“Sorry,” Knox whispered, as he fell onto the sofa. He leaned back, clutching
his half-full glass, and took a long swig of the bitter bourbon. It seemed to burn
less now as it slid down his throat.
He looked around, loosening up from the effect of the booze. To his left was a
tangled couple that sounded like a giant panting beast. To his right was another
pair who seemed to have sunk right into the sofa. Knox wanted to stand up, but
he realized that the couple he had tripped over was now rolled against his shins,
pinning him in place. He looked around and almost giggled. Oh well, I may as
well make himself comfortable, he said to himself. The bodies surrounding him
were too busy to notice him anyway.
The music stopped, and the sound of heavy breathing filled the room. This
sounds like an artificial respiration ward, Knox thought to himself, wishing he
too had a partner. He checked on the couple to his right. I think he’s going to
chew her lips off, he thought. He turned to the couple on his left.
“Oh, Chris, you’re so beautiful,” he heard the boy’s voice say.
Oh my God, it’s Chris and Chet! Knox thought, his heart beginning to throb.
Chris Noel was sitting right next to him on the couch!
The music started up again, and the strains of the Drifters singing “This Magic
Moment” filled the room. Knox’s head was spinning. Chris and Chet were going
at it full force. Knox tried to look away but his eyes were riveted on Chris.
“Chris,” Chet groaned, “you’re so gorgeous.” Chet kissed Chris hard, and she
leaned against Knox. In the moonlit room Knox stared at the outline of Chris’s
face, the nape of her neck, the curves of her breasts. He quickly downed the rest
of his drink and forced himself to look away.
Oh my God, help me, he thought as Chris leaned more heavily on him. Knox’s
face was contorted in agony as he felt himself struggle with temptation. He tried
not to look but he knew he was losing his inner battle.
Suddenly, he turned toward Chris again. He melted as his emotions took over.
“Carpe breastum,” he said to himself, closing his eyes. “Seize the breast!”“Huh?” Knox heard Chris say to Chet.
“I didn’t say anything,” Chet said.
The pair continued to kiss while Knox felt his hand, drawn by a powerful
magnetic force, reach out and lightly stroke the nape of Chris’s neck, then down
toward her breast. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes while he slowly
caressed Chris.
Thinking that Chet’s hands were on her, Chris responded eagerly and Knox
started breathing heavily. “Oh, Chet, that feels fabulous,” Chris said in the dark.
“It does?” Chet sounded surprised. “What?”
“You know,” she said secretively.
Knox pulled his hand away. Chet looked up for a moment and then kissed
Chris again. “Don’t stop, Chet,” Chris moaned.
“Stop what?”
“Chet …”
Knox put his hand back on Chris’s neck and started rubbing her, gently
moving down toward her breast.
“Oh, oh,” Chris moaned.
Chet pulled hack, trying to figure out what Chris was talking about, but he
gave up and started to kiss her again. Chris moaned with pleasure.
Knox leaned his head back on the sofa. His breathing was slow and deep. The
sound of the music in the room grew louder. Unable to resist, he rubbed Chris’s
chest, getting dangerously close to her breast. Chris was breathing hard now, too.
Knox felt himself slip into ecstasy just as his glass fell out of his hand.
Suddenly, Chet’s hand grabbed Knox’s hand, and a lamp light rudely flicked
on. Knox sat face to face with a furious Chet and Chris, who was totally
confused.
“What are you doing?” Chet yelled.
“Knox?” Chris shielded her eyes from the sudden light.
“Chet! Chris!” Knox said, pretending to be surprised. “What are you doing
here?”
“Why you …” Chet screamed. He smashed Knox in the face with his fist,
grabbed him by the shirt and, throwing him to the floor, jumped on him. He
began swinging at Knox’s face, which Knox tried desperately to protect. “You
little jerk!” Chet shouted. Chris tried to pull him away.
“Chet, you don’t have to hurt him,” Chris said. Chet’s fist hit Knox over and
over again.
