You see, in Philosophy I, as it is taught by Marshall B. Francis, you are not allowed an impregnable viewpoint. It must always be open to comment. And he says he likes to analyze. I told him he likes to shred and butcher. Whereupon he requested a “formal presentation of my personal philosophy of life’s purpose.”
Since, as you know, my philosophy responds unfavorably to direct assault, I refused. Mistake number one.
He told me if I didn’t cooperate he’d have me leave the class and withdraw all credit from my participation thus far. I thought this unfair, so we started yelling at one another and in the clouded ferocity of our exchanges I accidentally slashed him on the cheek with my pen. It wasn’t deep, but it scared him a lot. It wasn’t at all like it may seem; I say that only because I know what you’re probably thinking. Believe me, it was just a freak accident with one lost temper responding to another.
We talked in the infirmary later and he said he understood and would allow me a second chance. After that kindness, I volunteered my philosophy without hesitation (rather sheepishly), and he smiled at my completion of the apologies. He said that sometimes you have to be willing to fight for your beliefs and that he respected my actions in class, saving the accident, of course. I think we’ll be great friends by the end of the year (if he doesn’t get infected and die); however, philosophers consider life to be a danger so I guess it wouldn’t surprise him too much.
It is still very cold with no trace of warmth. Jim continues to noisily burn (or is it burp) the midnight oil much to the chagrin of everyone in the dorm. If a sonic boom occurred during the evening, it would be completely overlooked. Buried.
Once again, my love to all of you back home, and I sure would like to hear from you, so please write. Better not tell you-know-who what happened to me today. He’ll get the wrong impression. He has enough people to worry about as it is.
With new-found philosophy,
P.S. Hannibal is no longer with me. He and his men are squeaking across those great Alps in the sky. That poison really was foolproof.
March 18
Dear Mom and Dad:
My social horizons are expanding here in Isolation City. In one day, I met the remainder of my floormates (truly a rogues’ gallery) at a party and also a very nice girl who works as my lab partner.
I met my across-the-hall neighbor quite by chance over a game of poker. I beat him over and over and he had to write me a few IOUs. When I asked him what room he was in (so I might stop by and “collect”), it turned out to be the room directly across from mine. It’s weird how you can overlook someone who is right under your nose. Anyway, he’s a nice guy, but is badly in need of tutoring in the finer points of the gentlemanly wager. He is absolutely the worst gambler I have ever encountered. I suspect that his brain has decomposed from excessive exposure to Jim, who is his favorite card player. They play to one another’s caliber it seems. Two drunks leading each other home.
My neighbor’s name is Marcum Standile, Jr. As a rather unusual point of insight into his personal life, we figured out tonight (in my room after the party) that Marcum owes roughly $40,000 to various other dormitory inhabitants with whom he has played poker. This sum is exceeded only by Jim’s, whose debts accrued in two short months to a figure which is something akin to the annual budget for Red China. Perhaps my training in calculus is coming in handy for once.
I’ll write more about Susie later. Everything is pretty good academically speaking and the sun is, even, occasionally making a token appearance. Miss you very much and send all my love.
With endless computation,
P.S. Got a letter from you-know-who. Guess he took the accident a little too seriously. Tell him to relax.
April 4
Dear Mom and Dad:
I’m rich! Marcum got his monthly allotment from his financially overstuffed folks and came through with over $40 for yours truly. So far, this much money has me in quite an influential position since word of my monetary windfall has spread like an epidemic. I am popular beyond belief. I’ve considered opening up a loan service (with determined interest) so as to make the entire endeavor worth my expended energy as well as expended funds. An idea which I took from a movie with George Segal, “King Rat.” The entire prison camp where he was (also) being held captive by the enemy, had less money than George so he became the nucleus of all existing finance. The concept appeals to me. I’ll probably just buy a heater and an electric blanket, though. Fancy dies so quickly in a young man’s heart. Sniff.
I am referred to alternately as “Rockefeller” or “Pal,” depending on the plight of who I’m speaking with. I never dreamed any one person could have so many “Pals.” Last night someone pinned a sign to my door that says “Fort Knox North.” It’s only right. Being rich is such toil. Tell you-know-who I will use it wisely.
My lab partner and I have become even better friends in the past few weeks. I think I mentioned in the last letter that her name is Susie, actually Susan Johnson. What I failed to include in that brief description is that she is kind of like my girlfriend, is stunningly beautiful and intelligent and popular and maybe the first girl, since Beth’s death, that I really care about. Without pouring forth excessives about Susie, I’ll simply say that I know you’d love her. She is quite a unique person and around here that’s a godsend, the prevailing ambiance being composed of uptight females. I only hope that she feels the same about me. But that will come in time. I think it would crush me if she were just experiencing feelings of friendship. But I suspect that her eyes are the best spokesman for her affections and they tell me everything is going perfect. Tell you-know-who not to hold his breath. She isn’t at all like Beth, so don’t let him even attempt to connect things. Beth was just something that happened. I’m sorry about it, but it was, after all, an accident and I think I would resent you-know-who making more of this than there is. Or maybe making less of it. It feels right to me. Not like with Beth. So please keep you-know-who off the subject completely; it’s not fair.
By the way, I think I might make the dean’s list, so cross your fingers. Philosophy I is going very well and Marshall B. Francis and I are becoming friends of the close variety. As I predicted.
I miss you all very much and send my love. Please write.
With Krupp-like fortune,
P.S. Thanks for the latest batch of cookies, Mom. I’m not sure I can eat all of them myself. Plenty of willing mouths around here, though.
April 17
Dear Mom and Dad:
Terrible news. Remember Jim, the guy who belched and kept everybody up? He was found this morning, in his room, dead. The school won’t issue any kind of statement, but everyone thinks it might have been suicide. I don’t think there was a note or anything, and it could have just been an accident.
If it was suicide, it would have made a lot of sense, speaking strictly in terms of motivation. He wasn’t a very happy person, his weight and all making him almost completely socially ostracized. He was only 20 years old. It’s a shame things like this have to happen.
It certainly is going to be quiet around here without his belching and carryings-on; which is kind of a relief even if the circumstances are so tragic. Nobody has mentioned the funeral but I hear his parents are going to have him buried locally. That’s the nicest thing they could do for him. He really liked the college and the town and everything, and although unhappy, was happier here than he would have been anywhere else. It’s going to be abnormally quiet around here. Maybe with the improved conditions we’ll get some new scholars out of this dorm. I know I’ll sleep better. Still, I feel as if every death has a meaning; a reason for happening. I may bring that up in Philosophy I. Anyway, it’s a damn shame about Jim. Marcum lost a great card partner.