Read I Am Charlotte Simmons Online
Authors: Tom Wolfe
I Am Charlotte Simmons (15 page)
The others were watching Hoyt with big eyes. Hoyt and Vance weren't boys any longer. They were real men who had been in an elemental physical fight with a bona fide professional tough guy. They had been in a reallife rumble with no rules, and they had won.
Hoyt looked up at the TV screen with a steady gaze and a somewhat
cross expression, to indicate that this particular topic of discussion was now terminated. Not that he really cared; in fact, he did it mainly for effect. The happy wind was rising. Nobody said a word. Everybody became conscious all over again of the quarters bouncing in the front parlor and the boys whooping ironically and Swarm's bang beat banging away in the terrace room.
cross expression, to indicate that this particular topic of discussion was now terminated. Not that he really cared; in fact, he did it mainly for effect. The happy wind was rising. Nobody said a word. Everybody became conscious all over again of the quarters bouncing in the front parlor and the boys whooping ironically and Swarm's bang beat banging away in the terrace room.
Up on the screen, the SportsCenter anchorman was interviewing some former coach from the pros, an old guy whose bull neck creased every time he turned his head. The guy was explaining Alabama's new “tilt” formation. A play diagram comes on the screen, and white lines start squiggling out to show how this guy blocks that guy and this guy blocks
that
guy and the running back goes through this hole
here â¦
At first Hoyt tried to concentrate on it. Of course, what they don't fucking tell you is that
this
guy who blocks
that
guy better be the size of Bobo Bolker, because
that
guy's gonna be three hundred pounds of gorilla-engineered cybermuscle. Otherwise that running back's gonna be another sack of bones ⦠After perhaps thirty seconds of it, Hoyt was still gazing at the screen, but his brain was no longer processing any of it. A thought had come to him, an intriguing and possibly very important thought.
that
guy and the running back goes through this hole
here â¦
At first Hoyt tried to concentrate on it. Of course, what they don't fucking tell you is that
this
guy who blocks
that
guy better be the size of Bobo Bolker, because
that
guy's gonna be three hundred pounds of gorilla-engineered cybermuscle. Otherwise that running back's gonna be another sack of bones ⦠After perhaps thirty seconds of it, Hoyt was still gazing at the screen, but his brain was no longer processing any of it. A thought had come to him, an intriguing and possibly very important thought.
A replay of what happened in the Grove up on the screen ⦠Too bad that was impossible ⦠Every Saint Ray
should
see something like that. They ought to all think about what that little adventure really meant. It was about more than him and Vance. It was about more than being a legend in your own time. It was about something serious. It was about the essence of a fraternity like Saint Ray, not a fraternity merely in the sense of him and Vance fighting shoulder to shoulder and all that ⦠A concept was taking shape ⦠Fraternities were all about one thing, and that one thing was the creation of real men. He would like nothing better than to call a meeting of the entire house and give them a talk about this very subject. But of course he couldn't. They'd laugh him off the premises. Besides, he wasn't sure he could
give
an inspirational speech. He had never tried. His strong suit was humor, irony, insouciance, and being coolly gross,
Animal Houseâ
style
.
