THE HATCHLINGS OF FALL ’08: A TALE OF TWO UNIVERSITIES
Chapter Four
by Stewart Berg
The Hatchings of Fall ’08 is the story of two Tacoma-area institutions of higher learning and a group of friends who find themselves at the center of the two schools’ traditional rivalry
Chapter Four: A Continuing Night
He’ll tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick away
-Laura Maurling: “The Captain and The Hourglass”
Another second lost with every fallen grain
Whether the basement at Corey’s should be considered as part of the house’s square footage is a question for an appraiser, and there could be said to be divided opinions on the matter. Admittedly, the room was fully below grade and thus windowless, but it was large, carpeted, and had a pool table, and a rental listing, therefore, could be expected to advertise the room while not being able to include its space in the house’s official count. To the students who were its current renters, these technicalities were, of course, unknown, and the room, particularly its pool table, was one of the friend group’s favorite aspects of the house.
Jasmine, upon her first footfall in the basement on the night of the friends’ New Year party, first saw Jackson, and he, though not a part of the game, was leaning over the pool table while pointing out a potential shot atop it. James, meanwhile, having skipped down the stairs ahead of his sister, ran to Jackson with a shout.
“What’re you doing?” the alarmed twin cried out, and he swatted Jackson’s arm. “Aire and I are still in our game.”
“I know,” Jackson smiled in reply, considerably less drunk than he with whom he talked. “We got bored waiting.”
During this exchange, Aaron, the last member of the room, stood from his seat on one of the barstools along the near basement wall, and he approached the table. Though having the least alcohol currently within him, he happened to be the only one in the basement who had brought a drink down with him.
“I left you an easy leave,” he said, addressing James. “I tried burying you against the cushion, but it didn’t work out.”
“It really is every time with you guys,” Jasmine interrupted; still at the base of the stairs, her apartness from the other three giving her words a severity. “You guys always just end up down here every party. It’s every single time. You’re the ones always wanting to have them, too.”
As the least engaged in the table’s action, Jackson felt himself to be the most targeted by Jasmine’s words, and he shrugged sheepishly then retreated to the barstool that had been recently vacated by Aaron.
“I just came down,” he added in his defense.
“You’re the one who made us wait forever for you,” Aaron said, addressing Jasmine; in reply, she cordially sneered at the attempt to goad, and he, in turn, wrinkled up his face at her.
“We’re going back up after this game,” James interjected, ignoring Aaron; in fact, he was trying to ignore all that was not the shot that he had lined up. “We just wanted to get a quick couple in.”
“I thought I had the winner?” Jackson asked.
“You can play Jaz. The two of you might not be able to finish the game, but it’ll be evenly matched.”
Noting that there were not many balls left on the table, Jackson made no objection to the proposal. Jasmine, meanwhile, also realizing that the current game was not likely to last long, was content with the thought of waiting a little while longer before announcing that she did not want to play. James took his shot, which he made, and Jasmine moved past him in order to join Jackson at the series of barstools along the basement wall.
“So, did you meet Corey’s new guy yet?” Jackson asked, lowering his voice to address only Jasmine; as he spoke, his eyes followed James as that student stalked about the table in search of his next shot.
“Is he here?” Jasmine asked.
“Not yet, I don’t think. Corey said he’s about to be, though. That’s what she said when I was coming down, at least. She said he was with a group out on Sixth, and they were about to come over.”
“She hasn’t told me much about him.”
“I know he’s from PLU, so we’ll see.”
Jackson’s speculation ended the pair’s conversation on the topic, and they silently watched as James missed his shot, overcutting the 7-ball considerably. In response to the miss, James began pointedly accusing the ball of defeatism, and Jasmine wondered how much alcohol it was, in shots, that her brother had already had.
Suddenly, Jasmine found herself thinking of Stephanie Turner. From what felt like a life long ago, that student at a school far away had been a friend of Jasmine’s during high school, and any thought of her was a sample in the multifaceted. A grade below Jasmine, Stephanie had been unknown to her until their teenage years, and the pair had become best friends quicker than even they had realized. Thinking back, Jasmine still found it odd how quickly the transformation had happened, and there had seemed to have been an undefinable long-lostness about the friendship.
During the summer following Jasmine’s graduation from high school, James and Stephanie had begun dating. Like Jasmine, the brother had, of course, himself graduated, and he entered the relationship with the knowledge that only a few months remained before his leaving for college. Stephanie, meanwhile, herself with one year of high school left, began the relationship while aware of the same. Each half of the couple was, therefore, encouraged to enjoy the romance with expectations of a lack of them, yet from this soil, with the help of 2005’s summer sun, arose an attachment that became a determination to make things work. Three months later, when James and Jasmine left for the city of Tacoma and the UPS campus, Stephanie visited as early as the second weekend, and it was established that the drive between home and college was not too far at all.
