The Flex of the Thumb (8 page)

Robin carried the ball off tackle and gained 12 yards. He bashed over two linebackers in the process. A modest cheer rippled the small crowd.

In the huddle, Leslie said, “Let's run that again.”

They tried it again, only this time Robin gained 25 yards. He knocked flat a linebacker and a cornerback, then barged over the top of a safety. This time the fans were more vocal in their appreciation.

“Jesus Christ,” said Leslie. “Can you do that every time?”

“Of course,” grinned Robin. “But it's too easy. I'd like to try it once with no blocking. Just give me the ball, and everybody drop to the ground. That's the way I'd like to try it.”

The other players in the huddle snorted their astonishment. “What the hell are you talkin' about?” demanded Leslie.

“Look,” Robin pleaded. “It's too easy with all this blockin'. I'd like to give it a try with no blockin'.”

“You are out of your fucking mind, aren't you?”

Robin explained. “I have this mental picture. I see myself smashing and weaving my way through their whole team, without any blocks. Come on, Howard, let me try it just this once.”

“It's not Howard, it's Skip.”

“Okay, Skip, what d'you say?”

“What the hell,” growled Kowalski, the right guard, who hated to block, “Let him try it. It's no skin off our ass.” The connection between the game itself and Kowalski's mind was indeed a tenuous one. He knew that Mary Thorne was up in the stands somewhere, and he wished like everything he was up there with her. Then he wished like everything he was in bed with her. The longer he allowed this fantasy to linger in his mind's eye, the more glazed his eyes became. Until finally, Howard (Skip) Leslie had to take him by the elbow and guide him to the line of scrimmage.

They tried it just this once, Robin Snook carrying the ball on the 28 off tackle with no blocking. He got smeared. He was tackled simultaneously by eight players, who smothered him and gouged him and even punched him until they nearly buried him in the turf.

Up in the stands, a leather-lunged woman named Grizelda bellowed: “Vass is loss?? Haff you effer hurt of any blokink?!” Just to make sure the players heard her, she yelled it a second time.

In Section BB, Vano was describing each play to Arnold Beeker. Arnold's new glasses were in his pocket, but he couldn't wear them because his eyes and nose were still swollen from his encounter with Rita Lieberman's dictionary. “Robin didn't gain any yardage that time,” Vano told Arnold.

“That's too bad,” Arnold replied. “Why not?”

After five seconds Vano said, “I'm not sure, but it looked like there wasn't much blocking.”

“How do they expect him to gain yardage without any blocking?”

Vano was in too deep, and anyway, it was the kind of question which didn't need an answer.

Elsewhere in the stands sat Wilfong Weingrad, 87 years old. Wilfong, one of Entrada's wealthiest and most eccentric alumni, wore a burgundy silk smoking jacket, the tail of which extended from beneath the hem of his threadbare college letter jacket. His glazed, knobby fingers were nearly translucent, while his face was like a wrinkled, pale prune. Wilfong Weingrad cared not a whit for football. He lived on the edge of hysteria.

His housekeeper, Grizelda, sat next to him, wearing a long overcoat, even though the temperature was 86 degrees Farenheit. She wore the overcoat because it had large pockets, the better to house her pints of Jim Beam. She rarely spoke without yelling.

Wilfong addressed the stranger seated next to him: “I have 25 million dollars in the bank.”

The man, suspecting that Wilfong was unbalanced, only stared at the field uncomfortably.

“I said, I have 25 million dollars in the bank. I would be willing to give it away if I could find a recipient who fears the Second Coming of our Lord, coming as He is on clouds of glory and lightning and thunder.”

Again, the man did not respond; he was interested in the football game. Besides which, Wilfong made him uneasy. Weingrad assumed the man was deaf: “Hey Grizelda, there's a man here who is deaf.”

Then Howard (Skip) Leslie threw a long, long pass whose spiral was so tight and pure it was a thing of beauty. It sailed many, many yards over the heads of offenders and defenders alike until it bounced harmlessly onto the ground in the end zone.

Grizelda bellowed, “
Mein Gott
! Could you just lookit der arm?!”

