CHAPTER LX

“BOOSTER DAY” AND A MEMORY

Entering Bloomington this afternoon, the memories of all my old aches and pains were exceedingly dim. We say to ourselves at many particular times, “I will never forget this,” or, “The pain of this will endure forever,” but, alas! even our most treasured pains and sufferings escape us. We are compelled to admit that the memory of that which rankled so is very dim. Marsh fires, all of us. We are made to glow by the heat and radiance of certain days, but we fade—and we vanish.

Nevertheless, entering Bloomington now it had some charm, only as I thought the whole thing over the memory of my various sex failures still rankled. “I was not really happy here,” I told myself. “I was in too transient and inadequate a mood.” And perhaps that was true. At any rate, I wanted to see this one principal room I have previously mentioned, and the college and the court house, and feel the general atmosphere of the place.

As a whole, the town was greatly changed, but not enough to make it utterly different. One could still see the old town in the new. For although the old, ramshackle, picturesque attractive court house had been substituted by a much larger and more imposing building of red brick and white stone—a not uninteresting design—still a number of the buildings which had formerly surrounded it were here. The former small and by no means cleanly post office, with its dingy paper and knife marked writing shelf on one side, had been replaced by a handsome government building suitable for a town of thirty or forty thousand. A new city hall, a thing unthought of in my day, was being erected in a street just south of the square. New bank buildings, dry-goods stores, drug store, restaurants, were all in evidence. In my time there had been but two restaurants, both small, and one almost impossible. Now there were four or five quite respectable ones, and one of considerable pretensions. In addition, down the Main Street could be seen the college, or university, a striking group of buildings entirely different from those I had known. A picture postcard, referring to one of the buildings, spoke of five thousand population for the city, and a four thousand attendance for the University.

Feeling that too much had disappeared to make our stop of any particular import, still I was eager to see what had become of the old rooming house, and whether the little cottage next door and the home of Beatrice over the way were still in existence. Under my guidance we turned at the exact corner, and stopped the car at the curb. I was by no means uncertain, for on the corner diagonal from my old room was a quondam student’s rooming house too obviously the same to be mistaken. But where was the one in which I had lived? Apparently it was gone. There was an old house on the corner looking somewhat like it, and the second from it on the same side was evidently the small house in which Miss T—— had lived; and over the way—yes, save for another house crowded in beside it, that was the same too. Only in the case of this house on the corner....

All at once it came to me. I could see what had been done.

“Willie,” I said, to a boy who was playing marbles with two other boys, right in front of us, “how long has this second house been here—this one next to the corner?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only been here since Booster Day.”

“Booster Day?” I queried, suddenly and entirely diverted by this curious comment. “What in the world is Booster Day?”

“Booster Day!” He stared incredulously, as though he had not quite heard. “Aw, gwann, you know what Booster Day is.”

“I give you my solemn word,” I replied, very seriously. “I don’t. I never heard of it before. Believe it or not—I never did. I don’t live anywhere around here, you know.”

“Hey, Tozer,” he called to another boy who was up in a tree in front of the house, and who up to this moment had been keeping another youth from coming near by striking at him with a stick, “here’s a feller says he never heard of Booster Day. Aw, haw!”

“It’s the truth,” I persisted. “I’m perfectly serious. You think I’m teasing you, but I’m not. I never heard of it.”

“Where dya live then?” he asked.

“New York,” I replied.

“City?”

“Yes.”

“Didya come out here in that car?”

“Yes.”

“And they ain’t got a Booster Day in New York?”

“I never heard of one before.”

“Well, we have one here.”

“Well, when does it come, then?” I asked, hoping to get at it in that way.

“In summer time,” he replied, smiling, “now—about August.”

“No, it don’t,” commented the boy in the tree. “It comes in the spring. I know because we were still in school yet last year, and they let us out that day.”

“Well, what month was it in then?” I went on. “April, May, June?”

“May, I think,” said the boy in the tree. “I know we were still in school anyhow.”

“Well, what do they do on Booster Day?” I inquired of the boy on the ground. “What do you do?”

