I Am Charlotte Simmons (49 page)
Read I Am Charlotte Simmons Online
Authors: Tom Wolfe
How could it have happened? As Jojo ran back down the court, defeat registered with a pain real enough to be tactile :::::::::STATIC::::::::::STATIC::::::::::STATIC:::::::::: didn't want to so much as glance at Coach as he passed the bench, but his peripheral vision betrayed him. Buster Roth had his hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone. He was leaning forward, a contorted figure emerging from the atomic fog of the :::::::::: STATIC:::::::::::::
When Jojo got down near the basket to take up his position, Perkins was waiting for him, staring ⦠but not saying a word. Instead, he had his tongue stuck in the big pocket of flesh between his gums and his lower lip. It created a bulge above his chin and a wholly mechanical smile in which his eyes weren't involved at all. Perkins had a pair of mean-looking eyes. He nodded up and down ever so slightly, as if to say, “Yes, white boy, that's how it's going to be. Get used to it.”
Jojo felt fear. He wondered if Perkins could smell it. Jamal Perkins was not only big, he was quick and a plyometric marvel on top of that ::::::::::STATIC ::::::::::STATIC::::::::::
Perkins didn't say anything. This Jojo took as a bad sign. It was abnormal.
Jojo backed into him, and Perkins shoved back, always with the heels of both hands over Jojo's kidneys. Not that it hurt particularly, but there was something ⦠sinister ⦠about it, something calculating ⦠Out on the three-point line's semicircle, Dashorn and Curtis and André were shuttling the ball back and forth and trying picks that didn't work and getting generally frustrated by the Cincinnati defense. The shot clock was running down. Finally André faked a three-point jumper that was in fact a soft, looping feed to Treyshawn. Cincinnati's big Serb, Javelosgvik, was all over him. He was so aggressive and had such long arms that Treyshawn had to try a fadeaway with a high arc from ten feet out. It clanged on the cantilever that attached the basket to the backboard and bounced. Jojo and Perkins went up for the rebound :::::::::::::STATIC:::::::::::::::STATIC::::::::::::: The ball took a lazy bounce almost straight up, and both men came back to the floor ⦠had to jump again. Perkins shoved Jojo sideways with his forearm and beat him easily on the second jump, but the ball took a second clanging bounce on the rim and Perkins was already descending, heading back to the floor again as Jojo regained his footing and jumped up and seized the ball above the level of the rim and came down with it and, hemmed in by Cincinnati uniforms, fed it out to André, who immediately threw it back inside to him.
Jojo backed into him, and Perkins shoved back, always with the heels of both hands over Jojo's kidneys. Not that it hurt particularly, but there was something ⦠sinister ⦠about it, something calculating ⦠Out on the three-point line's semicircle, Dashorn and Curtis and André were shuttling the ball back and forth and trying picks that didn't work and getting generally frustrated by the Cincinnati defense. The shot clock was running down. Finally André faked a three-point jumper that was in fact a soft, looping feed to Treyshawn. Cincinnati's big Serb, Javelosgvik, was all over him. He was so aggressive and had such long arms that Treyshawn had to try a fadeaway with a high arc from ten feet out. It clanged on the cantilever that attached the basket to the backboard and bounced. Jojo and Perkins went up for the rebound :::::::::::::STATIC:::::::::::::::STATIC::::::::::::: The ball took a lazy bounce almost straight up, and both men came back to the floor ⦠had to jump again. Perkins shoved Jojo sideways with his forearm and beat him easily on the second jump, but the ball took a second clanging bounce on the rim and Perkins was already descending, heading back to the floor again as Jojo regained his footing and jumped up and seized the ball above the level of the rim and came down with it and, hemmed in by Cincinnati uniforms, fed it out to André, who immediately threw it back inside to him.
Perkins was all over Jojo's back. He growled out a single sentence: “Jes' give it up, bitch.”
Jojo saw redâa red mist before his eyes. The Congers move popped into his head. He drew the ball in close to his chest and glanced back to gauge where Perkins's solar plexus was â¦
yes
⦠pivoted to his left and brought the ball up as if about to attempt a jumperâtook his right hand off the ball, swung back to the right, and drove his elbow into Perkins's midsection immediately below the sternum with all his mightâ
yes
⦠pivoted to his left and brought the ball up as if about to attempt a jumperâtook his right hand off the ball, swung back to the right, and drove his elbow into Perkins's midsection immediately below the sternum with all his mightâ
Ooooofff!
