Kinflicks (37 page)

‘It's not so bad if you don't mind a living death.'

“You're so goddamn self-righteous!' I gasped. ‘What makes you think your approach to life is superior to hers?'

‘I don't
think,
I
know.
I
know
that plunging into involvements with other people and risking rejection and ridicule in a good cause is better than self-embalmment. The only passion Miss Head has ever experienced in her life is her passion for certainty a la Descartes and Spinoza.'

‘Well, I happen not to know what constitutes a “good cause,” Eddie, and that's why I'm apolitical. Look at all the atrocities that have been committed in the name of good causes. I'll stick, along with Miss Head, to areas in which I do “know.”'

She shook her head, her braid lashing in disgust. ‘But you
don't
know. You only
think
you know. You think, therefore you know. Ha!'

‘Even if I were to admit to being convinced by Nietzsche's remarks, which I'm not doing, there
are
other areas of knowledge that
are
unquestionable facts.'

Eddie snickered. ‘Like
what,
for example?'

“Like the fact that a second is 1/31,556,925.9747's of the orbital year that began at noon on January 1,1900. And the fact that you can take this fact, and with it construct other
facts
called minutes, hours, days, years. Like the fact that an atom is constructed of positive charges called protons and negative charges called electrons, and that if they are combined in a designated manner, you will
always
get a certain element.'

Eddie shook her head and said, ‘And so you don't have to be involved with other people because you're so busy tracking down these important truths? Well, if you say so. But do you know that there's a culture in India that happens to use as its basic time unit the period required to boil a pot of rice? And they seem to get along all right.'

I turned around and stormed out, slamming her door. I charged down the hall, got into the rickety elevator, and descended to the first floor. I ran through the reception hall and past the rows of imposing portraits and under the vaulted stone-archway. I pounded on Miss Head's massive door.

She opened it, holding her cello in one hand. ‘Oh, Miss Babcock, it's only you. Good heavens, I thought it was at least a fire warning. Come in, come in.'

I marched in and sank down on the horsehair loveseat

‘Whatever
is
the matter?'

I breathed deeply, trying to relax.

‘Would you like some tea? I just made some.'

‘Yes, thank you. With lemon, please.' What Eddie had said about Miss Head simply wasn't true. She
had
involved herself with other people — with me, for instance. Never mind that she had ulterior motives.

Miss Head leaned her cello against a chair and sat down at her Queen Anne tea table and poured from her encrusted silver urn. ‘Now! What brings you here so late at night?'

‘Did I disturb you? I'm sorry.'

‘No, no, it's perfectly all right. I was just playing some Vivaldi.'

‘Is it too late to change out of nineteenth-century philosophy and into your advanced Descartes seminar for this term?'

‘Hmmm,' she said, glancing at me shrewdly, forcing herself not to say ‘I told you so.' ‘Well, it
is
a little late. I mean the term's half over, isn't it? But let me think about it. It helps that I happen to be your class dean, your adviser,
and
the professor of the seminar you want to get into, doesn't it? But it is a highly irregular request. Most unusual indeed…'

‘I'd really appreciate it, Miss Head. I think Nietzche's getting me down.' To say nothing of his disciple Eddie Holzer.

‘Indeed,' she said. ‘Indeed. Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Well, I'll give you my decision in a few days. You can count on it.'

She set down her teacup and unleashed her metronome at a dizzying rate. Then she picked up her cello, fitted it between her knees, and filled her chambers with a driving rendition of sections of ‘The Four Seasons.' I followed the straightforward themes and variations with ease and was soon feeling much better. The polished red cello gleamed mellowly in the dim light from a converted oil lamp. Outside her windows, blue icicles hung from the gutter like stalactites.

‘Thank you, Miss Head,' I said, as I was setting down my cup and preparing to leave. ‘I needed that.' I felt as serene now as a harried housewife after her morning dose of Librium.

‘You're quite welcome, Miss Babcock. Any time. Within reason.'

