all’?”
“I always imagine people at coed colleges having a pretty steady stream of significant others.”
“No, it wasn’t always like that. Not for me, anyway.”
“So how did you and Ella meet?”
“In a philosophy class.”
“What was the class?”
“Existentialism.”
“Very romantic.”
“Yeah.”
Mona took a tentative sip of beer and wrinkled her nose at the taste. “So … what was the deal with Ella?” she wanted to know. “What happened after the six months?”
“Well … For one, she was stoned most of the time. It got old.”
“Oh.” Mona looked primly startled by this revelation, which was sort of cute. “Old … in what sense?”
“Well, as I said, she was a pothead. It was sort of fun, at first, that she liked to party so much. But it started to becomeobvious, after the early excitement wore off, that we didn’t have much in common.”
“Hmm. That’s funny. I don’t know many female potheads. I mean, I knew plenty of women who smoked pot at Middlebrook, but none enough for me to call them potheads.”
“Well, they definitely exist. Maybe not at Middlebrook College, but they’re out there. Trust me. And Ella was definitely one of them.”
It was true about Ella and pot, but I felt unkind summing her up that way. As if the many lazy hours with her—lying on her dorm room bed, watching her goldfish, anticipating the Tater Tots that might or might not be served on our next trip to the dining hall—hadn’t been enjoyable. But it was she, after all, who’d ended it.
You don’t even know how to
pretend,
Billy
, she’d kept saying, when she was breaking up with me.
“Too bad you didn’t stick with her.” Mona held her beer can in front of her face, probably contemplating whether she should continue drinking it. “You guys could have had a nice existentialist wedding ceremony.”
“Oh. Well, Ella wasn’t a philosophy major. She was a psych major.”
“So, why’d
you
pick philosophy?”
“You know, it’s not so different from your classics major. Difficult, old texts. Not much practical application. Just a good intellectual challenge.”
She peered skeptically over her beer can. “Yeah, but … there must have been a reason you picked philosophy specifically.”
“Well, the reason changed over time. At first, like most freshmen who study it, I thought I was gonna learn all about life’s deep questions. But after a few classes, I actually foundthat I was pretty good at it. I liked writing the papers. The papers were easy. I liked picking arguments apart. Once you realize that no argument is perfect, that every argument can be torn down somehow … you’re golden on philosophy papers.”
“But what about building arguments up?”
“Well. True, that’s important too. But that’s not quite as fun.” My advisor was always pointing this out—that I was much better at one than the other.
“So when you were studying philosophy, what did you think you might … you know, do with it later?”
“Well, I know philosophy is like the cliché of impractical majors, but it’s not really that much more impractical than English or history or classics. And philosophy majors actually tend to do well in law school, they say.”
Mona put down her beer can. “Are you planning to go to law school?”
“No.” I laughed a little. “I actually did think about that idea for, like, a minute. Last year.”
“And?”
“And I think law school’s not really for people like me. It’s a lot of money, a lot of work. It takes a certain … confidence.”
“But you’ve got confidence, Billy. At least, it seems like you do.”
“I don’t mean personal confidence. Not confidence in
yourself so
much. I mean confidence that …” I groped for the right words. I didn’t know exactly how to put this.
Confidence that life owes you something
was probably the best way to put it. But it seemed too snide a thing to say out loud.
“Confidence that it’ll pay off. I
“I always imagine people at coed colleges having a pretty steady stream of significant others.”
“No, it wasn’t always like that. Not for me, anyway.”
“So how did you and Ella meet?”
“In a philosophy class.”
“What was the class?”
“Existentialism.”
“Very romantic.”
“Yeah.”
Mona took a tentative sip of beer and wrinkled her nose at the taste. “So … what was the deal with Ella?” she wanted to know. “What happened after the six months?”
“Well … For one, she was stoned most of the time. It got old.”
“Oh.” Mona looked primly startled by this revelation, which was sort of cute. “Old … in what sense?”
“Well, as I said, she was a pothead. It was sort of fun, at first, that she liked to party so much. But it started to becomeobvious, after the early excitement wore off, that we didn’t have much in common.”
“Hmm. That’s funny. I don’t know many female potheads. I mean, I knew plenty of women who smoked pot at Middlebrook, but none enough for me to call them potheads.”
“Well, they definitely exist. Maybe not at Middlebrook College, but they’re out there. Trust me. And Ella was definitely one of them.”
It was true about Ella and pot, but I felt unkind summing her up that way. As if the many lazy hours with her—lying on her dorm room bed, watching her goldfish, anticipating the Tater Tots that might or might not be served on our next trip to the dining hall—hadn’t been enjoyable. But it was she, after all, who’d ended it.
You don’t even know how to
pretend,
Billy
, she’d kept saying, when she was breaking up with me.
“Too bad you didn’t stick with her.” Mona held her beer can in front of her face, probably contemplating whether she should continue drinking it. “You guys could have had a nice existentialist wedding ceremony.”
“Oh. Well, Ella wasn’t a philosophy major. She was a psych major.”
“So, why’d
you
pick philosophy?”
“You know, it’s not so different from your classics major. Difficult, old texts. Not much practical application. Just a good intellectual challenge.”
She peered skeptically over her beer can. “Yeah, but … there must have been a reason you picked philosophy specifically.”
“Well, the reason changed over time. At first, like most freshmen who study it, I thought I was gonna learn all about life’s deep questions. But after a few classes, I actually foundthat I was pretty good at it. I liked writing the papers. The papers were easy. I liked picking arguments apart. Once you realize that no argument is perfect, that every argument can be torn down somehow … you’re golden on philosophy papers.”
“But what about building arguments up?”
“Well. True, that’s important too. But that’s not quite as fun.” My advisor was always pointing this out—that I was much better at one than the other.
“So when you were studying philosophy, what did you think you might … you know, do with it later?”
“Well, I know philosophy is like the cliché of impractical majors, but it’s not really that much more impractical than English or history or classics. And philosophy majors actually tend to do well in law school, they say.”
Mona put down her beer can. “Are you planning to go to law school?”
“No.” I laughed a little. “I actually did think about that idea for, like, a minute. Last year.”
“And?”
“And I think law school’s not really for people like me. It’s a lot of money, a lot of work. It takes a certain … confidence.”
“But you’ve got confidence, Billy. At least, it seems like you do.”
“I don’t mean personal confidence. Not confidence in
yourself so
much. I mean confidence that …” I groped for the right words. I didn’t know exactly how to put this.
Confidence that life owes you something
was probably the best way to put it. But it seemed too snide a thing to say out loud.
“Confidence that it’ll pay off. I
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