A small circle of friends I
In college, the bonds of friendship form without
fanfare. They strengthen invisibly. And when they
break, it's amazing how little has changed.
I met them in a coroding apartment on 11th
Avenue, a few blocks from campus. It was Thanksgiv
ing and Gerald Ford was still president — 1975, if you
can't remember that far back. The menu was self
basting Butterball turkey, macrobiotic salad and a
bottle of jack Daniels.
without malice
harry esteve
Gathered around the table was a small circle of
friends, eating, chatting, seeing if they had enough
gas money between them for a trip to Bend during
the long weekend. They didn't, but who cared?
I was in a state of semi-euphoria. For the past
three months I had been living alone in a tiny studio
above what used to be the Tandy Leather Company
on West Seventh. Barely 18 years-old, a newcomer to
Eugene, I had taken to talking to my bicycle rather
than endure silence evening after evening, night
after night. Now here I was having Thanksgiving din
ner, talking to people. Nirvana.
But enough about me.
Ben stood out that night — both literally, because
he seemed nearly twice my height, and otherwise,
because of his general goofiness. He had spent a year
in Vietnam, part of the time wandering through the
jungle, carrying a gun and trying to stay alive, the rest
of the time, sitting in an office, printing an
underground anti-war newspaper, earning an early
discharge and an FBI file.
And the others around the table. Paul, the cynical
New Yorker, prematurely balding, nearing his
political science degree which he knew would
become worthless the moment he shed his gradua
tion robe. All he wanted to do was take pictures with
his 35 mm Nikon.
Dave, tall, handsome, mustached, and Marxist.
He was the only one with a girlfriend, so he kept his
distance. He was also a veteran of the Vietnam war,
but he never said much about it.
Peter, who was in school, but had no idea why
and eventually left because he couldn't pay tuition. I
recall a particular evening when he and I wandered
around downtown Eugene somewhat aimlessly,
primarily to talk. Neither of us had any money. He
stopped at a pool hall on the west side of the
downtown mall. "Watch this," he said.
I followed him into the smoky bar and watched,
wide-eyed and underage, as he calmly hustled three
games of eight ball and won three dollars. "Dinner,"
he said as we left. We bought a loaf of bread and
sandwich makings at the Safeway on West Seventh.
It was getting late. He told me he'd show me
where the whores hung out as we walked to his
house. I said I didn't believe there were any in
Eugene. “Just watch," he said again.
As we passed by an office building on Oak Street,
a woman stepped out of a doorway and asked us if
we had any plans for the night. Peter said no. She
said she could help us out if we'd like. Peter said no
thanks, and we kept walking. "See?" he said.
The apartment on 11th became the central
hangout. Most days, by five o'clock we'd all wind up
there, killing time. Classes filled the days, and gave
us something to talk about. Homework was reserved
for long Sunday afternoons and late Sunday nights.
I began to know Ben better. He told me only a lit
tle about his Vietnam days, but he admitted that they
had changed him permanently, and he would always
find it hard to join society’s mainstream. It wasn't a
choice, he said, but a result.
He worked hard at keeping his drinking under
control. He tried to keep his mind on his classes, but
they made less and less sense to him. He could pro
bably graduate, he said, but he still had to take a
health class to fulfill the University's requirement.
That’s when he told me he was TO years old and had
been in college on and off since he was 18.
Spring came and the group grew restless. Paul
couldn't take it. He took off suddenly one night for
Winnemucca, Nevada to gamble. He won. He return
ed a week later with the trunk of his old Mustang
packed with cases of Coors beer. He shared his
wealth unselfishly.
But with the warmer weather, the bond began to
deteriorate. Peter dropped out of school and hit
chhiked to New England. Dave moved in with his
girlfriend and spent his time with her. Paul walled
himself off, trying desperately to pass enough
courses for his political science degree.
The school year ended. Paul packed his Mustang
with camera gear and headed for New York City. I
said goodbye to Dave and Ben and left Eugene as
well. The bond broke as easily as it had formed.
Last week, in a fit of nostalgia, I called Ben. He
was still in Eugene, still attending classes at the
University. He filled me in.
Dave had shrugged off Marxism for Capitalism,
owns a Porsche and sells stocks and bonds in
Eugene. Paul couldn't make it in New York City,
breezed through town three years ago, and left, still
wanting to take pictures. Peter had stayed on the East
Coast.
And Ben? He was considering switching his ma
jor to either educational psychology or statistical
analysis.
"I'm trying to be respectable," he confided, "but
I'm having a hard time." This year marked his 16th in
college.
"One of these days I'll take health," he said.
letters
Uncanny drums
Last week )esse Colin Young
sold out at the Hult Center. The
box office, however, had hun
dreds of unsold tickets after the
show. To be more specific, Young
sold out musicians everywhere by
utilizing a computerized drummer
instead of the real thing. Not
unlike the rhythm accompani
ment one uses when banging
away on grandma's Wurlitzer
organ, Young's "drummer”
[
OAKWAY CINEMA
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STARTS FRIDAY!
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LAMPMN ’S
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NIGHT SHIFT
HENRY
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PRICE OF ONE
sounded canned, shallow, and tin
ny. Worst of all, it insulted a good
portion of the audience, pro
mpting many listeners to gather
their belongings and bolt for the
exits.
Between tunes. Young introduc
ed the latest member of his band,
calling it "beautiful” and
"creative." Yet Young's machines
succeeded at reducing his spon
taneity and the size of his au
dience. At the time, I wondered
who was playing guitar — Young
or his computer.
Ironically, Young, who not so
long ago was a struggling and fre
quently unemployed Greenwich
Village folk guitarist, prefers to
employ a computer rather than in
voking the creative assistance of a
fellow musician and artist.
In short, the computer should
relieve us from mundane tasks
such as University registration;
may it never replace the artist.
Will Connery
senior, finance
IBM personal computers
:
Perfect Writer™Software
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'zutiere quality counts*
860 i; 13*h. Eugene 344-7894
--$ho*s
2705
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Willame‘te
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featuring Lee Garrett
co-writer with Stevie Wonder
on Signed, Sealed, Delivered”
With Danny Wilson &
J-Bird Koder
(Formerly with Jeff Lorber Fusion)
Emerald Valley
Forest Inn
Creswell, Oregon
October 20, 21, 22
Suntrack Productions (503) 232-5180
& S
•ii\( • ■■ * f •*•■•*•*
IukcAia foo
1249 AUtx
Now Open For Dinner
Chef Chance, formerly of Godtz
Garden Restaurant will be
preparing a variety of gourmet
dishes nightly.
Starting October 21st
TtorT
*4.95
Chicken
Parmesan
Dinners
Good vuth c«tup«>n onl>
(lifer good,ihru 10/31 l*MO
E
i:4"£
Open for Dinner
Tues. thru Sat. Only
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