Mythology 101 (2 page)

“F,” groaned the voice, muffled in a pile of laundry. “F for Freleng. He hates me.”

“Fair enough. You hate him.”

“How can a sociologist be so closed-minded?”

“Those who can’t, teach.” Pat was an English major, and loved one-line cappers. He was tall and hollow-chested, and had a tendency to stoop over, so he seemed to be perpetually out of breath. His long, lank black hair made him look like a repertory company Richard III out of makeup.

“And what about those who can’t teach?” Keith said, shaking the twisted sheaf of paper at him. Keith’s looks tended to make people think he was jolly or bad-tempered, depending on one’s predispositions about red hair. He was short, straight-backed, and thin. His eyes were hazel, and changed color with his mood. Right now, they were blue. He buried his head in the laundry again.

“Oh, hell, maybe you can fix it up and ask him to re-grade it. Say you didn’t understand the assignment. It’s only the first paper. Here, give me that.” Pat dropped the plant mister in the sink and snatched the essay out of Keith’s hands. “That stuff’s clean, by the way.” He tilted his head toward the pile of clothes in which Keith was lying. “Your turn to fold. No creases this time or you’ll eat ’em.”

Keith rolled onto his back, broadcasting socks across the floor. “I can’t tell him I didn’t understand it. I made a big deal about its social importance right in the middle of class.”

“You’ve got a death wish,” Pat said without looking up. He detoured around their shared wooden coffee table and sat down at his desk. Unlike Keith’s, which had fantastic towers of books and papers teetering around a central cleared workspace, Pat’s was a uniform level of possessions about ten inches high on which the current books and assignments lay. “You know I read this once before. I still think there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s an interesting theoretical examination without any actual field study. He’s probably insulted because you told him through this paper that you consider all the other sociological studies, like inner city and Appalachia, boring and not worth considering.”

“Well, they are boring. Every other social scientist has studied them to death. I can’t find anything new to say about one. Even the minor stuff I’d explore has been overdone by everybody else.”

Pat considered for a moment. “True. But I think he gave you an F because you piss him off. Why don’t you turn this one in to Mythology, the way he suggested?”

“Because Mrs. Beattie has heard it all before, too. Wait until he reads my next one, on leprechauns. I told you about Marcy, the girl in my class?”

“Oh, yeah? She noticed you yet?”

“No. Ah, unrequited love. But she’s very shy. That’s one of the things I love her for. She doesn’t throw herself at me.”

Pat blew a raspberry at him. Keith shrugged it off.

“Anyway, I think she’s got a boyfriend somewhere, one of those guys who’s ‘above reproach,’ and all that garbage. The way she’s been acting, I think she’s afraid of him. What she really needs is someone charming and harmless, like me. I’ve got her paper here, from the same assignment. I want her research materials. I think I can use ’em.”

“Harmless. Oh, God,” Pat groaned, shaking his head. “And the good Lord forgive you the lie.”

“Never mind that. I’ve got this terrific theory about why the little people only appear to drunks and other unreliables,” Keith began, spinning a towel in the air and catching it so it folded in half neatly over his extended forefingers.

“That’s because you are one, jerk face.” Carl Mueller came in the door, warding off flying laundry with one hand. He wore his thick light brown hair in a modified crew-cut which, with his typical sour expression and healthy muscular build, made him look like an angry Marine.

“A leprechaun?” asked Pat.

“Sure,” added Keith. “Viewed only by drunks and other unreliables. That’s why you can see me, Carlitos.” He whirled a towel like a bullfighter’s cape. Carl and Keith had a Spanish class together, which he hated and Keith loved. Anything that Keith loved, Carl hated.

“Don’t call me that, asshole,” Carl said, staring belligerently at Keith.

“I never call you that asshole. Donde esta la pluma de me tia? How’s things in Track?” Keith innocently changed the subject, gauging that the last ounce of tolerance left in Carl had just evaporated. “Want a beer?”