“Chet, stop! He didn’t mean anything!” Chris cried. She pushed Chet off.Knox rolled over, holding his face. “That’s enough,” Chris yelled, banging on
Chet’s chest, trying to get him away.
Chet stood over Knox, who lay limply holding his bloody nose and bruised
face. “I’m sorry, Chris, I’m sorry,” Knox cried.
“You want some more, you little … Huh? Get the hell out of here!”
Chet moved at Knox again, but Chris and some of the others held him back.
Several of the kids led Knox out of the room.
Staggering toward the kitchen, Knox turned and yelled, drunkenly, “Chris, I’m
sorry!”
“Next time I see you, you’re dead!” Chet screamed.
The Dead Poets Society was still convened, unaware that one of its pledges
was in deep trouble.
In the cave the fire burned brightly, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Gloria
sat with her arm around Charlie, staring at him in adoration. The bottle of
whiskey passed between Tina and the others.
“Hey guys, why don’t you show Tina the Dead Poets garden?” Charlie said,
nodding toward the cave entrance.
“Garden?” Meeks said, sounding surprised.
“What garden?” Pitts echoed.
Charlie silently motioned with his eyes for Pitts and the others to get lost. Neil
caught on and elbowed Pitts, who got the hint.
“Oh, right. That garden. Come on, guys,” he said.
“This is so strange!” Tina said, sounding confused. “You guys even have a
garden?”
Everyone had left the cave except Meeks, who stood around looking baffled.
“What are you guys talking about?” Meeks asked. Charlie stared at him with
daggers in his eyes. “Charles, uh, Nuwanda, we don’t have a garden,” Meeks
said.
Neil came back in and pulled Meeks out. “Come on, you idiot!” Neil laughed.
Charlie waited for them to go. He looked at Gloria and smiled. “God, for a
smart guy, he’s so stupid!”
Gloria stared into Charlie’s eyes. Charlie smiled. “I think he’s sweet,” she
said.
“I think you’re sweet,” Charlie sighed, closing his eyes and leaning in slowly
to kiss her. Just as his lips brushed hers, Gloria stood up.
“You know what really excites me about you?” she asked.Blinking, Charlie looked up. “What?”
“Every guy that I meet wants me for one thing.... You’re not like that.”
“I’m not?”
“No!” she smiled. “Anybody else would have been all over me by now. Make
me up some more poetry,” she said.
“But …” Charlie stammered.
“Please! It’s so wonderful to be appreciated for … you know … what you
have inside.” Charlie groaned and put his hand over his face. Gloria turned and
looked at him. “Nuwanda? Please …?”
“All right! I’m thinking!” He paused for a moment, then recited:
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.”
Gloria moaned with satisfaction. “Don’t stop!” Charlie continued to recite as
Gloria’s moans grew louder.
“O, no, it is an ever-fixéd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken …”
“This is better than sex any day,” Gloria cried. “This is ROMANCE!”
Charlie’s eyes rolled in frustration, but he continued to recite poems well into
the night.
The next day, the entire student body was summoned to the Welton Academy
Chapel. A buzz droned among the boys as they moved into their seats, passing
copies of school newspapers among themselves.
Knox Overstreet sat down trying to hide his bruised and swollen face. Neil,
Todd, Pitts, Meeks, Cameron, and especially Charlie wore faces drawn with
exhaustion. Pitts stifled a yawn as he handed Charlie a briefcase.
“All set,” Pitts whispered. Charlie nodded.
Dean Nolan entered the chapel as the students quickly put away all the
newspapers and stood. Nolan took long strides to the podium and motioned for
the boys to sit down. He cleared his throat loudly.“In this week’s issue of WELTON HONORS there appeared an unauthorized
and profane article about the need for girls at Welton. Rather than spend my
valuable time ferreting out the guilty parties—and let me assure you I will find
them—I am asking any and all students who know anything about this article to
make themselves known here and now. Whoever the guilty persons are, this is
your only chance to avoid expulsion from this school.”