“Well,” he said, kicking the bricks with his toes, “they, now, send up balloons and shoot off firecrackers and have a parade, and someone goes up in a flying machine, at least he did last year.”

“Yes, what for, though?” I inquired.

“Because it’s Booster Day,” he insisted.

“But don’t you see that isn’t an answer?” I pleaded. “I want to know what Booster Day is for—why they have it, why they send up balloons and call it Booster Day. They didn’t have a Booster Day when I lived out here.”

“I know,” called the boy in the tree gallantly. He had evidently been turning this problem over in his own mind, and now came to the other’s rescue. “It’s the day all the stores advertise to get people to come into town. It’s to boost the town.”

“Well, now, that sounds reasonable,” I commented. “And does it come on the same day every year?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Well, how long have you been here?”

“I was born here.”

“And have you always had a Booster Day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well now, there you have it,” I said to the first boy. “Booster Day is the day you boost the town—advertising day. You think it’s always been and yet you don’t even know what day it comes on. I’ll bet you haven’t had such a day out here for more than ten years.”

“Ooh!” chimed in one of the little ones, quite apropos of so great a flight of time. “I was born—now—three years ago.”

“Were you?” I said. “Then you scarcely know of Booster Day, do you?”

“No.”

“Ya do, too,” put in the ground boy. “Ya said awhile ago ya saw the parade last summer.”

“No, I never.”

“Ya did too.”

To prevent hostilities over this very important point, I said to another boy, drawn near, and who was standing by open-mouthed: “Where do you live?”

“In there,” he pointed, indicating my old study. “We keep boarders.”

“Then you can tell me maybe—did that house always have a porch?”

“No, sir. They put that one on two years ago.”

“And was it always on the corner?”

“No, sir. They moved it over when they built this house in here. I know ’cause, now, we lived down there before we moved up here, and I seen ’em do it.”

“That settles it,” I said cheerfully. “Do you suppose your mother would let me go in and look at that corner room?”

“My mother’s away to the country. It’s only my sister’s at home. But you can come in. The room ain’t rented now.”

He marched briskly up the steps and opened the door. I followed while Franklin, who had been idly listening to the conversation as he sketched, stood outside and watched me. It was quite the same, save for a new, smooth, hardwood floor and the porch. The window where I always sat commanded no view of any lawn, but, looking across the way and at the house diagonally opposite, I could get it all back. And it touched me in a way—like the dim, far-off echo or suggestion of something—a sound, an odor—one could scarcely say what. At best it was not cheerful, a slight pain in it,—and I was glad to leave.

Once outside I sat under the wide spreading elms waiting for Franklin to finish his sketch and thinking of old days. Over there, in the house diagonally opposite, on the second floor, had lived Thompson, the vain, in his delightfully furnished room. I always thought of him as vain, even in school. He was so tall, so superior, with a slight curl to his fine lips, with good clothes, a burning interest in football and hockey, and money, apparently, to gratify his every whim. He had a kindly, curious and yet supercilious interest in me, and occasionally stopped in to stare at me, apparently, and ask casually after my work.

And around the corner of the next block, in a large square house, but poorly provided with trees, lived one of the most interesting of the few who took an interest in me at the time. I could write a long and exhaustive character study of this youth, but it would be of no great import here. He was a kind of fox or wolf in his way, with an urbane and enticing way of showing his teeth in a smile which quite disarmed my opposition and interested me in him. He was a card sharp and as much a gambler as any young boy may be. He drank, too, though rarely to excess. All the mechanistic religious and moral propaganda of the college intended to keep the young straight were to him a laughing matter. He was his own boss and instructor. Evidently his family had some money, for they seemed to provide him freely. Once he came to me with the proposal that we take two girls, both of whom he knew and to whom he seemed perfectly willing to recommend me in the most ardent fashion, to Louisville over a certain holiday—Washington’s Birthday, I think—he to arrange all details and expenses. At first I refused, but after listening to him I was persuaded and agreed to go. The result, as I feared, proved decidedly disastrous to my vanity.

