iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第4章

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　At　the　front　of　Dod　Hall；　our　dormitory；　Charlie　and　I　part　ways　with　Gil　and　Paul。　We　will　enter　the　tunnels　at　different　locations；　and　be　invisible　to　each　other　until　one　team　finds　the　other　underground。
　〃I　didn't　know　there　was　such　a　thing　as　a　black　Boy　Scout；〃　I　tell　Charlie　once　he　and　I　are　on　our　own；　heading　down　campus。
　The　snow　is　deeper　and　colder　than　I　expected。　I　wrench　my　ski　jacket　around　me；　and　force　my　hands　into　gloves。
　〃That's　okay；〃　he　says。　〃Before　I　met　you；　I　didn't　know　there　was　such　a　thing　as　a　white　pussy。〃
　　
　The　trip　down　campus　passes　in　a　haze。　For　days；　with　graduation　so　near　and　my　own　thesis　out　of　the　way；　the　world　has　seemed　like　a　rush　of　unnecessary　motion…underclassmen　hurrying　to　night　seminars；　seniors　typing　their　final　chapters　in　sweating　puter　labs；　now　snowflakes　everywhere　in　the　sky；　dancing　in　circles　before　they　find　the　ground。
　As　we　walk　down　campus；　my　leg　begins　to　ache。　For　years　the　scar　on　my　thigh　has　been　predicting　bad　weather　six　hours　after　the　bad　weather　arrives。　It's　a　memento　of　an　old　accident；　the　scar。　Not　long　after　my　sixteenth　birthday　I　was　in　a　car　crash　that　laid　me　up　in　a　hospital　for　most　of　my　sophomore　summer。　The　details　are　a　blur　to　me　now；　but　the　one　distinct　memory　I　have　of　that　night　is　my　left　femur　snapping　clean　through　the　muscle　of　my　thigh　until　one　end　of　it　was　staring　back　at　me　through　the　skin。　I　had　just　enough　time　to　see　it　before　passing　out　from　shock。　Both　bones　in　my　left　forearm　broke　as　well；　and　three　ribs　on　the　same　side。　According　to　the　paramedics；　the　bleeding　from　my　artery　was　stopped　just　in　time　for　them　to　save　me。　By　the　time　they　got　me　out　of　the　wreckage；　though；　my　father；　who'd　been　driving　the　car；　was　dead。
　The　accident　changed　me；　of　course：　after　three　surgeries　and　two　months　of　rehab；　and　the　onset　of　phantom　pains　with　their　six…hour　weather　delay；　I　still　had　metal　pins　in　my　bones；　a　scar　up　my　leg；　and　a　strange　hole　in　my　life　that　only　seemed　to　get　bigger　the　more　time　wore　on。　At　first　there　were　different　clothes…different　sizes　of　pants　and　shorts　until　I　regained　enough　weight；　then　different　styles　to　cover　up　a　skin　graft　on　my　thigh。　Later　I　realized　that　my　family　had　changed　too：　my　mother；　who'd　retreated　into　herself；　first　and　most　of　all；　but　also　my　two　older　sisters；　Sarah　and　Kristen；　who　spent　less　and　less　time　at　home。　Finally　it　was　my　friends　who　changed…or；　I　guess；　finally　I　was　the　one　who　changed　them。　I'm　not　sure　if　I　wanted　friends　who　understood　me　better；　or　saw　me　differently；　or　what　exactly；　but　the　old　ones；　like　my　old　clothes；　just　didn't　fit　anymore。
　The　thing　people　like　to　say　to　victims　is　that　time　is　a　great　healer。　The　great　healer　is　what　they　say；　as　if　time　were　a　doctor。　But　after　six　years　of　thinking　on　the　subject；　I　have　a　different　impression。　Time　is　the　guy　at　the　amusement　park　who　paints　shirts　with　an　airbrush。　He　sprays　out　the　color　in　a　fine　mist　until　it's　just　lonely　particles　floating　in　the　air；　waiting　to　be　plastered　in　place。　And　what　es　of　it　all；　the　design　on　the　shirt　at　the　end　of　the　day；　usually　isn't　much　to　see。　I　suspect　that　whoever　buys　that　shirt；　the　one　great　patron　of　the　everlasting　theme　park；　whoever　he　is；　wakes　up　in　the　morning　and　wonders　what　he　ever　saw　in　it。　We're　the　paint　in　that　analogy；　as　I　tried　to　explain　to　Charlie　when　I　mentioned　it　once。　Time　is　what　disperses　us。
　Maybe　the　best　way　to　put　it　is　the　way　Paul　did；　not　long　after　we　met。　Even　then　he　was　a　Renaissance　fanatic；　eighteen　years　old　and　already　convinced　that　civilization　had　been　in　a　nosedive　since　the　death　of　Michelangelo。　He'd　read　all　of　my　father's　books　on　the　period；　and　he　introduced　himself　to　me　a　few　days　into　freshman　year　after　recognizing　my　middle　name　in　the　freshman　face…book。　I　have　a　peculiar　middle　name；　which　for　parts　of　my　childhood　I　carried　like　an　albatross　around　my　neck。　My　father　tried　to　name　me　after　his　favorite　poser；　a　slightly　obscure　seventeenth…century　Italian　without　whom；　he　said；　there　could've　been　no　Haydn；　and　therefore　no　Mozart。　My　mother；　on　the　other　hand；　refused　to　have　the　birth　certificate　printed　the　way　he　wanted；　insisting　until　the　moment　of　my　arrival　that　Arcangelo　Corelli　Sullivan　was　a　horrible　thing　to　foist　on　a　child；　like　a　three…headed　monster　of　names。　She　was　partial　to　Thomas；　her　father's　name；　and　whatever　it　lacked　in　imagination　it　made　up　for　in　subtlety。