Carl grunted. “Okay. But cut the Carlitos shit. I’m dropping the class anyway.”

“Too late,” observed Pat, who always knew the course schedules. “Last day without penalty was Thursday.”

Keith opened the little refrigerator under his desk and pawed through it, emerging with three beers and a box of vanilla wafer cookies. “Here, peace offering. See you later,” he told Pat.

Keith took his snack, Marcy’s essay, and the
Field Guide
out into the hallway. He hated to concede the territory to Carl; it was his room, after all, but there was no point in starting another argument. There were just some people that were automatically and irrevocably rubbed the wrong way, and Carl was one of the ones he’d so rubbed.

It was all a matter of attitude, Keith had decided a long time ago. Carl was too serious about life. He wanted so badly to do something important that it affected everything he did. He needed a cause. The guy was born to be a Senator or Albert Schweitzer. Keith felt sorry for him. Of course, that didn’t help him where Carl was concerned, who still reacted to Keith as if he was a flea: hyperactive, bothersome, and just out of reach.

Keith shrugged and opened Marcy’s paper.

O O O

In the library, Marcy waited between the tall rows of bookshelves until no one was in sight. It was late afternoon, so there were few people around, but she could never be sure she was unobserved. With infinite care, she eased open the door that led to the fire stairs. It creaked loudly. She winced, but the sound drew no one’s attention. The building was old, and everyone was used to its assorted settling noises.

She descended flight after flight in the darkness, her whispering footsteps confident, intimately familiar with her surroundings. At the bottom of the last concrete step, she halted and drew the smooth steel door open just wide enough to permit her passage. It slid shut behind her, and Marcy felt rather than heard the boom as it closed.

Two more flights of steps and another door, and she passed inside, crossed the floor, with hulking shadows of more shelves darker than the darkness. From her pocket she took a key which gleamed a brilliant green. With the aid of its light, Marcy found her way to the hidden keyhole, inserted the key, turned it, and pushed the door open.

Light flooded out upon her, throwing a long shadow back between the bookcases. She threw up a hand against the glare until her eyes adjusted, and spoke apologetically to the circle of Little Folk and the tall human students seated at desks in the low-ceilinged room. They regarded her expectantly.

“Vell?” asked the Master, laying his pointer down on the easel.

“We got a C,” Marcy said.

O O O

“If you examine your stated principles as an objective observer,” the Master stated, reviewing Marcy’s essay, “you will see that you are relying upon your reader to furnish his own mental pictures of your subjects. In order for your reader to come to agree with your premises, you must provide accurate images from which he can draw his conclusions, which if you have been skillful, will agree with yours.”

“I didn’t want to say too much,” Marcy said in a low voice, feeling ashamed. “I couldn’t draw accurate pictures.” She stared at her desktop. “I probably shouldn’t have attempted the subject. But I did want to try.”

Her fellow college students present exchanged sympathetic glances. The Little People favored her with friendly gazes, but said nothing as usual.

“Mees Collier, there vas nothing wrong with your attempt of the subject,” the Master said gently, setting the paper on her desk and looking up at her. “Nor with your conclusions. It is merely that your audience vas not prepared for it.”

***

Chapter 3

A dorm hallway was by no means the quietest of places to read. It smelled strongly of sweat socks and mold, and the carpet was perpetually damp. There seemed to be an unwritten rule for residence halls that the areas with the most traffic should be the worst lit, so Keith was left trying to read by the feeble brownish glow of dying fluorescent ceiling lights. Nobody ever seemed to look down toward the dimly lit floor while they were walking. He was kicked a few times by passersby who didn’t see him. One student fell over Keith’s legs, spilling a heap of fresh laundry halfway down the hall. After apologizing and helping to re-fold it, Keith fled to his Resident Advisor’s room for sanctuary.

O O O

He poked his head through the doorway into the R.A.’s suite. “Hi, Rick. Can I borrow a corner?”

