They drove along River Road for a while, then up a long hill to St. Conrad’s mother had lent him her new blue Volkswagen. The other boys cheered, and Ardmore went on outside with Conrad. “Decadent” was his favorite word, though right now he was using it with a certain irony. He was skinny, with a heavy shock of dry black hair hanging into his sallow face. “How decadent,” said young Ardmore, his mouth twisting. Some of the Chevalier members were fairly cool-though Conrad himself had been initiated primarily because his big brother Caldwell had been a member before going off to college and the army. They belonged to the same high-school fraternity, a club called the Chevalier Literary Society. One of them, Jim Ardmore, was a pretty good friend of Conrad’s. Right now they were having a belching contest, bouncing the gurpy sounds off the oaken walls. There were some younger boys without dates out there, smoking and horsing around. John’s sacristy! He told Linda he’d be back in a few minutes and hurried out into the hall. The answer came to him as the song ended. Who was he to badger this gay young thing for sex? With death so near, and the night so young, how could he find a bottle? Watching Linda dance, Conrad felt very old. Ballhouse was talking about love, no doubt, love and kissing, dance steps and new clothes. Her partner was Billy Ballhouse, a real snowman. Linda was still dancing, laughing and light on her feet. The boys in the cloakroom glared at Conrad. It was still only 10:30, and those few gulps of whiskey were wearing off fast. “Christ, and give me syphilis? Get your own!” He was sipping from the very same pint that Conrad had sampled earlier.Ĭonrad attempted a smile. What are you, a pickpocket or something?” It was Preston, a party-boy with cratered skin and a black burr-haircut. There were some older boys down there now, but, hell, everyone was drinking, why should they care if he took a little? “That is just a little out-of-the-question, Conrad. “What difference does it make? What difference does anything make? Oh, beautiful Linda, why don’t you sleep with me before we die.” Babbling about it on the dance floor, Conrad wore a heavy, glazed expression that made Linda suspicious. She and Conrad had gone steady for almost a year, and now all of a sudden at the New Year’s Eve dance he was interested in the problem of death. Linda wasn’t interested in all this Linda was a tennis player. It seems impossible, but someday I will really die.” I will go to college, and marry, and have children, and all the time it will be me doing it, me doing it in some mysteriously moving now. “I can’t conceive of being in college, but that will come, too, and when it comes it will feel like now. “Last year I never thought I’d be drunk at a dance, yet here I am, just as surely as I’ve crossed this tile floor.”Īs he started back toward the dance floor, the wider implications hit him. “Now, although it seemed inconceivable before, I am on the other side of the room.” His mind felt unbelievably clear. “Now I am moving through space, and time is going on, and now…” He unzipped and began to piss. “I’m here by the sinks,” thought Conrad, “and it seems impossible that I will ever be over there by the urinals.” He began to walk. Mirrors, a stack of clean-smelling linen towels by the sinks, and the urinals across the room. The bathroom was empty, all light and white tile. He made for the men’s room, eyes and mouth streaming, and drank some water from the sink. With flushed skin, buzzing ears, and the sudden conviction that he was cool, Conrad fumbled the bottle back into its velvet-collared overcoat. Conrad drew out a pint of Old Crow and gulped at the strange liquid, vile and volatile stuff that evaporated almost before he could swallow. It was easy the bottles grew as thick as autumn fruit. Conrad made his way there and patted down the overcoats, feeling for the happy tumor of a hidden pint. The coat racks were at the foot of the stairs leading down to the bathrooms. His date Linda was dancing with a boy she’d had a crush on since fifth grade, and Conrad was hoping to get drunk. Conrad had his father’s old tux and horrible lumpy dress shoes he was smaller than the others, a brain, but blending in well enough. It was a much classier scene than Conrad was accustomed to, though he did know many of the other boys and girls, the rich boys in brand-new tuxedos, the girls in pale dresses with thin straps. He was at a New Year’s Eve dance at the River Valley Country Club in Louisville. Conrad Bunger was sixteen when it first hit him: Someday you’ll be dead.
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