My first class at the University of Buffalo in 1965? English 101. At 8 AM! Really? Out of bed by 6 to catch the 7 o’clock bus for breakfast, leaving barely enough time to eat and traverse the campus to the trailers housing freshman English classes. What a motley crew we were, 41 freshmen barely able to keep our eyes open.
“Good morning. My name is Mr. King. Frankly, I don’t want to teach a class of 41 freshman any more than you want to be here, so here’s the deal. Show up for class every day and you get you an automatic 'A'. Or, don’t bother showing up at all and you get an automatic 'C'”.
The kid sitting next to me was smiling. I smiled in return.
“I’m going to take attendance now to make sure you’re all registered for this class,” Mr. King continued. “Just answer 'here' and 'A' or 'C'. 'A' students, you stay. 'C' students, you’re free to leave.”
This was too much to absorb at 8 o’clock in the morning. 16 students stayed. All female. The remaining 25 left. All male. Gee, what a surprise. Outside the trailer 10-seconds later, the kid who had been sitting next to me struck up a conversation.
“Stu,” he said, offering his hand.
“Jeff,” I answered, shaking the offered hand.
“Where you from?”
“Rochester. And you?”
“I’m a townie,” he said.
“A what?”
“A townie, man. I live at home here in Buffalo with my folks. C’mon, let’s go grab a cup of coffee at The Rathskeller. I’ll even buy.”
Stu and I met for coffee the next day, too.
“Hey, there’s a beer blast Friday night. Wanna go?”
“A what?”
“Beer blast. You know, first frat party of the year,” Stu explained. “I’ve already got a date, but her best friend is a high school senior at the same school I went to. Real cute. I’m sure we could fix you up.”
As you’re about to find out, Stu didn’t know what to expect from a beer blast any more than I did. Both of us wore slacks, sport coat, shirt and tie. Stu’s date was a real doll. Mine was indeed real cute. Both were dressed in formal dresses and heels, with full make-up and styled hair. I should tell you that Stu was a pretty skinny guy. Six-feet tall, but not much weight on his bones. Except his nose. We arrived at the hall in downtown Buffalo and escorted our ladies up three flights of stairs. 12-inches of beer sloshing across the floors. Stench. Filth. Vomit. Kids lying on the floor in every corner doing the dirty deed. The four of us looked at each other in fear of what was yet to come.
On the third floor, we entered the dance hall. Loud rock band playing who knew what. Beer kegs galore. Joints being passed. Stoned and drunken males mauling stoned and drunken females. I held my date’s hand. Hoping she would protect me! We four turned to leave and call it a night not worth remembering. But someone blocked our escape. Big dude. Real big. Drunk as a skunk. Eyes glazed. He grabbed my terrified date in a most ungentlemanly fashion. Before I knew what was happening, Skinny Stu grabbed him from behind, spun him around, delivered a swift kick to the private parts, grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him across the room. Just like that. The big football lineman went down hard. But he got up quickly, eager to fight. Stu delivered one punch to the solar plexus, followed by a wicked two-fingered thrust to the throat, and the guy went down again. This time, he didn’t get up. The rest of the football team noticed their team-mate on the floor, out cold. Lickety-split, the four of us ran down the stairs, got in Stu’s car and drove off, tires squealing. Stu was laughing all the way to the nearest coffee house. As we sat, I looked at Stu in disbelief, as did the girls. The three of us were all pretty shaken by what had happened. Stu merely laughed.
“Stu? What just happened back there?” I asked, my hands still shaking.
“Hey, the guy had it coming!”
“But . . . how . . . I mean . . .” I stammered.
“I forgot to tell you, man. I’m a black belt in Judo. I never fight unless I have to. But I’d say this guy provided a real good reason. I reacted. Fight over. Adversary out.”
Yeh, I sure do remember my first friend at college! 50+ years later, Stu and I are still best friends, even though we live 3,000-miles apart.
The kid sitting next to me was smiling. I smiled in return.
“I’m going to take attendance now to make sure you’re all registered for this class,” Mr. King continued. “Just answer 'here' and 'A' or 'C'. 'A' students, you stay. 'C' students, you’re free to leave.”
This was too much to absorb at 8 o’clock in the morning. 16 students stayed. All female. The remaining 25 left. All male. Gee, what a surprise. Outside the trailer 10-seconds later, the kid who had been sitting next to me struck up a conversation.
“Stu,” he said, offering his hand.
“Jeff,” I answered, shaking the offered hand.
“Where you from?”
“Rochester. And you?”
“I’m a townie,” he said.
“A what?”
“A townie, man. I live at home here in Buffalo with my folks. C’mon, let’s go grab a cup of coffee at The Rathskeller. I’ll even buy.”
Stu and I met for coffee the next day, too.
“Hey, there’s a beer blast Friday night. Wanna go?”
“A what?”
“Beer blast. You know, first frat party of the year,” Stu explained. “I’ve already got a date, but her best friend is a high school senior at the same school I went to. Real cute. I’m sure we could fix you up.”
As you’re about to find out, Stu didn’t know what to expect from a beer blast any more than I did. Both of us wore slacks, sport coat, shirt and tie. Stu’s date was a real doll. Mine was indeed real cute. Both were dressed in formal dresses and heels, with full make-up and styled hair. I should tell you that Stu was a pretty skinny guy. Six-feet tall, but not much weight on his bones. Except his nose. We arrived at the hall in downtown Buffalo and escorted our ladies up three flights of stairs. 12-inches of beer sloshing across the floors. Stench. Filth. Vomit. Kids lying on the floor in every corner doing the dirty deed. The four of us looked at each other in fear of what was yet to come.
On the third floor, we entered the dance hall. Loud rock band playing who knew what. Beer kegs galore. Joints being passed. Stoned and drunken males mauling stoned and drunken females. I held my date’s hand. Hoping she would protect me! We four turned to leave and call it a night not worth remembering. But someone blocked our escape. Big dude. Real big. Drunk as a skunk. Eyes glazed. He grabbed my terrified date in a most ungentlemanly fashion. Before I knew what was happening, Skinny Stu grabbed him from behind, spun him around, delivered a swift kick to the private parts, grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him across the room. Just like that. The big football lineman went down hard. But he got up quickly, eager to fight. Stu delivered one punch to the solar plexus, followed by a wicked two-fingered thrust to the throat, and the guy went down again. This time, he didn’t get up. The rest of the football team noticed their team-mate on the floor, out cold. Lickety-split, the four of us ran down the stairs, got in Stu’s car and drove off, tires squealing. Stu was laughing all the way to the nearest coffee house. As we sat, I looked at Stu in disbelief, as did the girls. The three of us were all pretty shaken by what had happened. Stu merely laughed.
“Stu? What just happened back there?” I asked, my hands still shaking.
“Hey, the guy had it coming!”
“But . . . how . . . I mean . . .” I stammered.
“I forgot to tell you, man. I’m a black belt in Judo. I never fight unless I have to. But I’d say this guy provided a real good reason. I reacted. Fight over. Adversary out.”
Yeh, I sure do remember my first friend at college! 50+ years later, Stu and I are still best friends, even though we live 3,000-miles apart.
© Jeff Resnick 2018
All Rights Reserved
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