Rick MacKenzie looked up from his desk. He had a black crew-cut over lightning blue eyes and a lantern jaw which twisted around a grin. “Sure, Keith. C’mon in.”

“Thanks. There’s no room back at the inn.”

The RA’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Rubber band on the knob?” That was the signal that female company was being entertained by the other roommate, and disturbances would be unappreciated. Rick maintained an unspoken rule that no one was to band out their room-mates on week nights on his floor.

“Oh, no,” Keith assured him, folding up like a grasshopper on Rick’s ancient green tweed couch. “Just a friend of his who isn’t a friend of mine. Our pal Carl.”

“Uh huh. What’ve you got there?”

Keith handed over Marcy’s paper. “I think I’ve got research material for my next essay in Sociology.”

Rick thumbed through the pages. “You’re going to rip off one of your friends?”

“Heck, no! I’ll give her credit for it. Look, she analyzed the stresses brought to bear on people with a racial tendency toward dwarfism. The whole thing about being treated like children because they’re small. But by the internal evidence, these people aren’t circus midgets, or African pygmies, as you might normally assume. In fact, they seem to have come from a temperate climate, with almost Arctic winters. And their oral tradition comes from pretty far back, suggesting resistance to technology.”

“Isolation?” asked Rick.

“Well, yeah. It would have to be. We don’t have much of an oral tradition any more. Not since we learned to write and use movable type. What do you do when you want to remember something?”

“I write it down.”

“Right. Now, our ancestors just recited their notes over and over again until they’d memorized it to keep. Once in, never out. And they could pass it on from generation to generation. That’s why those family feuds lasted forever. Take the Hatfields and McCoys.”

“So? That doesn’t mean these people had the same kind of background, or even that they’re from this hemisphere.”

“But I think they did. Look, if it wasn’t for the part about the racial dwarfism, I’d have said they were Irish, or at least from one of the great islands in the northwest of Europe. Naturally I have a preference for Ireland.”

Rick threw the essay back with an expression of disgust. “Oh, I get it. You and your little people. You know, they lock up people with manias.”

“Just consider it a need to know. The evidence suggests that I’m not the only one with a mania.”

“Don’t go reading something into that paper. Probably she came upon a village of short people in Scotland who got tired of hearing ‘How’s the weather down there?’”

“I want to talk to these people. They might have oral legends of little people that I can use. It’s the legends and such I’m interested in. I’ve read all the fairy tales and junk. I want information that hasn’t been through thirty publishers. I want evidence.”

“Oh, come on. What makes you think she would believe your wild ideas, let alone pass you on to her subjects? That’s the last thing they’d want to talk about with an outsider. They’re ordinary people, and they want to live their lives in peace. They’ll probably think you’re another one of those ‘look-at-all-the-funny-people’ journalists. Or just a nut. Which you are.”

“Hmm,” said Keith, thinking deeply. “I don’t want them to think I’m crazy. All I want is their recollections. Fairy tales. Local legends.”

“What makes you think that just because they’re short they have any more knowledge of legends than Joe Schmoe up the street?”

“Just a hunch,” Keith shrugged. “Something about the way she states her facts. She’s leaving something out, and I want to ask what it is. She’s usually so quiet in class. Perhaps she’ll be more talkative over dinner.” He rose and scooped up the paper, and started for the door.

“Whoa!” The RA’s voice halted his headlong departure. “Dinner? Aren’t you coming to the Student Government meeting tonight, Doyle? You’re one of our best speakers. I think this’ll be the night we can get a deciding vote on the library issue. If you don’t come I guarantee we will lose.”

Keith bashed himself in the side of the head with Marcy’s paper, further crumpling it. “I’m sorry, Rick,” Keith apologized, instantly changing plans again. “Yeah, I’m coming. I’ll just drop this in my room and be right back with my notes. We can discuss strategy.”

