Erich Segal - The Class

“Gilbert, you deserve a medal,” Dennis Linden remarked. “If you hadn’t thought so quickly, that little nerd D. D. might actually have killed himself.”

The proctor had called him in not merely to commend Jason for his paramedical heroics, but to share with him a fresh dilemma. In other words, to impart some dubiously good news.

“We’ve got another roommate for you,” Dennis announced. “I personally chose him at a meeting of the proctors — because I really feel you could be a stabilizing influence on him.”

“Hey, this isn’t fair,” Jason protested. “Do I have to be a nursemaid again? Can’t I just have someone normal?”

“Nobody at Harvard is normal,” Linden philosophically replied.

“All right, Dennis,” Jason answered, with a sigh of resignation. “What’s this guy’s problem?”

“Well,” the proctor started nonchalantly, “he’s a teeny bit … aggressive.”

“Well, that’s okay. I’ve taken boxing lessons.”

Linden coughed. “The problem is — he fights with swords.”

“What is he, some foreign student from the Middle Ages?”

“Very witty.” Linden smiled. “No, actually he’s a hotshot on the fencing team. His name’s been in the Crimson now and then — Bernie Ackerman. He’s terrific with a saber.”

“Oh great. Who’s he tried to kill so far?”

“Well, not exactly kill. He’s living in Holworthy with a very sensitive Chinese fellow. And every time they have the slightest argument, this Ackerman gets out his sword and waves it at the little guy. The kid is now so petrified, the Health Department had to give him pills to sleep. So, clearly, we’ve just got to separate them.”

“Why the hell can’t you give me the Chinaman?” Jason complained. “He sounds like a sweet guy.”

“No. He gets along okay with roommate number three — a music type. So the proctors figured we’d let well enough alone. Besides, I had the notion that a guy like you could teach that character a lesson.”

“Dennis, I’m here to take courses, not teach manners to Ivy League hoodlums.”

“Come on, Jason,” the proctor cajoled, “you’ll turn this guy into a pussycat. And you can count on getting something positive put on your record.”

“Dennis,” Jason said in valediction, “you’re all heart.”

Jason Gilbert had us all in stitches yesterday at our pre-midyear blast. We recruited some carefully selected lovelies from the local junior colleges with the best reputation for their students’ promiscuity. (Newall claims he scored as he drove one of them back to Pine Manor, but we only have his word for it. Really clever guys can bring back evidence.)

Old Gilbert has a way of taking charge of every party. First of all, he’s so damn handsome we have trouble keeping our own dates’ attention. And then when he starts telling stories, we’re all rolling on the floor. Apparently, he’s just gotten a new roommate (he won’t say what happened to the other one), and the guy’s a sort of maniac.

As soon as Jason tries to go to sleep, this nut pulls out a sword and jumps around the living room like Errol Flynn.

Anyway, by the first week the guy’d already slashed their sofa practically to shreds. What was even worse was the noise. It seems every time he scored, which was no problem since the couch could not fight back, he’d yell out, “Kill!” Which was driving Jason absolutely up the wall.

And so last night they had a showdown. Gilbert faced this character with just a tennis racket, and as quietly as possible asked what the hell he thought he was doing. The guy responded that he needed extra practice for the Yale meet.

Jason then said if he really needed practice, he’d be happy to provide it. Only they would have to fight until one of them was dead. Understandably, at first the guy thought Gilbert was just bluffing. But to lend his challenge credibility, Jason smashed what was left of the couch into splinters with his tennis racket. After which he turned to his opponent and explained that that was what he’d make of him if he should lose the match.

Unbelievably, the swordsman dropped his blade and made a fast retreat into the bedroom.

Not only did that put an end to all the mayhem, but the swashbuckler went out the next day and bought them anew couch.

Life in Gilbert’s suite was pretty quiet after that. In fact, completely quiet. Apparently the guy’s too scared even to talk to Jason now.

Like his famous forebear in antiquity, Socrates Lambros was uncompromising in his way of life. This meant that no excuse could absolve his son Ted from evening duties at The Marathon. Hence, Ted had not been permitted to join The Class on the September evening when President Pusey had preached so eloquently in defense of academic freedom.

And since he remained imprisoned from the moment he left classes, Ted never got to see a football game and sit in Soldier’s Field amid his fellow freshmen simultaneously yelling themselves hoarse and drinking themselves sick.

This was among the myriad reasons why he did not feel emotionally a full-fledged member of The Class of ’58. He longed to be assimilated with his brethren.

Hence, when the Freshman Smoker was announced, he begged his father for a dispensation to attend this one occasion in a Harvard man’s career that is avowedly devoted to frivolity.

Socrates was adamant, but Thalassa took her son’s side.

“The boy, he works all the time so hard. Let him have one free evening. Parakalo , Socrates.”

“Okay,” the patriarch at last relented.

And Demosthenes could not have eulogized a leader with more grateful eloquence than young Ted Lambros lavished on his father.

Thus, on the eve of February 17, Ted Lambros shaved, put on a new J. August shirt and his very best tweed jacket (secondhand, but almost new), and strode to Sanders Theater. He paid his dollar, which gave him not only entry to the show and all the beer he could consume thereafter, but also door prizes, which ranged from corncob pipes to sample packs of Pall Mall cigarettes.

Deo Gratias , he was really one of them at last.

At half past eight, an overly made-up master of ceremonies walked nervously on stage to start the evening’s entertainment. He was welcomed by a tidal wave of grunts and groans and unimaginable obscenities from the sophisticated Harvard men.

The first attraction was the Wellesley Widows, a dozen prim young singers from the nearby ladies’ college.

They had scarcely sung a note when from all corners of the theater came a hail of pennies and shouts of, “Get naked!”

The announcer counseled the women to make a hasty retreat. Subsequent performers met similar fates.

The stage show, such as it was, was merely grace before dinner. The real part of the Smoker was waiting, across the corridor in Memorial Hall, where three hundred kegs of beer had been trucked in to quench the freshmen’s thirst.

The men were chaperoned, of course. Four deans were present, as were all the proctors and ten members of the university police. The cops had been astute enough to wear their raincoats. And they really needed them.

In no time Mem Hall — scene of so many solemn university events — was ankle deep in beer. Fights broke out. The proctors who attempted to make peace were rudely punched and shoved onto the liquid floor.

Ted Lambros stood watching this melee in total disbelief. Was this really a gathering of the future leaders of the world?

Just then he was accosted.

“Hey, Lambros,” someone shouted, “you’re not even drunk.”