Then he smiled—but the smile didn’t touch his eyes at all. “You’re Kenny Guilder’s boy?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
He patted the hood of Arnie’s car with one pale, fat hand—there were two rings on it, and one of them looked like a real diamond. Still, what does a kid like me know?
“I guess you’re straight enough, then. If you’re Kenny’s kid.” There was a second when I thought he was going to ask for some identification.
The two guys next to us had gone back to work on their camper, apparently having decided nothing interesting was going to transpire.
“Come on into the office and let’s have a talk,” he said, then turned away and moved across the floor without even a glance backward. That I would comply was taken for granted. He moved like a ship under full sail, his white shirt billowing, the girth of his hips and backside amazing, improbable. Very fat people always affect me that way, with a feeling of distinct improbability, as if I were looking at a very good optical illusion—but then, I come from a long line of skinny people. For my family I’m a heavyweight.
He paused here and there on his way back to his office, which had a glass wall looking out onto the garage. Darnell reminded me a little bit of Moloch, the god we read about in my Origins of Literature class—he was the one who was supposed to be able to see everywhere with his one red eye. Darnell bawled at one guy to get the hose on his exhaust before he threw him out; yelled something to another guy about how “Nicky’s back was acting up on him again” (this inspired a fuming, ferocious burst of laughter from both of them); hollered at another guy to pick up those fucking Pepsi-Cola cans, was he born in a dump? Apparently Will Darnell didn’t know anything about what my mother always called “a normal tone of voice”.
After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him. Curiosity killed the cat, I suppose.
His office was done in Early American Carburettor—it was every scuzzy garage office from coast to coast in a country that runs on rubber and amber gold. There was a greasy calendar with a pin-up of a blond goddess in short-shorts and an open blouse climbing over a fence in the country. There were unreadable plaques from half a dozen companies which sold auto parts. Stacks of ledgers. An ancient adding machine. There was a photograph, God save us, of Will Darnell wearing a Shriner’s fez and mounted on a miniature motorcycle that looked about to collapse under his bulk. And there was the smell of long-departed cigars and sweat.
Darnell sat down in a swivel chair with wooden arms. The cushion wheezed beneath him. It sounded tired but resigned. He leaned back. He took a match from the hollow head of a ceramic Negro jockey. He struck it on a strip of sandpaper that ran along one edge of his desk and fired up the wet stub of cigar. He coughed long and hard, his big, loose chest heaving up and down. Directly behind him, tacked to the wall, was a picture of Garfield the Cat. “Want a trip to Loose-Tooth City?” Garfield was enquiring over one cocked paw. It seemed to sum up Will Darnell, Wretch in Residence, perfectly.
“Want a Pepsi, kid?”
“No, thank you,” I said, and sat down in the straight chair opposite him.
He looked at me—that cold look of appraisal again and then nodded. “How’s your dad, Dennis? His ticker still okay?”
“He’s fine. When I told him Arnie had his car here, he remembered you right off. He says Bill Upshaw’s doing your figures now.”
“Yeah. Good man. Good man. Not as good as your dad, but good.”
I nodded. A silence fell between us, and I began to feel uneasy. Will Darnell didn’t look uneasy; he didn’t look anything at all. That cold look of appraisal never changed.
“Did your buddy send you to find out if Repperton was really gone?” he asked me, so suddenly that I jumped.
“No,” I said. “Not at all.”
“Well, you tell him he is,” Darnell went on, ignoring what I’d just said. “Little wiseass. I tell em when they run their junk in here: get along or get out. He was working for me, doing a little of this and a little of that, and I guess he thought he had the gold key to the crapper or something. Little wiseass punk.”
He started coughing again and it was a long time before he stopped. It was a sick sound, I was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the office, even with the window looking out on the garage.
“Arnie’s a good boy,” Darnell said presently, still measuring me with his eyes, Even while he was coughing, that expression hadn’t changed. “He’s picked up the slack real good.”
Doing what? I wanted to ask, and just didn’t dare.
Darnell told me anyway. Cold glance aside, he was apparently feeling expansive. “Sweeps the floor, takes the crap out of the garage bays at the end of the day, keeps the tools inventoried, along with Jimmy Sykes. Have to be careful with tools around here, Dennis. They got a way of walkin away when your back’s turned.” He laughed, and the laugh turned into a wheeze. “Got him started strippin parts out back, as well. He’s got good hands. Good hands and bad taste in cars. I ain’t seen such a dog as that ’58 in years.”