In the American lit classes, they were always talking about
The Catcher in the Rye
, but Holden Caulfield was a whining, neurotic wuss. For his, Hoyt's, generation it was
Animal House
. He must have watched it ten times himself ⦠The part where Belushi smacks his cheeks and says, “I'm a zit” ⦠awesome ⦠and
Dumb and Dumber
and
Swingers
and
Tommy Boy
and
The Usual Suspects, Old School â¦
He'd loved those movies. He'd laughed
his head off ⦠gross, coolly gross ⦠but did anybody else in this house get the serious point that made all that so awesome? Probably not. It was actually all about being a man in the Age of the Wuss. A fraternity like Saint Ray, if you truly understood it, forged you into a man who stood apart from the ordinary run of passive, compliant American college boys. Saint Ray was a MasterCard that gave you carte blanche to assert yourselfâhe loved that metaphor. Of course, you couldn't go through life like a frat boy, breaking rules just for the fun of it. The frat-boy stuff was sort of like basic training. One of the things you learned as a Saint Rayâif you were a real brother and not some mistake like I.P.âwas how rattled and baffled people were when confronted by
those who take no shit
. His thoughts kept drifting back, almost every day, to one particular moment that night in the Grove ⦠He cherished it ⦠The pumped-up thug (he could see his huge neck), the bodyguard guy, grabs him from behind, totally surprises him, and says, “What the fuck you punks think you're doing?” Ninety-nine out of a hundred college boys would have (a) been frightened by the brute's tough-guy pose and bulked-up body and (b) tried to mollify him by taking the question at face value and saying, “Uh, nothing, we were justâ” Instead, he, Hoyt Thorpe, had said, “
Doing
? Looking at a fucking ape-faced dickhead is what we're
doing
!” That was the last thing in the world that motherfucker had expected to hear. It rattled his tiny brain, ruined his tough-guy intimidator act, and provoked him into launching the wild roundhouse punch that led to his downfall. The phrase
fucking ape-faced dickhead
and the insolent way he had thrown the dickhead's own word,
doing
, back in his faceâthat wasn't some strategy he had
thought up
. No, it was a
conditioned reflex.
He had shot that line quickdraw, like a bullet from the hip, in a moment of crisis. He had triumphed, thanks to a
habit of mind
, a take-no-shit
instinct â¦
He began to see something even bigger ⦠Everywhere you looked at this university there were people knocking “the frats” and the frat boysâthe administration, which blamed them for the evils of alcohol, pot, cocaine, ecstasy ⦠the dorks, GPA geeks, Goths, lesbos, homobos, bi-bos, S and Mbos, blackbos, Latinos, Indiansâfrom India and the reservationâand other whining diversoids, who blamed them for racism, sexism, classism, whatever the fuck that was, chauvinism, anti-Semitism, fringe-rightism, homophobia ⦠The only value ingrained at this institution was a weepy tolerance for losers ⦠The old gale began blowing, and the concept enlarged ⦠If America ever had to go to war again, fight with the country's fate on the line, not just in some “police action,” there would be only one source of officers other than
the military academies: frat boys. They were the only educated males left who were conditioned to think and react ⦠like
men
. They were the onlyâ
should
see something like that. They ought to all think about what that little adventure really meant. It was about more than him and Vance. It was about more than being a legend in your own time. It was about something serious. It was about the essence of a fraternity like Saint Ray, not a fraternity merely in the sense of him and Vance fighting shoulder to shoulder and all that ⦠A concept was taking shape ⦠Fraternities were all about one thing, and that one thing was the creation of real men. He would like nothing better than to call a meeting of the entire house and give them a talk about this very subject. But of course he couldn't. They'd laugh him off the premises. Besides, he wasn't sure he could
give
an inspirational speech. He had never tried. His strong suit was humor, irony, insouciance, and being coolly gross,
Animal Houseâ
style
.
