Making history

He slowed to a halt and his answer came out in an awkward, husky and barely audible tumble. 'No girlfriend. Least ... that is ... none that I know of. So.'

'Right, thanks.'

Steve nodded, still unable to meet my eye, and then looking up, said in a more cheerful voice, welcoming the chance to change the subject, 'Well, there it is!'

He pointed to a double-fronted shop on the other side of the street. 'PJ's' was printed in fat, shadowed letters on a red and white striped awning above the door.

'PJ's.'' explained Steve, unnecessarily, adding in a fanfaring kind of a voice, 'Home of PJ's fa-a-amous pancakes!'

I must slow down, I said to myself, as we crossed the road. I am going to need this guy's help to get myself back to rights and it won't do to alienate or embarrass him. For all I know, he thinks I am a jerk, has never really been my friend and is just being polite because he was the one to put me to bed and to find me this morning. He probably wants to be a million miles away.

My first hand knowledge of Americans being slight, or so I believed, it surprised me that Steve so plainly disliked my questioning him on the subject of best buddies and girlfriends. We British were forever castigating ourselves for our inability to talk about relationships

and intimate feelings and forever castigating the Americans for their inability to talk about anything else. Perhaps we had got it wrong. I said to myself 'we British' because, despite all testimonial, circumstantial and direct evidence to the contrary I still clung to the firm belief that I was English, brought up in Hampshire, and that some terrible mistake had been made or else someone was playing a sick joke on me.

After all Pup, I told myself, you could no more have made up your accent, your vocabulary, your faint memories of a girl called Jane and a place called St Matthew's than you could have faked that instinctive glance up the wrong side

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of the road as you were crossing ... hey! Another thought came to me as I dodged an angry car.

Pup! I had just called myself Pup. Where did that come from?

We reached the other side of the street. 'Tell me something Steve,' I said, 'am I ever called Pup? I mean as a nickname. Pup or Puppy?'

His mouth spread into a broad grin as he held open the door of PJ's for me. 'Never heard you called that. Just Mike or Mikey. But Puppy works. Neat. Puppy! Yeah, I like that ...'

'That's strange,' I said as I followed him in, 'because I've a feeling that I don't.'

We sat down at a table next to the window, overlooking Nassau Street. Overlooking Nassau, I suppose I should say. On the table I saw a salt-cellar, a pepper-pot, a chrome napkin-holder, a small chrome jug of milk, a bottle of Heinz ketchup, a jar of Gulden's mustard and an ashtray.

Steve's first action on sitting down was to take out a packet of Strand cigarettes and shake one out at me. 'You're never alone with a Strand,' I said, declining. 'Excuse me?'

'You know, that campaign on posters all over America? Billboards, as you call them. In the fifties I think. Saying "You're never alone with a Strand". Famous advertising disaster. A picture of a man all on his own, smoking. Turned people off the brand in their millions, they started associating it with sad losers.'

'Yeah? I never heard about that. Sure you won't have one?'

'I'm sure.' Then I recalled that when I woke up that morning there had been a packet on my bedside table. I suddenly realised the implication. 'My God,' I said. 'Are you telling me that I smoke?'

'Luckys. Well you did last night. Two packs. But if you don't want one ... hey, it's heck of an opportunity to quit.'

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'Funnily enough,' I said. 'There is something that I want. There's a kind of hole in the middle of me. I thought perhaps it was to do with my ... you know, not being able to remember anything ... maybe, what the hell ... I'll try one.'

I took a cigarette. Steve lit it for me with a brass Zippo, steadying my hand as he lit the end.

'Yoh,' I said, inhaling. 'Oh yes. This is definitely what I wanted. God that's good! Why did I never know? Well, obviously I did ...' I looked around me, suddenly more cheerful and noticed that a lot of people were smoking. 'Amazing,' I said, 'I thought smokers were virtually extinct in America.'

Steve laughed and was about to reply when--

'Hiya Mikey, hiya Steve,' a waitress appeared with two menus and two glasses of iced water.