That Wednesday as I sat in the dining hall eating chop suey, Eddie sauntered up with her lunch tray and began unloading her dishes next to mine. I acknowledged her with a cold nod. I, in my neat tweed suit, found Eddie's studied sloppiness — her wheat jeans and turtleneck and Goliath sandals, her messy braid with strands of straggly hair escaping — objectionable, aesthetically offensive.

‘Well, and how's the grande dame of Castle Court?'

‘Are you referring to me?' I inquired with dignity.

‘Yup, to you, sweetheart. How ya doin?'

‘Fine, until your arrival, thank you.'

‘Oh, come on, Ginny. We have many more tedious months next door to each other. Let's be civil, okay?'

‘It's all right with me. If you'll recall,
you
were the one who started us off on this note just now when you referred to me as a grande dame.'

‘All right Yes. You're right. I apologize. Look, I need your help.'

‘What?' I asked, surprised at the notion that she could need anything from me.

‘Some friends of mine are doing an experiment for Psychology 302. They need some more subjects. Will you volunteer? It'll just take half an hour in one of the labs.'

‘Well, I don't know…I have a paper due and…'

‘Please.'

‘All right,' I said, delighted to have the notorious Eddie Holzer begging me for something.

After lunch, we walked through the courtyard en route to the psychology labs. Eddie stopped and studied the bronze sundial with its ornate leaves and vines and reclining gods and goddesses. Its scrolled gnomon cast a shadow at 2:15.

‘My God!' I exclaimed.
‘Two fifteen?
I have an appointment with Miss Head at two thirty.' She was going to give me the word on her Descartes seminar.

Eddie laughed. ‘Don't panic, kid, it's not two fifteen. This fucking thing is Flemish. It's set for the latitude of Flanders.'

When we got to the lab, Eddie's friends were already there — several juniors and seniors, all members of the very small artsy set on campus, who wrote and directed and acted in the plays, who wrote and edited the paper and the literary magazine. They all looked identical to Eddie in their wheat jeans and turtlenecks and sandals, with long straight hair or braids. I felt instantly intimidated in my Helena Head tweed suit and bun.

‘We're all here now,' said a tall, dark hunched senior who had a painting exhibit in the arts center at that very moment. The psychology project was apparently hers. Eddie and I and two others sat side by side; the senior and another girl stood in front of us. A third girl sat in the corner taking notes.

The senior explained the rules. She herself would hold up a constant control card made of cardboard. The other girl up front would hold up a succession of cards of different lengths. One at a time, we four subjects were to say whether the second card was longer than, shorter than, or the same length as the control card. It seemed simple enough. In fact, it seemed downright simple-minded. I couldn't believe that these hypercreative upperclassmen couldn't come up with more intriguing ways to spend their time.

After several practice runs, the experiment began in earnest. I was sitting on the far end and was always the last to express my judgment, but it really didn't matter because we all agreed anyway. Yes, yes, that card was shorter than the control. And that one was longer. And so on. I was becoming very impatient and irritable. After all, I
did
have a paper to write.

During the sixth round the atmosphere of bored agreement suddenly shifted, and I found the three others blandly agreeing that a card was shorter, which to me was obviously longer.

And again. ‘Longer,' said the first girl.

‘Longer,' agreed the second.

‘Longer,' said Eddie with a yawn.

‘The
same,'
I insisted staunchly.

And yet again. I kept glancing around furtively as the others perjured with indifference the testimony of their senses. Or at least of
my
senses.

‘The same,' said the first girl.

‘The same.'

‘The same,' agreed Eddie.

‘Longer,'
I mumbled belligerendy. Damn! How could they call it the same, when it was so obviously longer?

‘Shorter,' said the first girl.

‘Shorter,' said the second.

‘Shorter,' said Eddie, stretching luxuriously.

‘The same?' I suggested uncertainly. It
couldn't
be shorter. Could it? The others glanced at me with surprise.

‘Longer,' said the first girl, about a card that to me was clearly shorter.

‘Longer,' confirmed the second girl.

‘Longer,' agreed Eddie.

Unable to endure the social isolation any longer, I intentionally belied the verdict of my eyes and said casually, ‘Longer.' It felt marvelous to be in step with the others. I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

‘The same,' said the first girl.

