It was a time of transparent emotions for all of us. Except for Evan, who was headed to law school at the University of Virginia in the fall, none of us knew what we’d be doing after graduation. And while we knew that we’d garner no sympathy from people facing real hardship, such knowledge didn’t lessen our anxieties.
Now it looked as if Sara could use a tequila shot. She leaned against the car and crossed her arms. “I just met with Tanya Mahoney in her office. She offered to help me find a job in publishing. Editorial assistant, or some job like that.”
The chance to study with Tanya Mahoney was one of the reasons why Sara had come to Princeton. Now her teacher, a renowned author and Pulitzer Prize winner, was offering to help her find work. I couldn’t see why this was anything but incredibly good news.
A Frisbee whumped into the side of my car. On warm days, campus became a battlefield for mad disk hurlers. I’d spent all spring ducking and dodging.
I picked up the Frisbee and threw it to the guy running toward me from the quad, who waved an apology.
Once he’d run off again, I asked Sara, “What am I missing?”
“I don’t want to be an editor. I want to be a writer.”
“Ah.” I didn’t know the ins and outs of publishing. “She must like your writing, though, if she’s willing to help you out.”
“As a matter of fact, she doesn’t. As a matter of fact, she thinks my writing is, quote, young. She said that to me today. And do you know what else she said? She said, ‘While you show promise, you are not yet ready for publication.’”
As she recalled her meeting, fresh tears came to her eyes. She wiped them away with her fingers.
Not being ready—that was my own biggest fear. I imagined Fred McPhee shaking my hand later that night, after our set, and saying, Thanks, Will. But don’t call us, we’ll call you. These were New York musicians, professionals, and I worried whether I’d be able to play at their level. All week I’d been having nightmares where I show up to the gig and my drums are set up all wrong, so that I can barely reach them. Or they’re set up correctly but my arms move in slow motion, as if I’m underwater.
“And now,” Sara was saying, “as a reward, I get to go to the writing lab and work all night on my Shakespeare paper. How fun for me.”
“When’s it due?” I asked.
“Monday.”
The solution seemed obvious. “Put it off,” I said. “Come with me to the city and hang out.”
“I don’t know …”
“Come on, it’ll be good for you.”
She bit her lip. “You really wouldn’t mind?”
I assured her that I could use a friendly face. “Anyway, our set’s only an hour long. I’ll have you home by midnight.”
But at midnight we were still at the bar, still part of the electric cloud of urgent talk and meaningful glances and cigarette haze and sweaty bodies dancing to a jukebox strained to the limit, all of which came together in a great surge of energy that seemed to power this large city. I imagined that right now, a quiet home in some Jersey suburb was experiencing an unexpected burst of light and heat because of what was being generated in this small music club way down in Greenwich Village.
Sara and I were at a table in the corner with Fred and his girlfriend, Eve. Fred had just invited us for a drink at their apartment a few blocks away.
I looked over at Sara, who for several hours now had been on a steady diet of rum and Cokes. She looked back at me and shrugged. “It’s your night, big guy. Whatever you want.”
“You sure Shakespeare can wait?” I asked.
She cocked an eyebrow.
“Because scholars everywhere are probably on pins and needles waiting to hear what you have to say.”
She lifted her hand and shared with me the international sign for I’m not amused.
“Okay,” I said to Fred. “Maybe for just a little while.”
A half hour later, my drums were moving up flight after flight of stairs, carried by the three members of High Noon, Fred’s girlfriend, three other friends, Sara, and myself. Drums left in a car are asking to be stolen, so we carried and climbed our way up four stories to Fred’s apartment, one of many old buildings lining Sixth Street like a smile of dirty crooked teeth.
We collapsed on the floor. Fred put on a couple of dim lamps and went to change his shirt.
The apartment was old and worn-out, a typical rattrap, yet not without the charm that comes from old construction. High ceilings, wood floors. Eve pointed out the view of a small brick church through the bay window. “You can’t see it now,” she said, “but there’s some grass behind the church where they have outdoor weddings. It’s nice.”
A frantic beagle came running out of the bedroom, followed by Fred. “Ignore Garfunkel—I don’t want him pissing in here.” He handed Pete, the rhythm guitarist, a bowl and lighter and then clipped a leash on the dog and left the apartment.