THE MAN WHO GREW A BEARD
By Charles Deemer
Although Professor Hodges was not in his
office, the door was open and so Dan Brock stepped inside to wait.
Younger, or in better physical condition (and a decade ago he had been
both), Dan would have answered a basketball coach’s prayers: he crossed
the office in three strides. At the window, looking out at Oregon’s
November rain, he unconsciously brought one hand to his chin and began to
stroke an impressive three-week 's growth of hair. Already, and in his very
first attempt, he had out-bearded a great many undergraduates who had
been trying for months, which seemed to be the singular advantage of
being a freshman two years past (to believe campus lore) the age of
trust. The fuzzy and trustworthy kids got all the girls.
Dan was still at the window when he heard
the door close behind him. Turning, he faced not the professor but a girl,
perhaps twenty-one, who immediately gave him a warm smile. The girl
was attractive enough, in the unpowdered and expensively casual way
in vogue on campus (she wore, for example, a baggy sweatshirt with
her English leather boots). Dan readily returned the smile, a gesture
that gave the girl the opportunity to speak first.
"My name 1s Sharon Robinson,"
she said. As she went on rapidly, she took the chair near the desk and
arranged several books and a plastic raincoat in her lap. "I’m
in your Intro to Psych. Only 1 haven’t been attending because first I
thought I had mono and then I got very, very involved la a personal
crisis. I think I've resolved it, though. I’ve decided to become your
mistress."
Dan, who had been waiting for a break into
which to interject the news that he wasn't the professor, now could not
look the girl in the eye, He looked at the closed door behind her, as if a
glance would open it.
"At least for the term," said
the girl. "1 heard that you're not married. Even if you were, I think
you'd find me very interesting to get to know, I mean, intimately.
Psychologically speaking, I’m quite liberal and uninhibited, I’d make an
excellent mistress. I only ask that you give me an A in intro."
Dan grinned at her -- nothing at all like
the earlier smile -- and tugged at his chin-hair. The girl moved the books
and raincoat to the desk, then returned both hands to her lap as if she
planned to fold them. Instead, however, each hand clutched the
waistline of the sweatshirt, and again the girl smiled warmly. Then,
without further preface, she pulled the sweatshirt to her chin. She was
not wearing a bra.
"I have beautiful breasts," said
the girl. "I’m not at a1l ashamed to say so. Do you like
them?"
She lifted the shirt higher, covering her
mouth so that Dan couldn’t tell whether she was smiling or not, Hs took a
step toward the door. When he did, the girl brought down the sweatshirt.
"I don’t believe in repression of any
kind," she said quickly, "I try to be totally honest and
straight-forward, I probably shocked you. I'm always shocking
people."
Dan said, "I’m, uh … not the
professor."
To his surprise, the girl responded
without delay.
"Well, you had a free peeky, didn't
you?"
She gathered up her things and stood,
coming not quite to Dan's shoulders,
"I’m not sure what to say." He
was blushing.
"Don’t say anything. Be a
voyeur. Go home and masturbate""
There was no warmth in the smile the girl
gave him as she left. Dan considered her exit, weighed it, but stepped
into the hallway moments too late. The girl had disappeared, and
Professor Hodges was approaching.
Dan turned and went the other way, walking
quickly to a stairwell. He took down the steps two at a time. Outside the
building he looked for the girl but soon realized that he had no
definitive Image of her -- or rather, that she looked like any of a
thousand girls who, between classes, were now moving quickly through the
rain.
That evening Dan phoned Joe, as had become
almost a daily habit in recent weeks. In great detail he told Joe about
the girl named Sharon Robinson. As he talked, an early Miles Davis record
played in the background and a TV roast-beef dinner cooled in his
lap.
"And then she begged you to bed her
down in the library," said Joe at the conclusion of the story.
Dan took his first bite of
dinner. "She wanted to make a deal with the prof, I told you
that. She could have cared less about me. She said I could go home and
masturbate."
"May I suggest an
alternative?"
Dan didn't reply.
"You eating or what?"
"Roast beef," said Dan, chewing.
"Delicious."
"TV dinner, right?"
"They’re not half bad.
Really."
"Sure, lay it on thick, bachelor-boy,
Rob the campus cradle while you're at it. I’m still not
convinced."
"Really, she wanted to trade her bod
for an A, Maybe she's a weirdo nympho or something, I don’t
know."
"I wasn’t referring to
what's-her-face."
"Just a minute."
Dan put down the receiver, set the TV
dinner beside it, walked to the phonograph and turned up the volume. The
Miles Davis was one of five records, all early-fifties jazz that he had
taken with him. For better or worse, the rest of his collection had been
entrusted to Joan for almost three months now.
