One of the kids I went to college with became a fighter pilot and then taught pilots how to fly the F-16 in San Diego. He came from a well to do family and always had money, a real tension breaker in any crowd. One day for kicks he bet me 20 bucks I couldn't put out the fire below us three stories down just by expelling beer through my bladder. I knew better. I had lots of pressure and a narrow urethra. That night he lit a carboard on fire and I jumped on the railing of the balconey from the 4th floor. "Be careful," he told me; it was a long way down. The railing was a couple inches wide. I put out the fire and bought myself a case of beer. It's amazing how easy it is to feel rich with a case of beer when you're 20 or 21 years old. You'd wake up the next day, the sun was out, the Redwoods still in the same places they'd had the night before, and you'd think; 'oh yes...and I've got 25 bucks". Whatever happened the rest of the weekend was followed by; 'And I've got 25 bucks!"
He did good, and so did another hall mate. He became famous in Hollywood as the father of non-fiction TV. He was the writing tutor for the college, and one thing I learned 10 years too late is that if one wants success do the little things in front of you like become the writing tutor or work on the school paper. It's all about resume. He needed a slogan for the program. He asked me for help. That's another thing to learn; you don't have to be a genius to get paid for genius, you need to be able to ask for help. This guy was a natural organizer- out of sympathy we did his dirty work, and I imagine that hasn't changed throughout his life. Anyway, my advice to the genius? "If Writing has you deranged, then re-arrange your writing." I returned to the school some 12 years later with a date and found my slogan was still being used by the current writing tutor on the small signs placed around the campus....amazing. You think writing tutors need to drum up business to get scholastic credit? Probably. If you were a writing tutor and nobody came, were you still a teacher of men?
There was another writing tutor also, good Ole Nick Pe-----. He was crazy. I liked Nick. He proved there was a place in this world for me. He was unstable AND the writing tutor- how about that? The year I almost won the short story contest he'd been egging me on to try. They thought I'd write the Great American Novel but I never did. Nick could write. And he had a unbelievable girlfriend. You know those women who seem as if they could have been in Medieval Europe? They look equally at home, and just as desirable and elegant, in your living room with Oprah on the TV, or on cobblestone at the Hanging? Long flowing hair, wonderful dark eyes, deep, classic high cheek bones...how did trembling, jerky, chain smoking demented Nick score a woman like that? He had it all. And she loved him deeply, took care of him, forgave him... She left at the start of his third year when he couldn't cover up his illness any longer. But I think it was because Nick wouldn't commit. He was honest, he knew what he was and wished better for her.
Nick took to me like a dog to whatever dogs take to. We partied at his house....I don't know how he had a house, but he did. I lost my wallet there one weekend during a drunk and couldn't find it for several days. I was beside myself. Who stole it? Who took the beer money? I think I had 30 or 45 dollars in there, a fortune for a college kid in the 70's. Well, a fortune to this college kid. There were lots of income levels at the universities then, unlike today. When I saw my old school a decade later, it was a fashion parade. The kids wore hundreds of dollars of clothes. The bikes were expensive. Their hair looked expensive. You could eat for a week on what their hair cost. Three days after losing the wallet Nick called me on the phone. "I've got something for you," He told me, "come on over and see."
My wallet was behind the canned goods on the shelf by the cot where I'd slept. I'd put it there out of fear it'd be lifted while I slept.
Nick was crazy, and lots of people wouldn't talk to him. He had a funny laugh which I enjoyed, and he was happy, damnit; in a age where we mourned the death of De Revolution, Nick P was happy. I liked that about him very much. He used to look at the small things. If you got a new pocket knife he wanted to see it. Everything fascinated him. He thought I was hysterical. There was a girl who went to school with us who was very sexy and very existential- she had the death sex bit down. She'd been so active it was all old hat for her by age 20. She finally shacked up with the guy who took care of the dorm, what do they call those? Not the janitor, he was a kind of Sargent, minded the rules for us. He was a hippie burn out and they really made a great pair. Honest. It was good. But I had to be mean, and because of all her existential dark looks and black eyes, and that she could be one mean cold hearted B, I coined a expression for her; The Skull Of Death. Everybody thought it was funny because they knew her. One day in foodline at the cafeteria Nick spots the girl, drops his tray to the floor, dishes going every which way, and screams:
"OH MY GOD THERE GOES THE SKULL OF DEATH"
I felt bad for her. She'd made a lot of people cry, she'd pinned them to the wall with her bitter words and slapped them around, but now I was sorry for her. I knew deep down she had her own wounds. Nick would do things like that. You couldn't control him. Afterwards he'd be contrite and swear never to do it again, but you knew he'd find something else and let go. He was great that way. Like a child. Most people are conforming in school. They look like each other, talk like each other- their identities after all are emerging from post adolescence and being re-incorporated into the larger society. And one by one it happened, and they left and Became.