‘The same.'

‘The same.'

‘Shorter,' I wailed pitifully. Was something wrong with my eyes? I squinted and then opened them as wide as possible, trying to rectify my apparently faulty vision. Then I stared so intently at the control card that my vision blanked out altogether and I couldn't see anything for a few seconds. Eddie and the first girl looked at me, then glanced at each other and shrugged.

After two dozen of these runs, in which they agreed and I differed, or in which they agreed and I pretended to agree, interspersed with runs in which we all genuinely
did
agree, I could no longer tell what was shorter or longer than what. I would see a card as shorter. The others would call it longer, and before my very eyes the card would quiver and expand until it did in fact look longer. Or it would waver playfully back and forth between long and short.

Soon I was feeling nauseated, and my eyes were burning.

‘The same,' said the first girl, about a card that had originally looked longer to me.

‘The same,' said the second.

‘The same,' said Eddie.

I widened and narrowed my eyes several times, as the size of the card fluctuated. Then I fell out of my chair and collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

Eddie knelt down and helped me up, saying, ‘Now, now Ginny. It's just an experiment. Where's your Spinozan detachment?'

I collapsed on her shoulder and wept while she patted my back consolingly. The senior running the test came up and said, “You really did quite well, Ginny. You stood up to the others sixty-five percent of the time. The average so far is forty-three percent.'

‘What
average?' I asked between sobs, looking up.

‘The average number of correct responses the subject gives in contradiction to the pretend subjects.'

‘Pretend
subjects? You mean this whole thing was staged?' I turned on Eddie in a rage.

‘We thought you'd figured it out by now,' the senior said. ‘You mean you hadn't?'

I raised a fist to slug Eddie. She put an arm around me affectionately. I pulled away.

‘I'm sorry, Ginny, but it had to be done,' Eddie said.

‘Why
did it? You could have at least told me.'

‘If I'd told you, it wouldn't have worked, would it? And you
are
in search of Truth, aren't you? Or doesn't that extend to the truth about yourself?'

I stomped out of the lab, my vision so strained and blurred that I bumped into the door casing. Back on my hall, I went to the bathroom and threw up. Then I went to my room and drew the curtains and climbed in bed and pulled the covers over my head. I stayed there until the following day, missing my appointment with Miss Head and several classes as well.

Christmas vacation came and went. Mid-winter faded into early spring. The snow cover melted and ran off the flagstones in rivulets. Still I hadn't spoken to Eddie. She had humiliated me in front of her artsy friends. I knew they were snickering behind their hands about the weakness of my character as I passed them en route to the library or to classes. I had decided never to speak to Eddie again. When I encountered her in the dining hall or as we entered our rooms, I turned my head away. She respected my pique and didn't make any effort to approach me. Sometimes I heard her in her room singing Bob Dylan songs. Occasionally I would deign to read one of her ridiculous editorials in the campus paper demanding that the college government abolish curfew, that the trustees run a camp for ghetto children on the campus in the summer. A couple of times when I was sure she was out, I crept through her sloppy room and out her casement window to a flat roof where I could sunbathe nude and undisturbed in the late April sun.

Mostly, though, I studied. I had no friends except Miss Head, saw no one except in classes and at meals. I was too busy pursuing Truth to have a social life. Under Miss Head's tutelage I was exploring the topic of free will versus determinism as handled by the eighteenth-century rationalist philosophers. Determinism was winning out hands down. I was pleased. I was making mincemeat of Eddie's principles of social action.

Otherwise, however, my courses were not going well. Schopenhauer in Philosophy 240 was saying distressing things like, ‘No truth therefore is more certain, more independent of all others, and less in need of proof than this, that all that exists for knowledge, and therefore for this whole world, is only object in relation to subject, perception of a perceiver, in a word, idea. This is obviously true of the past and the future, as well as of the present, of what is farthest off, as of what is near; for it is true of time and space themselves, in which alone these distinctions arise. All that in any way belongs or can belong to the world is inevitably thus conditioned through the subject, and exists only for the subject. The world is idea.'