'Hello ... Jo-Beth,' I said, reading the badge on her apron. 'What can I get you two this morning?' she asked, giving us each a menu and plucking two napkins from the chromium holder. She had put the napkins on the table as coasters, placed a glass of water on each and whipped out her notepad before I had had a chance to look at the first item on what appeared to be an improbably huge and complex menu.

'Er ..." I said, nervously watching her pen hover over the pad. 'Steve, you first.'

'I guess I'll have my usual, Jo-B, and Mikey here will have the same.'

'Oh, you guys are 50 unadventurous ...' she sighed with amused scorn as she plucked back the menus, squiggled on her pad and whisked herself off.

'One day we'll surprise you,' Steve called after her.

'Urn, obvious question, I know,' I whispered, leaning forward, 'but what is my usual?'

Steve twinkled. 'You'll just have to wait and see

'You know,' I said, looking at the burning tip of my cigarette with affection. 'Part of me is beginning to enjoy this. It's so mad, it's 50 confusing.'

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'Sure,' said Steve, 'that's just the way to look at it.' 'It's like a scene from that movie Total Recall' 'Total Recall? I never caught that one.'

'No? Arnie, Sharon Stone ... from the Philip K Dick novel?' He shook his head. 'Passed me by. So, this place familiar? Anything coming back? The smell of the pancakes, the steamy windows, the color of the walls?'

I shook my head, but smilingly. 'No-o-o. That is, not exactly. But this dinery sort of atmosphere, I've seen it in a thousand movies.'

'Now that's one thing that's weird, Mike. This English accent of yours. It's nearly perfect, you know? But you say things like "movies" and "cute" that limeys never say. English people say "films" and "nice" and "oh, I say" and stuff like that.'

'I always say "movies". A lot of English people do. And "cute" as well. After all, it's not as if we don't get exposed to American culture all the time, is it? In fact Jane says that I talk like ...'I broke off, frowning.

'Jane? Who's Jane?'

I rubbed my nose, as smokers do. 'I'm not sure. She wears a white coat and she left me. I know that. She took the Renault Clio.'

'The what?'

'It's a make of car. A French car. Renault Clio.' 'Like Cleopatra?'

'No, C-L-I-O.'

'Whig-Clio!' Steve struck the table in excitement. 'I'm sorry?'

'Whig-Clio, they're two buildings on campus. Hundreds of years old. We went there last night, to the Cliosophical Society.'

'The Cliosophical Society?'

'Sure, don't you see? There was a debate about political relations between America and Europe. It was real boring, so we left early. So, what I'm saying, maybe what happened is that you had this bump on the head,

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you fell asleep drunk as a skunk and then you had a dream! A dream so intense that you still haven't truly woken up from it. Right? You dreamed you were in England and you made up this car, this French Clio, because that was the stuff in your mind! That's it! I'll bet that's it.'

I stared at him, wanting to believe, but inwardly dubious. 'It's possible I suppose ...'

'It's definite!'

'What exactly is a Cliosophical Society?'

'Oh, you know, they do debates. It was named for Clio, the Muse of History or some such deal.'

'History! Of course ... history,' little rivulets of memory started to trickle into my mind. 'I read history, don't I ?' 'Gosh, you read all kinds of stuff. I don't know.'

'I mean I study history. I ... what's the word, I major in history?'

He studied me carefully for a moment to make sure I wasn't joking.

'Get real, Mike. Philosophy. Your major is philosophy.' I stared. 'Philosophy? Did you say philosophy? Ow!'

Steve took the cigarette that had fallen from my fingers and pressed it into the ashtray.

'Hey, careful there, buddy.'

'But I don't know the first thing about philosophy!'

'Fact One. Carelessly smoked cigarettes can burn flesh. Fact Two. Burning flesh causes pain. Pain is bad. Conclusion. Do not smoke carelessly.'

Jo-Beth arrived. 'Two breakfast specials. Enjoy, guys.'

I looked with disbelief at the tower of pancakes being set down before me. A lump of white butter was sliding around on the top of the stack. Arranged below, on the ground floor of the plate as it were, thin strips of crispy bacon coiled themselves around two fried eggs. I sucked the hot blister on the side of my finger and gazed in amazement at this alien still-life heaped up in front of me. Tm supposed to eat all this?'