I heard Nick lives with his mother, and is a technical writer for his living. That's not the Great American Novel he wanted to write. He had a crack-up and stayed at home, and that was that. He wasn't alone. I'd another friend who one day in Santa Cruz Ca., doused himself with gasoline and lit up. Some go like that. The talent that was so obvious and great lives at home with Mother. The jerk down the hallway who used everyone he came in contact with becomes very very rich and modestly famous.
Here's to Nick, wherever he is. Here's to all of them, and all of us, wherever we are.
munk
He did good, and so did another hall mate. He became famous in Hollywood as the father of non-fiction TV. He was the writing tutor for the college, and one thing I learned 10 years too late is that if one wants success do the little things in front of you like become the writing tutor or work on the school paper. It's all about resume. He needed a slogan for the program. He asked me for help. That's another thing to learn; you don't have to be a genius to get paid for genius, you need to be able to ask for help. This guy was a natural organizer- out of sympathy we did his dirty work, and I imagine that hasn't changed throughout his life. Anyway, my advice to the genius? "If Writing has you deranged, then re-arrange your writing." I returned to the school some 12 years later with a date and found my slogan was still being used by the current writing tutor on the small signs placed around the campus....amazing. You think writing tutors need to drum up business to get scholastic credit? Probably. If you were a writing tutor and nobody came, were you still a teacher of men?
There was another writing tutor also, good Ole Nick Pe-----. He was crazy. I liked Nick. He proved there was a place in this world for me. He was unstable AND the writing tutor- how about that? The year I almost won the short story contest he'd been egging me on to try. They thought I'd write the Great American Novel but I never did. Nick could write. And he had a unbelievable girlfriend. You know those women who seem as if they could have been in Medieval Europe? They look equally at home, and just as desirable and elegant, in your living room with Oprah on the TV, or on cobblestone at the Hanging? Long flowing hair, wonderful dark eyes, deep, classic high cheek bones...how did trembling, jerky, chain smoking demented Nick score a woman like that? He had it all. And she loved him deeply, took care of him, forgave him... She left at the start of his third year when he couldn't cover up his illness any longer. But I think it was because Nick wouldn't commit. He was honest, he knew what he was and wished better for her.
Nick took to me like a dog to whatever dogs take to. We partied at his house....I don't know how he had a house, but he did. I lost my wallet there one weekend during a drunk and couldn't find it for several days. I was beside myself. Who stole it? Who took the beer money? I think I had 30 or 45 dollars in there, a fortune for a college kid in the 70's. Well, a fortune to this college kid. There were lots of income levels at the universities then, unlike today. When I saw my old school a decade later, it was a fashion parade. The kids wore hundreds of dollars of clothes. The bikes were expensive. Their hair looked expensive. You could eat for a week on what their hair cost. Three days after losing the wallet Nick called me on the phone. "I've got something for you," He told me, "come on over and see."
My wallet was behind the canned goods on the shelf by the cot where I'd slept. I'd put it there out of fear it'd be lifted while I slept.
Nick was crazy, and lots of people wouldn't talk to him. He had a funny laugh which I enjoyed, and he was happy, damnit; in a age where we mourned the death of De Revolution, Nick P was happy. I liked that about him very much. He used to look at the small things. If you got a new pocket knife he wanted to see it. Everything fascinated him. He thought I was hysterical. There was a girl who went to school with us who was very sexy and very existential- she had the death sex bit down. She'd been so active it was all old hat for her by age 20. She finally shacked up with the guy who took care of the dorm, what do they call those? Not the janitor, he was a kind of Sargent, minded the rules for us. He was a hippie burn out and they really made a great pair. Honest. It was good. But I had to be mean, and because of all her existential dark looks and black eyes, and that she could be one mean cold hearted B, I coined a expression for her; The Skull Of Death. Everybody thought it was funny because they knew her. One day in foodline at the cafeteria Nick spots the girl, drops his tray to the floor, dishes going every which way, and screams:
"OH MY GOD THERE GOES THE SKULL OF DEATH"
I felt bad for her. She'd made a lot of people cry, she'd pinned them to the wall with her bitter words and slapped them around, but now I was sorry for her. I knew deep down she had her own wounds. Nick would do things like that. You couldn't control him. Afterwards he'd be contrite and swear never to do it again, but you knew he'd find something else and let go. He was great that way. Like a child. Most people are conforming in school. They look like each other, talk like each other- their identities after all are emerging from post adolescence and being re-incorporated into the larger society. And one by one it happened, and they left and Became.
I heard Nick lives with his mother, and is a technical writer for his living. That's not the Great American Novel he wanted to write. He had a crack-up and stayed at home, and that was that. He wasn't alone. I'd another friend who one day in Santa Cruz Ca., doused himself with gasoline and lit up. Some go like that. The talent that was so obvious and great lives at home with Mother. The jerk down the hallway who used everyone he came in contact with becomes very very rich and modestly famous.
Here's to Nick, wherever he is. Here's to all of them, and all of us, wherever we are.
munk
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