Michael Crichton - Dealing or The Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-Brick Lost-Bag Blues

“Well, sir,” I said, “if you knew the coach, I think—”

“Now, now,” he said, holding up his pipe, “just let me finish. You quit playing football, and shortly after that your grades dropped. The next year, last year that is, you were involved in one of the radical student political organizations that we tolerate here on campus. And you achieved some prominence in that endeavor. But you quit that too. Now, during this year, you haven’t pursued any organized activities that I know of, so you haven’t quit anything. But it doesn’t seem to me that you’ve been doing anything, either, Harkness, if you will permit me to say so.”

“Sir,” I said. Nothing more. The imbecile.

“Well,” he said, “do you have anything to say?”

“In my defense, sir?” I cocked my head.

“Oh, come now, Harkness,” he said, getting off his desk, “that’s distorting my meaning quite deliberately, don’t you think? I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, I’m trying to help you.”

“Thank you, sir. But I don’t think I need anyone’s help right now but my own.”

“As you wish,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” again.

“Well,” he said, “hope you do better next round. And if anything comes up, don’t hesitate to come and see me. My secretary will make an appointment for you.” Edging me to the door.

“Thank you, sir,” again.

“It’s normally a week or so from the appointment to the meeting, but if you feel that you have something important to discuss, we could make it a day or two, you know.”

“Thank you, sir,” again.

He opened the door, looked out at his secretary and the crowded sitting room, and then closed it.

“There is just one more thing I should like to say to you, Harkness. As regards your record.”

“Sir.” Here we go again. The old fart could never find a last word that really suited him, so he just dribbled on endlessly.

“Sit down, Harkness, sit down.” He filled his pipe and snuggled into his chair. “It’s not exactly my field,” he began, “but I’ve made a quite extensive study of the man and his work. And I think that, in some ways, my conclusions about him can be applied to you, as well.”

“Sir?” I said. What was this routine?

“De Quincey,” he said, “Thomas De Quincey. Are you familiar with his work?” Puffing on his pipe fatuously.

“Only vaguely,” I said, thinking, Of course I am, moron.

“Yes,” he went on, as though he would’ve been disappointed if I’d said anything else. “A very interesting fellow, De Quincey was.” He paused and looked at me. “Is, I should say, in light of your case.”

“Sir?”

“Are you, ah, at home with his little volume on the aspects and vagaries of the opium-eater’s existence?”

“No, sir.” God, not this.

“Well, De Quincey was an addict himself, you know, an opium addict. And he wrote a fascinating little study of his addiction, entitled Confessions of an English Opium Eater. Fascinating.” He glanced over at me to make sure that I was with him, and I nodded. “And in the course of his account, he makes some extraordinary observations.” Looking at me again. “For instance, at one point, he remarks that ‘opium eaters never finish anything.’ That’s a wonderfully, oh, to-the-point remark, don’t you think, Harkness?”

“Telling it like it is,” I murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Yes,” he said, “I quite agree. Well, do you see the connection, then, do you see what I’m driving at?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I think I do.”

“Uh-huh,” fumbling with his pipe, which had as usual gone out. “And do you have any, ah, comment on the matter? Does it strike a responsive chord, I should say.”

“I don’t believe so,” I said.

“None at all?” he queried. Man, he was begging for it.

“Only an intellectual one,” I said finally.

“Ah-ha,” he nodded. “And what is that?”

“Artaud,” I said. “You’re familiar with Artaud, I take it?”

The Senior Tutor blinked. “Well, he’s not in my field, you understand, but yes, I think that I’m familiar with the rudiments of the man’s work.” That got his goat, the old turd. I was playing it his way, and it hurt.

“Artaud was also an addict, an opium addict, that is, and his comment on the matter was that…” I paused, trying to get it out right “… his comment was that as long as we haven’t been able to abolish a single cause of human desperation, we do not have the right to try to suppress the means by which man tries to clean himself of desperation.” I paused and looked at the Tutor. “Those were his words on the subject. Of course, Artaud was himself a desperate man when he wrote them, desperate in a sense probably unknown to De Quincey. Because when he wrote his little essay on opium they were getting ready to cart him off to the madhouse. And not for being an addict,” I added.

“I see,” said the Tutor, who looked as if he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. “Yes, I see. Artaud. I’ll have to look into him. He was one of those Cruelty fellows, wasn’t he?”

I nodded.

“Yes. Well.” He stood up again and held out his hand. “It’s been good talking to you, Harkness, and remember, if you should think of anything that you want to discuss, or perhaps if you should just feel like a chat, don’t hesitate to let Miss Burns know.”

“I will,” I said, “and thank you, sir.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, showing me to the door.

TWO DAYS OF EARNESTLY ANEMIC study went by and then John marched into my room and plunked down on the bed.

“How’s it going?” he said, which I did not bother to respond to because John didn’t give a goddamn how it was going and never had. All he meant was that he had something on his mind. He pulled out a joint. “Want to blow some?”

I shook my head. I was feeling virtuously studious, and I knew that the dope would kill that. I also knew that I couldn’t sit around and watch him smoke too long, so I said, “What’s happening?”

“Well,” John said, “I’m thinking about this Lotus, it’s in beautiful shape and the cat who’s selling it is the original owner. I’m going over to look at it tomorrow.” He took a deep drag. “Want to come?”

“Sure,” I said, “but you didn’t come in here to lay that down.”

He laughed, and took another hit. “I can see the studying has brought your mind to a keen edge, Peter,” he said. “Well, what I wanted to know—” another hit “—fine dope, you sure you don’t want any?”

“You wanted to know.”

He laughed again. “Quite right,” he said. “All business. I wanted to know if this chick is still up for doing it.”

Then I remembered. “I meant to tell you,” I said. “She called last night and said she’d love to go to New York with you, but she’s used up all her overnights.”

“No, no,” John said, “I meant—is that right? The little bitch. She called last night? I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you get hold of me?”

“You were in the rack with Sandra.”

“Oh yeah,” John said, remembering. “Oh yeah.” He thought about it some more. “She can’t go overnight? Jesus, that screws the whole weekend.”

“Tell her that,” I said.

He laughed, and then was silent, and finally said, as if remembering suddenly, “No, listen, I was talking about something else—that California chick, what’s-her-name, does she still want to make a trip?”

That was surprising, even shocking. John’s head was bent, but on one thing he was firm: he never changed his mind. Never, under any circumstances. I didn’t know whether it was from obstinacy, or pride, or his Old Boston upbringing, but whatever the reason, it was true.