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retarded, the weird-looking, and the unlucky were scattered throughout our pages. Despite the grittiness of the content, production values were high; a supposedly anonymous alum—everyone knew he was actually Liz’s Uncle George—had donated a
substantial sum to insure that we didn’t have to cut corners on things like paper stock and high-quality photo reproduction. Just about everyone who mattered agreed that Reality was troubling and deeply relevant, a refreshing departure from the usual circle jerk of undergraduate publishing. As deputy assistant literary editor for fiction, I got to bask in some of the reflected glory. Strangers introduced themselves to me at parties; people who’d ignored me for two years suddenly wanted to know me better.
    Despite its comparative lack of glamour, though, my job in the dining hall probably had more to do with my improved mood than my association with the magazine. Hot and dirty and hectic as it could be, the work was strangely consuming, sometimes even exhilarating. Three-hour shifts would fly by in a blur of frantic activity and cheerful banter and an unspoken sense of camaraderie I hadn’t experienced anywhere else in college.
    In my ugly blue shirt and paper hat, I was part of a team, the first one I’d belonged to for a long time. My teammates weren’t just fellow students like Matt or Kristin or Sarah, a shy girl I later found out was a world-class oboist as well as a member of the Yale Slavic Chorus, or Eddie Zimmer, who was always trying to recruit people for the Ultimate Frisbee Club, or Djembe, who was supposedly some sort of African prince whose family had fallen on hard times. They were the surly cooks with their unpredictable rages and muttered quips; the black and Puerto Rican women working the serving line, whose private thoughts remained hidden behind masks of polite friendliness; the dishwashers, one of whom weighed three hundred pounds and another who lived in the YMCA and had such a horrible hacking cough I regularly expected to see him start spitting up blood; and Lorelei, this sexy high school girl from New Haven whose job seemed to consist of sitting at the front desk in a pose of provocative languor and pressing a clicker every time someone entered; and Albert, the manager, who enjoyed teaching us restaurant jargon, like “eighty-six” and “sneeze guard.” Sometimes I’d get so caught up in the work I’d forget who I was and mutter under my breath about the “fuckin’ Yalies,” the privileged brats
who seemed to think the rest of us had been put on earth to serve their every need and whim.
     
     
    In late October, at the height of that unexpectedly busy and happy semester, I got a letter from Cindy. It was four pages long, written in red ink on pink stationery in this fat, meticulous, gracefully looping script. “Dear Danny,” she wrote:

    Guess what? I did it! I broke down and bought a car! A brand new Honda Civic. Silver. It’s really cute. You wouldn’t believe how good it smells. I woke up in the middle of the night last night and snuck outside of the house in my pajamas just so I could sit in it for a while. Isn’t that ridiculous! I’m still learning the stick. I’m all right with everything except starting on a hill. Yesterday I rolled backwards into a cop car at that light by the Hess station! but luckily there was no damage. The cop was nice about it—he just told me to take it easy on the clutch. It was easier once I got myself to calm down a little.
    Are you surprised to hear from me?! My heart’s pounding like crazy. I don’t know why. It’s just a letter, right? I’m sure your busy with your friends and all your homework and everything, but I’m curious. Do you think about me sometimes? I’m only asking because I think about you all the time. I mean ALL THE TIME! I’ve written you like 37 letters I’ve been too scared to put in the mail, but this one I think I really might send so I’m trying to be EXTRA careful