“Well, I guess he sees it as a hobby,” I said.
“Sure,” Darnell said expansively. “Sure he does. Just as long as he doesn’t want to ramrod around with it like that punk, that Repperton. But not much chance of that for a while, huh?”
“I guess not. It looks pretty wasted.”
“What the fuck is he doing to it?” Darnell asked. He leaned forward suddenly, his big shoulders going up all the way to his hairline. His brows pulled in, and his eyes disappeared except for small twin gleams. “What the fuck is he up to? I been in this business all my life, and I never seen anyone go at fixing a car up the crazy-ass way he is. Is it a joke? A game?”
“I’m not getting you,” I said, although I was—I was getting him perfectly.
“Then I’ll draw you a pitcher,” Darnell said. “He brings it in, and at first he’s doing all the things I’d expect him to do. What the fuck, he ain’t got money falling out of his asshole, right? If he did, he wouldn’t be here. He changes the oil. He changes the filter. Grease-job, lube, I see one day he’s got two new Firestones for the front to go with the two on the back.”
Two on the back? I wondered, and then decided he’d just bought three new tyres to go with the original new one I’d gotten the night we were bringing it over here.
“Then I come in one day and see he’s replaced the windscreen wipers,” Darnell continued “Not so strange, except that the car’s not going to be going anywhere—rain or shine—for a long time. Then it’s a new aerial for the radio, and I think, He’s gonna listen to the radio while he’s working on it and drain his battery. Now he’s got one new seat cover and half a grille. So what is it? A game?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Did he buy the replacement parts from you?”
“No,” Darnell said, sounding aggravated. “I don’t know where he gets them. That grille—there isn’t a spot of rust on it. He must have ordered it from somewhere. Custom Chrysler in New Jersey or someplace like that, But where’s the other half? Up his ass? I never even heard of a grille that came in two pieces.”
“I don’t know. Honest.”
He jammed the cigar out, “Don’t tell me you’re not curious, though. I saw the way you was lookin at that car.” I shrugged. “Arnie doesn’t talk about it much,” I said.
“No, I bet he doesn’t. He’s a close-mouthed sonofabitch. He’s a fighter, though. That Repperton pushed the wrong button when he started in on Cunningham. If he works out okay this fall, I might find a steady job for him this winter. Jimmy Sykes is a good boy, but he ain’t much in the brains department.” His eyes measured me. “Think he’s a pretty good worker, Dennis?”
“He’s okay.”
“I got lots of irons in the fire,” he said. “Lot of irons. I rent out flatbeds to guys that need to haul their stockers up to Philadelphia City. I haul away the junkets after races. I can always use help. Good, trustworthy help.”
I began to have a horrid suspicion that I was being asked to dance. I got up hurriedly, almost knocking over the straight chair. “I really ought to get going,” I said. “And… Mr Darnell… I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to Arnie that I was here. He’s… a little touchy about the car. To tell you the truth, his father was curious about how he was coming along.”
“Took a little shit on the home front, did he?” Darnell’s right eye closed shrewdly in something that was not quite a wink, “Folks ate a few pounds of Ex-Lax and then stood over him with their legs spread, did they?”
“Yeah, well, you know.”
“You bet I know.” He was up in one smooth motion and clapped me on the back hard enough to stagger me on my feet. Wheezy respiration and cough or not, he was strong.
“Wouldn’t mention it,” he said, walking me toward the door. His hand was still on my shoulder, and that also made me feel nervous—and a little disgusted.
“I tell you something else that bothers me,” he said. “I must see a hundred thousand cars a year in this place well, not that many, but you know what I mean—and I got an eye for em. You know, I could swear I’ve seen that one before. When it wasn’t such a dog. Where did he get it?”
“From a man named Roland LeBay,” I said, thinking of LeBay’s brother telling me that LeBay did all the maintenance himself at some do-it-yourself garage. “He’s dead now.”
Darnell stopped cold. “LeBay? Rollie LeBay?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Army? Retired?”
“Yes.”
