Tom Wolfe - I Am Charlotte Simmons

“Out of what, Jojo?” Coach had pulled his eyebrows together over his nose. Obviously he hadn’t a clue as to what Jojo was trying to say.

“Out of the academics, Coach, out of my classes.”

“What classes? You’re not having any trouble passing, are you? You had a two-point-two grade point average last time I heard anything about it. So what’s the problem, Jojo?”

“Well…” said Jojo, struggling—he now had the fingers of both hands intertwined and thrust deep down between his thighs, which caused his whole upper torso to hunch over—“like…like I’m taking this upper level French course for my language requirements?”

“Yeah…”

“And we read the books in English instead of French, that kind of thing.”

“Mr. Lewin, right?”

Jojo nodded yes.

“He’s terrific. He’s a real friend of the program, Jojo. He understands the importance of athletics in higher education. Most professors at Dupont are fine people. But every now and then, as you know, you run into some prick who’s got a hard-on for athletes. Lewin’s not like that. He’s a stand-up guy.”

“But we do all our reading in English, Coach. I’m not really learning any French.”

“So what? Whattaya wanna be, a language scholar? Jesus Christ. Besides, that’s not true. You learn plenty of French in that class, plenty of French literature. Plenty of our guys have taken that course. They all tell me he’s a great lecturer. They learn all about the great French writers—you know, like Proust…” Coach was obviously rummaging through his memory bank for more names and coming up short. “And you actually learn more…about more great writers, because Lewin don’t make you do all this translating. I had to take a foreign language when I was in college, too, you know. All that translating does for you is eat up time and break your balls. Don’t forget, this is Dupont, Jojo. You couldn’t be taking a better French course anywhere in this country. Jesus Christ, count your blessings. Lewin is great.”

So Jojo gave up on From Flaubert to Houellebecq. “Well…that’s not the only thing, Coach. The other day I’m talking to this student, and she says something about Socrates. I don’t mean something like…complicated or anything. She wasn’t trying to show off. She just assumed everybody would understand that much about Socrates. I mean, I knew the name, Coach, but that was all, and like Socrates is the foundation of philosophy.”

“The foundation of philosophy, hunh? Who told you that, Jojo?”

“This girl.”

“This girl,” said Coach. “Well, I can tell you about Socrates, Jojo. He committed suicide. He drank a glass of hemlock. You know what hemlock is?”

“Like a tree?”

“Very good,” said Coach, although Jojo wasn’t sure about the look on his face. Was he making fun of him? “In this case,” said Coach, “it’s a poison made from the leaves. Socrates was a man of great principle, Jojo. He committed suicide rather than…Well, anyway, it all had to do with his principles. And you know what, Jojo? That’s all you’re gonna need to know about Socrates for the rest of your life. That’s all anybody needs to know. You’re still too young to understand this, but you’ll get by fine as long as you have some vague idea of who these characters are when their names come up. Nobody you meet’s gonna know any more than that, either, except for a few learned nerds, and they can’t do anything about anything anyway.”

“I know, Coach, but shouldn’t I learn some of this stuff, all the same? I mean, here I am, and like you say, this is Dupont, and maybe while I’m here, shouldn’t I—I mean, as long as I’m here and there are all these courses you can take instead of—like this econ course I’m taking?”

A weary note slipped into Coach’s voice. “What econ course, Jojo?”

“It’s called Fundamentals of Market Fluctuation. Mr. Baggers.”

“I know him well. Great guy. Great teacher, too.”

“I guess so, Coach, but it’s also sort of econ for dummies.”

Tersely: “Yeah? Which means what?”

“The other students call it Stocks for Jocks.”

“Oh? Maybe you got a better idea.”

“There’s this philosophy course, Coach. Somebody told me about it.”

“ ‘This girl,’ I suppose.”

“Well…yeah. But it sounds like a great course. It’s called the Age of Socrates.”

Coach stared at Jojo for what seemed an eternity with the kind of astounded, malevolent look a father might give a teenager who has just walked in and told him he totaled the old man’s Lamborghini in a drag race. Then he pressed an intercom button. “Celeste, get me the course catalog…Right. For Dupont College…”

Then he resumed the stare, saying nothing. Jojo felt as if he were being shriveled and shrunk by some sort of ray.

In no time, Celeste popped in and gave Jojo a flirtatious, almost leering smile—hunhhh?—and handed the course catalog to Coach. Coach swiveled in his chair so that his back was to Jojo as he opened the catalog to a certain place and began running down the pages with his forefinger; then he swiveled back to face Jojo.

Tonelessly: “Could this be the one, Jojo?” He read from the catalog: “ ‘Philosophy 308. The Age of Socrates: Rationalism, Irrationality, and Animistic Magic in Early Greek Thought. Mr. Margolies.’”

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Jojo, brightening. “I remember there was this part about animalistic magic!”

Coach rolled his eyes but made no comment. Pause…Then: “Philosophy 308. You know what the 308 means, Jojo?”

Jojo shook his head no.

“It means it’s the highest level. The three hundreds are the hardest courses they got. You ever had a three hundred course before?”

Jojo shook his head no.

Coach looked at the catalog again. “You know what Rationalism, Irrationality, and Animistic Magic mean?”

“Sort of,” said Jojo, “more or less.”

“Sort of more or less. That’s great.”

Jojo could feel emotion rising in his throat. “Okay, Coach, you’re right, I’m kidding myself if I say I know, but I want to learn something, Coach! If I’m gonna be sitting in classes anyway, I’m tired of—you know, skimming and scamming by the way I’ve been doing. I’m not just a stupid jock, and I’m tired of treating myself like one!”

Coach ignored all of that and said, “You know who Mr. Margolies is, by any chance?”

“No, but I hear he’s really good.”

“Yeah, really good,” said Coach in a thoughtful, contemplative tone. Then—bango! “REALLY GOOD AT BEING ONE OF THOSE PRICKS I TOLD YOU ABOUT! THAT FUCKER’D LOVE TO GET HIS HANDS ON SOMEBODY LIKE YOU! HE’D CHEW YOUR ASS UP AND SPIT IT OUT THE CORNER OF HIS FUCKING MOUTH! The Age of Socrates…You simpleminded shit, I got news for you. As far as you’re concerned, THIS IS THE FUCKING AGE OF JOJO! You got it? You got any fucking idea what I mean? YOU GOTTA MAKE IT RIGHT OVER THERE!” He thrust his right forefinger in the general direction of the basketball arena so hard, his whole shoulder and upper torso jerked. “AND YOU GOTTA MAKE IT THIS YEAR!—OR YOUR ASS IS FUCKED! The Age of Socrates…YOU’RE HERE TO DO THINGS WITH A ROUND ORANGE BALL!” He made a basketball shape with his hands—“THAT’S THE ONLY FUCKING AGE YOU GOT TO THINK ABOUT!”

Jojo had never shown his anger to Buster Roth, but the “simpleminded shit” crack had breached the Coach/coached barrier. “You’re just like everybody else! You think I’m stupid, don’t you! You—”

“That isn’t what I was saying—”

“You think I’m good for one thing in this world! You think I’m this animal you put out there to take your goddamned round orange ball off the boards and set up picks so other—”