iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第3节
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my lowly English degree； but pared to some of the deals I've seen classmates make； you'd think it was barely getting by。
I pick up the letter from Daedalus； an Internet firm in Austin that claims to have developed the world's most advanced software for streamlining the corporate back office。 I know almost nothing about the pany； let alone what a back office is； but a friend down the hall suggested I interview with them； and as rumors circulated about high starting salaries at this unknown Texas start…up； I went。 Daedalus； following the general trend； didn't care that I knew nothing about them or their business。 If I could just solve a few brainteasers at an interview； and seem reasonably articulate and friendly in the process； the job was mine。 Thus； in good Caesarian fashion； I could； I did； and it was。
〃Close；〃 I say； reading from the letter。 〃Forty…three thousand a year。 Signing bonus of three thousand。 Fifteen hundred options。〃
〃And a partridge in a pear tree；〃 Paul adds from across the room。 He's the only one acting like it's dirtier to talk about money than it is to touch it。 〃Vanity of vanities。〃
Charlie is shifting the magnets again。 In a fulminating baritone he imitates the preacher at his church； a tiny black man from Georgia who just finished his degree at the Princeton Theological Seminary。 〃Vanity of vanities。 All is vanity。〃
〃Be honest with yourself； Tom；〃 Paul says impatiently； though he never makes eye contact。 〃Any pany that thinks you deserve a salary like that isn't going to be around for long。 You don't even know what they do。〃 He returns to his notebook； scribbling away。 Like most prophets； he is fated to be ignored。
Gil keeps his focus on the television； but Charlie looks up； hearing the edge in Paul's voice。 He rubs a hand along the stubble on his chin； then says； 〃All right； everybody stop。 I think it's time to let off some steam。〃
For the first time； Gil turns away from the movie。 He must hear what I hear： the faint emphasis on the word steam。
〃Right now？〃 I ask。
Gil looks at his watch； taking to the idea。 〃We'd be clear for about half an hour；〃 he says； and in a show of support he even turns off the television； letting Audrey fizzle into the tube。
Charlie flips his Fitzgerald shut； mischief stirring。 The broken spine springs open in protest； but he tosses the book onto the couch。
〃I'm working；〃 Paul objects。 〃I need to finish this。〃
He glances at me oddly。
〃What？〃 I ask。
But Paul remains silent。
〃What's the problem； girls？〃 Charlie says impatiently。
〃It's still snowing out there；〃 I remind everyone。
The first snowstorm of the year came howling into town today； just when spring seemed perched on the tip of every tree branch。 Now there are calls for a foot of accumulation； maybe more。 The Easter weekend festivities on campus； which this year include a Good Friday lecture by Paul's thesis advisor； Vincent Taft； have been reorganized。 This is hardly the weather for what Charlie has in mind。
〃You don't have to meet Curry until 8：30； right？〃 Gil asks Paul； trying to convince him。 〃We'll be done by then。 You can work more tonight。〃
Richard Curry； an eccentric former friend of my father's and Taft's； has been a mentor of Paul's since freshman year。 He has put Paul in touch with some of the most prominent art historians in the world； and has funded much of Paul's research on the Hypnerotomachia。
Paul weighs his notebook in his hand。 Just looking at it； the fatigue returns to his eyes。
Charlie senses that he's ing around。 〃We'll be done by 7：45；〃 he says。
〃What are the teams？〃 Gil asks。
Charlie thinks it over； then says； 〃Tom's with me。〃
The game we're about to play is a new spin on an old favorite： a fast…paced match of paintball in a maze of steam tunnels below campus。 Down there； rats are more mon than lightbulbs； the temperature hits three digits in the dead of winter； and the terrain is so dangerous that even the campus police are forbidden to give chase。 Charlie and Gil came up with the idea during an exam period sophomore year； inspired by an old map Gil and Paul found at their eating club； and by a game Gil's father used to play in the tunnels with his friends as seniors。