In the American lit classes, they were always talking about
The Catcher in the Rye
, but Holden Caulfield was a whining, neurotic wuss. For his, Hoyt's, generation it was
Animal House
. He must have watched it ten times himself ⦠The part where Belushi smacks his cheeks and says, “I'm a zit” ⦠awesome ⦠and
Dumb and Dumber
and
Swingers
and
Tommy Boy
and
The Usual Suspects, Old School â¦
He'd loved those movies. He'd laughed
his head off ⦠gross, coolly gross ⦠but did anybody else in this house get the serious point that made all that so awesome? Probably not. It was actually all about being a man in the Age of the Wuss. A fraternity like Saint Ray, if you truly understood it, forged you into a man who stood apart from the ordinary run of passive, compliant American college boys. Saint Ray was a MasterCard that gave you carte blanche to assert yourselfâhe loved that metaphor. Of course, you couldn't go through life like a frat boy, breaking rules just for the fun of it. The frat-boy stuff was sort of like basic training. One of the things you learned as a Saint Rayâif you were a real brother and not some mistake like I.P.âwas how rattled and baffled people were when confronted by
those who take no shit
. His thoughts kept drifting back, almost every day, to one particular moment that night in the Grove ⦠He cherished it ⦠The pumped-up thug (he could see his huge neck), the bodyguard guy, grabs him from behind, totally surprises him, and says, “What the fuck you punks think you're doing?” Ninety-nine out of a hundred college boys would have (a) been frightened by the brute's tough-guy pose and bulked-up body and (b) tried to mollify him by taking the question at face value and saying, “Uh, nothing, we were justâ” Instead, he, Hoyt Thorpe, had said, “
Doing
? Looking at a fucking ape-faced dickhead is what we're
doing
!” That was the last thing in the world that motherfucker had expected to hear. It rattled his tiny brain, ruined his tough-guy intimidator act, and provoked him into launching the wild roundhouse punch that led to his downfall. The phrase
fucking ape-faced dickhead
and the insolent way he had thrown the dickhead's own word,
doing
, back in his faceâthat wasn't some strategy he had
thought up
. No, it was a
conditioned reflex.
He had shot that line quickdraw, like a bullet from the hip, in a moment of crisis. He had triumphed, thanks to a
habit of mind
, a take-no-shit
instinct â¦
He began to see something even bigger ⦠Everywhere you looked at this university there were people knocking “the frats” and the frat boysâthe administration, which blamed them for the evils of alcohol, pot, cocaine, ecstasy ⦠the dorks, GPA geeks, Goths, lesbos, homobos, bi-bos, S and Mbos, blackbos, Latinos, Indiansâfrom India and the reservationâand other whining diversoids, who blamed them for racism, sexism, classism, whatever the fuck that was, chauvinism, anti-Semitism, fringe-rightism, homophobia ⦠The only value ingrained at this institution was a weepy tolerance for losers ⦠The old gale began blowing, and the concept enlarged ⦠If America ever had to go to war again, fight with the country's fate on the line, not just in some “police action,” there would be only one source of officers other than
the military academies: frat boys. They were the only educated males left who were conditioned to think and react ⦠like
men
. They were the onlyâ
The concept would have grown still larger had not a boy named Hadlock Millsââknown as Heady, which was short for Headlockâcome in from out of the entry gallery and said with a slight smirk, “Hoyt, there's a young lady here to see you.”
Hoyt rose from the easy chair, put his dead beer can up on a walnut shelf, and said, “Sorry, guys, hospitality calls,” whereupon he left the room. He soon reappeared at the doorway with a pretty little brunetteâclad in halter top, shorts, and flip-flopsâbehind him.
He looked back at her and said, “Come say hello to some of my friends, uhhhâcome say hello.”
As she stepped forward, he put his arm lightly on her shoulders, and she said, “Hi!” and gave a little wave. She had a charming smile, which made her look even prettier.
The boys responded with smiles of their own, in a pleasant and gentlemanly fashion, plus a few
Hi
's and polite waves and even a “Welcome!” from big Julian. Whereupon Hoyt said, “Well, see you guys,” and, his arm still resting lightly on her shoulders, steered the girl toward the stairway.
Hi
's and polite waves and even a “Welcome!” from big Julian. Whereupon Hoyt said, “Well, see you guys,” and, his arm still resting lightly on her shoulders, steered the girl toward the stairway.
The boys sat in silence, merely exchanging glances. Then Boo said in a low voice, barely audible above the SportsCenter anchorman's, “That's the same girl, the one from last night. And couldn't you tell? He
still
doesn't know her fucking name.”
still
doesn't know her fucking name.”
