Tom Wolfe - I Am Charlotte Simmons

The morning of Charlotte’s modern drama exam was the worst. Adam had set the alarm for eight, because the exam was at nine-thirty and he intended to make sure she took a shower, yes, in the hall bathroom, and did her hair, and dressed neatly. The alarm went off, and Charlotte didn’t budge, even though she was clearly not asleep. She responded to Adam’s exhortations with indecipherable grunts. He climbed over her and got up and turned off the alarm. She lay there the next thing to comatose; her eyes were open, but the lights were not on.

“Damn it, Charlotte!” said Adam. He stood before her in T-shirt and boxer shorts, elbows akimbo. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble for you! I didn’t want to get up at eight, either, but I did. And you’re going to, too. You’ve got an exam ninety minutes from now, and you’re going to take that exam, and you’re going to arrive at that classroom looking like a person who cares about herself, and you’re going to eat enough to provide enough blood sugar to be able to concentrate on that exam. So let’s…hop—to it!”

Charlotte didn’t move a muscle, but her lights turned on dimly. In a tiny, groggy voice she said, “What difference does it make? I stay here, I go there…either way I get an F.” With that, she moved a muscle, two muscles, in fact, the frontalis muscles, which enable a girl to lift her eyebrows in a shrugging manner.

“Oh, really?” said Adam. “Now, why is that? And please provide some pity for yourself in your answer.”

The little voice said, “It has nothing to do with self-pity. Mr. Gilman is absolutely—I don’t think the way he does. I can’t think the way he does. He thinks this poor all-messed-up little woman, this ‘performance artist,’ Melanie Nethers, is the most important thing there is in modern drama. Shaw, Ibsen, Chekhov, Strindberg, O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, they’re all passé? They’re not cool? He thinks ‘cool’ is a concept? What am I supposed to—”

Adam wouldn’t let her finish. Gesturing at her inert, horizontal form with both hands, he said, “Charlotte—this is not right!”

“It’s not a matter of—”

“It’s simply not right! Do you hear me?”

“Whether it’s right—”

“You can’t just blow off a final exam! Who do you think you are? How dare you be so thoughtless?”

“Well, the plain truth is—”

“You have no idea what the plain truth is!” This time Adam clenched his teeth and gestured at her with both hands, fingers curled as if they had claws on the tips. “WHAT YOU’RE DOING IS PLAIN WRONG! YOU’RE THROWING AWAY A GREAT MIND AND A GREAT OPPORTUNITY! WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO DO SUCH A THING! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”

“I think—”

“THIS IS NOT RIGHT!”

“I—”

“GET UP! GET UP! THIS IS NOT RIGHT, YOU JUST LYING HERE LIKE THIS!”

“Will you—”

“NO! I WON’T! THIS IS NOT RIGHT! IT’S WRONG!”

“Will you let—”

“NO! I WON’T! WE’RE ON THE EDGE OF A KNIFE HERE AND WE’VE GOTTA JUMP ONE WAY OR THE OTHER, THE RIGHT SIDE OR THE WRONG SIDE! THERE’S NO MEDIAN STRIP!”

Something about Adam’s avalanche of implacably moral stuff got to her, resonated with some of Christ’s Evangelic creed she had brought to Dupont without meaning to, sewn, as it were, into the very lining of her clothes. There was also, unbeknownst to either of them consciously, a woman’s thrill!—that’s the word for it!—her delicious thrill!—when, as before, a man expands his chest and drapes it with the sash of righteousness and…takes command!…upon the Heights of Abraham.

That moment was a turning point. Charlotte pulled herself together, did as she was told, and made it to the exam with time to spare. She returned to Adam’s apartment convinced that she had butchered this exam, too, and complaining about the weird, warped mentality of Mr. Gilman. She did not break into tears; she did not despair. Scorn, contempt, and hatred were her métier. She registered not woe but anger, a deadly sin perhaps but a positive sign in this case.

Adam continued to go to bed with her every night. He pressed his body upon hers every night, at her bidding. As the night wore on and Charlotte finally drifted off into two or three hours of sleep, he slept with her—ever more bitterly conscious of the irony of that little phrase. If he had ever uttered such a thing in the company of, let’s say, Greg or Roger or Camille, any of them would have assumed Charlotte was draining his testicles for him every night. “Draining his testicles” was Camille’s term for a girl’s “living with” some boy. Camille wouldn’t say, “That little idiot has been living with Jason for a month now.” She would say, “That little idiot has been draining Jason’s testicles for a month now.” If the truth be known, the kinetics of Adam’s “living with” Charlotte hadn’t changed in the slightest. He still embraced her like a mother holding a five-foot-four baby on her lap. Charlotte never lay facing him in bed. He held her from behind, not as a lover, but as that vapid soul, the loving friend who sees to it that a poor troubled girl feels protected and secure—and not alone in this trough of mortal error where all mortals must abide. Many was the time the loving friend had an erection beneath his boxer shorts. Many was the time that stiffened giblet had the urge to thrust itself forward—two or three inches would have been enough—and let her know it was there…that was all…merely acquaint her with that pertinent fact. But how could he risk it? What had chased her into his bed but…somebody else’s mindless, wandering erection, a battering ram who had knocked her door down and ravaged her.

Irony, irony, all too exquisite, the irony—and then one night something entirely unexpected happened. Charlotte fell asleep within one minute after they had climbed into bed and he had put his arms around her.

She had her first full night’s sleep in six weeks or more. She awoke refreshed and even betrayed signs of optimism. The same thing happened the next night. The next morning she wanted to get up. The end of insomnia was pretty solid evidence that she was pulling out of her depression.

After a few days, Charlotte suggested that they return to the original arrangement, with him on the futon and her on the bed, or vice versa, since she felt much better and was no longer afraid at night. Adam was of two minds. How could he give up the tantalizing, if so far frustrating, prospect of having her body next to his every night and in the fullness of time sleeping with her in the metonymical meaning of the expression? At the same time…it was damned uncomfortable, two people in that one narrow bed; and besides, playing nurse without compensation in kind or in money was impossible to enjoy much beyond ten days.

And so there came a day when the second semester began, and Charlotte decided she should return to her own room in Edgerton and rejoin her clothes and other belongings. She and Adam were by no means splitting up. In fact, Adam walked her back to Little Yard and went up the elevator in Edgerton with her right to the door of her room on the fifth floor. She opened the door—it wasn’t locked—and invited him in. So he went in.

A big blond-streaked head of hair—filled up the room. Spectacular! Such a tall, slender girl! On second thought, the word was…skinny…and her nose and her chin—Charlotte’s roommate. Adam knew immediately from Charlotte’s description.

“Hello, Beverly,” said Charlotte. It was about as cold and wary a greeting as Adam had ever heard, especially in light of the fact that this was a roommate she hadn’t seen or spoken to, so far as he knew, in ten days. Then Charlotte added in the same cold voice, “This is Adam.” Still looking at her roommate, she said in the numbest of tones, “Adam, this is my roommate, Beverly.”