“Holy Christ, sure! He brought it in here just as regular as clockwork for six maybe eight years, then he stopped coming. A long time ago. What a bastard that man was. If you poured boiling water down that whoremaster’s throat, he would have peed ice cubes. He couldn’t get along with a living soul.” He gripped my shoulder harder. “Does your friend Cunningham know LeBay’s wife committed suicide in that car?”
“What?” I said, acting surprised—I didn’t want him to know I’d been interested enough to talk to LeBay’s brother after the funeral. I was afraid Darnell might repeat the information to Arnie—complete with his source.
Darnell told me the whole story. First the daughter, then the mother.
“No,” I said when he was done. “I’m pretty sure Arnie doesn’t know that. Are you going to tell him?” The eyes, appraising again. “Are you?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t see any reason to.
“Then neither do I.” He opened the door, and the greasy air of the garage smelled almost sweet after the cigar smoke in the office. “That sonofabitch LeBay, I’ll be damned. I hope he’s doing right-face-left-face and to-the-rear-march down in hell.” His mouth turned down viciously for just a moment, and then he glanced over at where Christine sat in stall twenty with her old, rusting paint and her new radio aerial and half a grille. “That bitch back again,” he said, and then he glanced at me. “Well, they say bad pennies always turn up, huh?”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess they do.”
“So long, kid,” he said, sticking a fresh cigar in his mouth. “Say hi to your dad for me.”
“I will.”
“And tell Cunningham to keep an eye out for that punk Repperton. I got an idea he might be the sort who’d hold a grudge.”
“Me too,” I said.
I walked out of the garage, pausing once to glance back but looking in from the glare, Christine was little more than a shadow among shadows. Bad pennies always turn up, Darnell said. It was a phrase that followed me home.
FOOTBALL WOES
Learn to work the saxophone,
I play just what I feel,
Drink Scotch whisky
All night long,
And die behind the wheel…
— Steely Dan
School started, and nothing much happened for a week or two. Arnie didn’t find out I’d been down to the garage, and I was glad. I don’t think he would have taken kindly to the news. Darnell kept his mouth shut as he had promised (probably for his own reasons). I called Michael one afternoon after school when I knew Arnie would be down at the garage. I told him Arnie had done some stuff to the car, but it was nowhere near street-legal. I told him my impression was that Arnie was mostly farting around. Michael greeted this news with a mixture of relief and surprise, but that ended it… for a while.
Arnie himself flickered in and out of my view, like something you see from the corner of your eye. He was around the halls, and we had three classes together, and he sometimes came over after school or on weekends. There were times when it really seemed as if nothing had changed. But he was at Darnell’s a lot more than he was at my house, and on Friday nights he went out to Philly Plains—the stock-car track—with Darnell’s half-bright handyman, Jimmy Sykcs. They ran out sportsters and charger-class racers, mostly Camaros and Mustangs with all their glass knocked out and roll bars installed. They took them out on Darnell’s flatbed and came back with fresh junk for the automobile graveyard.
It was around that time that Arnie hurt his back. It wasn’t a serious injury—or so he claimed—but my mother noticed that something was wrong with him almost right away. He came over one Sunday to watch the Phillies, who were pounding down the home-stretch to moderate glory that year, and happened to get up during the third inning to pour us each a glass of orange juice. My mother was sitting on the couch with my father, reading a book. She glanced up when Arnie came back in and said, “You’re limping, Arnie.”
I thought I saw a surprising, unexpected expression on Arnie’s face for a second or two—a furtive, almost guilty look. I could have been wrong. If it was there, it was gone a second later.
“I guess I strained my back out at the Plains last night,” he said, giving me my orange juice. “Jimmy Sykes stalled out the last of the clunks we were loading just when it was almost up on the bed of the truck. I could see it rolling back down and then the two of us goofing around for another two hours, trying to get it started again. So I gave it a shove. Guess I shouldn’t have.”
It seemed like an elaborate explanation for a simple little limp, but I could have been wrong about that too.
“You have to be more careful of your back,” my mother said severely. “The Lord—”
“Mom, could we watch the game now?” I asked.
“—only gives you one,” she finished.
“Yes, Mrs Guilder,” Arnie said dutifully.
Elaine wandered in. “Is there any more juice, or did you two coneheads drink it all?”
“Come on, give me a break!” I yelled. There had been some sort of disputed play at second and I had missed the whole thing.