　Thus；　as　the　pangs　of　labor　began；　she　held　a　delivery…bed　filibuster；　as　she　called　it；　keeping　me　out　of　this　world　until　my　father　agreed　to　a　promise。　In　a　moment　less　of　inspiration　than　of　desperation；　I　became　Thomas　Corelli　Sullivan；　and　for　better　or　worse；　the　name　stuck。　My　mother　hoped　that　I　could　hide　my　middle　name　between　the　other　two；　like　sweeping　dust　beneath　a　rug。　But　my　father；　who　believed　there　was　much　in　a　name；　always　said　that　Corelli　without　Arcangelo　was　like　a　Stradivarius　without　strings。　He'd　only　given　in　to　my　mother；　he　claimed；　because　the　stakes　were　much　higher　than　she　let　on。　Her　filibuster；　he　used　to　say　with　a　smile；　was　staged　in　the　marriage　bed；　not　on　the　delivery　bed。　He　was　the　sort　of　man　who　thought　a　pact　made　in　passion　was　the　only　good　excuse　for　bad　judgment。
　I　told　Paul　all　of　this；　several　weeks　after　we　met。
　〃You're　right；〃　he　said；　when　I　told　him　my　little　airbrush　metaphor。　〃Time　is　no　da　Vinci。〃　He　thought　for　a　moment；　then　smiled　in　that　gentle　way　of　his。　〃Not　even　a　Rembrandt。　Just　a　cheap　Jackson　Pollock。〃
　He　seemed　to　understand　me　from　the　beginning。
　All　three　of　them　did：　Paul；　Charlie；　and　Gil。
　
　Chapter　2
　
　Now　Charlie　and　I　are　standing　over　a　manhole　at　the　foot　of　Dillon　Gym；　near　the　south　of　campus。　The　Philadelphia　76ers　patch　on　his　knit　hat　is　hanging　by　a　thread；　fluttering　in　the　wind。　Above　us；　under　the　orange　eye　of　a　sodium　lamp；　snowflakes　twitch　in　huge　clouds。　We　are　waiting。　Charlie　is　beginning　to　lose　patience　because　the　two　sophomores　across　the　street　are　costing　us　time。
　〃Just　tell　me　what　we're　supposed　to　do；〃　I　say。
　A　light　pulses　on　his　watch　and　he　glances　down。　〃It's　7：07。　Proctors　change　shifts　at　7：30。　We've　got　twenty…three　minutes。〃
　〃You　think　twenty　minutes　is　enough　to　catch　them？〃
　〃Sure；〃　he　says。　〃If　we　can　figure　out　where　they'll　be。〃　Charlie　looks　back　over　across　the　street。　〃e　on；　girls。〃
　One　of　them　is　mincing　through　the　drifts　in　a　spring　skirt；　as　if　the　snow　caught　her　by　surprise　while　she　was　dressing。　The　other；　a　Peruvian　girl　I　know　from　an　intramural　petition；　wears　the　trademark　orange　parka　of　the　swim　and　dive　team。
　〃I　forgot　to　call　Katie；〃　I　say；　as　it　dawns　on　me。
　Charlie　turns。
　〃It's　her　birthday。　I　was　supposed　to　tell　her　when　I　was　ing　over。〃
　Katie　Marchand；　a　sophomore；　has　slowly　bee　the　kind　of　girlfriend　I　didn't　deserve　to　find。　Her　rising　importance　in　my　life　is　a　fact　Charlie　accepts　by　reminding　himself　that　sharp　women　often　have　terrible　taste　in　men。
　〃Did　you　get　her　something？〃　he　asks。
　〃Yeah。〃　I　make　a　rectangle　with　my　hands。　〃A　photo　from　this　gallery　in…〃
　He　nods。　〃Then　it's　okay　if　you　don't　call。〃　A　grunting　sound　follows；　sort　of　a　half…laugh。　〃Anyway；　she's　probably　got　other　things　on　her　mind　right　now。〃
　〃What's　that　supposed　to　mean？〃
　Charlie　holds　his　hand　out；　catching　a　snowflake。　〃First　snow　of　the　year。　Nude　Olympics。〃
　〃Jesus。　I　forgot。〃
　The　Nude　Olympics　is　one　of　Princeton's　most　beloved　traditions。　Every　year；　on　the　night　of　the　first　snowfall；　sophomores　gather　in　the　courtyard　of　Holder　Hall。　Surrounded　by　dorms　crawling　with　spectators　from　across　campus；　they　show　up　in　herds；　hundreds　upon　hundreds　of　them；　and　with　the　heroic　unconcern　of　lemmings　they　take　their　clothes　off　and　run　around　wildly。　It's　a　rite　that　must　have　arisen　in　the　old　days　of　the　college；　when　Princeton　was　a　men's　institution　and　mass　nudity　was　an　expression　of　the　male　prerogative；　like　pissing　upright　or　waging　war。　But　it　was　when　women　joined　the　fray　that　this　cozy　little　scrum　became　the　must…see　event　of　the　academic　year。　Even　the　media　turn　out