The Secret of Life

“That’s good,” laughed Conrad. This sure was different from Louisville.

“There’s a lot of Jewish jokes. Jewish humor. Have you readStern ? By Bruce Jay Friedman?”

No.

“I’ll lend it to you. It’s a panic.”

Over the next week, Conrad came to realize that most of his new Swarthmore friends were Jewish. His roommate Ron Platek, and Cal Preminger across the hall, and most Jewish of all, Chuckie and his roommate Izzy Tuskman.

Tuskman and Golem had been wrestling stars at different Long Island high schools. This was one sport that Swarthmore competed seriously in, so the two had been recruited and billeted together in a one-person room. To make space for their desks, the college had installed bunk beds. Often, after supper, Conrad and Preminger would squeeze into Tuskman and Golem’s room to trade jokes and insults. They all liked to tease Conrad for not being Jewish.

“Hey, Conrad, you know whatschmuck is?” This from Tuskman, a five-foot two-inch, thick-lipped elf who looked and talked like Chico Marx.

“Well, in German it means ‘ornament.’ ”

“He evenspeaks Kraut,” marveled Golem.

Conrad knew some German from listening to his mother’s relatives. “Ornament,” he repeated. “Like jewelry, you know?”

“Dat’s poifect,” exclaimed Tuskman.“Ohnament.” He doubled over in glee. His whole face squeezed into lumpy wrinkles. “Ohnament,” he gasped. “Tell him, Chuckie.” Chuckie had a more scholarly demeanor than his roomie. “Schmuckin Yiddish means ‘penis,’ ” he explained, adjusting his glasses for emphasis. “If you call a person aschmuck , it means you think he’s a jerk.”

“Come on, Conrad,” said Izzy, still giggling on the floor. “Don’t be anohnament .”

It was fun having strange new friends, but it was just as much fun to go off and be alone whenever you liked. Conrad felt like he was really getting to know himself. He liked to walk down into the Crum woods, or sit with his books on some isolated corner of the great front-campus lawn. When his parents had brought him to Swarthmore on a tour-of-the-colleges last year, Conrad had been impressed at the sight of blue-jeaned students sitting on the lawn with books. And now that was him.

He didn’t study too much out there; mostly he just looked at the clouds and trees, the birds and the squirrels. One day a squirrel got mad at him—he was leaning against its tree, and perhaps it wanted to come down—the squirrel got mad and began making noises at Conrad. Odd, chirr-chucking noises; it was a noise he’d heard in trees before, but he’d never realized that it was squirrels doing it. He threw sticks at the squirrel to keep its scolding going. The noise sounded almost like speech, and faint memories of some higher-energy language flitted across Conrad’s mind.

Often, thinking or studying, he had the feeling of being close to some great realization. He’d forgotten something, something big, but always it escaped him. He felt closest to the big answer when, staring up at clouds, he forgot himself entirely. It was so sweet to be a creature living here on Earth.

Conrad didn’t pay much attention to his roommate, Ron Platek, for the first few weeks. The guy was clearly a schmuck. Tall, uncoordinated, thick-lipped, hook-nosed, he wore heavy black glasses with Coke-bottle lenses. He looked and acted like an old man. He came from Brooklyn. Seeing Ronald William Platek’s address on the list of roommates, Conrad had expected him to be a Negro. Platek, for his part, had expected Conrad von Riema

“Push that desk over there, Conrad. I’m sorry I can’t help you, I’ve got a bad back.”

“OK, Ron. That looks good, doesn’t it? How about putting the bookcases together like this?”

“Beautiful. Would you help me nail up my bulletin board?”

“Sure. Do you think we could get some travel posters?” Caldwell had had travel posters in his college room.

“Please, no travel posters. This isn’t the University of Kentucky, Conrad. How about some art reproductions from the bookstore?”

“Yeah.”

They got in the habit of having long talks in the dark, after going to bed. They were both such provincials—each in his own way—that each found the other’s strange accent endlessly fascinating. Ron had an insatiable appetite for facts about the Southern high-school scene, and Conrad did his best to make it sound interesting. In return, Ron told about his gritty life in Brooklyn.

Ron’s parents were poor immigrants who’d fled Poland to escape Hitler. The neighborhood they’d settled in was half-black and very tough. Ron had been robbed at knifepoint several times. One of his friends had an older brother who’d paid a woman to shit on his chest. The parks were full of junkies, and the sidewalks were littered with used rubbers. “Some of these guys haveno mind , Conrad. With the mouth you got, you wouldn’t last two days.”

After a while, the only thing Conrad didn’t like about Ron was his first name. Finally, one night, an appropriate nickname hit him. Ron was tossing in his bed, worrying about a big astronomy test, and suddenly Conrad had the image of Ron as a great dingyplatter with food sliding back and forth. “Hey, Platter ,” he giggled. “What toothsome victuals do you bear?”

“What are you talking about, Bunger?”

“That’s your name. That’s what I’m going to call you.Platter. ”

“Fuck you.”

“You can callme Platter, too. We’ll be like the Jackson twins.” Conrad was referring to a newspaper comic strip about twin teenage girls.

“Oh, my God, the Jackson twins. With the little brother ...Termite ?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ, what I’d give to fuck the Jackson twins. Even just one of them. I’d give my left dick.”

“I remember I actually jacked off on aRex Morgan comic strip once. There was this real hot woman waiting for Rex in a motel room. You could see her thighs.”

“Jesus. Soft, creamy thighs quivering with uncontrollable lust.”

Another night, they got onto the differences between the Jewish and Christian religions.

“Is it true that you all are still waiting for a Messiah?” asked Conrad. “I read somewhere ... I think it was inUlysses ... that every time a Jewish man has a son he’s all excited thinking it might be the Redeemer.”

“Ah, that’s bullshit.” “Didyou know that Christ was really a Jew, Platter?”

“Of course! What do you think the Last Supper was?Pesach! The feast of Passover. My family does it every year. Real good food, Platter, you ought to try it.” Platter paused in fond recollection, then went on. “Sure, Christ was a Jew. A nice guy like me!My father’s a carpenter, you know, he lays parquet floors.” “What if you were the Messiah, and you didn’t even know it? What if you thought you were a regular person, but you were really something else?”

“Guys like you and me don’t have to worry about that, Conrad. Nobody thinks we’re regular persons anyway.”