His girl, whom he took me to see, was petite, dark, attractive, by no means shy or inexperienced; and at her house I was introduced to a plump, seductive blonde of about seventeen, who was quite ready for any adventure. She had been told about me, almost persuaded against her will, I fancy, to like me. But I had no tongue. I could not talk to her. I was afraid of her. Still, by reason of a superhuman effort on my part to seem at ease, and not dull, I got through this evening; how I don’t know. At any rate, I had not alienated her completely.

The following Sunday we went, and had I had the least _sang froid_ or presence, I might then and there have been instructed in all the mysteries of love. This girl was out for an adventure. She was jealous of the attention showered upon her friend by W——. Secretly I think she admired him, only in this instance loyalty to her friend and indifference on his part made any expression of it a little difficult. I was a poor substitute—a lay figure—of which she was perfectly willing to make use.

On the way on the train we sat in the same seat and I took her hand. A little later I gallantly compelled myself to slip my arm around her waist, though it was almost with fear and trembling. I could not think of any witty, interesting things to say, and I was deadly conscious of the fact. So I struggled along torturing myself all the way with thoughts of my inadequacy.

Arrived at Louisville, we walked about to see the sights. There had been a great tornado a few days before, and the tremendous damage was still very much in evidence. Then we went to the principal hotel for dinner. My friend, with an effrontery which to me passed over into the realm of the unbelievable, registered for the four of us, taking two rooms. I never even saw the form of registration. Then we went up, and my girl companion, having by now concluded that I was a stick, went into the room whither W—— and his sweetheart had retired. W—— came to my room for me, and we went down to dinner. He even urged more boldness on my part.

After dinner, which passed heavily enough for me, for I was conscious of failure, we had five hours before our train should be due to return. That time was spent in part by myself and this girl idling in the general parlors, because W—— and his mate had mysteriously disappeared. Then after an hour or more they sought us out and suggested a drive. Since we had brought bags, we had to return to the hotel to get them and pay the bill. There was still three quarters of an hour. After perfecting her toilet in the room belonging to my friend, my girl came downstairs to the parlor and, a half hour later, just in time to make the train, W—— and his charmer appeared. The day was done. The opportunity gone. As in the previous cases, I heaped mounds of obloquy upon my head. I told myself over and over that never again would I venture to make overtures to any woman—that it would be useless. “I am doomed to failure,” I said. “No girl will ever look at me. I am a fool, a dunce, homely, pathetic, inadequate.”

Back in Bloomington I parted from them in a black despair, concealing my chagrin under a masque of pseudo-gaiety. But when I was alone I could have cried. I never saw that maiden any more. Afterwards W—— took me to see his girl again. He had no feeling of disappointment in me, apparently, or rather he was careful to conceal it. He seemed to like me quite as much as ever, but he proposed no more outings of that kind.

And there were C. C. Hall, who lived in a small hall bedroom over me, and used to insist, for policy’s sake, I fancy, that he _thought_ better in a small room, and that too much heat was not very healthy; and Short Bill Haughey, expert on the violin and a seeker after knowledge in connection with politics and taxation; Arthur Pendleton, solemn delver into the intricacies of the law; Russell Ratliff, embryo metaphysician and stoic—a long company. I can see them now, all life before them, the old, including men and women, merely so much baggage to be cleared away—’_their_ careers, _their_ loves, _their_ hopes all that was important in life. And life then felt so fresh and good, so inviting.

After this came the university, wholly changed, but far more attractive than it had been in my day—a really beautiful school. I could find only a few things—Wylie Hall, the brook, a portion of some building which had formerly been our library. It had been so added to that it was scarcely recognizable. I ran back in memory to all those whom I had known here—the young men, the women, the professors. Where were they all? Suddenly I felt dreadfully lonely, as though I had been shipwrecked on a desert island. Not a soul did I know any more of all those who had been here; scarcely one could I definitely place. What is life that it can thus obliterate itself, I asked myself. If a whole realm of interests and emotions can thus definitely pass, what is anything?