âhit home!â
swung around Perkins with a bounce and three strides and soared to
stuff
the ballâcan't believe it! A black arm is already there, blocking the ball, which spins off his fingers. Jojo comes down off balance, stumbling away from the ballâthe Serb has it, flailing his elbows back and forth and then shuttling it off to the point guard, McAughtonâ
swung around Perkins with a bounce and three strides and soared to
stuff
the ballâcan't believe it! A black arm is already there, blocking the ball, which spins off his fingers. Jojo comes down off balance, stumbling away from the ballâthe Serb has it, flailing his elbows back and forth and then shuttling it off to the point guard, McAughtonâ
What just happened couldn't have happened! He'd given Perkins a whack right in the solar plexusâand Perkins takes it and is somehow â¦
there
⦠to block an easy stuffer that was as good as
madeâ
there
⦠to block an easy stuffer that was as good as
madeâ
McAughton is already racing toward the Dupont basket on a fast break, feeds his shooting guard with a pass across court. Only an incredible leap by
André Walker deflecting the feed back to McAughton averts another conversion. Jojo lets out his breath and convinces himself: at least he couldn't be blamed.
André Walker deflecting the feed back to McAughton averts another conversion. Jojo lets out his breath and convinces himself: at least he couldn't be blamed.
The nextâwhat?âminute, minutes?âwent by in a delirium. He managed to get downcourt in time to intercept Perkins, but the next thing he knew, Perkins was feinting this way and that until he had Jojo flat-footed, and he drove to the basket along the baseline. With a lunge and a leap Jojo managed to get his hand up at least six inches above the rim as Perkins took off. But Perkins hurtled under the basket and did a twisting fall-away layup from the other side.
Jojo couldn't keep track of the sequences, but the same show was on, over and over. Perkins has Jojo so bottled up on offense that Dashorn, Curtis, and André give up going inside to him and seek out Treyshawn. Guarding Perkinsâit isn't
guarding
. It's humiliation after humiliation. Explosions of quickness and powerâand Perkins goes around him, over him, under himâthree more baskets that seem to occur with such suddenness that JojoâJojoâJojoâ
guarding
. It's humiliation after humiliation. Explosions of quickness and powerâand Perkins goes around him, over him, under himâthree more baskets that seem to occur with such suddenness that JojoâJojoâJojoâ
And then the dreaded horn sounded. No longer inside the STATIC pearl ⦠back into the world, where all was politics, judgment, and abrasion. The dreaded
horn
had sounded! The noise had not really died down all that much, but now the crowd was no longer dematerialized in an atomic fog. Jojo could see individual faces, even though he went to some pains not to look into them. He was conscious of the Cottontop Box at midcourt, the Pineapple Grove.
horn
had sounded! The noise had not really died down all that much, but now the crowd was no longer dematerialized in an atomic fog. Jojo could see individual faces, even though he went to some pains not to look into them. He was conscious of the Cottontop Box at midcourt, the Pineapple Grove.
“Yo! Jojo!” A young voice from a section of the stands above the rich old people. “Which way'd he go? You're money, Jojo! Maybe a nickel!” Followed by a round of laughter.
Against his better judgment, Jojo looked up. There, in an aisle, was a clump of four guysâstudents by the looks of themâstaring at him with smirks and crooked, slightly wary grins, waiting for him to respond.
Jojo looked away and headed on toward the bench. Only then did he look up at the scoreboard. He knew they were behind, but he didn't know it was that bad: 12â2. Jamal Perkins had scored eight of Cincinnati's twelveall of them in man-to-man duels with Jojo Johanssen ⦠the white boy â¦
He could already
hear
what awaited him at the bench. Coach was into full Fuck Patois. He wasn't even going to let the starters sit down ⦠Fucking this and fucking that. He was letting Dashorn, Treyshawn, Curtis, and André have it ⦠Even Treyshawn â¦
hear
what awaited him at the bench. Coach was into full Fuck Patois. He wasn't even going to let the starters sit down ⦠Fucking this and fucking that. He was letting Dashorn, Treyshawn, Curtis, and André have it ⦠Even Treyshawn â¦
Just
like that, the band, always installed throughout the game in the first eight rows of the stands at one corner of the court, broke out in a blast of brass and drums ⦠the theme song from Rocky rendered in an insane arrangement ⦠a convulsion of jazzy optimism. Lines of cheerleaders in clinging sleeveless V-necked mauve jerseys and pleated yellow miniskirts lined both sides of the court, wagging their fannies, making the music seem even fluffier. They were on the court before Jojo could even return to the bench. Where did they come from? It was as if they had flown down from the upper reaches of the Buster Bowl dome. Scampering right by Jojo came the dancers, the Charlies' Angels (Chazzies), in golden Lycra tights, cut almost as low as the top of the cleft in the rear declivity. The swath of flesh between their golden Lycra athletic bras and the low-cut golden tights was a twenty-first-century Venus bellyscape of winking navels and high-definition abdominals. Many was the time Jojo had found it arousingâthis juxtaposition of the sharpness of the taut, ripped, shredded abdominals ⦠and the soft, mysterious swells ⦠But lust was completely foreign to him at this moment.
