roof. “See that chimney to extreme left? Our rooms are right underneath it.”
Granite steps led to a white paneled door framed by pilasters painted to match. The door was open. “Brace yourself for the housemaster. He’s a total prick, and I’m already on his shit list,” Clark said.
Facing them stood Ellis Price, his hands clasped behind his back. Impeccably dressed in a three-piece navy suit, Price was the epitome of deportment. His reputation was a no-nonsense rule stickler who viewed all newcomers as potential trouble until proven otherwise. A shade over five feet, Price relished the role of being Princeton’s Napoleon.
“Name!” Price barked.
“Preston Swedge,” he replied, towering over Price.
Price walked behind the reception desk, retrieving a room key and a sheet of paper. Holding them at arms length he said, “You are responsible for your key and will be charged for a replacement. The rules of the house are listed on this sheet of paper.” The corners of his razor thin mustache rose as a grin appeared on his face. “Mr. Johnson seems to have trouble comprehending what he reads. Mr. Swedge, I trust you don’t have the same problem.”
Preston took the key and paper. Price returned to his position in front of the desk.
Preston and Clark climbed an oak staircase to the second floor landing. “I told you he was a prick,” Clark said, laughing loudly.
“Getting on the wrong side of the housemaster in the first twenty-four hours must be a record,” Preston said.
Clark shrugged his shoulders, turned left, and proceeded to the end of the hall. Clark unlocked the door to room #22, ushering Preston into a living room furnished with two fireside chairs, a coffee table, and a settee. A bedroom was on either side of the room.
“I took the liberty of taking the bedroom on the left,” Johnson said. “Call over to admissions and ask them to send up your gear.”
Preston walked into his bedroom, taking stock in the fact that it wasn’t far removed from the configuration at Choate—twin bed, maple desk with matching ladder-back chair and four drawer dresser. The lone closet was smaller than the broom closet in the family’s Park Avenue apartment. A hand lettered sign tacked above the desk read, “IF YOU CAN’T BAFFLE ‘EM WITH KNOWLEDGE BAFFLE ‘EM WITH BULLSHIT”
With the blinds raised, a faint movement of air could be felt through the screens of the triple windows. Preston moved the twin bed next to the windows then returned to the living room where Johnson was stretched out on the small sofa with his eyes closed and his hands clasped on his chest.
Preston knew nothing about Clark Johnson except he was from Michigan. “I’ve been to Detroit a couple of times. What part of the city do you live?” he said, trying to break the ice. The exchange on the landing bothered Preston. He had the same roommate for four years at Choate and maintained the relationship after graduation. This one was going to be a challenge. Changing roommates wasn’t an option.
Without opening his eyes, Clark replied, “I come from Bloomfield, twenty miles outside the city. I hate to go to Detroit. I don’t know how you can live in New York City.”
Preston walked to the windows. “Times Square, Broadway, restaurants, and the Yankees make it the greatest city in the country.”
“I hate the Yankees,” Clark said, taking a peek at Preston who hadn’t moved. “The Tigers got a good chance to take them this year.”
“Fat chance,” Preston said. “Ever been to New York City?”
Clark sat up. “Why do you think I hate it? I’ve traveled to the cesspool by the Hudson with my father on more occasions then I want to remember.”
Seeing how the Michigan native was pleased with himself in having tweaked Ellis Price, Preston didn’t know if Clark was serious or joking. “What does daddy do for a living?”
From his pants’ pocket, Clark removed a pack of Lucky Strikes and a box of matches. “Smoke?” he asked, offering a cigarette to Preston.
“No thanks,” Preston said, reading a copy of the house rules on the coffee table. “Smoking isn’t permitted in the room.”
Clark tamped a cigarette on the table and struck a match on the sole of his shoe, exhaling a plume of smoke. He picked up the sheet of paper from the table, crumbled it, and tossed it toward the door. “Those are Price’s rules, not the university’s. Screw him.”
“Your father?” Preston asked again.
“He works for Ford Motor,” Clark said, reaching under the sofa for a glass