Read I Am Charlotte Simmons Online
Authors: Tom Wolfe
I Am Charlotte Simmons (47 page)
Just then a huge collective groan welled up from over there in the midst of all the shouting. Another mass groan, louder yammering and cheering. Hoyt struggled to his feet, which was harder than it would have been if he could've used both hands. Right now he couldn't. Getting wasted, even in defeat, still had a grip on the big cup of beer.
“I'm gonna go see,” said Vance. His blue eyes were flashing with anticipation. Boo-man, who had been diligently manning the keg for ten or eleven Saint Rays and their girlfriends, had stopped pumping and was craning his neck to try to spot the action. Even the Saint Rays and the girls down on the asphalt, who couldn't see a thing, were looking in the direction of the ruckus.
Hoyt was dizzy from drink and from standing up while drunk. But curiosity soon revved up his blissfully demolished willpower, and he clambered down from the truck bed with Vance and Boo-man.
The three of them were far from being the only students tramping through the beer and cups and converging on the fight scene. Once they got there, they could see that penetrating the crush of gawkers would be a tactical nightmare. But Hoyt, especially while drunk, saw no reason in the world why a Saint Ray should obey the rules of the mob, such as first come, first served. He began knifing through the gawkers with his most imperious, superior self on display. “Coming through ⦠coming through ⦠Hey! Coming through! Move! I said coming through!” In the case of the occasional jerk who wanted it known that he couldn't be fucked with, Hoyt would give the guy a certain accusing stare he had mastered, a veritable laser beaming undiluted blame, and say, “Don't dick around! I got the plasma!”
In no time he was in the first row of the ring. Holy shit ⦠No wonder such a mob ⦠Out in the middle of the ring were Mac Bolka and Harrison Vorheese ⦠Mac Bolka and Harrison Vorheese! They were pumped,
pumped
!âand fighting for real. Right now they were both crouched, circling each other ⦠breathing hard, pouring sweat ⦠Their hides were
covered in friction burns, cuts, and dirt. A stripe of bright red blood ran from Harrison's nose straight down to his mouth ⦠He kept trying to block the flow with his lower lip ⦠Mac Bolka's eyes looked like flashlight bulbs down in dark craters. They were both on their last legs, if Hoyt knew anything about it â¦
pumped
!âand fighting for real. Right now they were both crouched, circling each other ⦠breathing hard, pouring sweat ⦠Their hides were
covered in friction burns, cuts, and dirt. A stripe of bright red blood ran from Harrison's nose straight down to his mouth ⦠He kept trying to block the flow with his lower lip ⦠Mac Bolka's eyes looked like flashlight bulbs down in dark craters. They were both on their last legs, if Hoyt knew anything about it â¦
He leaned in close to the ear of some skinny dork who was standing right next to him. “What's all
this
about?”
this
about?”
“It's over some girl,” the dork said without taking his eyes off the contest.
“What girl?”
“That girl over there on the edge.” He gestured vaguely, eyes still pinned on the action. “The one in the dress.”
There was only one girl in a dress amid the wall of gawkers. It was hard to make out her face, because she stood there hunched over, her hands pressed flat against her cheeks, her lips parted, her brow contorted, her eyes terrified, her cheekbones wet and glistening ⦠Wait a minute. It was her, that girlâwhat the fuck
was
her name?âthat little freshman, the one who gave him a hard time that night ⦠But it was only that, a blip of random thought. Only one person was on his mindâHarrison, who was a brother. A brother! A Saint Ray! Not only that, but a lacrosse player ⦠although he didn't actually think that thought in so many words. He
felt
it, that thought, as if he were wired to a circuit. And Saint Rays were those who
take no shit.
That thought he did think in so many words. If Harrison needed any help,
any
help, against that big ugly bear, he was going to get it. He, Hoyt Thorpe, was a warrior!âand took no shit where Saint Rays were concerned.
was
her name?âthat little freshman, the one who gave him a hard time that night ⦠But it was only that, a blip of random thought. Only one person was on his mindâHarrison, who was a brother. A brother! A Saint Ray! Not only that, but a lacrosse player ⦠although he didn't actually think that thought in so many words. He
felt
it, that thought, as if he were wired to a circuit. And Saint Rays were those who
take no shit.
