LITMIR.BIZ

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button or the zipper on his jeans. If his pants fell down, so be it. He couldn’t be any more humiliated than he already had been.

       He joined the others at the entrance to the dank, tiled bathhouse, nodding appreciatively to the manager, who had a severe lazy eye, which made eye contact difficult. The man would no doubt be dining off tales of the crazy Americans for years to come.

       Georgie pushed open the heavy wooden door, and their little group instinctively huddled together. A horse-drawn cart, loaded with hay, clopped down the dirt road in front of them. Its driver paused and yelled to two men standing cross-armed in the narrow doorway of a coffee shop across the way. His loud monologue was seemingly cheerful sounding, but who could be sure?

      Where is our friendly translator when we need him? Nick thought.

       Then the squat and hairy horse turned its head at the sound of his master’s gravelly voice, and proceeded to do his business in the middle of the street.

       Nick looked over at the steaming deposit. “I think that just about sums it up.” Then he creaked his neck in Georgie’s direction. “You realize of course that I never graduated from Grantham, don’t you? A little thing called the Junior Paper that I could never quite wrap my head around?”

       “I don’t think they’re gonna rescind the offer, and frankly, I think they probably already know that.”

       “True, failure has been one of my favorite biographical topics. Still, what would be the point? I mean, I do thirty minutes of hopefully semihumorous anecdotes about the world of food and travel—minus my usual four-letter words since, as you say, kiddies are likely to be present. And then what have you got? An hour’s TV show? I think not.”

       With that, the horse, the cart and its owner moved on. The two men with grizzled beards and in severe need of good dental work, peered suspiciously at Nick and the rest of the crew before turning to enter the gloom of the coffee shop.

       “Think of the bigger picture, Nick.” Georgie waved his hand across the gray and unforgiving sky. “The whole idea of graduation as the culmination of those happy college days, which, being happy, had to have included the customary drinking and eating of large quantities of food.”

       “You want to check out dining-hall fare?” Nick asked, unconvinced.

       Georgie nodded. “You’re missing the potential. Think bigger, like how the whole eating experience is the same or different from your day. What does that say about the peculiarities, if there are any, of the Ivy League experience?” Georgie suddenly got more animated. “Wait a minute. Doesn’t Grantham have those Social Whatevers—their own kind of snobby fraternities? Surely food and beer are plentiful at those places for the select few.”

       “Social Clubs. And only a few of them were snobby. Certainly not mine—otherwise I couldn’t have been a member,” Nick clarified. Despite his carefully honed jaded personality, he found himself becoming intrigued. “There used to be a couple of places in town that I regularly went to, too. I wonder if they’re still there, especially this one greasy spoon famous for its hoagies.”

       “Hoagie Palace,” Larry, the cameraman, piped up.

       Nick slanted him a startled expression.

       “Hey, I might have only gone to the University of New Hampshire, but even I know about Hoagie Palace.” Larry wore a down coat over a down vest and a stocking cap on his head. For a supposedly rugged New Englander, he had a very low tolerance for the cold.

       Georgie punched the air. “There, what did I tell you? And by way of contrast to the usual street-food shtick, we could sample some new high-end joints. You know—what the wealthier denizens of the quaint college town go for when they want a night on the town.”

       “As I recall, it was uninspired, nominally French food—and I mean nominal.” Nick thought back to the one time the mother of one of his freshmen advisees had taken them to the finest culinary institution in town. You knew it had pretences because it was housed in a mock, half timber Tudor building across the street from the university campus. Only minutes before meeting her Nick had learned it was a jacket-and-tie joint only, of which he’d had neither. He’d frantically scrounged something up from a guy who roomed down the hall. The waist on the jacket had been six inches too big and the sleeves three inches too short, but at least the tie hadn’t had a naked lady painted on it.

       “People are always curious about Ivy League colleges and picture-perfect towns. Now we’ll be able to give the insider’s view,” Georgie continued, still selling the idea. He was a producer, after all. “Get the lowdown on whether students still go to the same places to grab something to eat when they’re up all night studying. Or maybe they’ve developed more sophisticated palates over the years to go along with their future hedge-fund-manager lifestyles?”

       Something was definitely wrong because Nick was becoming seriously interested in Georgie’s idea. “I don’t know if you realize it, but Grantham holds its alumni Reunions right before Commencement. So it’s essentially a weeklong college-nostalgia party, where the soon-to-be graduates get to lock arms with their fellow Granthamites, thus building their sense of family and forging contacts for future employment.”

       Nick was acutely aware that he was talking as if he was doing voice-over commentary—in addition to regaining feeling in his outer extremities. No wonder Larry’s bundled up like a polar bear, he suddenly realized. He shivered. A mistake, given his recent encounter with the lethal masseur.

       “That’s better than perfect,” Georgie responded with enthusiasm. “A blend of past, present and future all rolled into one big happy, highly photogenic package.” He paused. “I presume these alums are your usual crazies—all rah-rah and wearing garish school colors?”

       “Oh, wait till you see their school colors,” Nick said knowingly. The totally tasteless Reunions getups that the returning alums donned for the traditional parade and class functions were legendary. Then he eyed his producer. “So tell me. You think this august Ivy League institution is really going to allow my unique commentary on the wild and wacky world of small town, Ivy League customs?”

       Clyde, the sound guy, snickered.

       “Hey, just because you grew up in London and went to Cambridge, doesn’t mean you can look down on Grantham,” Nick shot back. “I’ve seen the apartment you share with three other guys in Queens. No one in your shoes can even think about looking down their nose.” Speaking of shoes, he was becoming increasingly aware of just how cold he was. He also figured that once he got back to their excuse of a hotel his maimed body would be incapable of removing his own frozen shoes.

       “Clyde’s just being Clyde, and as to the permissions? Don’t worry,” Georgie interjected. “I’ll have them in hand before you can say ‘bourbon on the rocks.’” He seemed so gleeful that he began to skip down the frozen road.

       In Nick’s critical view, the producer seemed more like some demented munchkin stumbling along some nightmare version of the Yellow Brick Road. Georgie was not exactly svelte, and he barely topped five feet three.

       “I love it. I love it,” Georgie said to no one in particular as he continued to lead the little group down the road. Then he stopped and turned to face them. “Just think. You’ll be able to answer the question that burns in the hearts of all college students.” He put his hand to his chest, and if Nick didn’t know better, looked truly earnest.

       “What? ‘Will I get laid tonight?’” Nick responded sardonically. Then he shuffled around to stare at Larry since he couldn’t turn his neck. “Don’t you have a bottle of schnapps back at the hotel?”

       Georgie cupped his chin in his Gore-Tex-gloved hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Is it true that these are the happiest days of my life?’”

       Thinking about that question suddenly made Nick feel very depressed, even worse than his usual morose state. “No, the black humor isn’t covering up a mirthful soul,” he once told a cub reporter for some newspaper in Peoria or Saskatchewan—or was it

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