Nolan stood silently, waiting for a response. Suddenly, the sound of a
telephone ringing broke the heavy silence. Charlie briskly lifted the briefcase
into his lap and opened it. Inside was the ringing telephone. The students
whispered in hushed astonishment. No one had ever done something this
outrageous at Welton! Undaunted, Charlie answered the phone.
“Welton Academy, hello?” he said for all to hear. “Yes, he is, just a moment.
Mr. Nolan, it’s for you,” Charlie said with mock seriousness.
The dean’s face turned beet-red. “What?” Nolan screeched.
Charlie held the receiver out to Nolan. “It’s God. He said we should have girls
at Welton,” Charlie said into the phone as a blast of laughter from the students
filled the old stone chapel.
The dean did not hesitate to react to the stunt. Before he knew it, Charlie
found himself standing in the middle of Nolan’s office as the dean paced
furiously. “Wipe that smirk off your face,” Nolan hissed. “Who else was
involved in this?”
“No one, sir,” Charlie said. “It was just me. I do the proofing for the paper, so
I inserted my article instead of Rob Crane’s.”
“Mr. Dalton,” Nolan said, “if you think you’re the first one to try to get
thrown out of this school, think again. Others have had similar notions and they
have failed just as surely as you will fail. Assume the position.”
Charlie obeyed, and Nolan pulled out a huge, old paddle. The paddle had
holes drilled in it to speed its progress. Nolan took off his jacket and moved
behind Charlie.
“Count aloud, Mr. Dalton,” Nolan instructed as he slammed the paddle into
Charlie’s buttocks.
“One.” Nolan swung the paddle again, this time putting more power into it.
Charlie winced. “Two.”
Nolan delivered, and Charlie counted. By the fourth lick, Charlie’s voice was
barely audible and his face was contorted with pain.
Mrs. Nolan, the dean’s wife and secretary, sat in the outer office trying not to
listen as the punishment proceeded. In the adjacent honor room, three students,including Cameron, worked at easels, sketching the moose heads on the wall.
They heard the paddle hitting Charlie and were filled with fear and awe.
Cameron couldn’t draw the moose.
By the seventh lick, tears flowed freely down Charlie’s cheeks. “Count!”
Nolan shouted.
By the ninth and tenth licks, Charlie choked on the words. Nolan stopped after
the tenth lick and walked around to face the boy. “Do you still insist that this was
your idea and your idea alone?” he asked.
Charlie choked back the pain. “Yes … sir.”
“What is this ‘Dead Poets Society?’ I want names,” Nolan shouted.
Feeling faint, Charlie hoarsely replied, “It’s only me, Mr. Nolan. I swear. I
made it up.”
“If I find that there are others, Mr. Dalton, they will be expelled, and you will
remain enrolled. Do you understand? Now stand up.”
Charlie obeyed. His face was blood-red as he fought back tears of pain and
humiliation.
“Welton can forgive, Mr. Dalton, provided you have the courage to admit your
mistakes. You will make your apology to the entire school.”
Charlie stumbled out of Nolan’s office and headed slowly back to the junior
dorm. The boys were milling around in their rooms, walking in and out of the
hallway, waiting for their friend to return. When they saw Charlie coming, they
all dashed into their rooms and pretended to be studying.
Charlie walked down the hallway, moving slowly, trying not to show his pain.
As he neared his room, Neil, Todd, Knox, Pitts, and Meeks approached him.
“What happened?” Neil asked. “Are you all right? Were you kicked out?”
“No,” Charlie said, not looking at anyone.
“What happened?” Neil asked again.
“I’m supposed to turn everybody in, apologize to the school, and all will be
forgiven,” Charlie said. He opened the door and walked into his room.
“What are you going to do?” Neil asked. “Charlie?”
