The fat book face-down on the table said Anthem by Ayn Rand. Gee, just the type of light fluff everybody wanted to read while sitting out on the Union patio on a sunny late-spring afternoon. With a glance around, Connor shouldered the kid’s pack, then as an afterthought, he lifted up the book, flipped a few pages to lose the kid’s place, then set it back down again, smiling.
Moving quickly, but not hurriedly, he walked away. As he moved, Connor fondled the backpack; the slick nylon fabric slid across his fingertips. Mom and Dad probably bought it for the kid just before the semester started.
He sauntered around the side of the building, past a stained concrete loading ramp by the cafeteria and two dark green dumpsters surrounded by the cloying sweet-sour smell of old garbage. Sometimes it was fun to sit and watch the expressions of loss and confusion when the suckers came out to find their belongings gone, but Connor didn’t feel like it today. He’d been hanging out at Stanford for days, and the campus cops would catch onto his game sooner or later. He wanted to get out of the Bay Area as soon as possible.
He sat down on the tile lip of the dry fountain and unshouldered the pack. From this vantage point, Connor glanced up at the wandering students going in and out of the Union to use the photocopy machines and the pay phones. Still no sign of the kid. Maybe he had to take a crap.
Connor unzipped the pack and found three new spiral notebooks with white covers and a red Stanford Bookstore logo. Inside, the kid had taken crisp, meticulous notes about Melville’s use of metaphors. Connor dropped the notebooks on the ground.
In the front pocket Connor found a chocolate-chip granola bar, which he stuffed into his shirt pocket. He rummaged among a handful of pens and pencils, two pizza coupons, and just at the point of giving up, he found a twenty dollar bill taped to the fabric in back. It wasn’t the kid’s wallet, probably “emergency cash” that worried parents insisted their son keep “in case something happens.” Well, Connor needed it more than the kid did. Twenty bucks was twenty bucks.
Abandoning the pack, he got up and wandered down the mall, past poster vendors, jewelry makers with their wares displayed on rickety tables, someone selling cassettes from the Stanford Men’s Choir. He smelled new-mown grass in the air.
People milled about, but none of the college babes returned his looks. Although he kept himself reasonably clean, Connor was starting to look homeless. He had found a few dorms with open showers, and—like everything else—if he looked as if he knew what he was doing, nobody thought to stop him.
Connor had set his sights on going back to northern Arizona. His parents lived in Flagstaff, but he hadn’t spoken a word to his mother and father in twelve years. But he could walk in with a toothsome Prodigal Son grin on his face. What was the old saying? Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in. He wanted to settle down for a while, figure out where to go next.
Connor found a kiosk with bulletins advertising student films playing in auditoriums, religious campus crusades, roommates wanted, tutoring services. He scrutinized the displays when something caught his eye. A flyer stood out, on vibrant pink paper with a handwritten message photocopied onto it:
DRIVE MY CAR TO ATLANTA FOR $500
Connor drew in a deep breath. Finally, something he could use! Glancing at the address, he yanked off the flyer.
The dorm was called Roble Hall—pronounced “Row-BLEE” by the person who answered the phone—and Connor Brooks found it by wandering around campus for an hour.
The three-story dorm rose, a towering sandstone edifice covered with ivy, like something straight out of the movies. The doors were painted white; the inside smelled like a damp old attic; the olive-green carpet was worn and threadbare. He went up the wrong staircase, came back down to a lounge filled with beat-up sofas that looked like they had been stolen from the Salvation Army, then backtracked until he found the room he was looking for.
“Yo!” the student said, opening the door. “You the guy who wants to drive my car? I’m Dave Hensch.”
What a prick. Hensch looked like a cut-out from the Mystery Date Game: V-neck sweater over a spotless white shirt, tan slacks, loafers. His mouse-brown hair was cut short, and his face had a baby-pink flush that suggested he still scrubbed behind his ears.
Connor offered Hensch his best smile, stroked back his lank blond hair, and extended his hand. He tried not to show his scorn for this preppie idiot. “Hi, I’m Connor. Nice to meet you.”
Hensch led him into the small room with rickety wooden furniture painted a sticky brown, a single bed with a red ribbed bedspread. “I’ll be flying back to Atlanta at the end of the summer, and I need to have my car waiting for me. It’s a long drive—you sure you’re up to it? No classes this semester?”
Connor sat down on the hard wooden chair by the narrow desk, looking comfortable because that always put the suckers at ease. In the metal trash can, an old banana peel masked the nursing-home smell in the room. “I’m taking a break this semester. And I’ve got relatives in Atlanta I haven’t seen in years. Besides, seeing the country is the best education.”
Hensch nodded. “Yeah, I know. My parents made me spend a summer in Europe for the same reason.”
Connor stifled a snort. He started to feel impatient. “So, Dave, what kind of car is it?”
“An old AMC Gremlin.” Hensch looked embarrassed. “Don’t laugh. It’s probably the crummiest car on campus, but it was my first set of wheels. I’ve spent more on repairs than the car ever cost me but, hey, I’m attached to it. Can you drive a stick?”
“Sure thing. I’m ready to leave at any time.” He put a concerned tone in his voice. “You sure you can get by without your car for the next few weeks?”
Hensch dismissed the thought. “I can always just rent one if I need it, right?”
“I suppose.” Rich bastard. Serves you right.
Hensch turned to the window. “Yesterday a few buddies and I took the car up to look at the oil spill, sort of as a going away bash. We wanted to be able to say we saw it firsthand, you know? Have you been there?”
“Yeah, I saw it up close.” Connor rubbed his hands together. “Now, you’ll pay the money up front, right? That’s the way these things usually work. I keep receipts and get reimbursed for my actual expenses of gas and lodging and stuff when I get to Atlanta?” He was making this up, but it sounded reasonable.
“That doesn’t give me much security,” Hensch said, looking doubtful. Bright points of red appeared on his skin, as if it embarrassed him to be negotiating money. “I understood that it’s usually done half and half. You get the rest of the cash when you deliver the car.”
Connor shrugged, then decided to press his luck. “That’s okay by me, if it makes you feel more comfortable. But could you at least loan me a hundred against the expenses? You know how much I’m going to spend just on gas to drive across the country, and it would be a hardship to do it all out of pocket.”
Hensch paused, then pulled out his wallet, sliding several bills out, flipping through as if he was used to counting fifty-dollar bills. “How about three hundred? That’s half plus an extra fifty. Good enough?”
“You got a deal, my friend.” Connor reached out to take the cash and shake Hensch’s hand.
“Oh, and I’ll need to see your driver’s license for ID. Got any accidents on your driving record?”