That thought he did think in so many words. If Harrison needed any help,
any
help, against that big ugly bear, he was going to get it. He, Hoyt Thorpe, was a warrior!âand took no shit where Saint Rays were concerned.
Harrison confronted Bolka in a crouch, his body heaving in search of oxygen. His eyes were glassy. He looked as if at any moment he would black out and collapse from sheer exhaustion. Bolka edged closer. With a cry barely louder than a whimper, Harrison charged, throwing his hands upward as if to force Bolka's arms apart and get a clean shot at him. In the next moment they were rolling in the dirt, and Harrison wound up on all fours with Bolka on his back. Bolka forced the smaller man's head onto the ground so that the left side of his face was mashed into the pavement. With some sort of wrestler's hold he clasped his huge hands behind Harrison's neck. The neck was bent at a frightening angle.
Bango!
âthe very life seemed to depart Harrison. He was an inert piece of meat. Sure that his adversary was now, indeed, finished, Bolka rose upright on his knees in a fumid beer slick, his legs still straddling his adversary's body. He threw his shoulders
back and looked about at the crowd and lifted his fists to chest level. Hoyt expected him at any moment to start pounding his chest and cut loose with a yodel. Still lying on his side between Bolka's legs, Harrison slowly rolled onto his back. His eyes were closed. His chest rose up and down in fast, shallow breaths. Bolka had a serious, almost sad look on his face, as if to say, “I didn't want to have to hurt him, but he insisted on picking a fight.” Here at the perfect point on the graph of intoxication, Hoyt treated himself to a wave of sheer malignant hatred. He loathed the dumb fuck. Who was he? What was this Balkan mongrel diversoid doing at Dupont in the first place? The gale was blowing nicely. It was exhilarating. Just perfect. He was a Dupont man and a Saint Ray, and he knew. Loathing became something loftier and more refined: contempt.
Bango!
âthe very life seemed to depart Harrison. He was an inert piece of meat. Sure that his adversary was now, indeed, finished, Bolka rose upright on his knees in a fumid beer slick, his legs still straddling his adversary's body. He threw his shoulders
back and looked about at the crowd and lifted his fists to chest level. Hoyt expected him at any moment to start pounding his chest and cut loose with a yodel. Still lying on his side between Bolka's legs, Harrison slowly rolled onto his back. His eyes were closed. His chest rose up and down in fast, shallow breaths. Bolka had a serious, almost sad look on his face, as if to say, “I didn't want to have to hurt him, but he insisted on picking a fight.” Here at the perfect point on the graph of intoxication, Hoyt treated himself to a wave of sheer malignant hatred. He loathed the dumb fuck. Who was he? What was this Balkan mongrel diversoid doing at Dupont in the first place? The gale was blowing nicely. It was exhilarating. Just perfect. He was a Dupont man and a Saint Ray, and he knew. Loathing became something loftier and more refined: contempt.
Now the contemptible subhuman was rising to its feet. Bolka looked down at Harrison and shook his head as if he was sorry it had had to happen. Then he turned his back on the vanquished foe and began surveying the crowd. He had such a black scowl on his face, it seemed that at any moment he was likely to pick out someone else to slaughter. He stood stock-still and stared at someone. The scowl dissolved into a faint smile. “There's my girl ⦔ He said it with a slow, sugary, cretinish drawl.
Theh's muh gul .
.. He began to move forward. It was
her
, the little freshman ⦠He was heading straight for her.
Theh's muh gul .
.. He began to move forward. It was
her
, the little freshman ⦠He was heading straight for her.
He started to say it again: “Theh's muh gulâ”
“Stay away from me!” It was a shout, a command, rather than a cry.
“Uhhâ”
“I SAID STAY AWAY FROM ME!”
She was furious! Her face was stricken with fear and twisted with a flood of tearsâbut she was furious! She stood her ground!