Â
Â
Charlotte looked from the professor, Dr. Lewin, to the windows to the ceiling and from the ceiling to the windows to Dr. Lewin. She was well into her second week of classes, and the puzzles and contradictions of Dupont kept mounting, unabated. She reckoned it was inevitable. She could now see that she had led a sheltered life up there behind the wall of the Blue Ridge Mountainsâbut even allowing for that,
this â¦
was odd.
this â¦
was odd.
The classroom was a spacious one on a corner, with two great English Gothic leaded-glass casement windows comprised of multitudes of small panes. Here and there, seemingly placed at random, were panes exquisitely etched with pictures of saints, knights, and what looked like characters from old books. If Charlotte had to guess, she would say that a couple of them came from
The Canterbury Tales
. And that knight ⦠over there ⦠certainly did look like Don Quixote on Rosinante ⦠If anything, the ceiling
was even grander. It was higher than any classroom ceiling she had ever imagined and was transversed by five or six shallow arches of a dark but warm wood. Where the arches met the walls, they rested atop carved wooden heads with comic faces that appeared to be looking down at open books, also carved of wood, just below their chins.
The Canterbury Tales
. And that knight ⦠over there ⦠certainly did look like Don Quixote on Rosinante ⦠If anything, the ceiling
was even grander. It was higher than any classroom ceiling she had ever imagined and was transversed by five or six shallow arches of a dark but warm wood. Where the arches met the walls, they rested atop carved wooden heads with comic faces that appeared to be looking down at open books, also carved of wood, just below their chins.
All that elegance was what made the personage of Dr. Lewin seem so curious. Last week, when the class first met, he had worn a plaid cotton shirt and pantsânothing remarkable about that. The shirt had had long sleeves, and the pants had been long pants. But this morning he had on a short-sleeved shirt that showed too much of his skinny, hairy arms, and denim shorts that showed too much of his gnarly, hairy legs. He looked for all the world like a seven-year-old who at the touch of a wand had become old, tall, bald on top, and hairy everywhere else, an ossified seven-year-old, a pair of eyeglasses with lenses thick as ice pushed up to the summit of his foreheadâunaccountably addressing thirty college students, at Dupont, no less.
The title of the course was the Modern French Novel: From Flaubert to Houellebecq. At last week's class Dr. Lewin had assigned Flaubert's
Madame Bovary
for today. And today, as the transmogrified seven-year-old addressed the class, things, to Charlotte's way of thinking, grew stranger and stranger.
Madame Bovary
for today. And today, as the transmogrified seven-year-old addressed the class, things, to Charlotte's way of thinking, grew stranger and stranger.
Dr. Lewin had his nose in a paperback book he held open just below his chin, rather like the wooden heads that served as finials to the arches. Then he lowered the book, let the glasses flop down onto the bridge of his nose, looked up, and said, “For a moment let's consider the very first pages of
Madame Bovary
. We're in a school for boys ⦠The very first sentence says”âhe pushed the glasses back up on his forehead and brought the book back up under his chin, close to his myopic eyesâ“âWe were at preparation, when the headmaster came in, followed by a new boy dressed in “civvies” and a school servant carrying a big desk.' And so forth and so on ⦠uhmmm, uhmmm”âhe kept his face down in the bookâ“and then it says, âIn the corner behind the door, only just visible, stood a country lad of about fifteen, taller than any of usâ'”
Madame Bovary
. We're in a school for boys ⦠The very first sentence says”âhe pushed the glasses back up on his forehead and brought the book back up under his chin, close to his myopic eyesâ“âWe were at preparation, when the headmaster came in, followed by a new boy dressed in “civvies” and a school servant carrying a big desk.' And so forth and so on ⦠uhmmm, uhmmm”âhe kept his face down in the bookâ“and then it says, âIn the corner behind the door, only just visible, stood a country lad of about fifteen, taller than any of usâ'”
He lowered the book, flopped the glasses down onto his nose again, looked up, and said, “Now, you'll notice Flaubert begins the book with â
We
were at preparation' and âtaller than
us
,' referring to Charles Bovary's schoolmates collectively, presumably, but he never tells the story in the first person plural again, and after a few pages we never see any of these boys again. Now, can anybody tell me why Flaubert uses this device?”