That first Academic Year, which had been the twins’ first from home, James and Stephanie’s relationship had been strong. Generally, he would drive home on weekends, and she would make sure that she had no other plans; however, about once a month, the roles would be reversed, though there had also been the dual cases of major holidays, which invariably brought James home, and university events, which invariably, if James himself chose to attend, brought Stephanie to campus. Jasmine, meanwhile, went home less frequently that first Year, and what she most remembered about the time was the way in which her mother would comment, each time, upon how different her daughter appeared.
Following the Year of their commuted relationship, James and Stephanie began the Year of their long-distance one. This Year was distinguished from the preceding by Stephanie’s move across the country for her first semesters of college, and she spent the time almost entirely in New England while James remained solely in the Pacific Northwest. Stephanie’s dream school, the university in question had been her family’s first choice for her, and there had been only excitement in their household at the news that their youngest daughter would be leaving them so extremely. James, meanwhile, little thought of the move throughout the time of his girlfriend’s applications, but, when it became imminent, he became irrational, and he spent several months trying to convince her to stay; however, his unsuccessful attempts, with the help of 2006’s summer sun, merely baked their relationship such that there were visible, albeit overlooked, cracks.
Upon Stephanie’s return home for the summer following her first year of college, she and James broke up. Not necessarily planned, the termination could have been anticipated by eavesdropping on the couple’s phone calls across the prior semesters, but when they were again together for three months with a second separation of nine looming, it became obvious that one of them would have to cause the wound. Unfortunately, due to good in either hearts or manners, neither could make the outright rift, and they spent that summer in a sort of antagonistic acquiescence, each liking the other too much to do the unlikable, thus leaving them broken up, though not yet officially. Summer vacation 2007, then, ended in this state, but it proved to be only a few weekends into each school’s fall semester before distance allowed the necessary words to be, over the phone, spoken.
The Academic Year that followed, which was James and Jasmine’s junior years at UPS, naturally featured, due to the breakup, lessened communication between James and Stephanie; however, unbeknownst to the sister, there had remained the occasional long, somber phone call between the former couple. Whatever the intentions or series of topics, the post-break talks merely prolonged the bad, perhaps even making it worse, and Jasmine, who did not become aware of the sporadic continuance until after it had finally ceased, which did not occur until the middle of that Year’s spring semester, regretted not having had the opportunity to discourage them.
Now that her musing had advanced from the time of prior years to that of only prior months, Jasmine turned her eyes upon her brother while her thoughts continued on him. In the span of her inattention, the game of pool had included a short series of misses from each of its players, and Jasmine saw her brother celebrate the latest of these from his opponent.
The thought of discouragement still in her mind, Jasmine could not help avoiding the thought of what she would, given the chance, have said, and such seemed to be itself a discouragement of the endeavor. To think of the act brought to mind the words that would have been required, and no formation of them, in even the most advantageous of scenes, would seem to shape to anything resembling success. An unending list of unanswerable as well as unquestionable questions begin to string themselves before her mind’s eye, but chief among them were the overarching words: How is it that one is started out of that which he must work through?
“Did you hear me?” Aaron asked; as he spoke, he walked directly into Jasmine’s vision, and his appearance ended her lengthy reconstruction of the past.
“Hear what?” she asked in reply.
“What I said about the Hatchet.”
Jasmine’s face made an instantaneous and impossible to misinterpret change, which was not missed by Aaron, though he sought to mitigate it.
“I’m just talking about it,” he explained. “Okay? That’s all. I’ve actually been going to the library to look it up, so you should be proud of me.”
“So,” Jasmine countered, “you’ve been openly researching the thing you’re trying to steal? That sounds smart.”
“Well, it is since I’m not going to steal it. Just think of me as a scholar. I still technically am through next semester.”
Derisively, Jasmine let loose a laugh, and Aaron, through a grin, did the same. On the stool beside Jasmine, Jackson slightly swiveled himself in place, the act an outlet for his anxiousness, and he kept on his face an interest in the pool table such that he did not appear to be aware of the conversation that was occurring across him.
“Do you want to know the thing about the Hatchet?” Aaron asked after a moment, addressing Jasmine. “Or not?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Go ahead.”
“Jam already knows what I’m talking about. Remember, Jam, what I was saying about that couple cutting their wedding cake with it?”
As he spoke, Aaron turned from Jasmine while raising the volume of his voice; in turn, James abruptly looked up from the sighting of his stick then took a deep breath. Atop the pool table, besides the cue and 8-ball, there remained only the 3-ball, and James was attempting to cut it into one of the side pockets.
“Stop trying to distract me,” he said.
“Hey,” Aaron replied, defensively raising his hands. “I’m just trying to be a good future alum over here. All I’m doing is informing my fellow students of some University lore.”
“Just tell me,” Jasmine interjected; as she spoke, James went back to aiming at the 3-ball.