Back in the huddle, Robin Snook was still pleading, “Just one more try, Skip. Just one more chance with no blocking.”

Howard Leslie was pleased to hear Robin call him by his nickname, but he had heard the
oohs
and
aahs
of the crowd in response to his long spiral pass. He decided he would throw another long, incomplete spiral, only this time even higher and farther.

In order to fulfill a new student obligation, Vano was expected to meet with his advisor early in the semester. The office of his advisor, Chaplain Johansen, was located on the third floor of the campus's oldest edifice, the previous administration building. The building was due for razing as soon as funds became available. Most of the floor where the chaplain's office was housed was being used for storage.

Chaplain Johansen was thin and pale. When Vano found him, he was perusing a catalogue of evangelists. “I get these catalogues free because of my office,” he informed Vano.

A period of silence lasted 15 seconds before the chaplain finally said, “I wonder if you might like to look at the catalogue?”

“I would enjoy looking at it,” Vano answered.

Chaplain Johansen handed it over, and Vano began thumbing pages. It had the shiny paper stock of a mail order catalogue. There were pictures of evangelists on each page. Along with each picture, there was a paragraph describing the background and style of the evangelist. There was an easy-order blank in the back of the catalogue, so you could pick the preacher of your choice by simply filling out the form and mailing it in.

Vano read the page which delineated the qualifications of Billy Joe Jim Bob of Tupelo, Mississippi. There was a $20 rebate coupon which you could tear out and mail in if you ordered Billy Joe Jim Bob before October 31. “I never saw a catalogue like this before,” said Vano.

“I daresay most people haven't,” replied Chaplain Johansen. “You wouldn't think it possible to order an evangelist from a catalogue, the way you might order a washing machine from Sears. But there is the proof, right in front of you.” He giggled nervously.

Vano returned the catalogue to the chaplain. After another protracted silence, Johansen said, “I receive a great deal of pleasure from mimeographing. I have my own mimeograph machine.”

“That's nice.”

The chaplain showed Vano a sheet of plain white paper with a single question printed near the center of the page:
If a deaf moose bellows in the forest, but only a snail is there to hear it, does the bellowing moose in fact make any sound
?

“Where are the rest of the questions?” Vano wanted to know.

“That's the whole test, just the one question. That's how Oboe likes his tests. He says they're easier to grade that way.”

“I know who Oboe Meel is. He's my philosophy teacher.”

“Oh my,” fussed Chaplain Johansen, “Maybe I shouldn't have shown you the test. But he's the only one who brings me mimeo work these days of computers and laser printers. It used to be that lots of people did.”

Vano made no response. He was in deep.

The chaplain said, “I can't remember why you're here. Sometimes I have problems with my memory.”

“It's a requirement because you're my advisor.”

“Yes of course, now I remember. Your roommate called me on the phone, by the way. He said you haven't been yourself lately.”

By the time Vano was able to answer, he said, “I've been myself only more so. I go deeper in. Sometimes Arnold gets concerned about me, but he really doesn't need to.”

“You go deeper in? When your roommate called, he kept asking me if there was a tap on my phone.”

Vano smiled, but didn't answer.

The chaplain continued, “Your roommate said something to me about an atomic telephone. He said if I had an atomic telephone, no one could eavesdrop on my conversations.”

“That sounds like Arnold,” said Vano.

“Arnold believes you have a spiritual connection of some sort. What does he mean by that?”

It was a long, long time before Vano's answer came. “Maybe spiritual connection is a good way of putting it. As good as any.”

“I don't mean to pry,” Chaplain Johansen said, “But I would very much enjoy hearing about a thing like that.”

“Of course,” said Vano. Speaking very slowly, from deep in, Vano proceeded with a summary. He explained to the chaplain about the phenomenon of
hooommm
. He summarized his visit with the particle people. He reviewed the basic tension between the particle mode and the ego mode. It did not occur to him to say anything about baseball or the blow to the head he suffered from Jose Canseco's bat. It seemed odd to share it all for the first time, but not uncomfortable. The chaplain was a good listener.

