American Prophet

I wrote this scene for Sophomore fall quarter. It shows Bert’s sense of humor. Unfortunately it did not advance the plot, so I ended up deleting it.

That November, after Thanksgiving break, Jim and Bert returned to Bowling Green on Sunday afternoon. An ice storm made the roads very slick — Jim actually lost control of the Buick. It was a good thing the road was deserted as the car slid sideways and finally off the road near Mansfield. There was no damage of any consequence to the vehicle (since the Buick was built like a tank), so they continued on their way. Jim now drove extremely carefully.

Jim was driving on State Route 15, approaching I-75 just outside of Findlay. Just before the I-75 on-ramp, the road was steeply banked — it had been designed at a time when the speed limit was 70 m.p.h. Instead, the ice-slick road made it necessary to drive on the right berm at a speed of about 15 m.p.h. Suddenly, a driver cut Jim off. Jim braked hard, and the Buick slid down to the bottom. He barely avoided an accident, but got stuck in the snow and ice. The car behind him had to break to avoid hitting him, and also slid to the bottom. The two cars did not hit each other, and there was no damage, so Jim and Bert, and the occupants of the other car decided to push Jim’s Buick free of the snow so it would be able to move. Once Jim was able to move his car, Jim and Bert would help the other car to get free, then both cars would drive on. That was the plan.

After a couple of minutes of pushing, Jim’s Buick broke free. Debbie Boone’s song, “You Light Up My Life” was playing on the radio when Jim’s Buick got free of the snow bank. Jim and Bert were just walking toward the other car to push it free, when yet a third car came flying around the curve, and struck the car behind them. Jim sighed. This wasn’t good. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but it had just become an accident scene. Everyone got out of their respective cars to wait for the police. Then, a fourth car then hit the third car. Now the accident was a chain-reaction accident. Still, the bad weather kept the speeds slow enough that no one was hurt. The driver and passengers got out of that vehicle — and another vehicle hit it. Still no one was hurt. The accident was now taking up enough space that if a driver was not actually on the berm, he was sure to become involved. The police were nowhere to be found.

A brand new Corvette, new that day and with less than 50 miles on its speedometer and uninsured, became involved. Its driver, a young man, took the whole accident very seriously, and very personally. The number of vehicles involved increased, and each car, as it hit the Corvette, would rotate it, so that the next car that hit it would hit it in a previously undamaged area. Soon it had been hit from all sides. It was a total loss. Still no one had been hurt, but each time the Corvette was hit, its driver would curse even more loudly that the last time, and jump higher off the pavement.

Jim walked over to Bert, and, speaking quietly, said to him, “Tomorrow this will all be funny.”

Bert’s face was working, and after a few seconds he managed to choke out, “It’s… funny… NOW.”

Jim had never seen Bert fighting so hard to keep from laughing before. Bert was fighting the urge to laugh out loud, and was doing it successfully, but his mirth was infectious. Now Jim was fighting laughter. Whether from sympathy for the others, or mere self-preservation, they managed to keep control. The group of people from the accident had crossed the highway and stood on the edge of the Findlay Airport, near the end of one runway, watching the accident scene from relative safety. Someone finally got hurt when he reached back into a wrecked auto to get a bottle of booze and cut himself, but that was the only injury in the whole pile-up. Before it was done, there were twenty-two vehicles involved, including two hit-skips, one of which was a tow truck. Jim’s car, untouched in the whole accident was the twenty-third. It turned out that there were two brand-new-that-day vehicles in the accident, and both were totaled.

Finally the police arrived. Everyone was told to re-locate to a gas station nearby. Unfortunately, about half hour after they got there, the gas station closed. At this, Jim was incensed. “They could have kept the station open for another half hour. These people need protection from the weather.” Finally, as the accident scene was being cleared up, salt trucks finally went by. “If only they had come by a couple hours earlier,” noted Jim.

Tow trucks started moving the damaged cars, and the police handed out tickets like door prizes at a party. Every driver stood in line to get his or hers. Finally it was Jim’s turn. The policeman sitting in the driver’s seat of his cruiser asked him without looking up, “Did you hit anyone?”

Jim replied, “No.”

Then the policeman asked, “Were you hit?”

Jim replied, “No.”

The policeman straightened up, looked at Jim, and asked, “Then why are you here?”

Jim replied, “The car at the front of the accident was mine.”

The policeman at that point became incensed and told Jim, “Get out of here!”

Jim replied, “Yes, sir!” Jim didn’t need to be told twice. Jim and Bert left and returned to BGSU, less than a half-hour’s drive. I-75 had been properly plowed and salted, so there were no further incidents.

They got in late, but unharmed, having lost nothing but some time. Bert got to see just the last 5 minutes of an animated adaptation of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. He had really wanted to see that program.