"I’m back," he said.
"Bachelor-boy having a party or
what?"
"Will you cut it out? Can't a guy
feel good?"
"Sure. You and Joanie, two happy peas
in two happy pods. You should have your own TV series."
Dan picked up the rhythm of the music with
his head.
"So has anyone filed yet?"
Joe asked.
"I haven’t." He closed his eyes.
"Remarkable. A touch of sanity
remains."
"More than before, buddy."
"I bet Joanie was impressed. With
your nympho friend. Or haven't you told her yet?"
“What’s with all the questions
tonight?" Dan's eyes were open again. “You her goddamn lawyer all of
a sudden?"
"I know she wants to talk to you, is
all."
"You didn’t say so last
night."
"I’m saying so now."
"If she needs money, she can ask me
for it. I left her with--"
"Pardon me, fuzzy face,
but--"
"Listen, if you want to see
fuzz--"
"But I believe you retain family
responsibilities despite your old man's kicking-off money."
"Fine respect. Boy."
"You think he’d respect you quitting
the company?"
Dan was silent.
"Responsibilities," Joe said.
"Despite this college nonsense. Despite generally losing your
mind."
"Listen, do you have any Idea what a
social worker makes these days?"
"I mean moral
responsibility."
"Joan's in better financial shape
than I am. Hell, I left her with most of the goddamn
inheritance."
“Not money," said Joe. "Morals,
morals."
Dan took a bite of food and put the TV
dinner, barely touched, on the table next to the phone.
"My best friend," he said
slowly.
"Damn right. Otherwise I
wouldn't stick around waiting for you to regain your senses. Damn right,
I’m your best friend."
"Thanks heaps."
"Joanie’s as fine a woman as you’ll
ever meet. Go ahead, find out for yourself. Pretend you're a beatnik. A
hippy. Rob the campus cradle while you're at it."
"Mother, may I?"
The phonograph clicked off.
"Dan, listen to me, I--"
"Just a minute."
He went to the phonograph, flipped over
the record, once again turned up the volume and returned.
"You back?"
Dan said, "I’d better hang up. I’m a
student, I have homework."
"So how's school? You flunk out
yet?"
"You got the champagne ready,
right?"
"For Christ’s sake--"
"Goodbye."
"Just phone her, will you? She wants
to know how you are."
"Phone's always busy," said Dan.
"If you’d hang up once in a while."
"Very funny."
"Later, Joe.
He hung up and went into the kitchen to
mix a drink. He was reaching into the refrigerator for ice cubes when the
phone began to ring. Dan ignored it, and the phone rang three times
and stopped.
The following Saturday afternoon Dan
picked up his daughter at the baby-sitter’s home and, since there was a
rare break in the weather, took her to the park near the University. He
and Joan had made the arrangement for his weekend visits with Karen some
two months earlier, able then to address each other on the phone with
a formality quite in contrast to the spontaneous violence of
their separation. The night Dan moved out, they had exchanged not only
their customary insults and counter-insults but also acts of sheer
and unprecedented physicality. That night he struck Joan twice,
very hard on the arm; in reply, she tossed a drink in his face. Dripping with Scotch, Dan hastily
packed a suitcase with clothes and a shaving kit with sundries, then with
more deliberation picked out five jazz records from his collection. Joan
wept. Dan fetched a portable phonograph that hadn’t been played in
years. Joan kept crying. When he told her to shut up, she told him
where he could go. Dan, armed with the essentials, went. Had he turned in
the doorway, he would have seen Karen wander sleepily into the living room
to see him go.
This afternoon Karen would have refused a
nap. In the park she ran and slid and climbed and swung, and more than
once insisted that Dan attend every gesture of her energy. Watching from a
bench, he cheered her on like any fan, like any father. If occasionally
his attention strayed to admire an Oregon sun unseasonably bright,
or to marvel that students preferred a crowded football stadium to a
deserted park on so fine an afternoon, always Karen was prompt to notice
his wandering and always she was quick to beckon him back.
He was watching her climb the monkey bars
when a girl entered the park. The girl was perhaps seventy yards away and
approaching from the east, so that Dan noticed her first through the bars.
She was walking a black Labrador, and for several minutes he watched
her closely.
"You wait here a minute," he
told Karen. "I’ll be right back.”
"Watch my trick!"
"In a minute.”
"Now!"
"I said in a minute."
Walking briskly, Dan started toward the
girl. When he was no more than forty yards away, he called,
"Sharon?"
“What?" the girl called back. The dog
began to bark.
Dan walked faster, but only for a few more
yards. He stopped.
"What did you say?" asked the
girl. She tried to calm the dog.
