Free Mirrors of Narcissus by Guy Willard Page A

giving myself up completely to the pictures in my mind.
    The next morning I had to go back to my dorm to get my books for class. As I was about to unlock the door to my room and step inside, I heard sounds coming from within. It had to be Jonesy, packing his things to leave.
    He seemed to be in the shower room taking out his toothbrush, soap, shaving gear.
    I listened intently, dreading the prospect of meeting him. Would he say good-bye? Or should I? Didn’t I at least owe him that? Yet I was afraid of what the others would think. It would be like a betrayal, when he’d hurt so many of them. Leaving my post at the door, I quietly made my way down to the lounge. For about fifteen minutes I pretended to watch television, imagining I could hear the sounds of his packing. And then I heard a door opening, then shutting. Footsteps came down the hallway. I felt my eyeballs get hot.
    But he didn’t come to the lounge.
    After a decent interval had passed, I stepped out into the hallway and went down to Kruk’s room and knocked on his door. When he came to answer it, he looked drawn.
    “What’s up?” I asked.
    “Jonesy just left.”
    “Yeah, I know. I heard him from out in the hall. But I didn’t say anything to him. Did you see him?”
    “Yeah. I cracked open my door so I could get a look. And he saw me, too.”
    “Was he alone?”
    “Yeah. He was lugging a suitcase and a box. There was a taxi waiting for him outside.”
    “Did he say anything? Any last words?”
    “Nothing.”
    “No contrition, no excuses, no anger? He just left?”
    “That’s right. He couldn’t even look me in the face.”
    I felt a sense of letdown, of having been cheated. Perhaps I had wanted drama—some indication of the impact he’d made on our lives. After all, he had been the virtual leader of the floor, the one who organized things, got things going, the life of every party. He’d been here since the beginning, was the first guy I’d met when I came here. And now he was gone from our lives. It was hard to believe, or accept.
    I left Kruk and went to my own room. Except for Jonesy’s bed, the night table, and the study desk, everything had been cleared away. His side of the room still looked dirty. There were tiny holes in the wall, left by the thumbtacks where pin-ups had hung; beer rings had hardened on the window ledge. He’d left behind a huge stack of men’s magazines in the closet. I picked one up at random and idly flipped through it, then tossed it down.
    I had to get to English class.
     
    *
     

Part Two: Terra Incognita
     
    1
     
    I found out who “H. Golden” was, the mysterious person who liked to check out gay books. I was looking for courses to take in the coming winter term when I came across his name in the course catalog; he was a professor at the college.
    Apparently Harold Golden taught Western Art History, among other subjects. I knew instinctively that he had to be the one, and felt a little let down. I had wanted to keep him in my imagination as a young, attractive athlete.
    I checked the Underground Guide to find out what kind of instructor he was. Written by past students of the school, this mimeographed publication put out by the student union rated all the instructors on campus, telling how difficult they were, whether they were interesting lecturers, how tough they were at grading, and how to pass their classes.
    Professor Golden was apparently well thought of by former students. As a lecturer he was rated “excellent,” and his courses were in high demand. His Western Art History class was especially popular among students majoring in non-art fields, such as Engineering, P-Chem, and pre-med. For them, the course was interesting and, at the same time, satisfied the art requirement they needed for graduation. Athletes also favored the course; for them, it was highly recommended.
    I decided to drop in on one of his lectures to see how “H. Golden” looked.
    My first sight of him was a disappointment.