“Don’t shout at your sister, Dennis,” my father muttered from the depths of The Hobbyist magazine he was reading.
“There’s a lot left, Ellie,” Arnie told her.
“Sometimes, Arnie,” Elaine told him, “you strike as almost human.” She flounced out to the kitchen.
“Almost human, Dennis!” Arnie whispered to me, apparently on the verge of grateful tears. “Did you hear that? Almost hyooooman.”
And perhaps it is also only retrospection
I was pretty busy in myself. The cheerleader and I had broken it off, but I could usually find someone to step out with on Saturday nights… if I wasn’t too tired from the constant football practice.
Coach Puffer wasn’t a wretch like Will Darnell, but he was no rose; like half the smalltown high school coaches in America, he had patterned his coaching techniques on those of the late Vince Lombardi, whose chief scripture was that winning wasn’t everything, it was the only thing. You’d be surprised how many people who should know better believe that half-baked horseshit.
A summer of working for Carson Brothers had left me in rugged shape and I think I could have cruised through the season—if it had been a winning season. But by the time Arnie and I had the ugly confrontation near the smoking area behind the shop with Buddy Repperton—and I think that was during the third week of classes—it was pretty clear we weren’t going to have a Winning season. That made Coach Puffer extremely hard to live with, because in his ten years at LHS, he had never had a losing season. That was the year Coach Puffer had to learn a bitter humility. It was a hard lesson for him… and it wasn’t so easy for us, either.
Our first game, away against the Luneburg Tigers, was September 9th. Now, Luneburg is just that—a burg. It’s a little piss-ant rural high school at the extreme west end of our district, and over my years at Libertyville, the usual battle cry after Luneburg’s bumbling defence had allowed yet another touchdown was TELL-US-HOW-IT-FEELSTO-HAVE-COWSHIT-ON-YOUR-HEELS! Followed by a big, sarcastic cheer: RAAAAYYYYYY, LUUUUNEBURG!
It had been over twenty years since Luneburg beat a Libertyville team, but that year they rose up and smote us righteously. I was playing left end, and by halftime I was morally sure that I was going to have cleat-mark scars all over my back for the rest of my life. By then the score was 17-3. It ended up 30–10. The Luneburg fans were delirious; they tore down the goalposts as if it had been the Regional Championship game and carried their players off the field on their shoulders.
Our fans, who had come up in buses specially laid on, sat huddled on the visitors” bleachers in the blaring early September heat, looking blank. In the dressing room, Coach Puffer, looking stunned and pallid, suggested we get down on our knees and pray for guidance in the weeks to come. I knew then that the hurting had not ended but was just beginning.
We got down on our knees, aching, bruised and battered, wanting nothing but to get into the shower and start washing that loser smell off ourselves, and listened as Coach Puffer explained the situation to God in a ten-minute peroration that ended with a promise that we would do our part if He would do His.
The next week, we practised three hours a day (instead of the customary ninety minutes to two hours) under the broiling sun. I tumbled into bed nights and dreamed of his bellowing voice: “Hit that sucker! Hit! HIT!”
I ran windsprints until I began to feel that my legs were going to undergo spontaneous decomposition (at the same instant my lungs burst into flames, probably). Lenny Barongg, one of our tailbacks, had a mild sunstroke and was mercifully—for him, at least—excused for the rest of the week.
So I saw Arnie, and he came over and took dinner with my folks and Ellie and me on Thursday or Friday nights, he checked out a ballgame or two with us on Sunday afternoons, but beyond that I lost sight of him almost completely. I was too busy hauling my aches and pains to class, to practice, then home to my room to do my assignments.
Going back to my football woes—I think the worst thing was the way people looked at me, and Lenny, and the rest of the team, in the hallways. Now that “school spirit” business is mostly a lot of bullshit made up by school administrators who remember having a helluva time at the Saturday-aftemoon gridiron contests of their youth but have conveniently forgotten that a lot of it resulted from being drunk, horny, or both. If you had held a rally in favour of legalizing marijuana, you would have seen some school spirit. But about football, basketball, and track, most of the student body didn’t give a shit. They were too busy trying to get into college or someone’s pants or trouble. Business as usual.