We
were at preparation' and âtaller than
us
,' referring to Charles Bovary's schoolmates collectively, presumably, but he never tells the story in the first person plural again, and after a few pages we never see any of these boys again. Now, can anybody tell me why Flaubert uses this device?”
Dr. Lewin surveyed the students through his binocular lenses. Silence.
Evidently, everybody else was stymied by the question, even though it didn't seem difficult to Charlotte. Charlotte was puzzled by something else entirely. Dr. Lewin was reading this French classic to them in
Englishâ
and this was an upper-level course in French literature. Thanks to her high advanced placement scores, Charlotte had been able to skip the entry-level French course, but just about everybody else must be an upperclassmanâand he's reading to them in
English
.
Evidently, everybody else was stymied by the question, even though it didn't seem difficult to Charlotte. Charlotte was puzzled by something else entirely. Dr. Lewin was reading this French classic to them in
Englishâ
and this was an upper-level course in French literature. Thanks to her high advanced placement scores, Charlotte had been able to skip the entry-level French course, but just about everybody else must be an upperclassmanâand he's reading to them in
English
.
She was in the second row. She started to raise her hand to answer the question, but being new, only a freshman, she felt diffident. Finally a girl to her right, also in the second row, raised her hand.
“So the reader will feel like part of Charles's class? It says here”âshe looked down at her book and put her forefinger on the pageâ“it says here, âWe began going over the lesson.'” She looked up hopefully.
“Well, that's it up to a point,” said Dr. Lewin, “but not exactly.”
Charlotte was astonished. The girl was reading one of the greatest of all French novels in an
English
translationâand Dr. Lewin hadn't so much as made note of the fact. Charlotte quickly glanced at the girl on her left and the boy on her right. They were both reading the book ⦠in
English translation.
It was baffling. She had read it in translation way back in the ninth grade under Miss Pennington's tutelage, and she had spent the better part of the past three days reading it in the original, in French. Flaubert was a very clear and direct writer, but there were many subtle constructions, many colloquialisms, many names of specific objects she'd had to look up, since Flaubert put a big emphasis on precise, concrete detail. She had analyzed every line of it, practically disassembled it and put it back togetherâand nobody else was reading it in French,
including the professor
. How could that be?
English
translationâand Dr. Lewin hadn't so much as made note of the fact. Charlotte quickly glanced at the girl on her left and the boy on her right. They were both reading the book ⦠in
English translation.
It was baffling. She had read it in translation way back in the ninth grade under Miss Pennington's tutelage, and she had spent the better part of the past three days reading it in the original, in French. Flaubert was a very clear and direct writer, but there were many subtle constructions, many colloquialisms, many names of specific objects she'd had to look up, since Flaubert put a big emphasis on precise, concrete detail. She had analyzed every line of it, practically disassembled it and put it back togetherâand nobody else was reading it in French,
including the professor
. How could that be?
Meantime, three other girls had taken a stab at the question, and each answer was a bit more
off
than the one before. As she craned about to see the girls, Charlotte noticed that the boys in the class seemed extraordinarily ⦠big ⦠reared back, as they were, in their deskâarm chairs. They had big necks and big hands, and their thighs swelled out tightly against the fabric of their otherwise baggy pants legs. And none of them lifted a hand or uttered a peep.
off
than the one before. As she craned about to see the girls, Charlotte noticed that the boys in the class seemed extraordinarily ⦠big ⦠reared back, as they were, in their deskâarm chairs. They had big necks and big hands, and their thighs swelled out tightly against the fabric of their otherwise baggy pants legs. And none of them lifted a hand or uttered a peep.
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