Another fine day at Commons

Commons was as crowded as usual. Joe's shift had just begun, and he donned his little paper hat. No matter how he adjusted it, it wouldn't sit straight. His cherubic locks were just too curly. He was screwed in either case: if he didn't sport the stupid thing, the student-employment manager at Commons would ream him; if he did wear that pitiful little scrap, the incoming students wouldn't spare him any grief. He needed to keep his job—it paid well, and he could work when he didn't have law classes. He couldn't afford not to wear the ridiculously useless piece of tissue paper.

It was just reaching noon, and another block of classes had let out. Parading into the dining hall was a recently released batch of student athletes. More correctly, they were all athletes who happened to be students. They came in loudly, ate loudly, talked loudly. They were the ones who snickered and laughed and made derisive glances. The leader among them was George, the intramural football team captain and a history major.

These were the students Joe hated most. He fit them all into a mold. They were "prepared" at boys' private schools; he went to Stamford High School. They were sons of Yale men, going back generation after generation; he was not-so-affectionately dubbed a townie. They were all leaders and members of senior (and secret) societies and fraternities—but Joe was himself a leader, just of a different stripe. He sought to make his mark in New Haven and intended to keep his ties to his college and his home. For him, the two were the same—the others would return to their homes in Massachusetts, New York, and Texas.

The athletes were heard laughing and jeering as they entered the hall. Joe braced himself. He shoved the rumpled paper glengarry onto his head. The football players came into the serving line without even noticing Joe. They pushed and shoved one another, each trying to get closer to the serving station where Joe stood, icy and malicious. Just to spite his current customers, Joe shoved his thumb into his ear and covertly dipped it into the lukewarm stew he was serving. Ha, Joe thought, they'd get theirs. Someday.

George filed into line between two of his friends, Reese and Knox. Reese was amused by Joe's hat, so intrigued by it that he wondered how much force it would take to blow it off. He began to exhale his alcohol-tainted breath, with the special bonus of little flecks of spittle, all over Joe. Knox, one of those quiet types, started laughing uncontrollably. He banged his tray against the wall in some vain effort to be rid of his giggling fit. Joe stood there, bearing it all. He just ladled Reese some stew and asked coldly, "Anything else you want?" George saw the brutal courage that this server had displayed in the face of idiotic torment, and he couldn't help but feel some compassion for the poor sap. George pushed Reese aside and told him to knock it off, but he cloaked his compassion with talk of how hungry he was and how Reese was holding up the whole line. Reese moved along the line to a table.

Everyone in the line started inching forward. No one had overtly come to Joe's defense, and Joe didn't expect anyone to. But, as Joe's and George's eyes met, he could tell that George didn't push Reese aside just because he was hungry. Joe saw that something had just happened to spark some compassion in George. He knew that George couldn't show his sympathy in front of the other guys, but he knew it was there, glimmering like a beacon on George's placid face. George didn't fit the mold, and Joe felt guilty about being so cynical.

It would be ironic if George's political success many years later arose out of such cloaked and tempered compassion, if Joe's humble predicament would give the elite George the political capital to threaten Joe's own future success. It would be sweet to think that in a way they would both come full circle—that each man would someday get "theirs"—for George, a humble compassion; for Joe, prestige and stature. But that's not what happened.

George noticed a thumbnail in his stew as he walked out of the line. Immediately nauseated, he blew chunks all over the sneeze-guard. Everywhere was last night's chicken pot pie, half-digested. Joe smiled in gleeful victory as George wiped a corn kernel from his mouth. Their eyes met. George exclaimed in a breathless voice, "You're dead meat, little man." As he filed out of line, George heard coming from behind him a smug retort, "Have a nice lunch, Cap'n." The two men had forgotten the sympathies of just one minute before.

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