The newer version gained popularity until nearly a dozen members of Ivy and most of Charlie's friends from his EMT squad were in on it。 It seemed to surprise them when Paul became one of the game's best navigators； only the four of us understood it； knowing how often Paul used the tunnels to get to and from Ivy on his own。 But gradually Paul's interest in the game waned。 It frustrated him that no one else saw the strategic possibilities of it； the tactical ballet。 He wasn't there when an errant shot punctured a steam pipe during a big midwinter match； the explosion stripped plastic safety casings off live power lines for ten feet in either direction； and might've cooked two half…drunk juniors； had Charlie not pulled them out of the way。 The proctors； Princeton's campus police； caught on； and within days the dean had rained down a spate of punishments。 In the aftermath； Charlie replaced paint guns and pellets with something faster but less risky： an old set of laser…tag guns he picked up at a yard sale。 Still； as graduation approaches； the administration has imposed a zero…tolerance policy on disciplinary infractions。 Getting caught in the tunnels tonight could mean suspension or worse。
Charlie sidesteps into the bedroom he shares with Gil and pulls out a large hiking pack； then another； which he hands to me。 Finally he pulls on his hat。
〃Jesus； Charlie；〃 Gil says。 〃We're only going down there for half an hour。 I packed less for spring break。〃
〃Be prepared；〃 Charlie says； hitching the larger of the two packs over his shoulders。 〃That's what I say。〃
〃You and the Boy Scouts；〃 I mumble。
〃Eagle scouts；〃 Charlie says； because he knows I never made it past tenderfoot。
〃You ladies ready？〃 Gil interrupts； standing by the door。
Paul breathes deeply； waking himself up； then nods。 From inside his room he grabs his pager and hitches it to his belt。
At the front of Dod Hall； our dormitory； Charlie and I part ways with Gil and Paul。 We will enter the tunnels at different locations； and be invisible to each other until one team finds the other underground。
〃I didn't know there was such a thing as a black Boy Scout；〃 I tell Charlie once he and I are on our own； heading down campus。
The snow is deeper and colder than I expected。 I wrench my ski jacket around me； and force my hands into gloves。
〃That's okay；〃 he says。 〃Before I met you； I didn't know there was such a thing as a white pussy。〃
The trip down campus passes in a haze。 For days； with graduation so near and my own thesis out of the way； the world has seemed like a rush of unnecessary motion…underclassmen hurrying to night seminars； seniors typing their final chapters in sweating puter labs； now snowflakes everywhere in the sky； dancing in circles before they find the ground。
As we walk down campus； my leg begins to ache。 For years the scar on my thigh has been predicting bad weather six hours after the bad weather arrives。 It's a memento of an old accident； the scar。 Not long after my sixteenth birthday I was in a car crash that laid me up in a hospital for most of my sophomore summer。 The details are a blur to me now； but the one distinct memory I have of that night is my left femur snapping clean through the muscle of my thigh until one end of it was staring back at me through the skin。 I had just enough time to see it before passing out from shock。 Both bones in my left forearm broke as well； and three ribs on the same side。 According to the paramedics； the bleeding from my artery was stopped just in time for them to save me。 By the time they got me out of the wreckage； though； my father； who'd been driving the car； was dead。
The accident changed me； of course： after three surgeries and two months of rehab； and the onset of phantom pains with their six…hour weather delay； I still had metal pins in my bones； a scar up my leg； and a strange hole in my life that only seemed to get bigger the more time wore on。 At first there were different clothes…different sizes of pants and shorts until I regained enough weight； then different styles to cover up a skin graft on my thigh。 Later I realized that my family had changed too： my mother； who'd retreated into herself； first and most of all； but also my two older sisters； Sarah and Kristen； who spent less and less time at home。 Finally it was my friends who changed…or； I guess； finally I was the one who changed them。 I'm not sure if I wanted friends who understood me better； or saw me differently； or what exactly； but the old ones； like my old clothes； just didn't fit anymore。
The thing people like to say to victims is that time is a great healer。 The great healer is what they say； as if time were a doctor。 But after six years of thinking on the subject； I have a different impression。 Time is the guy at the amusement park who paints shirts with an airbrush。 He sprays out the color in a fine mist until it's just lonely particles floating in the air； waiting to be plastered in place。 And what es of it all； the design on the shirt at the