I wrote this scene for Freshman fall quarter. This scene was just fun. It didn’t add anything to the novel, aside from being a call-back to his poem recital in junior high.

One unfortunate fact of college life is that many incoming freshmen are unable to manage the academic challenges and “flunk out.” Some never bothered to show up at class, and, after a quarter of partying, they were gone. Bert had seen this in his previous years, but those students were uncommon. They were also easy to identify, since they always had a big stereo system and played it loudly all the time. Other failing students were simply unable to handle the course load, or were not academically prepared. Most subjects of which Bert knew had two tracks: one to get one’s feet wet in the subject (usually for a group requirement), and the other for more serious students, especially those who planned to major or minor in the subject. The early courses of the “serious” track were often known as “wash out” classes. Students who couldn’t pass these classes simply didn’t belong in the subject. Enough failures in the first quarter or two, and a student could be placed on academic probation, or dismissed from the university. Naturally, many incoming freshmen tried to have as easy a course load as they could manage. Such easy courses were known as “Underwater Basket Weaving.”

There were a few required classes (group requirements) that were also “wash out” classes. One was English, and the weapon used against the freshman who took it was the essay. A sad fact was and is that many graduate from high school, having taken twelve years of English, but are unable to write. Bert had graduated high school with very good English grades, and had only had to take one required English composition class. Jim would have to take two such classes, and he was not happy. Moreover, Jim had a female instructor — a Teaching Assistant or TA — one who was deeply into “Women’s Lib,” so he decided to write an essay which was the most sexist he could manage. (The concept of “Political Correctness” would not be introduced until the 1990’s, and in any case, Jim never believed in it or practiced it.) He was going to have fun with this essay.

For this purpose, he asked Bert for some ideas, which Bert happily supplied. “The Ballad of Eskimo Nell” had been fun in its day, but now Jim wanted to anger his instructor, make her blood boil, and still get an “A.” This was the result:

Click, Snap, Hum, and Smack

The clicking high heels make my eyes bug out in preparation for watching any luscious young lady who may be attached to them. My attention snaps toward the body attached to the heels. The most appreciative sound that I can croon is a hum. The following accompanying sound is generally a loud smack — the sound of my face meeting her hand. The problem here is that women have been put on a pedestal and are then neglected and unappreciated. My desire is to take women off the pedestal and to bring them down for close inspection, each and every one of them.

My favorite point of interest on the female body undulates as she walks away from me. (I’ve always been fascinated by figure eights.) A lean type, such as a ballerina is technically perfect in motion, but lacks mass. Conversely the heftiest variety lacks control and direction. Fortunately, a happy medium exists — perfected in both definition and motions. Firmly padded, and properly curved, moving, they command undivided attention as would a waving flag to a patriot. In fact, while filling tight jeans, a gently swaying pair arouses my full attention.

No matter how compelling, the posterior is not a woman’s only attraction. Viewed from the front she has others — two of them. Close inspection is unnecessary, for they stand out alone. Concerning the great presence, contrary to popular belief, size is not the only consideration. Even more important are shape and tone. When viewed properly these two considerations matter most. A precise definition of proper shape is impossible, but quoting a popular commercial, “When it’s right, you know it!” One example is Raquel Welch, conservatively estimated to have the finest pair on Earth. Firmness, or proper tone, gives shape and prevents sagging. Shape and tone so far outweigh size that padding is self-defeating. Other clothing is more important — i.e., a tee shirt is just a tee shirt… until it’s wet.

With all these attractions it is hard to imagine how the woman has been so under-appreciated. Although many reasons may be given, two reasons stand out, their clothing and their attitude.

For centuries clothing has been designed to hide woman’s charms. Lately this situation has been improved. Early this century dresses rose above the ankles for the first time and exposure has increased ever since. For the medium to slender specimen the recently developed short skirt may display her legs to great advantage. Another prime device to gain appreciation is the tight V-neck blouse. Where the former draws attention from long range, the latter is primarily effective at short range. Wet-look clothing, on the other hand, is effective at any range. The bikini (for those who can wear them well) is particularly devastating. In short, clothing should accentuate the positive.

I am not saying that the only way that a woman may be appreciated is physically. Indeed, her personality may be more attractive than any physical attribute that she may possess. It is a pity that far too many women neglect the development of a pleasant personality. Looks without personality put women on the pedestal, but clicking their high heels and revealing their charms means they’ve stepped down.

Click, Snap, Hum, and Smack.

Jim passed the course with flying colors. It turned out that his instructor had a sense of humor, after all. Moreover, he got to read his essay aloud in class. He had never been able to do that with “The Ballad of Eskimo Nell.”

