Chapter 18 - Fred

According to Boy: I had a roommate at the Fifth Avenue Hotel (throughout the pages of this book I refer to him as "Fred"). In a lot of ways Fred was an okay guy. He was a Georgetown graduate working on his MBA at NYU Business School. He worked hard and kept out of my way, for the most part. Aside from the fact that I really did not consider him a friend, he was a decent roommate—actually, that very well could have been the main reason why I liked him for a roommate. I think that good friends make poor roommates. It was just simply true, neither one of us liked the other well enough to want to hang out together, but we did not hate each other enough to commit murder. What the heck—it was obviously a match made in heaven.

I am not very good at describing faces. It is likely that if I were to have run into Fred on the street (even in 1968) I would not have recognized him. I might pick him out in the lobby of the hotel, and certainly in the room, but beyond that, I could have bumped into him and not known it. Nevertheless, I will describe Fred as best I can.

First, you have to understand why we have chosen an alias for Fred. By the time Evie and I are done writing about him, the reason will be clear.

Fred was of average height—perhaps 5’ 9", or even a little less. I was taller. At that time I stood about 5’ 11". Or, at least that’s what I told people. Fred was shorter.

One of the more interesting characteristics of this guy was his aire of superiority, at least when it came to his apprehension of himself vis-à-vis Mike Carrier. After all, he was a graduate of Georgetown, and I was not.

I did not lie to him; but I came close. He asked me where I did my undergraduate work, and I told him I had graduated from Central in Springfield, Missouri. I assumed that would be the end of it. But, he would have none of that.

"Central? Central what? I never heard of that. Springfield, Missouri? Is that "Central Missouri? Or Central what?" He kept asking me. He wouldn’t stop.

It was too late, at that point, to clarify. Had I said "Central Bible College," I would never have heard the end of it. It was not that I was ashamed of attending a religious college. After all, Georgetown is a good Jesuit school, with a tremendous heritage. I knew he would constantly poke fun at Central Bible College. But, if I simply said Central College, I thought he would drop it. I was wrong about that. Had I it to do over, I would have been more candid. I would have "fessed up" and accepted his ridicule. Unfortunately there are just too few "do-overs" in history.

I did tell him that I took classes at Drury College, and Southwest Missouri State (both also in Springfield, and now both universities), but it didn’t matter to Fred. He knew he had me. Probably my uncontrollable blushing gave my deception away. There is little doubt that his obvious condescension with regard to me was the major cause for my distaste for him.

In 1968, if you were to run into Fred on the street, he would be wearing an expensive suit. In cold weather, he would have on a very fine gray wool coat, also very expensive. He dressed well. I have no idea what he is doing today, but I would bet that he has had a very successful life. I have no doubt that he married a great girl, took a position in a major accounting firm, had three or more children, and has now retired a wealthy man.

Don’t get me wrong—I did not hate the guy. In fact, he inspired me to purchase my two Brooks Brothers suits, and some other decent clothes. For that I am thankful. Even though Fred did look down on me, and I resented him for it, when we were forced to leave the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and move to a lesser NYU housing facility (at 55 East Tenth Street), we chose to be roommates there as well.

Fred was one of these guys who always had a smart-assed response to whatever was said to him.

"What’s the weather like, Fred?" I might ask.

"It’s colder than shit. Don’t even bother to go out," he would say. "I hate this fuckin’ New York weather. And I hate the fuckin’ subways. They smell like piss. This place is fuckin’ insane. I don’t know if I am going to be able to stand this shit."

He would say all this while tossing (for emphasis) his briefcase and umbrella on the bed. He always carried an umbrella; even on sunny days. I am sure that had I not asked the question, he would have gone to the closet, hung up his coat and umbrella, and carried on normally.

Everything was a tirade to Fred. He would scrunch up his mouth into a phony smile, squint his eyes behind his unusually thick glasses, and belt out his complaints.

That was Fred—can’t say I disliked him, can’t say I liked him. Fred was Fred.