"My mistake," Dan said above the
barking. "I thought you were someone else."
He jogged back to the monkey bars, where
Karen still had the trick for him to see. Like any fan, like any father,
he gave her a moment of his complete attention. Then, bribing Karen with
the promise of a movie next weekend, Dan returned her to the sitter,
although by rights he could have shared the rest of the afternoon with
her.
The legacy of the weekend’s subsequent
intoxication was that Dan slept until mid-afternoon on Monday, missing his
classes. He didn't really care. In fact, when he recovered in a few hours,
he began drinking again, although with considerably less abandon
than on Sunday. Hs paced himself, and on Tuesday he was able to
climb out of bed before noon. Cutting classes again, he spent the rest
of the day cleaning the apartment and listening to jazz. Of course,
he was still drinking. He finished off his last bottle that night
and, faced with instant boredom, ventured outside for the first time
in three days.
He drove to a University hangout called
Archie's Tavern. He was nursing his first beer at a back table when a
girl, who was alone, took a table across the way. Dan was positive that
the girl was Sharon Robinson. He joined her confidently.
"You’re Sharon," he said,
sitting down. "I’m Dan."
The girl smiled. "You know, this
happens to me all the time. People mistake me for my twin Sharon. Far
out.”
"Incredible. Actually I’m Dan’s twin.
He’s been after a date with Sharon, so I thought I’d have some fun. And
here you're her twin. What a coincidence."
The girl cocked her head incredulously.
Dan grinned and went on.
"Hey, how about Dan's twin taking out
Sharon’s twin? That would be something to tell our old twins
about."
"Ha ha," said the girl. She took
a sip of beer. "I know you probably think I’m easy because of what
happened, but you're wasting your time. I don’t feel like being picked up
at the moment. I only do what I feel like doing."
"Like getting straight-A's, for
instance?"
The girl glared at him.
"I was crude," said Dan. "I
apologize."
The girl finished her beer. Dan asked if
she wanted another.
"Aren’t your ulterior motives like
hanging out obvious?"
"Sure. Maybe I'm as straight-forward
as you claim to be."
The girl shrugged. "One more and I
have to go."
When Dan returned with two beers, the
girl, who in his absence had lit a cigarette, blew smoke at him. Dan waved
it away.
"Sorry," she said.
"No sweat. I don’t smoke myself but
smoking doesn’t bother me."
"You must be very pure,"
"Only in my lungs."
"So what do you teach?"
"Wish I taught something you’d want
to take." The girl’s expression told him nothing. "Anyway, I’m
Dan Brock. thirty-two, married but separated, divorced eventually I’m
sure, more wealthy than I’ve earned, and would you believe a freshman? And
what about you?"
"I’m Sharon Robinson's
twin."
After a pause the girl asked, "So how
many more beers before you actually proposition me?"
"You're really incredible.
None."
“You’re already drunk enough?"
"None."
The girl glanced around the tavern, as if
looking for someone.
Rising, Dan said, “Well, thanks for a
fascinating conversation."
"Maybe you give up too
easy."
He sat back down.
The girl said, “I can dig not being a
sneak about it. I mean, it’s refreshing
to skip all the stupid games that lead up to it."
"No gamesman, me. No sir. Dr.
Yes-or-No, at your service. So … yes or no?"
"Do you have a car?"
"Sure do."
"I have an errand to run. Want to
take me?"
"I thought you said no
games."
"I mean, if you don’t even trust me
…"
The girl finished her beer.
"Okay," Dan said at
length. "I’ll bite."
"Don’t sound so
skeptical."
The girl led the way from the table. Dan
stopped at the bar, bought two six-packs and met her outside. Seeing the
beer, she said, "You drink too much, don't you?"
Dan pointed out the car. While the engine
idled, he asked about the errand.
"You know the park on
Seventh?"
Dan said he did.
"That's where I want to
go."
"My place afterwards?"
"Is it close to campus?”
"Three blocks."
"Far out."
On the way to the park, the girl moved
close to him on the seat. She turned on the radio and found a hard-rock
station, playing the music louder than Dan liked to hear it. But he said
nothing.
When Dan parked, the girl told him to stay
in the car, she'd to right back. He turned off the radio as she walked
off. He waited. He was telling himself that he already had waited too
long, he had been tricked into driving the girl home, when he saw her
coming toward the car. As soon as she got in, she turned on the
radio.
"I got it," she said,
Dan didn't know what she was talking about
but didn’t press the matter. In a few minutes he pulled up in front of the
apartment. Inside the girl went to a table and sat down. From her purse
she brought out cigarette paper and a plastic bag of marijuana, and
began to roll a joint.