All the same, you get used to being a winner—you start to take it for granted. Libertyville had been fielding killer football teams for a long time; the last time the school had had a losing record—at least, before my senior year—was twelve years before, in 1966. So in the week after the loss of Luneburg, while there was no weeping and gnashing of teeth, there were hurt, puzzled looks in the hall and some booing at the regular Friday afternoon rally at the end of period seven. The boos made Coach Puffer turn nearly purple, and he invited those “poor sports and fair-weather friends” to turn out Saturday afternoon to watch the comeback of the century.
I don’t know if the poor sports and fair-weather friends turned out or not, but I was there. We were at home, and our opponents were t e Ridge Rock Bears. Now Ridge Rock is a mining town, and while the kids going to Ridge Rock High are hicks, they are not soft hicks. They are mean, ugly, touch hicks. The year before, Libertyville’s football team had barely edged them out for the regional title, and one of the local sports commentators had said it wasn’t because Libertyville had a better team but because it had more warm bodies to draw on. Coach Puffer had hit the ceiling over that, too I, I can tell you,
This, however, was the Bears” year. They steamrollered us. Fred Dann went out of the game with a concussion in the first period. In the second period, Norman Aleppo got a ride to the Libertyville Community Hospital with a broken arm. And in the last period, the Bears scored three consecutive touchdowns, two on punt returns. The final score was 40-6. All false modesty aside, I’ll tell you that I scored the six. But I won’t put realism aside with the modesty: I was lucky.
So… another week of hell on the practice field. Another week of Coach yelling Hit that sucker. One day we practised for nearly four hours, and when Lenny suggested to Coach that it might be nice to have some time left for doing homework, I thought—just for an instant—that Puffer was going to belt him one. He had taken to jingling his keys constantly from hand to hand, reminding me of Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny, I believe that how you lose is a much better index into character than how you win. Puffer, who had never been 0–2 in his coaching career, reacted with baffled, pointless fury, like a caged tiger being teased by cruel children.
The next Friday afternoon—that would have been September 22nd—the usual rally during the last fifteen minutes of period seven was cancelled. I didn’t know any of the players who minded; standing up there and being introduced by twelve prancing cheerleaders for the umptyumpth time was sort of a bore. It was an ominous sign, all the same. That night we were invited back to the gym by Coach Puffer, where we went to the movies for two hours, watching our humiliation by the Tigers and the Bears in the game films. Perhaps this was supposed to fire us up, but it only depressed me.
That night, before our second home game of the year, I had a peculiar dream. It was not exactly a nightmare, not like the one where I woke the house screaming, certainly, but it was… uncomfortable. We were playing the Philadelphia City Dragons, and a strong wind was blowing. The sounds of the cheers, the blaring, distorted voice of Chubby McCarthy from the loudspeaker as he announced downs and yards, even the sounds of players hitting other players, all sounded weird and echoey in that constant, flat wind.
The faces in the stands seemed yellow and oddly shadowed, like the faces of Chinese masks. The cheerleaders danced and capered like jerky automatons. The sky was a queer grey, running with clouds. We were being badly beaten. Coach Puffer was yelling in plays, but no one could hear him. The Dragons were running away from us. The ball was always theirs. Lenny Barongg looked as if he was playing with terrible pain; his mouth was drawn down in a trembling bow like a mask of tragedy.
I was hit, knocked down, run over. I lay on the playing field, far behind the line of scrimmage, writhing, trying to get my breath back. I looked up and there, parked in the middle of the track field, behind the visitors” bleachers, was Christine. Once more she was sparkling and brand-new, as if she had rolled out of the showroom only an hour before.
Arnie was sitting on the roof, crosslegged like Buddha, looking at me expressionlessly. He hollered something at me, but the steady howl of the wind almost buried it. It sounded as if he said: Don’t worry, Dennis. We’ll take care of everything. So don’t worry. All is cool.
Take care of what? I wondered as I lay there on the dream playing field (which my dreaming self had, for some reason, converted into Astro-Turf), struggling for breath with my jock digging cruelly into the fork of my thighs just below my testicles. Take care of what?
Of what?
No answer. Only the baleful shine of Christine’s yellow headlamps and Arnie sitting serenely crosslegged on her roof in that steady, rushing wind.
