Down in the trenches with the trolls--Or how I handle the graduating seniors

The campaign has been especially difficult this month. The trolls are restless. I've tried browbeating but they don't seem to understand. Last week, I tried to make one feel sorry. But they don't seem to understand. It's not that they're lazy. I've seen them lumber up out into the street arms out, slobber running across their cheeks toward their ears, yelling "Eeeeeeghhhrrrrr eaghrrrrrrrrr." And sometimes they seem to have a real fondness for life. I've watched them comparing underwear for hours under the trees or basking out in the sun, eyes shut, fat grins oozing little pearls of slobber into the clover. I've watched them out of the sides of my eyes comparing their wounds, even helping each other cut out gangrene that would make you wretch if you were near human. "Uhghhhhhhhhhhhhggshhh Rmmmbuhrrr??????????" says one. The other nods, a grin cutting his chin from the rest of his face, "Surrpryzzzzzzzz!!!!!!!!!!" (pointing to a ballpoint pen stuck up to its clip in his left ear.)

But right now, the trolls are restless. Some say that after so many years, they die. And maybe they're all getting ready to die soon. At least the older ones. You can tell they're getting older because they're doing less. I have seen some quit breathing for long stretches. Days. Sometimes weeks of nothing much . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hunghhhh . . . . . . . . hhnnggnnhhh . . . . . . Hnnnghghahaha . . . Last week, I watched one of the more interesting ones sitting under the little bridge across from the Admin Building. Head stiff, eyes stuck in one position, face mush, it was staring at its genitals and humming something softly to itself--"Oh Christmas Tree Oh Christmas Tree Oh Christmas tree oh chrstmastree ohchrsttttmsstree treeochrist masa shhhitttmas ho ohmastree ohsshtsht shhhtit . . . ." Not many people understand them. I certainly don't--although I'm convinced that they are smarter than they look.

I don't know why I think that. My friends suggest I'm burning out. One in Idaho says that trolls are basically glandular beasts. But I point out that they occasionally show some awareness. Only last week, one put one of my Adidas in his mouth and chewed off half the tread saying softly, "Cunnnnnnayyyyyy Cunnnnayyyyy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . exxxxxstnshunnnnnn . . . hungggghh pluuuuhhhhsssseeeeee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . " I don't know for sure, but it sounded like it knew what it was doing. Since my foot was in my shoe at the time, I garbled something at him and shook my head, "Here . . . here . . . You letum goum myyuyy fffooooootttt . . and . . . " And it loosened up enough to say, "Cunnnnnnayyyyy . . . freeeeeedummmmmmm yooooss ukker . . . Ayyyyy ayyyyyyy gimmmmmbrayyyyyyk . . . " What would you do if you could feel the saliva soaking through to your foot? The goddam sonofabitch took my shoe and ate it and grinned. Then it demanded my other shoe. But goddammit I refused the other one.

My boss says I have to put up with some of their whimsy. He says that they mean no harm and besides, they turn into alums one of these days. I don't know what that means. I told him that I thought they mostly died. I asked him if alums hid under bridges and tracked mud into buildings and fell asleep on Monday afternoons with their eyes and mouths open but he said he wasn't sure. All he knew was the ones he saw looked better when it was all over. I said I didn't know when it would ever be over and I said I thought they mostly died, but he said just wait. He said they molt or shed or transmogrify or put on suits.

All right, I said at the time, but right now, they are not getting ready to molt or put on suits. They roll on the ground when I tell them to do anything and I've all but given up showing them what I want them to do. Yesterday, I showed one how to count with its toes. I said, "Taykeee thisseee ideeee annnnndy runnnnyy witthyyyy itttthhhh." And he said, "Hooooo meeeee yooooos ukker." And I said, "No No. Taykeeee thisssseeee ideeeee." And he said "Yoooooghhhhh ottttta bek idddddnnnnnghhhh huhhhhn?" Well it didn't takey the idee and runny withy it. It rolled on the ground and made "huhnghgunghg" and "wooooheeee" noise deep down its throat and it said "toooodaieeeeee? . . . . . . . . . . . . tooomorry? nnexxttmonthhh haunhg hunngghhh?"

Hnnnnnnghhhh. But the season goes on and we're losing the war. I found one sleeping in the back seat of my Datsun the other day, and when I askyyed it whaty ity was doing innny my backy seety it said quite clearly "FFFFFFunnnnnn. Lifffffty." Then it said "Gooooooo!" And if you know how to get them out of backseats, let me know soon. Even Charles at the Mobil station on Isaacs doesn't know. All he says is, "You let one in the back seat and it'll take you a lot more gas to run your car." He says the one I've got will probably take up house there until it rots or graduates. I don't know what he means by graduating, but I do know what he means by rotting. Now my children don't want to go anywhere in the car. Jake has taken to riding his bike to baseball practice, and my wife says that it's starting to smell a bit musty even when we roll down the windows and the air conditioner has started to smell like burning rubber and uncooked oysters and ripe Hollandaise.

Trolls must like riding. The other day, I saw one of my colleagues carrying one on his back out of senior orals, and I asked him what he was doing. He said something about "duty" and "deadlines," and "eeffishunciency" and "good will." He said, "What'll we do if they don't go away? What'll we do if we make them stay and have to feed them for four more months?" Ughhh. I shuddered at the time, but looking back on it, I think he was really trying to tell me something about his wife who has this soft, sentimental love of lost furry creatures with big grins and button eyes.

Last Saturday, I saw another on the city bus. The driver said he himself didn't really like it, but what could he do? He told me that sometimes they ride around all day, their noses mooshed against the . . . their fetid breath fogging up the . . . . they were just staring out the . . . . and they were so . . . ugly ugly UGLY they were so . . . .

I've talked to others who say wait till May or June or maybe July and things'll get better-- or if nothing else, I'll feel better about it. I'm not sure what to tell my in-laws, though. They're expecting us for Easter and Easter's coming too soon. I feel like shooting the one in the back seat before it ruins the upholstery, but all I have is my son's b-b gun. I'm hoping that it might go to the library or maybe begin feeling guilty and flog itself to death with the seat belts. In the meantime, I'm planning a camping trip to Montana. I plan to hitchhike there this week-end with my wife and two kids. If one of them follows, I'll probably push it out into hunnghh hhghhhh huhgnghhh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hnnnnngh.

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