Before James had even stored his bicycle, Wardell was calling him. The U. of C. on-line application for next year’s freshman class was on their website. “Choose one of three essay questions.”
“I’m almost finished with my essay, Wardell. Because they let you pick your own topic. So I wrote about you and me and Trevor, Trevor’s Cycles, the break-in, and Trevor’s Cycles restored.”
“You’re sure about that, Jim? The suggested topics are all set-ups for your personal theories.”
“Those are for the Shaker Heights valedictorians. My essay comes from the real world, which is a big contrast to their world.”
“If you say so, Jim. When do I get to read it?”
“After I prepare you. Traditionally, essay writers give people pseudonyms. I thought of using W. for you, but since you hate nicknames—remember my first day? In a big hurry, I called out, Ward—?’”
Hearing that set off an involuntary shudder. But then Wardell laughed, claiming he didn’t remember. “But I’ll bet I set you straight on that real fast.”
“You could decide: no pseudonym. Since I’m not slandering you. Your preference.”
“Let me think about it, Jim.”
”Either way’s fine. But one other thing. I should’ve thought of this sooner, or I did, but then I forgot about it. Would you write me a recommendation?”
“Damn it, Jim. You told me your high school teachers mailed those in months ago.”
“Two of them did. But no one else was going to remember me. Besides, Wardell, you’re teaching me more than anyone.”
Wardell spent two nights writing his letter of recommendation. James claimed he wasn’t supposed to see it. So he asked Carmen to read it. She said it was “perfect.” “Beautiful, Wardell.” He assumed she must be playing with him until he looked at her twice. That’s how she was. A woman so given to flattery, she can’t recognize her own bullshit.
Before closing for the evening, Wardell asked James to picture him growing up across the street from this great institution, enormous gothic buildings and sunny “quads” where students fooled with each other. An enclosed place full of flower gardens, towering trees, and fields of green lawns. While directly across the street, Wardell and some other kids grew up in crack houses, fighting over turf that was rubble and ash.
“Considering that, can you understand how much real gratification I’ll feel if you go to that college? You’re like my stand-in, Jim.”
The next morning James handed Wardell his essay, which was the opposite of bullshit, but so fond and truly sweet, Wardell had to hold himself in check from getting sentimental. So if James didn’t get into the college with this essay, maybe Wardell had it all wrong. Maybe the U. of C. wasn’t what he imagined.
Handing it back, he said, “I’d like it if you identified me. Wardell Jackson. Maybe someone there will remember who I used to be. Maybe not. Just so long as they get Mr. Wardell Jackson on record.”
After summer had turned to winter, winter to early spring, James received his acceptance package. And again Wardell had to suspend his feelings, or else, looking through the glossy folders, he’d feel syrup in his veins, not blood.
The summer before James left—no part-time job, his father wanted A-pluses out of his investment, and would pay whatever—Wardell hired two new guys, real repairmen who had worked at other cycle shops. But all the way through James’s last week, he and Wardell got along like always. Why prepare for the end by putting distance between them that wasn’t there yet? Their rapport never let it up. James and Wardell had that down.
Until his last day. Starting first thing, James had to struggle to maintain. What was this whole thing about saying, “Good-bye”? “Good-bye” as if leaving didn’t hurt worse than a slow, tortuous death? As if that wasn’t, in fact, exactly what was happening behind the jokes and back-slapping, and “See ya, man.” “Yeah, see ya.”
One glance at Wardell revealed his kindred attitude. No, “Drop by, whenever, Jim.” Because Wardell knew that the next time he and James laid eyes on each other, they’d be living different lives. Times go along, long enough so you relax, you’re happy, everything’s cool, and then, one day times change. Times over.
If they ever ran into run into each other, they’d hug. They’d say, “hey, how’re doing?” “Great to see you!” But that rapport, that unique interaction that only yesterday they had down? That didn’t hold up after “Good-bye.” Soon as you’re saying the superficial shit you say to everybody—“How’re you doing?”—the connection was gone. Dead and gone.
Traces might remain but no way to share them. Several times during James’s four years at the U. of C., he wanted to quit. He didn’t fit in with the suburban valedictorians. Of course, Jordan claimed he’d regret it if he left. But the reason he stayed was that no one had ever cared what he did or didn’t do the way Wardell had cared about him succeeding at the U. of C.
When he finally did graduate, cum laude, American History, about as useful as veni, vidi, vici, he sent Wardell an invitation to the ceremony followed by a party his parents were hosting at the ritzy, old-boy Chicago Club. He sent one to his Woodlawn Avenue address and one to Trevor’s Cycles, which he knew was hugely popular now. James thought maybe he’d spotted Wardell among the crowd, but maybe not. And the party was not Wardell’s style.
Still, one day, when James was through grieving for the way it used to be, maybe he’d stop by Trevor’s Cycles and call out, “Hey, Wardell, how’re you doing? Great! Great to see ya.”
The End
