The Harvard Club
by George Blecher
[ fiction - november 07 ]
In the afternoons, when the Harvard Club is empty, the light shining through the unwashed casement windows in the Common Room is a calming gray. The man masturbating in a leather armchair appreciates the safety of the Club, which he hopes extends at this moment to safety from the other members. He is aware of what he's doing, but his sense of a warm bath surrounding him is far more important than awareness.
The circumstances that led him to this point are not material: he was discovered fleeing the scene of an accident that he caused, was fired for making obscene calls to an underage employee, is awaiting arraignment for a stock swindle of some complexity - it hardly matters, except that his life is over. He has gathered the women of his past around him. Their bodies are round and voluptuous, like fruit of the South Seas, and his body is youthfully hard, Tahitian. By force of will he finds that he can slow time down to the pace of an obedient beast, allowing him to wallow in these perfected memories. But only for moments: whenever he lets up, he feels a chill that no warm bath can dispel.
A few armchairs away, a second man masturbates. His motions are more violent than those of the first, whose technique is quite gentle and forgiving. The "sin" of this second man involves more guilt than shame: let us say that he was caught cheating on his spouse, kept silent while an innocent colleague was censured, failed to take a patient's complaints seriously, thereby sentencing her to an early, painful death. His life is not over, but he is only beginning to feel the weight on his shoulders.
Instead of being comforted by the gray light, the second man finds the sooty windows offensive, and between flashes of self-recrimination he mutters to himself about the Club's high dues. Writhing in his armchair, sweat breaking on his brow and under his starched shirt, there is nothing subtle about the way he wanks himself. His fantasies involve whipping his wife and children, defecating on them, wringing their necks. He encourages them to do the same to him with twice the ardor, and absorbs it with an ecstatic masochism that provides some temporary relief. His mind shuffles through a series of unrelated images: the white marble steps leading up to the Lutheran Cathedral in Helsinki, Finland; a hairy, forbidding dwarf in an old Italian film, perhaps La Strada; the toilet seat under which the rock 'n' roll singer Chuck Berry allegedly placed a camera to satisfy his particular obsessions. If nothing else, the rapidity with which he speeds through these images moves him toward exhaustion, where his body would surely like to be.
The two men do not hear or see each other. The motes of dust in the gray sun beams in the Harvard Club remain undisturbed. But at some point each has a faint, private sense of someone in a parallel universe close by - safely invisible but completely present.
While touching himself through a hole in his pants pocket, the first man senses someone else's hand stroking him. This hand performs the task more deftly than he can, with far more sensitivity and imagination. Compared to the new hand, his own is repetitive, barely able to conceal its boredom. This hand seems actually to love him. It pauses for his reaction, then finds some thrilling variation - a one-fingertip glissando, a sensitive stroke of the side of the thumb - that gives him enough pleasure to draw tears to his eyes. The hand doesn't seem to want anything in return - just his satisfaction, peace of mind.
Now he does start crying. Very quietly. Part of his crying contains the seeds of remorse, but the larger part is self-pity. He isn't as bad as people think; his tragedy is that people can't see him as he really is. He squints his eyes open. Through the high windows he sees the light bouncing off the aluminum window frames of the building opposite the Harvard Club. The schools of dust motes milling in the air. The oil portraits of past Club Presidents hanging on the dark wooden paneling. How absurd! How touching! It must have been the high point of their lives! The smell of ammonia and old leather, the kitchen smells from the Club restaurant in the adjoining room. The hand of love caresses him back to the world. But ever so slowly. He can hide in the armchair as long as he likes.
The second man, the feverish one, the one curled in a fetal position in his armchair, stops his activities in shock. Someone has seen him. Someone is about to turn him in. Not only is he punishing himself in every way he can think of, but he'll be driven from the Harvard Club in disgrace. He opens his eyes and looks around. Video cameras must be installed in the ceiling. The guards have been alerted, are on their way. Any second their hands will descend on his shoulders and lift him out of his chair. But there is only gray light and silence, which is a sort of hand on his shoulder, a kind one. He bows his head and whimpers.
The first man stops whimpering long enough to hear the second man whimpering. Because this isn't possible, it must be he himself whimpering, or a part of himself that has separated from the rest. He listens with a detachment that could be called philosophical. Poor man. We don't really grow up, do we? Growing up is just a parental fiction. We spend our lives cowering in armchairs. An image comes to him of a man sitting several armchairs away, his shoulders shaking in sobs, his feet drawn close to his chest. A man masturbating. This man is even more frightened than he is. Poor man. A dusting of compassion falls over the first man's shoulders, perhaps an illusion caused by the gray light.
The second man knows that he can't be forgiven. But why then does he feel as if his burden has lifted the slightest bit, so that it hovers a good half-inch above his shoulders? He peeks out from behind his jacket. His legs stretch cautiously toward the floor. In the leather armchair he can smell centuries of sweat and anxiety. This room has been full of sinners. Circles of Hell. An army of the Fallen. That is why no guard has appeared, why he won't be expelled: sin is the unspoken requirement for membership in the Harvard Club. Bullshit! If he had a knife, he'd plunge it into his heart! He draws his legs up again, slaps his face, imitates a man being attacked by killer bees. But he does not touch himself again. Finally, almost sadly, the temper tantrum subsides. Sensations return: the itchiness of his trousers, the weight of his wallet in his inside jacket pocket. He isn't dead. Nothing as easy as that. His shoes reach for the floor once again, and he allows himself to breathe. The other armchairs are silent, but their proximity has been a blessing.
When the two men rise to straighten their clothes, they smile painfully, half to themselves, half to each other, in the manner of middle-aged men - a slight bow to acknowledge life's difficulties. It is a relief to know that the other had no inkling of what they were doing; in a way, some of that innocence rubs off on each of them, like flecks of gold leaf. For a moment each admires the other for facing a future brighter than his own. There is no envy or resentment in their admiration; they are simply grateful for each other's presence, and for the presence of all the other men and women masturbating in armchairs in the gray light of the afternoon at the Harvard Club.