(More than two decades later, Jim ran into that same instructor, by then a full professor in the Washington, DC area. She still had a copy of his essay, and she used it to teach writing to advanced students. She would have a male student read it aloud in class. She told Jim that she had never seen a man who didn’t blush as he read it, except Jim himself. She considered it one the finest essays that a student of hers had ever written.)

Copyright (c)2016, Philip Hair. All rights reserved.

I wrote this scene for Freshman fall quarter, with the intent of showing Jim as a world class athlete and Bert as a practical joker. I always liked this scene, but had to cut it for length reasons.

In early October, one evening Jim and Bert were both free of commitments. Jim was taking a jogging class, so he suggested that they go jog on the running track in the men’s gym. The men’s gym was old, very old. It had been constructed in 1927, and remained the main men’s gymnasium until the late 1970’s. There were locker rooms on the ground floor, a basketball court on the first floor, and above it, suspended from the ceiling, was a running track which was accessible from the second floor. The track was extremely short — 14.7 laps per mile, Bert had been told — and set up as an oval, with the ends steeply banked. The center of the oval was open space, looking down at the basketball court below. There was a waist-high chain-link fence on the inner edge of the track to keep runners from falling. There was also a wooden “floor” at the south end, just above the steeply banked curve of the track, where runners could stretch and warm up.

It was evening, about dusk, and the track was mostly deserted. The two of them started to jog counterclockwise (everyone jogged in the same direction), and Bert discovered very quickly that Jim was not just in better shape than Bert, but much better shape. Jim was a “natural athlete.” Bert had delivered newspapers in junior high and high school, and had taken ROTC and karate for his first two years at BGSU. He was in the best shape he had been in his life, and Jim was lapping him! Every so often Jim would pass him. The two ran for maybe twenty or thirty minutes. Then, at one point, the two were running together. Jim was jogging close to the rail in a relaxed fashion, not exerting himself. Bert was puffing away beside him, slightly behind him and to Jim’s right. Bert was pushing himself pretty hard, and he was only just keeping up. Bert knew that in just a few moments, Jim would speed up again and he’d be gone — again. The two were approaching the curve at the south end when a runner just blew past them. He was not jogging, he was sprinting. He passed them as if they were standing still, and took the banked end of the oval at what seemed to be a 45 degree angle.

Bert knew Jim, and he knew that Jim could not resist a challenge, however indirect, however veiled. Jim lengthened his stride. Bert knew that if he stretched himself to his limit, he could keep up with Jim for maybe another 10 steps. Instead, he reached forward with his left hand, and “goosed” Jim. It was a very good “goose.”

There was a sound, like none Bert had ever heard before. It was high and thin. He couldn’t tell what it was. He couldn’t tell from where it came. He couldn’t tell that it was human. Time somehow stretched, and for what seemed a long time, he was simply confused. Then, somehow, he decided that Jim had made the sound. Jim must have somehow known, he must be playing it up. But Jim was not playing it up. Jim took off as if rocket-propelled, hit the banked south end of the track and accelerated.

Bert was now slowing down, laughing. He, too, rounded the south end of the oval, and stopped just at the beginning of the straight part of the track. Jim had not slowed down. Instead he had passed the sprinter before they had reached the turn at the far end. The sprinter didn’t even reach the north end of the oval. He slowed to a walk, stopped, turned around, and looked with stunned amazement at Bert, his eyes silently asking, “What just happened?” Bert was by now laughing so hard that he fell to his knees on the track. He barely managed to drag himself up over the lip of the track up onto the warm-up area before Jim rounded the track and trampled him. Jim could not slow down for another lap. Bert lay on the warm-up area, laughing hysterically.

Two laps after being “goosed,” Jim finally slowed down and stopped. There was nothing to be said. Together they returned to their dorm room.

The next weekend, Alexander Senior and Doris Kowalski came to Bowling Green and picked up Jim and Bert, to take them home for the weekend. On the way, Bert told the story to Jim’s parents, and Alexander Senior laughed and laughed. (Jim seldom even saw his father crack a smile.) Back home, Bert presented his friend and new Christian brother to people in his congregation, Westside Christian Church, on Sunday morning. One member he sought out was Greg Burns, an Elder in the congregation and a successful lawyer, a man Bert liked and respected. Bert introduced Jim, and for fun told the running track story. Greg almost fell over laughing. Jim recognized that Bert now had a story, and that he’d trot it out every now and then, and give everyone a good laugh. Jim sighed.

Even that was not the end of it. What neither of them had realized at the time was that the sprinter was a star on the track team, an Olympic gold medalist, and was there with his coach, who was timing him. The coach found out who Jim was, and proceeded to call him each and every Saturday during each quarter for the next two years, trying to persuade him to go out for track. Jim always refused, without giving reasons. He did not want the coach to know just what it took to get him to do his very, very best.

Copyright (c)2016, Philip Hair. All rights reserved.