'That's the idea,' said Steve, squaring his elbows.

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'And these?' I enquired, holding up four sachets of maple syrup. 'What are these for?'

In reply, he tore open two of his own sachets and drizzled the contents over his bacon.

'Bacon and maple syrup?' I said. 'Now I know I'm dreaming.'

And yet, once I had forced myself to try, there was something fine about that breakfast. Something ineluctably right, as if my body had expected nothing less.

'I cannot believe,' I said when I had finished, lighting another cigarette and welcoming in the dark hit of smoke, 'I cannot believe that I could have eaten all that.'

'Maybe it's just what you needed,' said Steve, pouring me coffee from a jug that Jo-Beth had deftly dropped in passing, on our table.

'And I eat this kind of breakfast regularly?' 'Sure you do. Most every morning.'

'Then how come I'm not fifteen stone?' 'Excuse me?'

'You know, why aren't I ...' I looked up at the ceiling and tried to calculate. 'Why aren't I two hundred pounds or whatever? Why aren't I fat?'

Steve grinned. 'Better ask Coach Heywood.'

My stomach dropped. 'Oh God,' I said. 'Oh God, no. You are going to tell me that I do sports of some kind, aren't you? I know it.'

'Get outta here. Mikey's slider from hell?' 'Slider?'

'C'mon. Give me seven bucks and we'll split.'

I took the wallet from the hip pocket of my shorts and pulled out some money.

'Seven bucks?' I said, spreading the notes out in front of me. 'They're all the same size.'

'Right,' said Steve, grabbing some. 'How 'bout that?'

Back out in Nassau Street, the Disneyland Gothic of the university facing us, Steve announced that we would go on a walk all round campus.

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He explained that students went from Freshman Year to Sophomore Year, from Sophomore to Junior until finally they arrived at Senior Year, the fourth and last. We were both, apparently, at the end of our Junior Year and known therefore by our 'classyear' of 1997, the year we would graduate. Steve was majoring in physics, but he wanted to be something else, not a scientist. A writer, maybe, he thought. He had taken courses in history and poetry and thought they were neat.

A great deal more local lore was fluently given out as we walked.

He pointed to an elegant, ivy-clad building ahead. 'An early governor of New Jersey, Jonathan Belcher was instrumental in bringing Princeton College here. If it weren't for his modesty, Nassau Hall there, which is celebrating its two hundred and fiftieth birthday this year, would actually be known as Belcher Hall, which would be kind of embarrassing. George Washington drove the British from Nassau Hall way back in 1777 and five years later Princeton became the capital of the United States for a short while, and we are granted to this day the rare privilege of being able to fly the Stars and Stripes at night. Washington returned here to receive the thanks of the Continental Congress for his conduct of the war, and on 31st October news arrived to this very spot that the Treaty of Paris had been signed, formally ending the American Revolution. Visitors are requested to keep off the grass. Interior flashlight photography is not permitted. Thank you for your attention.'

'How the hell do you know all this?' I asked.

'I used to take around tour parties in my sophomore year. There's groups going around all the time. You used to do it too.'

'I did?'

'Sure you did. Lots of students do. Good way to earn some dough. That's Stanhope Gate over there. You pass through it on graduation, so it's considered real bad luck

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to use it. It's gotten to be a kind of a superstition that no one goes out that way, except on the day they leave.'

I said I would rather look at the buildings which he considered would be the most familiar to me.

"Kay/ said Steve, 'we'll go find out who's in Chancellor Green, you spend a lot of time there. Let's see what I can remember on the way. Oh, yeah, suck on this. In the old days the land around a university was

called a yard or a green, okay? Then in the late 1700s the President of Princeton, Jonathan Witherspoon, he decided, being as how he was a classical scholar, to call the fields around Nassau Hall "the campus", which is like Latin for "fields" and that's why all school grounds everywhere are called "campus". Great, huh?'

I agreed that it was great. He seemed pleased with my calm progress.

'Now, something else,' he said. 'There's two theories about why the top schools in America are called Ivy League, 'kay? For one, on account of how each graduating year at Princeton used to plant ivy along the front of Nassau Hall. They stopped doing that some time this century, round about '41 when the whole building was covered. So now, when you graduate you plant ivy under the class plaques at the rear. So, Ivy League, you see? On account of the Ivy.'

