When I'm Sixty-Four

I Want to Hold Your Hand.

The sea disgusted me after I left that ship. I wasn't seasick, but for weeks afterward, I would see the sea and suddenly feel nauseous. I hitchhiked most of the way to the address I'd been given. An awful habit to get into, I realize in hindsight, but I was one of the lucky few who didn't turn up on the back of the milk carton. Wouldn't have anyway, since without any American authorized identification, I didn't officially exist in the United States. I was a drifter, took me nearly a week to get to the University. A week of sleeping on park benches and being shooed off property, eating what I could find and making my way across all the major highways in the state. All I remembered doing when I reached the school was smiling. Princeton University. A school seemingly filled with snobbish schoolboys. An all men's school. I didn't attend uni -- you didn't need to, in those days. Not when straight out of high school you planned to work in a shipyard, anyway. I would have liked to go to art school, but that seemed like a waste of time, as well as money that my mum and I didn't have.

I walked around Princeton for a bit, getting a feel for the grounds, the students. Everything reeked of pretension. High class men in high class suits, more of them than I'd ever seen in one place at one time. Around noon, I began asking. "You wouldn' happen t' know a Professor Huber, would you?" "Where can I find a Professor Huber?" "You takin' Professor Huber's course, mate?" I either got an odd look or a shake of the head, none of them seemed to have time for me. Not until a man, only a litter taller than me with blond hair and blue eyes came crashing into me. He dropped all of the books and papers in his arms, began spewing curses the moment they hit the ground. I helped him out, picking up stray papers. Introduction to Pharmaceuticals read one of the papers. This man was majoring in medicine, I assumed. "Aw, thanks, man." He said, took the papers out of my arms and gave a nod, an affirmation of thanks. "Excuse me, y'don't know where I could find a Professor Huber, do you?" I asked. "Uhm, no such person. Not that I'm aware of." He began to scurry off, but the sound of my voice seemed to call him back. "Professor Wesley Huber?" I asked, like a first name would give any help. "Listen, buddy, I've pissed off every professor in Princeton, and he's not one of 'em..." He began, until he looked to my left, and a smile broke out across his defined features. "Oh, wait a second, there's a Wes Huber. That's him, right over there." He pointed in a vague direction and then walked off. Soon would I learn that this blond-headed student's name was Maxwell Edison Carrigan.

And then I looked in the direction that the stranger had pointed, and found my father, cleaning the windows on some old building. Wes Huber, the custodian. Not Professor Wesley Huber, the esteemed teacher of whatever-the-hell 101. My father, the janitor. I had searched through the army records, dragged every ounce of information I could get out of my mother, to discover that my father was no better than myself. A working, lower class man, no better than me, not a hero like I'd pictured him as all these years.

I decided to bunk in the janitorial suite, which was basically a bunker underneath a building, just past the boiler room. A plaque that said 'Maintenance Dept.' hung on the door. I was out for a smoke when I heard shouting. Most joyful, some angry. Before I knew it, a group of men ran past, and the same blond haired, blue eye boy jumped to hide behind the stone wall that hid the stairs. I opened the door quickly, signaled for him to come in for safety, an offer which he didn't hesitate to accept. We ran past the boilers, into the small janitor's bedroom. He looked out the door like he was lucky to be alive, and I shut and locked it behind myself.

"Man, I'm outta shape." He complained, leaning over to catch his breath. He laughed, gave the room a quick look-over before settling his eyes on me. I was suddenly uncomfortable, under that gaze, I felt like every move I made mattered. "You're the guy who was asking for the janitor, right?" He asked, and I nodded. "Yeah." I said simply, trying to catch my breath just as much as he was.

"So, what are you, like, the assistant janitor?" He asked, and I chuckled.

"I'm just... Bunkin' down 'ere. Y'know, temporarily." I explained, and he scoffed.

"Why?" He asked, and I agreed with his tone. The room was shabby, in poor shape, unlike the rest of the campus.

"Why d'y' need to know?" I asked, eyebrows raised. "You wanted by the cops, huh? FBI?" I looked him over, chuckling a little again.

"Y'know, it looks t'me as though you're the one who's on the run." The man winced.

"Yeah. Thank you for that, by the way." He said, walking to sit down on the bed. I didn't mind, I hadn't yet gotten the chance to tell him my home was his... Even though it wasn't my home to start.

"Wha' would that lot've done if they'd've caught ya'?" I asked, and he shrugged.

"I dunno... Probably something involving genitalia and shoe polish." I winced, visibly shuddering.

"Nasty."

"Yeah... Where's that accent from?"

"Same place 's me. Liverpool."

"And do you have a name?" I nodded slowly, as it's obvious that everyone does.

"Yeah. It's Jude."

"Max." He stuck out his hand, and I met it, a firm shake shared between us.

"I'm pleased t'meet y'." I said, and he smiled, almost devilishly. I'd see that smile a lot in my life, I just didn't know it yet.

"Well, Jude, as a stranger to our shores, the least I can do is offer you some Ivy League hospitality." He tossed a flask at me, a cigarette dangling from his lip, and I caught the drink, slowly opened the cap. Whatever was in it was strong, I could smell it the moment the top was off.

"Cheers."