“Damn it, Neil, the name is Nuwanda,” Charlie said, as he gave the boys a
loaded look and slammed his door shut.
The boys looked at each other. Smiles of admiration broke out in the group.
Charlie had not been broken.
Later that afternoon, Nolan walked into one of the Welton classroom buildings
and headed down the corridor to Mr. Keating’s room. He stopped at the door,
knocked, and entered the classroom. Mr. Keating and Mr. McAllister weretalking when he walked in.
“Mr. Keating, may I have a word with you?” Nolan said, interrupting the two
teachers.
“Excuse me,” McAllister said as he scurried out of the room.
Nolan paused and looked around. “This was my first classroom, John, did you
know that?” Nolan said, as he walked slowly around the room. “My first desk,”
he said nostalgically.
“I didn’t know you taught,” Keating replied.
“English. Way before your time. It was hard giving it up, I’ll tell you.” He
paused, then looked straight at Keating. “I’m hearing rumors, John, of some
unorthodox teaching methods in your classroom. I’m not saying they have
anything to do with the Dalton boy’s outburst, but I don’t think I have to warn
you that boys his age are very impressionable.”
“Your reprimand made quite an impression, I’m sure,” Keating said.
Nolan’s eyebrows raised for an instant. He let the comment pass. “What was
going on in the courtyard the other day?” he asked.
“Courtyard?” Keating repeated.
“Boys marching. Clapping in unison …”
“Oh that. That was an exercise to prove a point. About the evils of conformity.
I …”
“John, the curriculum here is set. It’s proven. It works. If you question it,
what’s to prevent them from doing the same?”
“I always thought education was learning to think for yourself,” Keating said.
Nolan laughed. “At these boys’ ages? Not on your life! Tradition, John!
Discipline.” He patted Keating on the shoulder patronizingly. “Prepare them for
college, and the rest will take care of itself.”
Mr. Nolan smiled and left. Keating stood silent, staring out the window. After
a moment, McAllister stuck his head in the door. He had obviously been
listening.
“I wouldn’t worry about the boys being too conformist if I were you, John,”
he said.
“Why is that?”
“Well, you yourself graduated from these hallowed halls, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“So, if you want to raise a confirmed atheist,” McAllister observed, “give him
a rigid religious upbringing. Works every time.”
Keating stared at McAllister, then suddenly let out a laugh. McAllister smiled,turned, and disappeared down the hall.
Later that night, Keating walked over to the junior-class dorm. The boys were
just hurrying out to club meetings and activities. He approached Charlie, who
was walking out the door with a group of friends.
“Mr. Keating!” Charlie said, looking surprised.
“That was a ridiculous stunt, Mr. Dalton,” Keating said harshly.
“You’re siding with Mr. Nolan?” Charlie said in disbelief. “What about Carpe
Diem and sucking all the marrow out of life and all that?”
“Sucking out the marrow doesn’t mean getting the bone stuck in your throat,
Charles. There is a place for daring and a place for caution, and a wise man
understands which is called for.” Keating said.
“But I thought …” Charlie stammered.
“Getting expelled from this school is not an act of wisdom or daring. It’s far
from perfect but there are still opportunities to be had here.”
“Yeah?” Charlie answered angrily. “Like what?”
“Like, if nothing else, the opportunity to attend my classes, understand?”
Charlie smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Keating turned toward the other Dead Poets pledges, who stood nearby
waiting for Charlie. “So keep your heads about you—the lot of you!” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” they said. Keating smiled slightly and left.
The next day the boys sat in Keating’s classroom and watched their teacher
walk to the board and scrawl the word “COLLEGE” in big bold letters.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “today we will consider a skill which is indispensable
for getting the most out of college—analyzing books you haven’t read.” He
paused and looked around as the boys laughed.
“College will probably destroy your love for poetry. Hours of boring analysis,
dissection, and criticism will see to that. College will also expose you to all
manner of literature—much of it transcendent works of magic that you must
devour; some of it utter dreck that you must avoid like the plague.”
