Getting in

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Excerpt

They were asleep, father and son, when the train pulled into New Haven and all the lights went out. Dylan opened his eyes, surprised by the sudden darkness.

"Where are we?" he cried. "Dad, we're lost!"

"I'm awake," said Ben. "We're not lost."

"You're asleep," Dylan said, accusingly. "Asleep!"

In Ben's lap were the catalogs of all the colleges they were going to visit: Yale, Harvard, Bowdoin, Colby, Dartmouth, Middlebury, Williams, Amherst, Wesleyan. These catalogs were slick, their pages full of kids in sweaters.

Ben Floyd was embarrassed by his son's anguish."It's okay," he said. "I'm not asleep anymore."

They collected their bags and walked through the coach."This stop is New Haven," said the conductor. "Next stop, Providence."

They stepped off the train and onto the platform. The air was rich with the smell of creosote and brake shoes.

"You smell that, son," Ben said. "That's what it smells like."

"What smells like?" Dylan said.

"College!" Ben said.

Ben looked through the crowd of people, most of whom were now moving toward large escalators."We need to go up a flight," he said. "Down here is only where the trains are."

Dylan shook his head and walked toward the escalator. Some pretty girls were walking in front of them. One of them wore a sweatshirt that read YALE. Another was carrying a paperback book by Immanuel Kant titled The Prolegomena to Any Further Metaphysics . They looked at Dylan, then at his father, then looked away.

"We're coming into the main station now," Ben announced, as they ascended into the waiting room. He jerked his head gently, which was one of Ben's annoying tics. To Dylan, it often looked as if his father were trying to shake some water out of his eardrums.

"Thanks, Dad," Dylan said. He was hoping the girls would look in his direction again, but they did not.

They entered the main waiting room. The place looked like a Greek temple, fallen on hard times. Marble columns stretched toward the distant ceiling. Long wooden benches stood in echelons beside the stairs that led below. There were billboards for the army. Sound echoed in the great space.

"I don't see Uncle Lefty," Dylan said.

"Would you recognize him?" Ben said. "It's been almost seven years."

"I don't know," Dylan said.

They stared into the moving crowd. Dylan tried rearranging the features of oncoming strangers so that they might, for an instant, resemble his uncle. It was possible, Dylan thought, that Lefty could have somehow changed over the years. It was something to hope for, anyway.

"Maybe they're outside," Ben said, looking toward the exits.

"Well, they're not here," Dylan said. "We're lost again."

"We're not lost," Ben said.

They walked out into the October sunshine. Cars were pulled up around the curb. A man with a white glove and a whistle was flagging down taxis.

An astonishingly loud horn blasted, causing father and son to jump suddenly. Dylan covered his eyes for a moment as if to wield off a crushing blow. Ben looked at his son, felt pity for him.

A voice cried out. "Hey!" it said. "Dickweed!"

Coming toward them was Cousin Juddy. He was wearing a baseball cap that bore the legend VILLANOVA WILDCATS. He smiled broadly. A set of plastic rings bearing five cans of Budweiser dangled from one hand. The other hand held an open can.

The horn blasted again. Parked on the curb behind the impending Juddy was a Winnebago the size of a Burger King. At the wheel was Uncle Lefty. "C'man, c'man," he called. "I'm double parked!"

"You're wrong, Dad," Dylan said. "We are lost."

"Dickweed," Juddy said again, fondly. He held up his thumb, which had a small scar on it, traversing the thumbprint.

Dylan held up his thumb, which had a matching scar.

"Hi, Juddy," said Dylan.

Juddy made a sudden, sweeping gesture with one hand, as if he were slashing the air with an invisible sword. "Whsshsthssht," he said. "Hello, Judson," Ben said. "You're looking well."

"Whatever," Juddy said. He peeled a Bud off of the six pack ring and handed it to Dylan. "Brewdog?"

"No thanks," Dylan said. It was strange to see his cousin after all this time. He had changed since they were kids. He had grown into a different person, somehow. He reminded Dylan of some sort of bug now, maybe the kind that makes potatoes rot.

From the curb, Uncle Lefty honked the horn of the Winnebago again.

Juddy pressed a beer into his cousin's hand. "Tell you what," he said. "You save this for later."

"Okay," Dylan said, taking the beer. The girls from Yale were stepping into a nearby cab. A woman with a kind face, one of their mothers, was getting into the front seat. She looked at Dylan for a moment as if she had forgotten his name. Somebody's mom, Dylan thought. It must be nice, to have one.

They turned to look at the Winnebago.

  "Is that your car?" Dylan said.

Juddy shook his head. "It's not a car, man," Juddy said. They walked toward it. "It's a great big thing. Burns gas like a airplane!"

Uncle Lefty blasted the horn again, even though they were standing right there. "Hey, we don't got all day," he shouted through the window.

"Well," Dylan said. "I guess we just climb aboard."

"Well, dude," Juddy said. "I guess you just."

They walked to the far side of the Winnebago and climbed up the stairs. Uncle Lefty turned from his position behind the wheel to shake their hands, although at first Dylan thought he was going to ask them for their tickets or something. He was a large man with thick stubble. In one hand he held a submarine sandwich.

"Lefty," Ben said, and reached forward to shake his brother's hand. Lefty had to move the sandwich from his right hand to his left before he could shake. As the men clasped hands, Lefty's lower lip began to move in a delicate vibration of sorrow.