Bolka, looking bigger and more gorged with muscle than ever, was now but a few steps away from her. He looked more rank, more frothy with sweat, more of a big ugly bear, more contemptible than ever. The gawkers were dumbstruck, paralyzed ⦠tiny worthless creaturesâ
At that moment Hoyt
felt
it. That
point
! That point on the graphâthe two lines
met
at that moment. The limbic and the rational were perfectly poised, in equilibrium. He loved himself as he watched himself detach himself from the ring of useless gawkers and enter the arena, a fellow warrior come to save and avenge a Saint Ray. And in that same moment a strategy came to him.
felt
it. That
point
! That point on the graphâthe two lines
met
at that moment. The limbic and the rational were perfectly poised, in equilibrium. He loved himself as he watched himself detach himself from the ring of useless gawkers and enter the arena, a fellow warrior come to save and avenge a Saint Ray. And in that same moment a strategy came to him.
“Hey, dickhead!” Both hims loved himself as they heard the challenge, the note of unremitting contempt in his voice.
The giant turned about incredulously.
“Stay away from her, dickhead! She's my sister!”
Bolka cocked his head and produced a small sneer of a smile and said, “And who the fuck do you think
you
are?”
you
are?”
“If she's my sister, then I'm her brother, is what the fuck even a moron like you should be able to figure out, and what I'm telling you is, stay away from my sister!”
You could see the giant's scorn and fury dim down all at once, as if it were on a rheostat. Obviously he was beginning to process the implications in terms of public opinion, gawker opinion, if this was in fact the girl's brother. Hoyt and the giant were barely four feet apart. The graph! The point! He was
there
!
there
!
“I said â¦
stay
â¦
away â¦
from my
sister
!”
stay
â¦
away â¦
from my
sister
!”
Hoyt could see the giant's rheostat dim a little further still. “How do I
know
she's your sister?”
know
she's your sister?”
Bolka had reduced things from the level of primal combat to the level of credibility. Hoyt knew he had him. With the steel of authority in his voice he said, “How do you know? Because it's documented. I have it right here.”
With that, he lowered his gaze and dug into the left cargo pocket of his shorts and walked to within two feet of the giant. He produced a piece of paper from his pocketâin fact, a receipt for a DVD he'd rented at Mehr & Bohm Music Videoâand said, “Here.”
The giant took it in his hand and looked down at it.
Hoyt smashed him in the nose with his right forearm. Blood fairly exploded out of the big man's nostrils, but he didn't fall back. He scarcely budged. Amid the red flood down his face, his lips formed a savage leer. Before Hoyt knew what was happeningâsince he had no backup strategyâhad never needed oneâthe giant had his arm around his neck and was squeezing with all his might. Hoyt became eminently aware of the fact that he could no longer breathe. Yet that wasn't as terrifying as the fact that he had now run intoâthis wasâthe dreaded hundredth man his dad had warned him about. He was all at once at the mercy of
one of those babies.
He felt no terror, not yet, only remorse over his own bad judgment, over his failure as a Dupont man and a Saint Ray.
one of those babies.
He felt no terror, not yet, only remorse over his own bad judgment, over his failure as a Dupont man and a Saint Ray.
Cries of rage! Shitfire! Flailing limbs! An avalanche! An incredible massive weight drove his whole body into the asphalt. He was buried beneath
meat and rage. The other lacrosse players had come pummeling down from the flatbed. He was aware of the blows and the horrible pressure and the way the skin tore off his elbow and the horrible weight and smothering darkness of it allâbut the pain hadn't registered. All he knewâfeltâwas that the giant's grip on his neck was gone. He might get beaten to death, but he could die breathing. He tried to curl up in a ball. He still couldn't feel the blows. He merely knew he was being hit. He didn't feel his left arm. He merely knew it was being bent the wrong way. He didn't feel the elbow that came smashing down on his skull. He merely thought it was lights-out. But in fact it wasn't. He could feel the beer all over his head because he could smell it. He could hear an old voice, a crude voice:
meat and rage. The other lacrosse players had come pummeling down from the flatbed. He was aware of the blows and the horrible pressure and the way the skin tore off his elbow and the horrible weight and smothering darkness of it allâbut the pain hadn't registered. All he knewâfeltâwas that the giant's grip on his neck was gone. He might get beaten to death, but he could die breathing. He tried to curl up in a ball. He still couldn't feel the blows. He merely knew he was being hit. He didn't feel his left arm. He merely knew it was being bent the wrong way. He didn't feel the elbow that came smashing down on his skull. He merely thought it was lights-out. But in fact it wasn't. He could feel the beer all over his head because he could smell it. He could hear an old voice, a crude voice:
“Yo, laddy-buck, 'at's enough a that, you dumb shit!”
