A Visit to Haldeman and Other States of Mind by Charles L. Mee Jr

Author:Charles L. Mee Jr.
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781590774359
Publisher: M. Evans & Company

Four

IN the summer of 1953, on a July Saturday morning, I was a young golden boy, football-basketball-baseball playing, high-hurdle-jumping swimmer standing at the end of a high dive where I hesitated a moment, reaching around to massage the small of my back, feeling a slight ache, a stiffness, the residue, I thought fleetingly, of the bad wrench I had given my back in a football game long ago the previous autumn, twisting for an extra inch or two after I had been tackled and then being twisted at the bottom of a pileup. I dived from the high board, a one-and-a-half forward flip. I was too slow, too stiff, and, when I hit the water, badly, I wrenched my back. I got out of the water, finding it hard to stand straight. My legs seemed a bit tired too, I noticed, and now—the result, no doubt, of too much sun, too much water, and my back strain—I had a headache. I lay down. I did not feel well. My stomach, too, for some reason, did not feel well. It did not feel exactly upset; it just did not feel well. And I was tired.

I went home, feeling my eyes had been too much in the sun, sensing that everything seemed slightly bleached, and I lay down for a few hours to rest. I had to rest. And to feel well that evening, for that evening I had a date with a girl whom I had loved and longed for and thought beautiful for a very long time. Her name was Stephanie; she was called Stevie; and she had finally come around to take a small interest in me. We were to go to a dance at the country club that evening, a formal dance with dinner and with some swimming in the evening, with candlelit tables around the swimming pool Afterward, I had finally decided, I would hold Stevie and kiss her and perhaps, I thought weakly, put my hand on her breast. I had not ever put my hand on a girl’s breast. This was to be the night that I lost, as I thought of it, my virginity, or at least most of it.

In the early evening, I rose slowly from my bed, I showered slowly, not understanding why I did not feel refreshed. I dressed lethargically in a white summer jacket, the then-fashionable plaid bow tie. I felt well-pressed, well-starched, and weak. I would have to coast. I would have to idle. I would have to be cool and drift through the evening, never expending an ounce of strength unnecessarily. When an occasion arose for laughter, I decided, I would have to make do with a well-projected quiet smile. If excitement were called for, I would have to summon up all the sparkle I had and concentrate it in my eyes and try to communicate it that way.

I moved somnambulistically through the evening, eating little, speaking little, swimming not at all, but dancing much, staying on my feet, moving, trying to work the ache out of my legs.

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