“Well,” Aaron began, “I was in the library, and I was looking through one of the old alumni magazines.”
“I didn’t even know there was one.”
After this comment from Jasmine, Aaron made a point of not continuing; instead, he clasped his hands behind his back in mock respect, and the room watched James take his shot at the 3-ball. A poor one, the shot missed the intended pocket by a fair margin, and even worse, the roll of the cue ball, affected by the miss, took it to a place where a shot on the 8-ball was easily imagined.
“There’s been one since the ’50s, at least,” Aaron continued, making his way back to the table. “Anyway, I was looking through one of them from back then, and there was a photo in it of a couple who’d gotten married right after their graduation, and in the photo, they were using the Hatchet to cut their wedding cake. There was only a caption for it rather than a full story, but it said they’d brokered a deal to rent the real thing for the day from the senior class of the time.”
“And?” Jasmine asked, only slightly interested.
By now, Aaron had his shot prepared, and he stood along the pool table’s rail, ready to end the game.
“I’m going corner pocket,” he said, addressing James, and he pointed with his pool stick to indicate where he intended the 8-ball to bounce off the table’s side cushion.
“We’re not going to play bank the 8,” Jackson interjected, addressing Jasmine on the stool beside him; as he spoke, the latter was reminded of the fact that she still had one more friend to convince upstairs.
Assuming the answer to be in the affirmative, Jackson did not await a reply from Jasmine, and his attention returned to the game on the table. Jasmine, meanwhile, started to think of how she would word that which she would eventually need to say; however, reflexively, at the thought of this need for a little lie, she lightly bit her lower lip, and from that spot happened to come a residual taste of a caramel and coffee-like cream. Immediately, her thoughts were thrown back to the B-52 shot that she had taken hardly a half-hour ago.
Jasmine wondered who the spooned student could have been. It was unlikely, she knew, that he was a Puget Sound senior since the class totaled well less than one thousand, which meant that he whom one did not know would still be him whom one recognized. This test of recognition could be further applied to the University as a whole, and it could be said that, if a UPS student at all, he must either be a new or hermetic one. Quickly, Jasmine determined that she might not see him again.
“Like I was saying,” Aaron continued, “I saw that photo of the couple cutting their cake with the Hatchet, and the caption had their names, so I knew who they were, but I didn’t think anything about it. But then, I was looking through the newspaper archives from around that time since the University keeps a copy of every Trail issue, and there was a story in one of them about the Hatchet’s passing that week. It was in the late fifties, and, apparently, it was back when whatever class with it was supposed to hide it on campus for the other three to find, and the hiding class would give out clues based on whatever rules they had, and then there’d be a big free-for-all to see who’d end up with it.”
“What was the story?” Jasmine interrupted; as she spoke, she glanced to the other listeners, but Jackson appeared rather interested in the narration, and James seemed willing to accept any delay of his forthcoming loss.
“The story,” he said, “as far as I can tell, is that the clues they gave out that year included a string of numbers, and there were two junior girls who were the first to guess that they were a locker combination. So, the pair started going to every locker in Jones Hall and trying the combination, and it eventually worked on one, and they found the Hatchet inside. Apparently, they were being shadowed by some sophomores, so they had to smuggle the Hatchet back to their dorm room in Anderson Hall, and then a couple hours later, they had some junior guys come smuggle them out of their room since the whole thing wasn’t over until one of the classes got the Hatchet clear of campus, I guess. The only other part of the story was that the class drove out to Point Defiance to celebrate, and then it ended by saying they were planning on how they were going to hide it themselves next year.”
While speaking, Aaron had made the final preparations for his shot, and he took it immediately following his words. The 8-ball, as intended, struck the cushion in the perfect spot for it roll back across the width of the table, dropping softly into the called pocket once there.
“Nice shot,” James admitted.
“I’m on fire tonight,” Aaron replied.
“Is that it?” Jasmine interjected.
“Is what it?”
“The story.”
Aaron took a moment to gently lay his pool stick down along the length of the table.
“Well,” he said, “the important part is that it was the same students in each story. The wife was in both, at least. The magazine’s caption of the couple cutting their cake mentioned her maiden name, so I knew it was her as soon as I saw the name in the Trail story. She was one of the two girls who found the Hatchet in Jones Hall, and then her husband and her cut their wedding cake with it a few years later. He probably had a story with it when he was a student, too.”
“And that’s it?” Jasmine asked.
For a second time, Jasmine glanced about to see the effect of her flippancy; however, again, neither of the other two students appeared to second her.
“Yeah,” Aaron shrugged. “I just thought it was cool seeing one story from the past, then seeing another, and then realizing they’re connected.”
“That is cool,” Jackson replied, his eyes faraway.
“Yeah,” James agreed, starting for the stairs. “I can hear my loser’s shot calling, though, and I know what it’s going to be.”
