those tennis courts near blinded me. And every one was in full use. These go-go Gothamites about to start their frantic day all seemed to need a frantic tennis session to prepare them for the Game Out There.

  Anticipating that Miss Marcie Nash would wear the chicest tennis togs available, I clad myself as shabbily as possible. My uniform was what the fashion page might call “off white.” In truth, it was the end result of accidentally mixing many colored garments in the Laundromat. Further, I selected what I called my Stan Kowalski shirt. Although it actually was grungier than anything that Marlon Brando ever wore. I was sartorially subtle. Or in other words, a slob.

  And just as I expected, she had neon balls. The yellow and fluorescent kind the pros all use.

  “Good morning, Merry Sunshine.”

  She was there already, practicing her serves into the net.

  “Hey, you know it’s absolutely dark outside?” I said.

  “That’s precisely why we’re playing inside, Sancho.”

  “Pancho,” I corrected her, “Miss Narcie Mash . . .”

  For I could josh with nomenclature too.

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but nothing ever breaks my serve,” she said, still slamming. Marcie’s hair, which on the track had floated in the breeze, was now tied back into a horse’s tail. (I’d have to make a pun on that.) And, typical pretentious tennis player, she had sweatbands on both wrists.

  “Call me what you wish, dear Pancho. Can we start to play?”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Marcie said.

  “The stakes,” I said. “What are we playing for?”

  “Oh, isn’t fun enough?” said Marcie Nash demurely and ingenuously.

  “Nothing’s fun at six A.M.,” I said. “I need a tangible incentive.”

  “Half a buck,” she said.

  “Was that a reference to my personality?” I asked.

  “Hey, you’re a wit. No, I meant fifty cents.”

  “Uhn-uhn.” I shook my head and indicated that it had to be substantial. If she played at Gotham she could not be impecunious. Unless she’d joined on spec. That is, in hope the bread she’d cast on membership would soon return as wedding cake.

  “Are you rich?” she said to me.

  “How is that relevant?” I answered, ever on the defense, since the fates have forced me to be linked to Barrett money bags.

  “Just to know how much you can afford to lose,” she said.

  Tricky question, that. My problem was to find out how much she could part with. And so I figured something that would save our mutually smirking faces.

  “Look,” I said, “why don’t we say the loser takes the winner out to dinner. And the winner picks the place.”

  “I pick ‘21,’ ” she said.

  “A trifle prematurely,” I remarked. “But since I’ll take it too, please be forewarned: I eat as much as any elephant.”

  “I have no doubt,” she said. “You run like one.”

  This psyching had to stop. Goddammit, let’s begin!

  I played with her. I mean I wanted to humiliate her in the end and thus I played the bluffer’s game. I missed some easy shots. Reacted slowly. Never charged up to the net. Meanwhile Marcie bit, and played all out.

  Actually, she wasn’t bad. Her moves were swift. Her shots were almost always accurately placed. Her serve was strong and had some spin. Yeah, she had practiced often and was fairly good.

  “Hey, you’re not too bad at all.”

  Thus Marcie Nash to me, after lengthy although indecisive play. We had traded games about as evenly as I could manage. With my lethal shots still deep inside my hustler’s closet. And in fact, I’d let her break my “Simple Simon” service several times.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to knock off soon,” she said. “I have to be at work by half past eight.”

  “Gee whiz,” I said (how’s that for masking my aggression?), “can’t we play just one last game? I mean for fun? We’ll call it sudden death and winner gets the dinner.”

  “Well, okay,” Marcie Nash conceded, seeming nonetheless a trifle worried that she might be late. Dear me. The boss might be annoyed and not promote her. Yea, ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

  “Just one quick game,” she said, reluctantly.

  “Miss Nash,” I said, “I promise you this game will be the swiftest of your life.”

  And so it was. I let her serve. But now, not only did I charge the net—I virtually stampeded it. Whambam, thank you, ma’am. Marcie Nash was literally shell-shocked. And she never scored a point.

  “Holy shit,” she said, “you hustled me!”

  “Let’s say I took awhile in warming up,” I answered. “Gee whiz, I hope this doesn’t make you late for work.”

  “That’s okay—I mean, that’s fine,” she stammered, somewhat traumatized. “Eight o’clock at ‘21’?”

  I nodded yeah. “Shall I book it for ‘Gonzales’?” she inquired.

  “No, that’s just my racket name. Otherwise they call me Barrett. Oliver ‘The Great Pretender’ Barrett.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I liked Gonzales better.” And then sprinted to the ladies’ locker room. For some strange reason, I began to smile.

  “What amuses you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re smiling,” Dr. London said.

  “It’s a long and boring story,” I insisted. Yet I nonetheless explained what seemed to make morose, depressive Barrett doff his tragic mask.

  “It’s not the girl herself,” I told him in summation, “it’s the principle. I love to put aggressive women down.”

  “And there’s nothing else?” inquired the doctor.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “She’s even got a mediocre backhand.”

  Chapter Eleven

  She was dressed in money.

  I don’t mean the slightest bit flamboyant. Quite the opposite. She radiated the supreme in ostentation—absolute simplicity. Her hairdo seemed free-flowing and yet flawless. As if a chic photographer had caught it with a high-speed lens.

  This was disconcerting. The utter neatness of Miss Marcie Nash, her perfect posture, her composure, made me feel like last week’s spinach scrunched haphazardly into a Baggie. Clearly she must be a model. Or at least do something in the fashion game.

  I reached her table. It was in a quiet corner.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  “Actually, you’re early,” she replied.

  “That must mean that you came even earlier,” I said.

  “I’d say that was a logical conclusion, Mr. Barrett.” She smiled. “Are you going to sit down or are you waiting for permission?”

  I sat down.

  “What are you drinking?” I inquired, pointing at the orange-colored liquid in her g
lass.

  “Orange juice,” she said.

  “And what?”

  “And ice.”

  “That’s all?”

  She nodded yes. Before I could ask why she was abstemious, a waiter was at hand, and welcomed us as if we ate there every day.

  “And how are we tonight?”

  “We’re fine. What’s good?” I said, unable to sustain this kind of phony badinage.

  “The scallops are superb. . . .”

  “A Boston specialty,” I said, a sudden gastronomic chauvinist.

  “Ours are from Long Island,” he replied.

  “Okay, we’ll see how they stand up.” I turned to Marcie. “Shall we try the local imitation?”

  Marcie smiled assent.

  “And to begin?” The waiter looked at her.

  “Hearts of lettuce with a drop of lemon juice.”

  Now I knew for sure she was a model. Otherwise the self-starvation made no sense. Meanwhile I requested fettucini (“Don’t be stingy with the butter”). Our host then bowed and scraped away.

  We were alone.

  “Well, here we are,” I said. (And I confess I had rehearsed this opening all afternoon.)

  Before she could concur that we indeed were there, a new arrival greeted us.

  “The wine, m’sieu?”

  I queried Marcie.

  “Get something just for you,” she said.

  “Not even wine?”

  “I’m very chaste in that respect,” she said, “but I would recommend a nice Meursault for you. Your victory would otherwise be incomplete.”

  “Meursault,” I told the sommelier.

  “A ’sixty-six, if possible,” said Marcie just to help. He evaporated and we were alone again.

  “Why don’t you drink at all?” I asked.

  “No principles involved. I simply like to keep control of all my senses.”

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? What senses did she have in mind?

  “So you’re from Boston?” Marcie said (our dialogue was not exactly loose).

  “I am,” I said. “And you?”

  “I’m not from Boston,” she replied.

  Was that a subtle put-down?