Free Joe College: A Novel by Tom Perrotta Page A

“That’s some mighty fancy whistling. Did you pick that up in Mayberry?”
    Matt set the cake down on the stainless-steel countertop and tried to look unruffled.
    “And how are you today, Brutus?”
    “Seriously,” I said, “where does a fellow like you learn to whistle like that?”
    He stalled for time, bending to retrieve a trowel-like serving implement from the shelf below the counter.
    “Prison,” he finally replied, straightening up and gazing at some point above my head with a vaguely troubled expression. “Gotta do something to fill those long hours in the hole.”
    “I’m sure the other inmates found it very attractive.”
    “Some of us juggled,” he said with a shrug, “and some of us whistled. Some of us fashioned deadly weapons out of small pieces of rusty metal.” He shook his head wistfully. “I miss those guys.”
    He turned his attention to the cake, slashing it up and down with a series of what I assumed were meant to be perpendicular lines. I grabbed my plate and looped around to the other side of the steam table, hesitating between one uninspiring entree and another.
    “Go with the bourguignon,” he advised.
    “You think?”
    “No contest. The manicotti’s a little gamey.”
    I plopped a pasty tangle of egg noodles onto my plate, then smothered them with a ladle’s worth of beef and gravy. After a moment’s reflection, I added half a spoonful of succotash to the mix, plus a single tube of the questionable manicotti. I was always hungry, and appreciated the mix-and-match, all-you-can-eat spirit of the dining hall.
    Matt lifted a small slab of cake out of the grid and deposited it on a dessert plate. Pivoting gracefully, he slid the plate onto the second shelf of the display rack, which was already half-filled with parfait glasses containing butterscotch and chocolate pudding. The top shelf was reserved for desserts provided by the Green Jell-O Fund, a substantial endowment dedicated to the purchase, in perpetuity, of this once-popular foodstuff. As usual, many servings of Green Jell-O had gone uneaten for several days running, and had been poignantly adorned with a last-chance dollop of whipped cream.
    “Sorry about the other night,” I told him. “Polly called me out of the blue.”
    “I’m over it.”
    “You sure?”
    He gave me a look.
    “I called the crisis hot line. They talked me down from the ledge.”
    Upon further reflection, I speared another unit of manicotti. My plate was starting to get a little crowded.
    “I warned you about that crap,” Matt reminded me.
    “But I like it gamey,” I insisted.
    Albert, the dining-hall manager, chose that very moment to burst into the serving area. Ninety percent of the time, Albert was a mellow, easygoing guy who liked to kid around with his employees. The rest of the time he looked like a man being chased by a team of trained assassins.
    “Gamey?” He fixed me with a look of wild panic. “What’s gamey?”
    “The manicotti,” said Matt. “Did you fill it with possum or squirrel?”
    Albert glanced quickly over his shoulder.
    “Don’t even joke like that. That’s how rumors get started.”
    “You’re right,” said Matt. “Our customers can be picky about their roadkill.”
    Albert let out a deep breath and reached up to massage his tired eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty, but the strain of running the dining hall was starting to take a toll on him. Sometimes he reminded me of my father.
    “You guys seen Lorelei?” he asked.
    Matt and I shook our heads, but that didn’t stop him from peering over the top of the steam table, as if he expected to see Lorelei crouched on the floor by the short-order grill, dreamily filing her nails.
    “Excuse me,” he said, his focus shifting suddenly to Matt. “What the hell is that?”
    “What the hell is what?” Matt inquired.
    “That thing you just cut. Give it here.”
    Matt handed the dessert plate to me, and I passed it along to Albert, who squinted