O O O

If anyone had told Mrs. Howard, Keith’s sixth-grade teacher, that one day he’d be the eloquent darling of Student Senate Council, she’d have laughed until she choked. Occasionally, Keith thought of writing her a letter and enclosing a tape of one of his terrific speeches that moved millions—well, dozens—to his side of an issue. On the other hand, just because he thought it was terrific didn’t mean a picky Language Arts teacher of the old school would agree with him.

Of the forty-five official members of Senate representing the fifteen residence halls on campus, only a third or so usually attended the meetings held every two weeks in the Student Common. Keith had been elected to represent his dorm, C. V. Power Hall, on a nomination moved by Rick, who as the representative Resident Advisor from Power had to be present at meetings, and liked to have his friends around. Pat had seconded the nomination, since it was the most likely way to keep himself from being chosen. English majors were usually favored delegates. Keith, who hadn’t been present at his election, was upset for about two weeks, until he discovered how much fun it was to make hay out of Robert’s Rules of Order. Thanks to Keith’s enthusiastic support, there was now a college regulation on the books forbidding walking your zebra on the streets after dark. The actual wording of the rule banned any animal not specifically domestic in nature, and its proven intention was to prevent attacks or escapes by those animals after nightfall, but the committee which had proposed it to the Dean’s council called it the Zebra Crossing Ban.

The other delegate from Power Hall was clear across the room, chatting with one of the girls who lived in Bradkin. Carl never sat with Keith and the RA; he seemed to think it spoiled his dignity. He had actually volunteered to serve in student government, which made him the legitimate object of derision by those who had been shanghaied into office. For once, though, he had a legitimate excuse for separating himself from the rest of his dorm-mates. They were on opposing sides of an issue.

To Keith, issues weren’t life-or-death matters. The girls from Edison were proposing another formal letter of complaint to ARA Suppliers, concerning the poor quality of dorm food. Senate sent at least three of those a semester, and they hadn’t done any good yet. The food was still just barely edible. On the other hand, Carl took his role as the voice of student opinion very seriously, and offered his support to matters he believed in. He hadn’t the same gift of gab Keith had, and was regularly out-debated whenever they disagreed. For that reason and very little else, Keith made sure he and Carl were opponents no matter how trivial the issue. If Carl supported it, Keith was out to undermine it.

“Quiet, please! Hey, can it!” yelled Lloyd Patterson, president of the Inter-Hall Council. “Let’s get this going, huh? I’ve got an exam tomorrow. I don’t want this to drag on. Venita, will you take the roll?”

Venita March, recording secretary and RA delegate, rose, tossing her head. Venita was a friend of Rick’s from his class at high school, and she taught self-defense part time at the University Women’s Center. Her hair, a tall, superbly styled natural decorated with a plume, swayed for a moment after she had stopped moving. Rick stifled a snicker and Keith elbowed him. “Shut up. She’ll cream you.”

“I know, but I can’t help it. That style almost touches the roof.” He sketched height over his head with a hand twitching with mirth.

“
If
we may have some order,” Venita asked icily, a quelling glance aimed at Rick. He lowered his arm, smiling with mock innocence. She shook her head at him, slack-mouthed, tapping a long-suffering foot on the floor. Rick folded his hands studiously before him and sat up at attention. Raising one eyebrow at him, she read down the list.

“You can tell she likes you,” Keith told Rick sardonically.

“Okay,” Lloyd said, after Venita sat down, hairdo a-quiver. “Any old business to take care of?”

“Dean’s Council has ruled on the matter of student parking,” a girl clad casually in blue jeans and a leotard spoke up. “All spaces will be allotted first come first served to dorm students first, frats and apartment dwellers second, and night school gets what’s left. The areas will be divided into three zones, and students are supposed to apply to the zone center closest to their residence. The center lot will still be set aside for medical plates and visitors. Anyone caught parking there who has a school sticker will have their car towed and privileges revoked with no refund.” There was a chorus of groans from both sides of the room. “I’m
sorry
!” she snapped defensively. “That’s the best I could get. At least the people who live in Barber won’t have to park all the way over near the frat houses.”