He paced in front of the class as he spoke. “Suppose you are taking a course
entitled, ‘Modern Novels.’ All semester you have been reading masterpieces
such as the touching Père Goriot by Balzac and the moving Fathers and Sons by
Turgenev, but when you receive your assignment for your final paper, you
discover that you are to write an essay on the theme of parental love in The
Doubtful Debutante, a novel—and I use that term generously here—by none
other than the professor himself.”Keating looked at the boys with a raised eyebrow and then continued. “After
reading the first three pages of the book, you realize that you would rather
volunteer for combat than waste your precious earthly time infecting your mind
with this sewage, but do you despair? Take an F? Absolutely not. Because you
are prepared.”
The boys watched and listened intently. Keating continued to pace. “Open The
Doubtful Deb and learn from the jacket that the book is about Frank, a farm
equipment salesman who sacrifices everything to provide his social-climbing
daughter, Christine, with the debut she so desperately desires. Begin your essay
by disclaiming the need to restate the plot while at the same time regurgitating
enough of it to convince the professor that you’ve read the book.
“Next, shift to something pretentious and familiar. For instance, you might
write, ‘What is remarkable to note are the similarities between the author’s dire
picture of parental love and modern Freudian theory. Christine is Electra, her
father is a fallen Oedipus.
“Finally, skip to the obscure and elaborate like this …” Keating paused, then
read, “‘What is most remarkable is the novel’s uncanny connection with Hindu
Indian philosopher Avesh Rahesh Non. Rahesh Non discussed in painful detail
the discarding of parents by children for the three-headed monster of ambition,
money, and social success.’ Go on to discuss Rahesh Non’s theories about what
feeds the monster, how to behead it, et cetera, et cetera. End by praising the
professor’s brilliant writing and consummate courage in introducing The
Doubtful Deb to you.”
Meeks raised his hand. “Captain … what if you don’t know anything about
someone like Rahesh Non?”
“Rahesh Non never existed, Mr. Meeks. You make him, or someone like him,
up. No self-important college professor would dare admit ignorance of such an
obviously important figure, and you will probably receive a comment like the
one I received.”
Keating picked up a paper on his desk and read from it to the class: “‘Your
allusions to Rahesh Non were insightful and well presented. Glad to see that
someone besides myself appreciates this great but forgotten Eastern master. A-
plus.’”
He dropped the paper back on his desk. “Gentlemen, analyzing dreadful books
you haven’t read will be on your final exam, so I suggest you practice on your
own. Now for some traps of college exams. Take out a blue book and a pencil,
boys. This is a pop quiz.”The boys obeyed. Keating passed out tests. He set up a screen in the front of
the room, then went to the back of the room and set up a slide projector.
“Big universities are Sodoms and Gomorrahs filled with those delectable
beasts we see so little of here: women,” he said and smiled. “The level of
distraction is dangerously high, but this quiz is designed to prepare you. Let me
warn you, this test will count. Begin.”
The boys began their tests. Keating lit up the slide projector and put a slide
into the machine. He focused on the screen a slide of a beautiful, college-aged
girl, leaning over to pick up a pencil. The girl had a remarkable figure, and,
bending over as she did, her panties were exposed. The boys glanced up at the
screen from their tests. Almost all of them did double takes.
“Concentrate on your tests, boys. You have twenty minutes,” Keating said, as
he advanced the projector. This time he focused a slide of a beautiful woman in
scanty lingerie from a magazine ad. The boys glanced up at the screen,
struggling to concentrate. Keating watched their obvious difficulty, amused, as
he continued the slide show of beautiful women in revealing and provocative
poses, tight blowups of naked female Greek statues—women in a seemingly
endless, tantalizing stream. The boys’ heads bobbed up and down from the
screen to their blue books. On his paper Knox had written “Chris, Chris, Chris,”
over and over again as he stared numbly at the screen.
