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1-17-2008 "That's nothing to talk about when we're eating!" But there we guys were, without adult supervision, free to talk about rats or other gross topics. Over our bacon and eggs. The rat topic came from recent news: Using rat tissue, researchers have managed to make a rat heart and get it beating. That may have future application to humans, but what had us guys talking was imagining Herr Frankenstein overtones of the experiment: solemn doctors in lab coats, leaning over the bulbous flask, then one of them recoiling in horror to gasp, "It's alive! It's alive!" Once the subject of rats was opened, stories came thick and fast from around the table. One guy told a war story of confronting them in foxholes. Another described a local eatery, long gone, that was closed down because of a separate nighttime clientele with sharp teeth and long tails. I weighed in with Gerry Allison's great teen-age story of shooting rats by night in the old county dump: "We'd pull in there by night in an old open Jeep," Jerry had said. "Its big spotlights sent hundreds of rats scattering. One night we doused the lights and sat in the dark, to lure them back out. When we flicked the lights on, rats were everywhere - including in the Jeep! They were running around on the dashboard and between our feet. Talk about kids scrambling! We didn't try that trick again." We'd worn that rat topic out by the time the dishes were cleared, and all went away well fed and happy. If any wives asked, "What did you boys talk about this morning?" I'm guessing the answer was, "Oh, the usual stuff." I don't know if I should admit it in print, but I have another rat story, one I didn't lay on the breakfast table that morning. The story is 50 years old, and in fact didn't involve a real rat - though I've felt a bit like one ever since. But - oh rats! - I'll tell you. It's about a long-ago practical joke on a really nice guy, and I was an accessory during and after the fact. The story's going to run into next week's column, but I'll lay out the background here. As most of you know, right after high school I joined a Catholic religious order and stayed there for 13 years. When I entered the first phase of training (think of boot camp), I joined a group of 40 drawn from all over the Mid- Atlantic states. A large part came from two big Christian Brothers' high schools, one in Pittsburgh and one in Philly. One of the Pittsburghers arrived dressed in the high style of one of that city's tougher neighborhoods. Larry wore a dark suit with pegged cuffs, white shirt, and impossibly narrow tie. About five foot five, he had his black hair slicked back in a duck-tail. His expression was not unfriendly, but guarded and appraising. Oh, and Larry wore a pair of highly polished, sharply pointed shoes known back in Iron City as "rat stabbers." Within weeks, all specialized haircuts fell victim to the barber (a novice in several senses), and in a few months all of us were uniformly dressed in the order's black robe and white collar. Larry, who turned out to be very pleasant company, did keep his rat stabbers through the 15 months of basic training. That seemed apt, since the only thing that could make this street-wise young man shudder was talk of rats. He hated them, dreaded them; and this fact was not lost on someone who quickly became the class clown: brilliant, witty Bernie Hughes from Philadelphia. If Larry's features were those of a classic "black Irishman," Bernie was the archetypal big, ruddy-faced mick, as outgoing as Larry was laconic. They liked one another, these opposites; and Larry shrugged off the jibes and jokes Bernie lobbed at him, mostly about his hometown. At the end of 15 months, the class took its first vows and moved on to the scholasticate for college studies at La Salle in Philadelphia. We joined the young monks already there to form a community of 120, all living in a once privately owned grand mansion on 50 acres. The order had refurnished the mansion in monastic style. In its master bedroom, opulent furniture had been replaced with steel cots. Where the former owner had slept in solitary splendor, Larry, Bernie, and I were billeted in that room with four others. We shared the adjoining marble bath. In retrospect, I guess we missed the irony of a bunch of young monks bedding down under a carved plaster ceiling, between a massive marble fireplace and tall windows with leaded panes that gave views of formal gardens and sweeping lawns. Maybe, by the time we got to bed, we were just too tired to weigh the contrast. Not too, tired, however, for Bernie to orchestrate a huge upheaval one night, all of it focused on Larry. Next week I'll tell you about that upheaval, and my shameless part in it. By the way, the contrast of young vowed monks living among the appurtenances of great wealth wasn't lost on one young tough who visited the place the following summer. He'd come in a group from West Catholic High School (Bernie's alma mater) to explore the possibility of joining the order. I was assigned to escort the group around the grounds and saved the best for last. I walked them across the lawns and inside a stone balustrade to view the former owner's swimming pool: diving board, underwater lights, terrazzo floor; the whole of it set against a sprawling brick cabana with dressing rooms and an enclosed squash court. The young tough, standing beside me, eyed the scene and then nailed me with a deadpan line worthy of Bernie himself: "Hey, if this is your poverty, I'd hate to see your chastity." Read about Jim Atwell's book, "From Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at JimAtwell. com. |
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