Laddy-buck.
That meant Bruce and the campus police had arrived. Bruce was a big old fat man who called guys “laddy-buck.” It was as good as over. Hoyt didn't feel pain yet, not at this moment, not yet. He felt failure. He was a warrior cut down in the prime of youth. Hadn't done a thing wrong. Smashed the beast flush on the beak with his forearm, in the classic way. Shit!
One of those babies:
the hundredth man.
Laddy-buck.
That meant Bruce and the campus police had arrived. Bruce was a big old fat man who called guys “laddy-buck.” It was as good as over. Hoyt didn't feel pain yet, not at this moment, not yet. He felt failure. He was a warrior cut down in the prime of youth. Hadn't done a thing wrong. Smashed the beast flush on the beak with his forearm, in the classic way. Shit!
One of those babies:
the hundredth man.
Â
Â
“Videotape the white apes with the badges and the blackjacks whacking a blood my blood yo' blood it's time you niggas get up off yo' ghetto asses shove the blackjacks up the Mister Brown back alleys of the po-lice thugs videotape the bloods my blood yo' blood the brothers getting bigger crack some white apes upside they own haids videotape the suckers laid out daid eliminated by the bloods my blood yo' blood videotape it motherfuckers”âuntil Jojo wanted to climb the locker-room walls and demolish the speakers and then crawl through the wires until he found Doctor Dis and twisted his head off for him. Why had Charles inflicted this rap so-called music on the entire team? All it was was ghetto noise. Why did he, Jojo, have to have Doctor Dis hammering his skull every second of every minute while he got dressed for practice?
As for Charles, he was sitting in front of his locker, four lockers down from Jojo's, changing clothes and enjoying his other favorite sport, which was giving Congers a hard time.
“Hey, Vernon,” Charles was saying in a loud voice no one in the room could miss, “I see you got yourself a new whip.”
Whip
was ghettospeak for automobile.
Whip
was ghettospeak for automobile.
Congers, whose locker was opposite Charles's, said, “Yeah ⦔ warily. He had long since learned that very little Charles had to say to him could be taken at face value, starting with the fact that Charles only spoke ghetto when he was being ironic.
“Whattaya call a whip like that?”
“A Viper,” Congers said tonelessly.
“A Vipuhhh,” said Charles. “Unnnhhhh
unnh
! You gon' be a playa now, baby! Whenja get it?”
unnh
! You gon' be a playa now, baby! Whenja get it?”
Congers said nothing at first. Then, “A coupla days ago.”
“A Vi-puhhh. How much it setchoo back?”
Another pause ⦠“Somebody give it to me.”
“Somebody
give
it to you?” said Charles. “Somebody sure loves you, bro. One a yo' peeps?”
give
it to you?” said Charles. “Somebody sure loves you, bro. One a yo' peeps?”
“No.”
“Then I hope the motherfucker's straight. That whip's worth fifty or sixty large. Don't you let the dude pat you on the ass or invitechoo in for a Slurpee when you say good night.”
“A
Slurpee,”
said Treyshawn.
“Hegghh Hegghhh hegghhh.
” He liked that one.
Slurpee,”
said Treyshawn.
“Hegghh Hegghhh hegghhh.
” He liked that one.
Congers's face clouded. He wasn't happy about the insinuation. “What the fuck you talking about?” he said to Charles. “I don't even know who give it to me.”
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