He stood suddenly and hugged Ben, his arms wrapping around his brother. Oil from the submarine began to drip onto the back of Ben's shirt.

"I love this guy," Lefty said. "I love him." He broke the embrace to look his brother in the face. "Let's never fight again, okay? Okay?"

Ben nodded grimly. "It wasn't my idea, fighting." He looked into the guts of the Winnebago. A beautiful woman in her late forties sat at a table next to a picture window. She was wearing a leotard top and a pair of black jeans. Her blonde hair fell nearly to her waist.

"Hey," Lefty said, escorting the men into the camper. "Meet Chlo?. The new Mrs. Floyd! You know what I thought when I first saw Chlo?? I thought, Hot diggity dog!"

Chlo? glanced at her husband as if he were a kind of toad, then looked back at Ben. "I wonder if you can guess what I thought when I first saw Lefty."

"Her friends thought she married me for my money," said Lefty, shaking his head. "Boy!"

Chlo? shrugged. "Boy," she said.

"I'm Ben," Ben said, "and this is my son, Dylan."

"Hello, Mrs. Floyd," Dylan said, and stuck his hand out to shake.

"Baxter," said Chlo?. "I kept my name."

"I'm pleased to meet you, ma'am."

"Oh, don't you ma'am me," she said, getting to her feet. "You make me feel like I'm fifty years old."

"Hey, Chlo," Uncle Lefty said. "You are fifty years old." She shook her head. "I am now ," she said, annoyed.

Ben's face twitched again. Dylan looked away from his father, embarrassed.

A door opened at the far end of the camper and a girl Dylan's age walked out. She looked like a less fermented version of her mother, with blonde hair and glasses. She wore a peasant skirt and a yellow sleeveless top.

"This is my daughter, Allison," Chlo? announced. "Allison, say hello to everyone."

Allison glowered at the men and muttered, "Hello to everyone." She sat down in a chair next to the window and hid behind the curtain of her long hair.

"She wants to go to Middlebury," Chlo? announced. "But I'm telling her to keep her options open."

"Good school, Middlebury," Ben said.

"What are you interested in, Allison?" Dylan said.

She turned and regarded Dylan. It was as if she were looking at him through a telescope.

"I write songs," she said, and looked out the window again.

Dylan felt the blood rushing to his face. He glanced around for something to look at other than Allison, and found nothing.

"Where'd you go to school, Chlo??" Ben asked, hoping that she had gone somewhere.

"Jarlsberg?" she said.

"Jarlsberg," Ben said, trying to think of where this was. He wasn't sure there was a Jarlsberg College.

"It's in Oregon," she explained.

"You guys want to go to Jarlsberg, Chlo? here can tell you all about it," Lefty said. "Some wild times."

"Well, good," said Ben. He studied the interior of the Winnebago with some desperation. "Boy, Lefty, this is quite a rig you've got here."

"She's a beaut, isn't she," Lefty said proudly. "Fifty thousand dollars, used. This is her maiden voyage!"

"Me, I'm a go to that Harvard," Juddy said.

"I thought we were going to rent a minivan," Ben said softly. "That was the plan."

"This is better," Lefty said. "Now we don't have to rent motel rooms! We can just stay on the 'Bago!"

At this moment a young man wearing a black turtleneck and a blue blazer stepped into the camper.

"Everyone," Allison said, standing up. "This is Polo."

"Polo MacNeil," the young man said, surveying his fellow travelers.

"Polo met Allison here at Flathead Art Work Camp, last summer," said Lefty. "Polo, this is my brother Ben and his kid Dylan."

"Flinthead," Allison said.

"Polo here comes from New York City."

"Upper West Side," Polo explained. "Central Park West and Seventy-second. The Majestic."

Dylan wasn't sure what he meant by "the majestic," but he nodded anyway. Polo, a good looking young man with curly blonde hair, walked over to Allison and put his arms around her. He kissed the girl. The others watched, then didn't.

Dylan glowered at Polo. "You're an artist, too, I guess," he said. "A musician?"

"Myself?" Polo said. "Not quite. My area of enthusiasm might more readily be described as poetics. Linguistics. Semiotics. Narratology. You understand."

Dylan nodded. He pretty much got the picture.

"Well, I guess we're all here then," Lefty said.

"You want a brewdog, Polo?" Juddy said. He swung the ring of beers toward him.

Polo looked surprised. "A" he said, then smiled painfully. "I think not."

"Well, here's one," Juddy said, unpeeling a Bud. "You can save it for later, like the little peckerwood here." He looked at Dylan with regret. "Buncha goddamn squirrels," he muttered.

"Well, let's throw this thing in gear," Lefty said. "You guys find some bunks. Those first three are already claimed. The rest you can grab. Whatever. Hey, this thing sleeps ten! We make some friends along the way we can just throw 'em on the pile!"

Ben and Dylan put their bags on a pair of bunk beds toward the back of the camper. A moment later the engine roared to life.

Ben lay down on his bunk and looked up at the ceiling. Dylan sat in a chair and looked out the window at New Haven.

"Next stop, Yale University," Lefty called. He blasted his horn and pulled out into the oncoming traffic.

"Yale's a good school," Ben informed his son.

"Me," Juddy said. "I'm a go to that Harvard."

Copyright © 2000 James Finney Boylan. All rights reserved.