The next day we got out there and did battle for good old Libertyville High again, It wasn’t as bad as it had been in my dream—that Saturday no one got hurt, and for a brief while in the third quarter it even looked as though we might have a chance—but then the Philadelphia City quarterback got lucky with a couple of long passes—when things start to go wrong, everything goes wrong—and we lost again.
After the game, Coach Puffer just sat there on the bench. He wouldn’t look at any of us. There were eleven games left on our schedule, but he was already a beaten man.
ENTER LEIGH, EXIT BUDDY
I’m not braggin, babe, so don’t put me down,
But I’ve got the fastest set of wheels in town,
When someone comes up to me he don’t even try
Cause if she had a set of wings, man,
I know she could fly,
She’s my little deuce coupe,
You don’t know what I got…
— The Beach Boys
It was, I am quite sure, the Tuesday after our loss to the Philadelphia City Dragons that things began moving again. That would have been the 26th of September.
Arnie and I had three classes together, and one of them was Topics in American History, a block course, period four. The first nine weeks were being taught by Mr Thompson, the head of the department. The subject of that first nine weeks was Two Hundred Years of Boom and Bust. Arnie called it a boing-boing-going-going class, because it was right before lunch and everybody’s stomach seemed to be doing something interesting.
When the class was over that day, a girl came over to Arnie and asked him if he had the English assignment. He did. He dug it out of his notebook carefully, and while he did, this girl watched him seriously with her dark blue eyes, never taking them off his face. Her hair was a darkish blond, the colour of fresh honey—not the strained stuff, but honey the way it first comes from the comb—and held back with a wide blue band that matched her eyes. Looking at her, my stomach did a happy little flip-flop. As she copied the assignment down, Arnie looked at her.
That wasn’t the first time I had seen Leigh Cabot, of course; she had transferred from a town in Massachusetts to Libertyville three weeks ago, so she had been around. Somebody had told me her father worked for 3-M, the people who make Scotch tape.
It wasn’t even the first time I had noticed her, because Leigh Cabot was, to put it with perfect simplicity, a beautiful girl. In a work of fiction, I’ve noticed that writers always invent a flaw here or a flaw there in the women and girls they make up, maybe because they think real beauty is a stereotype Or because they think a flaw or two makes the lady more realistic. So she’ll be beautiful except her lower lip is too long, or in spite of the fact that her nose is a little too sharp, or maybe she’s flat-chested. It’s always something.
But Leigh Cabot was just beautiful, with no qualifications. Her skin was fair and perfect, usually with a touch of perfectly natural colour. She stood about five feet eight, tall for a girt but not too tall, and her figure was lovely—firm, high breasts, a small waist that looked as if you could almost put your hands around it (anyway, you longed to try), nice hips, good legs. Beautiful face, sexy, smooth figure—artistically dull, I suppose, without a too-long lower lip or a sharp nose or a wrong bump or bulge anywhere (not even an endearing crooked tooth—she must have had a great orthodontist, too), but she sure didn’t feel dull when you were looking at her.
A few guys had tried to date her and had been pleasantly turned down. It was assumed she was probably carrying a torch for some guy back in Andover or Braintree or wherever it was she had come from, and that she’d probably come around in time. Two of the classes I had with Arnie I also had with Leigh, and I had only been biding my time before making my own move.
Now, watching them steal glances at each other as Arnie found the assignment and she wrote it carefully down, I wondered if I was going to have a chance to make my move. Then I had to grin at myself. Arnie Cunningham, Ole Pizza-Face himself, and Leigh Cabot, That was totally ridiculous. That was—
Then the interior smile sort of dried up. I noticed for the third time—the definitive time—that Arnie’s complexion was taking care of itself with almost stunning rapidity. The blemishes were gone. Some of them had left those small, pitted scars along his checks, true, but if a guy’s face is a strong one, those pits don’t seem to matter as much—in a crazy sort of way they can even add character.
Leigh and Arnie studied each other surreptitiously and I studied Arnie surreptitiously, wondering exactly when and how this miracle had taken place. The sunlight slanted strongly through the windows of Mr Thompson’s room, delineating the lines of my friend’s face clearly. He looked… older. As if he had beaten the blemishes and the acne not only by regular washing or the application of some special cream, but by somehow turning the clock ahead about three years. He was wearing his hair differently, too—it was shorter, and the sideburns he had affected ever since he could grow them (that was since about eighteen months ago) were gone.
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