Dan Wakefield - Starting Over - A Novel

The doctor, snickering and shaking his head, slowly made out a prescription for some kind of medicine. Obviously unmoved by Potter’s plea to restrict his remarks to medical advice, he muttered loudly, “Never heard of a guy going so long without knowing he had The Crabs. Jesus. Wonder you weren’t eaten up alive.”

Potter took the prescription and exited without a word, leaving the doctor still shaking his head in joyous wonderment over his plight.

The medicine was called Kwell . Potter took the prescription to the Medical Arts Pharmacy in Harvard Square, and handed it to a young pharmacist who read it, moving his mouth, broke into a grin, and told Potter it would take about fifteen minutes. Potter had a double dry martini on the rocks at the Wursthaus bar, and returned to pick up the Kwell , which the pharmacist handed him with a wink, and a loud wish of “Good Luck, buddy.”

In a way, having the goddamn Crabs was a relief. Potter knew he couldn’t, literally, go to bed with anyone while he had them without passing them on. And he would wish that exquisite torture on no one—except Dr. Garson Simpson, who he would gladly have condemned to a regular case of The Crabs throughout the rest of his natural life.

Much of Potter’s attention now was focussed on the effort to rid himself of his evil itch. The good doctor had said it usually took about four days, but in his case it might be a week or more. If he wanted to hasten the cure, he could shave the hair on his groin before applying the medicine. Potter shaved. It was messy and almost sickening, but the act was a kind of penance, and would prolong the period of his celibacy, since he wouldn’t want to expose his bare groin to a stranger, and have to go into lengthy excuses or explanations. Perhaps in the spirit that a monk shaves his head, Potter shaved his groin. He also had to buy new towels and sheets, and change them every day. Fighting the itch provided a temporary focus to his life, a goal, for which he was grateful.

It also gave him an excuse for refusing Gafferty the use of his apartment any time that week, any time until he had cleansed himself of The Crabs. When Gafferty suggested that just the two of them go to Jake Wirth’s after classes for a beer, Potter knew what he wanted to ask, but he pretended innocence, and found that he secretly, shamefully got a perverse pleasure out of knowing he would have to refuse—on humanitarian grounds, of course—Gafferty’s request to have another romp with his student lover in Potter’s bed.

“Ah, that’s a shame, man,” Gafferty said, then reddening, quickly added, “I mean your condition. Doesn’t matter my not getting your place for a while, that’s a luxury.”

“I guess you’ll just have to rough it this week,” Potter said, grinning in spite of himself. “On the old desk.”

“Ah, well.”

“But your girl must be very understanding—I mean to have had to do it that way for so long. Or however long it’s been.”

“That she is. Oh yes.”

The bastard wasn’t letting the slightest bit of information eke out. Not even how long his affair had been going.

Potter began casually speaking of students, tests, grades, class response, and then, after a forced yawn, asked, as if nothing could be less important, “By the way. You ever have any students named Korsky, or Linnett?”

“Korsky. Linnett. Let me see. There was a Fred Kautsky, I think. I don’t think it was Korsky, though. Why?”

“Oh, nothing really. Just wondered. They’re pretty good students. I just thought you might have had them, but if you’d had them I’m sure you’d remember them.”

“Ah. No doubt. You remember good ones. Even some of the troublesome ones.”

The conversation droned down, and petered out, neither man having his mind fully on it. Potter felt slightly more assured that Gafferty’s girl wasn’t one of his own favorites, but of course there was always the chance that the clever bastard had only pretended ignorance of their names, that his mentioning a “Fred Kautsky” was only a ploy to make it seem he didn’t even connect those names with girls. Thinking about it, Potter grew annoyed, and distracted. Gafferty was saying something he’d missed entirely.

“What?”

“I just said I better be going, and wished you luck getting rid of those little devils.”

“Oh, yeah. Right Listen, I’ll let you know when—uh—when it’s OK.”

“How long does it take,” Marilyn asked, “to get rid of them?”

Marilyn was fascinated by the subject of Potter’s affliction. She had once had the clap, but never The Crabs, and was interested in all the details. She even wanted Potter to take down his pants so she could look at them.

“You can’t see them,” Potter said. “All you can see is little red dots where they’ve nibbled at you.”

“Can’t you see them scurrying around, like little ants or something?”

“No. They’re too small.”

“Oh.” Marilyn was obviously disappointed.

“I’m sorry I can’t put on more of a show for you,” Potter said.

“Don’t get defensive.”

“All right, all right. Let’s talk about something else, for godsake.”

Marilyn told about her growing dissatisfaction over the way things were going with Herb, her married shrink-lover. It was getting to be a routine, her going down on weekends, hanging around in the hotel room, waiting for him to come at whatever hours he could get away from his wife and family. He could rarely escape on Saturday nights, so Marilyn usually spent those evenings alone watching television, ordering up from room service.

“You’re going down too often,” Potter said. “You’ve got to take a weekend off—do something else. You mustn’t make yourself so available, all at his convenience.”

“But I do want to see him—I want to be with him. I love him, Phil. And he loves me too, I know it.”

“OK, but remember our pact? I was going to advise you on strategy. And I’m telling you now, you’ve got to be more—elusive. Hard to get.”

Marilyn sighed. “Play the game, you mean.”

“Yes,” Potter said, “that’s exactly what I mean.”

He got up to go to the bathroom, but just when his hand touched the doorknob, Marilyn yelped, “Phil! Wait! You can’t go in there!”

“ What? ”

Potter turned around, confused. “What are you talking about? Is there a body in your bathroom?”

“No, I mean—your things . The Crabs. Can’t you get them on toilet seats?”

“I wasn’t going to sit down.”

“Oh. Well—are you sure it’s all right? No kidding, Phil, if I got The Crabs, I could never explain to Herb in a million years.”

“Look,” Potter said, “I’ll be very careful. They’re not going to climb out of my fly and parachute down to make landings on your toilet seat.”

“Well—if you’re sure.”

Potter, feeling like a leper, pissed very carefully, zipped himself up, and only stayed long enough to get Marilyn’s assurance she would take a weekend off, let her lover sweat a little bit. He advised her to be vague, make the guy worry and wonder about her. Reluctantly, she promised.

Potter was glad to get back home to the secure isolation of his own little private leper colony.

Potter was pleased when Chip Strider, the guy he met at the film buff evening, invited him to a dinner at the Harvard House where he served as Senior Tutor. Each house, Potter learned, had a Senior Tutor to counsel the undergraduates who lived there, and also a Master of the House. It sounded quaint and English, like Tom Brown’s School Days. Potter looked forward to the evening as the kind of event that would provide high-level intellectual stimulation, and take his mind off mundane cares like curing The Crabs. He hoped he wouldn’t be questioned too closely on his film knowledge, and he got himself pretty high before starting out. The Senior Tutor’s residence was comfortably medieval, with heavy old wooden furniture and rich, dark wall hangings.