"Uh... I see, Susan." (MARTIN!) ( NOW, MARTIN! TELL her you're GOING TO MAKE IT NEVER because she's a LYING LITTLE BITCH!! TELL HER, MARTIN!)

"Oh... well... ( MARTIN! )... I guess so... (MARTIN, YOU'RE TARING IT AGAIN!!) Oh, wait a minute, Susan."

"Yes?"

(NOW, MARTIN, NOW! TELL HER SHE'S A LYING GODDAMNED BITCH THAT SHE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A GREAT-AUNT ANDTOGO-STRAIGHTTOHELLANDHAVE-BLASTINCONNECTICUTDAMN-IT!!!)

"Uh... never mind. ( Aaaaghhh!! ) Have a good time in Connecticut. Goodbye."

( MARTIN!! YOU'RE A FUCKING EARTHWORM!!! )

MARTIN began withdrawing from things after that. He didn't date any more for the entire semester, or work, or play or even go to biology lab. All he did was sit in the living room in the old chair and stare at the telephone, which he seemed to be afraid to touch. His roommate sensed that something was bothering Martin and alerted Martin's parents, who agreed that their son seemed to be having trouble adjusting to life at Harvard. They took Martin to see the Dean of Freshmen, who, being a man of diplomacy, suggested with a frown that perhaps Martin should have his head examined, and that the nice people at the University Health Services, third floor- "Just across the street, folks" -would be glad to examine it for him. Martin's parents thanked the Dean and took Martin across the street. There he was examined by a sweet old lady who was not a full psychiatrist but a psychiatric social worker or, as Martin put it, a shrink-trainee (which sounded to him like some kind of seafood dish, but he didn't pursue the comparison any further.) Anyway, she told Martin's parents and Martin that he wasn't really in bad shape (mind you, she was only a trainee) and that all he needed was to take a more positive approach to things, and that everything would turn out fine.

Well, Martin tried that until Christmas vacation and started to feel pretty well. He even went to his biology labs on Thursday (the Dean, bless him, had checked into Martin's case and had transferred him to the other section), and he began talking to people and doing other informal things. Then he had a wonderful Christmas vacation in Florida, playing golf and tennis and, believe it or not, with girls (but not Cliffies). Afterwards, Martin came back to Harvard and aced all his finals, salvaging an almost-Group III average ("You'll do fine next term," said the Dean) and actually enjoying life occasionally. He sailed with full colors into he second term, in good spirits and, according to his lady shrink-trainee, in excellent mental health.

But she was wrong, and Martin, always perceptive, knew it. He felt that something was missing. He kept having these funny dreams about earthworms, telephones, cells, and girls; and although the dreams were ludicrous, they kept reminding him that he had forgotten something of vast importance. Also, Martin was meeting a lot of Cliffies now, and he knew he would have to date one sooner or later. Martin felt a crisis coming on.

Then one day Martin's roommate, who was practically engaged to some Cliffie he had known all his life, strode into the room and announced that he had a girl for Martin to meet. He had been introduced to her just that day at the Cliffe, and he had told her about Martin. (Not all about Martin; no, not even much about Martin.) Several girls who knew Martin had sworn to this girl that he was really nice, and she had told Martin's roommate to have him give her a call. "Give her a ring," said Martin's roommate. "If I weren't all tied up, why, hah, I'd mess around with that myself."

Martin waited about a week, but finally he called her. This girl's name was Betty.

"Hello Betty. This is Martin." He felt funny, talking into the phone.

"Oh, hello, Martin. Are you the Martin whose roommate I talked to?"

"Yes." said Martin, fingering the phone cord. "Would you like to go out with me?"

"Oh... hah, you kind of took me by surprise. Martin... umh... when did you have in mind?"