As he passed by the barstools on his way to the stairs, James handed off his pool stick to Jackson.
“Let me guess,” the latter said. “A shot of whiskey?”
“No,” James answered. “It had a name.”
By now, James was near enough to the stairs that his back was to his friends, so they did not see the look of intense concentration that momentarily consumed him.
“Jaz,” he asked, turning back around, “what was the name? We just had it.”
“A B-52,” she quickly answered.
“‘B-52?’” Aaron asked in Jasmine’s voice. “What’s in it?”
This time, James was certain that he never knew.
“No idea,” he answered.
“There were three things,” Jasmine added.
“Will you make one for me?” Aaron asked, addressing Jasmine.
“Make it yourself.”
“I never have”
“Neither have I.”
Mocking a standoff, Aaron and Jasmine stared hard at each other, and it was a position that they held for a few moments. Jackson, meanwhile, controlled himself enough to not have his eyes roll from the pair.
“You don’t even know what we’re talking about,” Jasmine continued.
“So?” Aaron shrugged. “I just heard you guys talking shots.”
“You’re taking one with me,” James interjected, addressing Aaron; as he spoke, he turned back toward the stairs. “Come on. I promise you’ll want it. I remember what the guys looked like, so we can find them, if we need to.”
James was lost to view up the stairs before the conclusion of his words, and Aaron quickly followed. For a brief moment, the remaining two in the basement could hear James relating his version of the encounter with the spooned student, but this overhearing only remained for as long as he waited for Aaron at the upper landing. In the seconds of narration that she caught, Jasmine heard no direct mention of the spooned student himself, but she knew that her brother would soon reach that part. Quickly, she determined that James would likely see the spooned student again.
“You know,” Jackson said, his voice sounding uncertain, “all he wants to do is be able to brag, right?”
Though worded as a question as well as waveringly, this statement was, in the mind of Jackson, well-said as well as that which needed to be said. The words had been working within him for a while, and though Aaron was his friend, this slight speaking against him was shielded by the form of advice. She, meanwhile, coming out of her own thoughts, took a moment to consider what had been said, but then, in a quick flash, she considered the likelihood of Jackson having found some way to have spied on her upstairs, and though the notion had numerous holes, she reddened slightly.
“What are you even talking about?” she asked; as she spoke, Jackson became further convinced that he was on the right thing’s right track.
“I’m just saying that that’s all he wants,” Jackson answered. “I know.”
“About what?”
“I just know. Okay?”
Having before considered the odds remote, Jasmine now decided that Jackson had, indeed, looked in on the spooned student and her, and she made no reply, infuriated more by the fact that there had been nothing to spy on than by the general invasion of privacy. Jackson, meanwhile, still retained a slight hope of coming thanks for his efforts.
“Why is this something you get to care about, anyway?” she eventually asked.
“I’m just saying,” Jackson replied, appearing wounded. “That’s all.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I’ve known him for almost three years. You have, too, so we both know what he’s like. All he wants is to brag, which is fine, I guess, since I do it, too, but it’s the only thing he wants, which is the difference. That’s all I wanted to say, just that I know him. I didn’t know how else to say it.”
Though Jackson had both more to say as well as an urge to better explain that which he had said, he stuck to his choice of words, and silence followed them. Jasmine, meanwhile, was dominated by two thoughts, both of which her mind was currently too clouded to be able to properly pierce. First, she wondered at the size, scope, and scale of the conspiracy of concern that seemed to surround her while only ever presenting itself in awkward declarations; second, an unavoidable chastisement arose due to the fact that, though there was nothing to either, she was being warned away from one guy while thinking of another.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she eventually said, and her words she started her for the stairs.
“Jaz,” Jackson replied, “just listen to me for a second. I don’t think Aire’s a bad guy. Okay? Obviously, I don’t think that, but I know him. I can tell how friendly he’s always trying to be.”
“Maybe he’s friendly because we’re friends.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you think actually happened between the two of us?”
Blindsided by this sudden call for evidence, Jackson had no ready lie, and he stood silent and still, betraying himself.
“See?” Jasmine continued, restarting on her way away. “You don’t even know.”
“I know Aire,” Jackson quickly replied.
By now, Jasmine had brought herself to the base of the stairs, and she took a step toward mounting them before turning back.
“Nothing happened,” she said with conviction. “Okay? There isn’t anything to talk about.”
Jackson made no reply, but he could not hide the fact that his suspicion had been only increased by her defense, and he looked away from her with a shrug.
“Whatever,” Jasmine said for reply, making a final turn to the stairs.
Jackson quickly turned his eyes back toward her, but he found himself alone in the basement, the room suddenly being so quiet that he was able to be certain that it was Laura Maurling’s “The Captain and The Hourglass” that was now playing upstairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Capping Morning
