Erich Segal - The Class

“Look,” he rationalized, “this is what Harvard’s all about — it’s sink or swim.”

“Yeah,” Jason mumbled half-aloud, “but you’re supposed to be the lifeguard.”

At the next red light he climbed out of Linden’s car and slammed the door.

His anger again made him oblivious to the bitter cold.

He walked on toward the Square. At Elsie’s he consumed two Roast-Beef Specials to replace the dinner he had missed, then went over to Cronin’s, cruising by the wooden booths to find a friendly face so he could sit down and get drunk.

Jason was awakened rudely the next morning by a rapping on the door that made his headache even worse. It was only when he started groggily toward it that he noticed he was still in last night’s clothing. Anyway, his soul felt wrinkled. So they matched.

He opened the door.

A stocky, middle-aged woman, wearing a green floppy hat, was planted solidly outside.

“What did you do to him?” she demanded.

“Oh,” Jason said quietly, “you must be David’s mother.”

“A real genius you are,” she muttered. “I’m here to get his clothes.”

“Please,” Jason said, immediately ushering her in.

“It’s freezing on that landing, if you didn’t notice,” she remarked while entering the suite and glancing hawk-eyed into every corner.

“Foo, it’s a real pigsty. Who cleans up this place?”

“A student porter vacuums once a week and swabs the john,” said Jason.

“Well, no wonder my poor boy’s ill. Whose filthy clothes are these all over everywhere? They carry germs, you know.”

“They’re David’s,” Jason answered softly.

“So how come you threw my David’s clothes all over everywhere? Is that your rich boy’s idea of a little fun?”

“Mrs. Davidson,” Jason said patiently, “he dropped them there himself.” After which he quickly added, “Would you like to sit down? You must be very tired.”

“Tired? I’m exhausted. Do you know what that night train is like — especially for a woman my age? Anyway, I’ll stand while you explain why it’s not your fault.”

Jason sighed. “Look, Mrs. Davidson, I don’t know what they’ve told you down at the infirmary.”

“They said that he was very sick and has to be transferred to some god-awful … hospital,” she paused, and then she gasped, “a mental hospital.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jason answered gently, “but the pressure here can be ferocious. To get grades, I mean.”

“My David always got good grades. He studied day and night. Now suddenly he leaves my house and comes to live with you and he collapses like he had no yeast. Why did you disturb him?”

“Believe me, Mrs. Davidson,” Jason insisted, “I never bothered him. He —” Jason worked up the courage to complete his sentence “— sort of brought it on himself.”

Mrs. Davidson slowly absorbed this allegation.

“How?” she asked.

“For reasons that I simply cannot fathom, he just felt he had to be the best. I mean, the very best.”

“What’s wrong with that? I brought him up that way.”

Jason felt a surge of retrospective pity for his erstwhile roommate. Obviously his mother rode him like a racehorse in a never-ending homestretch. He wouldn’t have to be Humpty Dumpty to crack under that kind of strain.

Then suddenly, without warning, she flopped onto their couch and began to sob.

“What did I do? Didn’t I sacrifice my life for him? This isn’t fair.”

Jason touched her tentatively on the shoulder. “Look, Mrs. Davidson, if David’s going to a hospital he’ll need his clothes. Why don’t I help you pack?”

She gazed up at him with a look of helplessness. Thank you, young man. I’m sorry that I yelled, but I’m a bit upset, and I’ve been on the train all night.”

She opened her purse, took Out a handkerchief already moist, and dabbed her eyes.

“Hey, look,” Jason said softly. “Why don’t you rest here. I can boil some coffee. Meanwhile, I’ll pack his stuff, go get my car, and drive you to… wherever David is.”

“A place called Massachusetts Mental Health, in Waltham, she replied, choking on nearly every syllable.

In the bedroom, Jason grabbed a suitcase and tossed in garments he thought would be appropriate. Instinct told him that the hospital would not require ties and jackets.

“What about his books?” his mother called out.

“I don’t think he’ll need his school stuff right away, but I’ll hold on to it and bring him what he wants.”

“You’re very kind,” she said again. And blew her nose.

One suitcase packed, Jason cast a quick eye around the room to see if he’d missed anything essential. At that moment he caught sight of something lying on top of the desk. Even as he reached out, he had ominous forebodings of what it would be.

Yes, he was right. It was the bluebook from D. D.’s Chem. 20 midterm. And his roommate’s nightmare had turned out to be prophecy. He had received a mere B-minus. As casually as possible, he folded the exam and stuffed it in his back pocket.

“Wait here, Mrs. Davidson. My car’s a few blocks away. I’ll run and get it.”

“I must be keeping you from your classes,” she said meekly.

“That’s okay,” he answered. “I’m just happy I can do something for David. I mean — he’s a real nice guy.”

Mrs. Davidson looked into Jason Gilbert’s eyes and murmured, “You know, your parents should be extremely proud.”

“Thank you,” Jason Gilbert whispered. And ran off, a dull ache in his heart.

One of the great joys of living away from home and not at prep school is being able to stay up all night. Now and then it’s actually for something serious like finishing a paper that’s due the next day.

Mike Wigglesworth is an expert at this technique. He sits down at his typewriter at around seven in the evening with a few notes and a half-dozen Budweisers. He pecks out a first draft before midnight and then spends the wee small hours mixing in an appropriate quantity of bullshit. For the latter process he stokes up with coffee. Then he goes to breakfast, eats a dozen eggs and bacon (he’s a crew star, after all), and drops off his paper. Then he goes to sleep until the afternoon, when he gets up to go down to the Boathouse.

But last night all three of us had a respectable reason for staying up. To hear the outcome of the national elections. Not that any of us really gives a damn for politics. It’s just a nice excuse for getting gently plowed.

Typical of that provincial rag, this morning’s Crimson focused on the quantity of Harvard men who’d been elected. No fewer than thirty-five of the new congressmen went to our humble college, not to mention four of the new senators. Now, when the nation’s problems get too heavy for them, they can join Jack Kennedy in the Senate men’s room and all sing Harvard football songs.

As I sat at breakfast reading through the Crime, a sudden notion struck me. Maybe that unprepossessing guy at the next table eating Wheaties will someday be a senator. Or even President. The thing is that you never know who’s going to make it. Dad once told me that FDR was pretty kooky as an undergraduate. So much so, he was blackballed by the Final Club that took his cousin Teddy.

The Harvard freshmen are still sort of formless caterpillars. It really takes some time to find out who’ll become the rarest butterfly of all.

The only thing I’m certain of is that I’ll remain a caterpillar all my life.

From the Harvard Crimson of January 12, 1955:

GILBERT TO LEAD YARDLING SQUASH TEAM

Jason Gilbert ’58 of Straus Hall and Syosset, Long Island, has been elected Captain of the Freshman Squash Team. Gilbert, who attended Hawkins-Atwell, where he captained both the squash and tennis teams, is undefeated at the number-one slot thus far this season. He is also seeded seventh in the Eastern States Junior Tennis rankings.