©Bill Gnade 2005
I attended college in the early 1980's, beginning my freshman year at the zenith of the Preppy Handbook's popularity. Izod shirts under Brooks Brothers oxfords, and anything L.L. Bean, were the rage for a large subset of my college peers during the first two years of matriculation on Boston's North Shore.
There was much comic fallout around prepdom, not least of which was the many prepped-out underclassmen who'd never even seen a prep school. Of course, I was among them. But the most curious example of prepification was a battle-royale between two students, the inimitable David Moshier, and the ever-condescending, clenched-jawed Geoffrey A. P. Groesbeck. These two battled for preppy supremacy with such vigor their GPAs plummeted; with frequent midnight drives to Freeport, Maine's L.L. Bean to acquire more accoutrements for their oft uncivil duel.
I recall once sitting in the dining commons with Mr. Moshier, a manic-type from a plush New Jersey township, when Mr. Groesbeck came in festooned in Bean, Lacoste and Brooks Brothers from head-to-toe, kelly-green accents everywhere.
"Look, Moshier, I've got the Izod belt and the (who remembers?) wide-whale cords. Just got back from Freeport. I even purchased the Izod watchband," boasted Groesbeck.
Moshier stood up to reveal similar bits of clothing, showing tags and logos. And then, the death-blow.
"Yes, Groesbeck, very nice, but do you have the Izod watch?" Moshier asked. At that he pulled up his sleeve to reveal a cloth-banded (kelly-green and navy, and the Izod logo) wristwatch with an alligator pointing its hands to the hour, minutes, and seconds.
Too much. Groesbeck's rage and contempt were elevated beyond self-control. He grimaced, shook, and stormed out of the dining hall.
A few weeks later, as winter settled on the North Shore, Moshier and I, and one other friend, took a late-night meander down the "Path of Righteousness," a shoreline trail that skirted Coy Pond, one of several large campus ponds. The path was so named by those who indulged in a variety of substance abuses on that trail, from tobacco and marijuana to martinis and beer. You see, such things were forbidden on the campus of our conservative college, which was a good thing for those who found post-adolescent freedom more imprisoning than liberating.
Well this particular night there was a thin layer of snow, a dusting, on the frozen surface of Coy Pond. The moon was bright and high in the sky, as is typical in a New England winter, but the overcast sky gently diffused its lambent beam. We came to our favorite spot, a rocky jut at the halfway point along the shoreline. The three of us lit up cigarettes (the last year I smoked, 1981) and settled into conversation.
At some point Moshier, in full preppy regalia and teetering a bit from drinks at "7-Central," asked if the ice was safe and made his way toward the white and glowing slab.
"Let's go out on the pond. It will be cool!" he urged.
Of course, my friend and I begged him to reconsider, knowing that the ice could not be more than two inches thick. After much scoffing, blustering and typical macho sneering, Moshier lowered himself, holding onto rocks along the shore, and reached his Brooks Brothers-loafered foot toward the ice. He tapped the leather heel lightly on the pond's frozen surface.
"It's safe. See?" He tapped it again.
Mocking laughter abounded.
"You bonehead, you can't tell that way. You've got to give the ice a kick, man."
Moshier positioned himself a little lower, and extended his foot a few inches. He tapped his heel nearly imperceptibly harder. "Click, click." And then again. "Click."
"Pow!"
Moshier recoiled. To our amazement, his tiny Brooks Brothers leather heel had fractured the entire ice cap, fissuring it like a lightning bolt across Coy Pond from one distant shore to the other. Immediately, dark, cold water oozed up through the crack, a black-and-white slash in winter's skin.
We stood in stunned silence. It was impossible. The pond was split in two.
Then, a rush of uncontrollable laughter.
The following morning, from the windows of the dining hall, everyone could see an 18-inch wide band of frozen, black water jagging its way across the snow-covered pond. It was like a giant weld between two pieces of arctic steel; or a scab binding torn frosted flesh. It would become a scar that would last the whole winter, and to us, the three who witnessed the great fissure, it was a miracle. A preppy miracle made by the least likely force on campus: The Izod Timekeeper with a Tapping Leather Heel.
No doubt this memoir is a roundabout way for something larger than mere recollection for recollection's sake. Perhaps it is. I do not know, exactly. But I thought of this story this morning, after hearing about the Senate compromise regarding filibustering and the "nuclear option." For the Senate is like my preppy friends, all dress-up covering considerable animus and hostility. It is not a place where enemies knot together in cars for late-night drives to L.L. Bean, though they do knot together in chambers for late-night struggles for supremacy. Most senators are not wearing an Izod watch, but they do watch the clock and notice that time is running ceaselessly. Most senators are not fighting to win the preppiest-guy-on-campus award, but they are indeed interested in winning awards of a far different kind. Most are well-dressed, all buttoned down just so.
As I recall that night on Coy Pond, I think there is a danger that the Senate compromise is a split in a frozen Senate that looks miraculous; that looks like it was made with great force of will, and great strength of mind.
But my guess is that it was made by something of a heel; and that it will not heal until the heat comes on.
Contratimes
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