Just like that
, the dancers hurled themselves into modern dance choreography that turned the theme music from the movie
Rocky
, an anthem of martial determination, into a belly or, rather, abdominals, dance. At every corner of the court were acrobats and tumblers and gymnasts. Young menâwith arms of steel, and mauve-and-yellow striped tights that clung to immensely muscular upper thighsâworked in pairs, launching lovely little cupcake gymnasts into the air above them, where the little lovelies did somersaults, half gainers, and back flips with yawning twists before they fell back into the young men's arms. The band, the cheerleaders, the dancers, the acrobatsâan instant circus covering the court!âand this was nothing more than a time-out! The band exploded with giddily merry music, not stirring but â¦
giddy
, inexplicably joyous, aimlessly ecstatic. And hadn't the players, these giant men on campus, taken note of this hardwood platter of lithe and crazy little cupcakes? Oh yes, they had. To be sure. Some had gone through them serially. By now it seemed like a natural reward for the eminent warrior. Jojo had had his flings like the rest. It meant about as much as a nice cold beer ⦠having a romp with one of these little cupcakes who bucked and humped and swiveled and swagged and worked so hard, shaking their bottoms from cliff to cliff.
like that, the band, always installed throughout the game in the first eight rows of the stands at one corner of the court, broke out in a blast of brass and drums ⦠the theme song from Rocky rendered in an insane arrangement ⦠a convulsion of jazzy optimism. Lines of cheerleaders in clinging sleeveless V-necked mauve jerseys and pleated yellow miniskirts lined both sides of the court, wagging their fannies, making the music seem even fluffier. They were on the court before Jojo could even return to the bench. Where did they come from? It was as if they had flown down from the upper reaches of the Buster Bowl dome. Scampering right by Jojo came the dancers, the Charlies' Angels (Chazzies), in golden Lycra tights, cut almost as low as the top of the cleft in the rear declivity. The swath of flesh between their golden Lycra athletic bras and the low-cut golden tights was a twenty-first-century Venus bellyscape of winking navels and high-definition abdominals. Many was the time Jojo had found it arousingâthis juxtaposition of the sharpness of the taut, ripped, shredded abdominals ⦠and the soft, mysterious swells ⦠But lust was completely foreign to him at this moment.
Just like that
, the dancers hurled themselves into modern dance choreography that turned the theme music from the movie
Rocky
, an anthem of martial determination, into a belly or, rather, abdominals, dance. At every corner of the court were acrobats and tumblers and gymnasts. Young menâwith arms of steel, and mauve-and-yellow striped tights that clung to immensely muscular upper thighsâworked in pairs, launching lovely little cupcake gymnasts into the air above them, where the little lovelies did somersaults, half gainers, and back flips with yawning twists before they fell back into the young men's arms. The band, the cheerleaders, the dancers, the acrobatsâan instant circus covering the court!âand this was nothing more than a time-out! The band exploded with giddily merry music, not stirring but â¦
giddy
, inexplicably joyous, aimlessly ecstatic. And hadn't the players, these giant men on campus, taken note of this hardwood platter of lithe and crazy little cupcakes? Oh yes, they had. To be sure. Some had gone through them serially. By now it seemed like a natural reward for the eminent warrior. Jojo had had his flings like the rest. It meant about as much as a nice cold beer ⦠having a romp with one of these little cupcakes who bucked and humped and swiveled and swagged and worked so hard, shaking their bottoms from cliff to cliff.
The pandemonium was such that as Jojo neared the bench, he could no longer hear Coach raging in Fuck Patois. But it wasn't something that required hearing. Seeing it was quite enough ⦠the way his upper teeth
overbit his lower lip in order to spit out a
fucking
at maximum strength. All was uproar, and the band was playing “Love for Sale” at a tickled-pink tempo that longed for a drum major and six majorettes.
overbit his lower lip in order to spit out a
fucking
at maximum strength. All was uproar, and the band was playing “Love for Sale” at a tickled-pink tempo that longed for a drum major and six majorettes.
Out of the corner of his eye Jojo saw Dashorn and Treyshawn bending over at the waist to hear Coach better and, presumably, more privately, and Curtis and André were just joining them. Obviously Coach was gathering the five of them, as usual, for instructions before they returned to the court. He steeled himself. He knew he himself would get an earful, no doubt. He took a deep breath, joined the huddleâ
Congers
âa visceral chill before his mind could fasten upon the logicâ
Congers
âa visceral chill before his mind could fasten upon the logicâ
Owing to Treyshawn's huge bulk, Jojo hadn't realized until this instant that sandwiched in between Treyshawn and Coach was Vernon Congers. He had bent over, his hands on his knees, like the rest of them ⦠to get
the word
before play resumed. Jojo started to do likewiseâbut the logic kicked in, and he remained erect, his shoulders slumped and his lips parted.
the word
before play resumed. Jojo started to do likewiseâbut the logic kicked in, and he remained erect, his shoulders slumped and his lips parted.