'Makes sense,' I agreed. 'But you said there were two theories?'

'Right. The second theory is that to start with, in like the mid-eighteenth century, there was Harvard, Yale, Princeton and ... one other, either Cornell or Dartmouth I guess. Just four schools. And the Roman numeral for four is the letters I and V, so they were like the IV Schools. Eye-vee, get it?'

'I like that theory best,' I said after some thought. 'And what about the place where I woke up? What's that called?'

'Oh, that's Henry Hall, a dorm on the west side of campus, in what we call the Slums.'

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'The Slums?'

'Yeah, actually it's very picturesque. We call it the

Slums on account of it's a long walk from the center of campus where all the upperclassmen eating-clubs are. But it's a neat place to dorm, handy for University Place where the Princeton University Store is, and the Macartney Theater and the Wawa Minimart, which is like a neat market. And this here,' said Steve, indicating a small ornate building in front of us, 'is the Chancellor Green Student Center. Guys hang out here a lot. There's food and games and stuff in the Rotunda. Maybe you recognise it?'

I was hardly listening, for coming out of the door was something, someone rather, I most certainly did recognise. The very sight of him caused a massive bolt of memory to surge into me like hot RAM uploading into Johnny Mnemonic. Johnny Mnemonic ... Keanu Reeves ...

Keanu Young, PhDude ... Jane ... little orange pills ... so much returned at once I felt I might overload.

'Double Eddie!' I yelled. 'Jesus, Double Eddie!'

Double Eddie looked towards me, then over his shoulder as though he thought I must be addressing someone else. I broke from Steve and ran up to him. 'Bloody hell,' I said, breathlessly. 'Am I glad to see you! How are you? Have you any idea what the hell's going on?'

He stared at me blankly. 'Excuse me?'

I put a hand on his shoulder. 'Come on, don't fuck about, Eddie. It is you, isn't it? I'd know you anywhere.'

Eddie looked from me to Steve who was hurrying up behind.

'Think maybe we'd better be getting a move on, Mikey,' said Steve.

'I know this guy,' I said. 'You're name's Double Eddie, right?'

Double Eddie shook his head. 'Sorry, man. It's Tom.'

The American accent stung me to rage. 'No!' I shook his shoulder roughly. 'Please don't do this to me. You're Edward Edwards, I know you are.'

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'Hey, cool it will you? Sure, my name is Edward Edwards. Edward Thomas Edwards, but I don't know you.'

Steve gently pulled my hand away from Double Eddie's shoulder. I could sense rather than see him making some gesture towards Eddie from behind me. Tapping a finger to his head, probably. Please excuse my loopy friend.

'But when you were at Cambridge,' I said desperately, 'you were Double Eddie then. Your lover was James McDonell. You had a row and I picked up all your CDs. Remember?'

Double Eddie went very red and stood back. 'What is this crap? I don't know you. Get off my case, will you?'

Tm sorry ...' I said, running my fingers through my short hair. 'I didn't mean ... but can't you remember? St Matthew's? Your CD collection? You and James, you lived in F4, Old Court. You had a bust-up but then you got back together again and everything was fine.'

'Fuck you, you calling me a queer?' Double Eddie, scarlet in the face, pushed me hard in the chest. I fell back against Steve.

'Hey, hey, hey!' said Steve. 'Just forget it, okay? Mikey here, he had an accident. He banged his head.

His memory's gone kinda funny. He don't mean nothing by it. Let's just calm down, what do you say?'

'Yeah?' said Double Eddie. 'Well you get him to shut up with that filthy queer shit, okay, or I'll maybe bang his head some more.'

'Phoo-eee!' said Steve as Eddie walked away. 'You gotta go easy, boy. You just can't go around saying stuff like that.'

'It is him,' I said, watching Eddie's departing back and remembering so clearly that grand stalk across Old Court and the petulant shedding of the CDs along the lawn. 'I know it is. Besides, what's with the homophobia?'

'The what?'

'I mean what's so wrong with being queer?' Steve stared at me. 'You serious?'

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