"Want a beer?" Dan asked,
watching her curiously, feeling more like a guest than host.
"Sure."
He opened two cans and put the rest of the
beer in the refrigerator. When he returned, the room was filled with a pungent
odor.
"Here," said the girl, holding
out the joint. She spoke as if trying to inhale speech itself.
"Is that what I think it
is?"
Again the girl inhaled,
"Here."
"Look, I think you'd better put that
thing out."
The girl relaxed, and a wisp of smoke
floated out of her mouth. "You’ve never tried, have you? You've never
turned on."
"I told you I don't
smoke."
"Not even dope?"
Without actually meaning to, Dan accepted
the joint. He held it almost at arm’s length between a thumb and index
finger, his little finger sticking out in the approximate angle of
tea—time.
"I’ve never Inhaled," he said.
"I'm not sure how to go about it."
"You’re kidding."
"Only vice I've missed." He
grinned foolishly.
"Far out," the girl said.
She wouldn’t take the Joint back. She kept
insisting that he try.
Dan stared at the joint. "You mean,
sort of like swallowing?"
"No, nothing like
that." The girl started giggling. "Inhaling, breathing in
deep, hhhh."
Dan slowly brought the joint to his lips.
Smoke curled up and burned his eyes.
"Hhhh," said the girl.
"I’ll try once, that's
all."
"Hhhh!" She was close to a
giggling fit.
"Just once."
Dan closed his eyes. Hhhh! Immediately he
was gasping and choking for air. In the panic to save what surely was
his life, he dropped the joint onto the table.
The girl retrieved it. "Not so
hard until you get used to it. Just a teensie, hhhh, to get the smoke into
your lungs. Teensie hhhh."
The girl took a long toke waiting for Dan
to recover. Finally he cleared his throat and managed to say, "Put it
out."
The girl laughed and said to each his own.
She leisurely went on smoking, sometimes looking ecstatic, sometimes
looking bored, while Dan, drinking with the old abandon, finished one beer
and another.
When only a fraction of an inch remained
of the joint, the girl pinched it out, put it on her tongue and swallowed.
Then she got up and methodically took off her clothes. Dan stripped to his
socks and they began to make love on the floor, where it was obvious
soon enough that the girl had more maneuvers to teach Dan than he had
to show her. Unfortunately, he wasn't a very receptive student.
Finally the girl told him, "I think you're too drunk." She
dressed, again methodically, and Dan lay on the floor. He felt so
exhausted that when the girl said, "See you in the halls, I'm
sure," he could only manage the slightest nod in farewell.
When he awoke on the couch hours later, he
was not fully dressed. His shirt was unbuttoned and his fly unzipped, but
at any rate he had on his underwear and, of course, still the socks. He
sat up and surveyed the room. Memory whetted a thirst.
Hs took a beer to the phone, sat down and
dialed. He let the phone ring for what seemed like forever.
"H-Hello?" a woman answered,
very sleepily.
"Joan? Dan,"
She clicked off. He dialed again, and
this tine he did not have to wait.
Joan said, "Do you know what time it
is?"
"Actually, no."
"After four."
"Listen uh … Joe said you wanted to
talk to me."
"Dan, I am not going to let you drag
me down with you. Not me or Karen either. Stop trying to."
"Joe said …" He didn't
finish.
"That’s wishful thinking on his
part," said Joan.
"I see."
"Friends think they’re marriage
counselors."
There was a pause, and Dan asked, "So
how are things?"
"That is not a question for
four-whatever-it-is in the morning. It’s not a question for ever. Not any
more."
Dan didn't reply.
"I’m hanging up," said
Joan. "Don't call back. Drink yourself to death, or get a
college education, or see a psychiatrist, or jump off a building,
anything, anything at all … just do it without me. I mean it. If you phone
again, I’ll call the police."
"Oh, don’t bother," Dan said.
"I’ve already filed. I told you
I would."
"Sure."
"You’re not going to drag me down
with you."
Joan hung up. Dan listened for a
moment longer but heard nothing, then returned the receiver. He put a jazz
album on the phonograph. He went into the bathroom to urinate.
Leaving after flushing the toilet, he
caught his reflection in the mirror … not the reflection of his entire
face since he was taller than the position of the glass and had yet to get
around to adjusting it. What he saw in the mirror was his face from the
nose down; what he saw was his beard.
Some time later Dan became aware that the
music had stopped. He was still standing in front of the mirror, still
staring at the lower half of his face. But the hair was gone now, and in
its stead was a patchwork of nicks and cuts, a few rather deep. Seeing
him, one would not have thought that he had just shaved. One would
have thought that he hadn’t quite succeeded in locating his own
throat.
/end