Coach looked up at him with an expression that seemed to say, “Oh, hi, I didn't expect to see you here.” To make it worse, his voice was kindly â¦
“Jojo, I want you to take a break.” He motioned in a vague direction with his head ⦠in a vague direction ⦠but not so vague that Dashorn, Treyshawn, André, Curtis, and least of all Vernon Congers could fail to realize that it was toward the bench.
All except Coach turned their faces away from him, and Jojo looked away from them. Desperate to fix upon
something, anything,
his eyes found the scoreboard. Four minutes and forty seconds of the first quarter had elapsed.
something, anything,
his eyes found the scoreboard. Four minutes and forty seconds of the first quarter had elapsed.
It was as Jamal Perkins had predicted. His tenure as a starter for Dupont had lasted less than five minutes of the first game of the seasonâthe season that would make or put an end to his career as an athlete, which is to say, the only career open, the only role imaginable, to Jojo Johanssen in this world.
He became acutely conscious of the band. Now the trumpets, the trombones, the clarinets, the French horns, the mighty drums, were playing “He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother” with the unremittingly bubbly beat of “On the Sunny Side of the Street.”
Â
Â
Two students who could care less about what was happening in the Buster Bowl were walking along in the rusky, dusky Monday night quiet of Ladding Walk. The Walk's ornamental streetlampsâfeeble, all too feebleâcast the
old buildings and trees on either side into grotesque shadow. One could
feel
it, the presence of so many architectural and arboreal hulks, stone-dead, dead still, in the dark.
old buildings and trees on either side into grotesque shadow. One could
feel
it, the presence of so many architectural and arboreal hulks, stone-dead, dead still, in the dark.
“It does weird you out a little,” said Adam, hoping to sound nonchalant. “Come to think of it, I don't even remember being on Ladding Walk at night before. But I also don't remember anything ever
happening
on Ladding Walk at night ⦠or in the daytime, for that matter. Whatta you think there is to be scared of?”
happening
on Ladding Walk at night ⦠or in the daytime, for that matter. Whatta you think there is to be scared of?”
“I'm not talking about ⦠scared exactly,” said Charlotte. “I just didn't want to walk all the way over here in the dark by myself ⦠and then all the way to the end down there?”
Far ahead, the two edges of the Walk appeared to converge in total darkness, with only glimmering globes of light to mark the way.
“It's spooky, is what I mean,” Charlotte was saying. “I was here one night with Mimi and Bettina. I don't remember why, I just remember how spooky it was ⦠All right, I'm a plain-long scaredy cat! I'll admit it. I'm being sillybut I really do 'preciate you doing this.”
She gave him a smile that made him want to throw his arms around her, lift her off the groundâ
pop.
He just kept on walking. He was glad the light was too weak for her to see him blush. He felt noble; and more than noble, brave, or mildly so; and more than noble and brave, admired by the girl who was the answer to his prayers and, more than that, his virginity. It dawned on him that he had never seen her wearing jeans before. He motioned toward them. “Those new?”
pop.
He just kept on walking. He was glad the light was too weak for her to see him blush. He felt noble; and more than noble, brave, or mildly so; and more than noble and brave, admired by the girl who was the answer to his prayers and, more than that, his virginity. It dawned on him that he had never seen her wearing jeans before. He motioned toward them. “Those new?”
“Sort of,” said Charlotte. “Not exactly.”
“Now, tell me again why you're going to the Saint Ray house?” said Adam. “To thank this guy who did
what
for you?”
what
for you?”
As they walked along, Charlotte told him a rather long and involved story about this guy who had saved her from a terribly drunk and menacing lacrosse player. Why a girl like her would even go near a tailgate never became clear. Tailgates were idiotic Saturday afternoon blackout parties for cretins whose idea of a fulfilling weekend was to drink until they passed out Saturday night and then tell war stories about it on Sunday and Monday. He couldn't imagine a freshman, least of all a lovely little flower like Charlotteâwho wouldn't even touch a beerâgoing near a tailgate.
Other books
Demon Lord IV - Lord of Shadows by T C Southwell
Love and Fury by Richard Hoffman
Obsidian Wings by Laken Cane
Deathgame by Franklin W. Dixon
Death in Rome by Wolfgang Koeppen
La increíble y triste historia de la cándida Eréndira y de su abuela desalmada by Gabriel García Márquez
Double Danger by Margaret Thomson Davis
Wildflower Hill by Kimberley Freeman