“That’s something,” Venita said encouragingly. She lived in Barber.

“Okay. That’ll help,” Lloyd acknowledged, making notes. “Anything else?”

“Yessir,” Keith said, springing to his feet. “Doyle, Power Hall. I want to bring up the subject of the proposed library renovation project.” He smiled triumphantly at Carl, who was just raising his hand. There was a deal of movement in the room, as the student delegates, recognizing the signs of a debate, separated themselves into three rough groups, with the center delegates undecided. Several pushed their chairs over to Keith’s side of the floor, the Pro-renovation side, and settled down. Dividing up depending on one’s opinion on an issue was an idea Keith had found in the rules governing the British Parliament, where MPs entered through different doors if they were going to vote “yea” or “nay.” The Council’s meeting room had only one door, so he came up with a suitable variation. The other members liked it because it showed visible support for the issues, let them know who else was actually interested, and gave them something to do at meetings.

“You have the floor.”

“Thank you.” Keith moved into the center of the room, and assumed an orator’s pose. Rick sat back to watch with obvious pleasure. “There is a proposal before the Dean’s Council for replacement of one major building on the Midwestern campus. Dean Rolands has cut the choices down to two: a new Phys Ed. building, or a new library. To me, the correct choice is obvious.

“My question to the assembled Senate is this: why did you come to college? To run laps? To cheer at Big Ten games? Well, you’re at the wrong school to begin with.” Some uneasy laughter; Midwestern had pretensions toward national college football, but the team simply wasn’t good enough. Carl glowered, and Keith continued. “But since you are here, it’s to learn, isn’t that right? To pick up skills which will be of use to you after graduation. I for one can’t think of anything I’ll ever do that involves vaulting over the horse or hand-walking on parallel bars. Can you?”

“How about weight-lifting?” someone asked.

Keith gestured at his narrow frame. “What weight?”

More laughter. “What about physical well-being?” Carl demanded. “That’s real important, too. And how about leisure sports?”

“P.E. in high school or grade school is good for learning about things like that. You get a whole selection of different sports and exercises. Variety. At the University, physical education is too specialized, too competitive. It’s great if you’re interested in playing volleyball or aikido, but you can just take an exercise course to keep fit, and that doesn’t need any special space, or specific environment.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” one of the opposing delegates sneered.

Keith went on, ignoring the outburst. “In fact, if you insist, you could keep fit by exercising in your dorm room. Why not?” He pantomimed doing jumping jacks, athletically at first, then bowing over more and more in mock exhaustion. “Your roommate asks, ‘What are you doing?’ and you say, ‘I’m doing my homework for Gym.’” Laughter exploded around the room.

“Now, except for the one gym course we’re required to take to graduate, fewer than 40% of the students at Midwestern ever set foot in the P.E. building again, and most of those are specialists. On the other hand, over 90% use the library. Why, even a few of the jocks do.” More laughter.

“It’s crowded in there during mid-terms and finals,” one of the girls on Keith’s side complained. “There’s never enough carrels, and they lock the classrooms.”

One of Carl’s backers, Maurice Paget, a tall black student, raised a hand. “Couldn’t that be negotiated with Library Services? If there was more study space available in the present structure, they wouldn’t need to build a bigger building.”

“The trouble is that they use those classrooms all year round, especially during finals,” Keith said. “At maximum capacity, the student need exceeds available space. And Library Services wants to bring more study aids in, but there’s nowhere to put ’em. Audio/video aids, records and tapes, works of art—even,” a forefinger was raised on high, “
National Geographic
. All of these things are to be available for study, to give you the, well, wisdom of the ages, to prepare you to be whatever it is you want to be when you leave Midwestern. But wisdom dictates two things cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”