“My, but this is fascinating,” said Chaplain Johansen, upon the completion of the summary. “I hope you don't mind that I'm taking notes.”

“Taking notes is very nice.”

“Is there more to tell?”

After some moments Vano replied, “There's no more to tell. There is more to learn, but I haven't learned it yet. The particle people said they hoped that some day my understanding might be complete.”

The chaplain skimmed the notes he had taken. “I hope you don't mind my saying so,” he said, “but this is almost like a sort of celestial pantheism.”

Vano Lucas had read some material about pantheism, but didn't understand it. He told Johansen, “I don't mind your saying so.”

Another lengthy silence ensued until finally, Vano excused himself and left.

After Vano's departure, Johansen reread his notes before he was able to extrapolate what he perceived to be the essence. He typed a stencil and fitted it to the drum of his mimeograph machine. As soon as he cranked out the first copy, he examined it closely:

The Lord God is alive and well

And floating through particle dust
.

The chaplain smiled. There were no typographical errors, and the entire message was well centered on the page. He signed his name in mimeo ink, then ran off two thousand copies.

Since he had nothing else to do, he hand-delivered large stacks of the memo to the student union, the athletic complex, Coleman Hall, the library, the administration building, and three other academic buildings. Then Chaplain Johansen went home with a strong sense of accomplishment.

The next morning, President Reggie Rose saw the memo for the first time. He asked Mrs. Askew, “What does this mean?”

“I have no idea. Who is Chaplain Johansen?”

“Don't ask me,” snapped Reggie Rose. “He must be listed in the staff directory. Look him up and get him over here.”

Reggie went into his office, closed the door, sank into his comfortable chair, belched twice, and experienced a keen wave of heartburn. For breakfast, Bertie Kerfoot had fixed him some stale pizza and room temperature Dr. Pepper.

In ten minutes, Chaplain Johansen arrived. “I remember you,” Reggie informed him gruffly.

“I keep a low profile,” admitted the chaplain. His skin was very white and his demeanor timid. He wore a clerical collar. He had thin white hands which he kept clasped over his stomach.

“Don't stand there, Man, sit down.” Reggie instructed him.

Chaplain Johansen sat down. He wore a charcoal gray crewneck sweater and shiny pleated pants. Around his neck hung a string of rosary beads and a Celtic cross. He fiddled nervously with the beads.

Taking note of this, Reggie asked, “Are you Catholic?”

“You know, that's the funny thing,” replied the chaplain. “I've been involved in this ecumenical
milieu
for so long, I just can't remember. I can't remember which denomination I'm associated with.” Saying this, Johansen laughed a long and nervous laugh.

Reggie Rose couldn't imagine what was funny.
What kind of idiot am I dealing with here
? he asked himself. “What are your beliefs then, Man?”

“You know the truth, I can't remember that, either. That's funny, too.” Chaplain Johansen giggled some more.

What little patience Reggie had was gone. He pounded his desk, got very serious, and stood up to pace. He paced around his desk first this way, then the other. As he paced, he waved a copy of Johansen's memo. “I want to know the meaning of this,” he demanded. “What's your authority for this?”

“I thought it might be inspirational. Maybe I was a bit too hasty. Sometimes I run out of things to do. I get a great deal of pleasure from mimeographing, but nobody brings me any work except Oboe Meel.”

What is this chaplain babbling about
? Reggie wondered. Before he could wonder too long, he felt another wave of heartburn. “Never mind all that,” he told Johansen. “If you can excuse me for a moment, I'll be right back.” He walked across to Mrs. Askew's office.

He asked her, “Is there anything in the trustees' report about getting more godly?”

Mrs. Askew had to think for a minute. She twiddled her glasses. “I remember one trustee saying we don't have any soul.”

“That's close enough for me,” said Reggie. Maybe this chaplain was on to something. Maybe getting back to God and stuff like that would get the college on the right track. When he returned to his office he told Chaplain Johansen: “You have my full support; keep up the good work.”

“You mean I can run more copies?”

“Absolutely. The sky's the limit as far as I'm concerned.”