My room was in the basement. The names of my two roommates—Gary Rennecker and Michael Dyes—were typed on a yellow index card taped to the door. I slid the key in the lock, turned the knob, and the door didn’t budge. I jammed my left shoulder into it, and the door sprung open.

My father found the light switch. “Now this is very comfortable,” he said. A bare bulb on the ceiling lit up a room with beige walls, a single bed, and a set of bunk beds. Two desks were wedged against the far wall. I tossed my blanket on the single bed, swung up my suitcase, and unzipped it.

Dadio watched me cram shirts and pants into a chest of drawers. “You’ll get lotsa studying done in here, Kirby.”

On our way out, my father knocked on the door of the Resident Advisor down the hall. A tall guy wearing a white Izod shirt appeared. He introduced himself as JD Culhane and said he pitched for the Buffaloes.

“Buffaloes?” I asked.

“Our school mascot,” JD said.

Dadio nodded. “What’s your major, JD?”

“English.”

“Wanna teach?”

“No. I’m applying to law school.”

“Kirby, d’you hear that? JD’s going to law school.”

JD looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s very admirable,” my father said, “your parents must be very proud.”

“They’d prefer I pursue medicine. My father’s a surgeon at the Mayo Clinic.”

“I went to Harvard Law myself, JD. Take it from me, law school is the place to go, even if you don’t intend to practice.”

“You went to Harvard?”

“Thanks to good grades and the GI Bill. It wasn’t a cake walk with all that fierce competition and the demanding professors, but I still gutted it out.”

“I’ll keep an eye on Kirby.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Dadio said. “He’s a bit green.”

“How old are you anyway?” JD asked me.

“Seventeen.”

***

Our last meal was at the Chophouse & Tavern. We took a booth and ordered T-bones from a brunette with a “Mandy” nametag. It was hard keeping my eyes off her figure. The bridge of her nose was saddled with freckles, and she wore a blue-and-white stripped blouse over white bellbottoms. She brought our plates, and our steaks were sizzling.

“Any vino?” Mandy asked.

Dadio examined the Wine List. “Are you a skier, Mandy?”

“Yes. It shows?”

“You look very athletic,” my father replied. “Bring me a bottle of your best Chablis.”

“With pleasure,” Mandy said and took off.

“Gee,” Dadio said, “She’s a good-lookin’ gal. If I were in college, I’d really go for her.” He pulled his glasses off and put them beside his wine glass. “Look, Kirby, this is your golden opportunity to meet lotsa girls.”

I cut around the bone in my steak. “Don’t forget Laura.”

“Where’d she go?”

“Lewis & Clark, in Portland.”

“These mainland guys really go for Orientals.”

I stabbed a piece of meat. “I might transfer.”

“Transfer, nothing.” He cut his steak and forked a piece in his mouth. “With mainland girls,” he said while chewing, “no shy stuff. If you like a girl, tell her right off the bat you’re from Hawaii. That’ll set you apart.”

“I’ll say I’m part Hawaiian.”

He put his utensils down on his plate. “I’m not sure what your grandmother told you, but you have almost no Hawaiian blood.”

“You’re an eighth. That makes me a sixteenth.”

“Nobody knows the exact amount. Besides, I wouldn’t go around advertising it.”

“But I’m proud to be local.”

“Then you should be more proud you’re mostly English and Irish.”

Mandy showed up with the wine, stuck an ice bucket on our table, and popped the cork. My father sniffed it and nodded. She filled his glass.

He took a sip. “Nice bouquet.”

“I think so too,” Mandy replied, sinking the bottle into ice. She left us to wait on a table of bearded men wearing jackets with elbow patches.

My father smacked his lips. “Don’t forget to say ‘Hawaii.’ It’ll intrigue ‘em.”

“Is that why Mom liked you?”

“She liked me because I was a good dancer. Another thing to remember is to never ever get serious with the first girl you date. That’d be Troy. He’ll get all excited and marry the first wahine who kissed him. That guy never thinks.”

“Like a chicken with its head cut off,” I blurted.

“That’s right. Not thinking, not using his brain. Men who marry that first girl end up divorced. Play the field, that’s my advice.”

“Did you play the field?”

“Oh, boy,” he chuckled. “Boy, did I.”

After we finished, Mandy stacked our plates. “Dessert?” she asked.

“None for me,” Dadio said, patting his belly. “How ’bout you, Kirbo?”

“I’ll pass, too.”

Mandy split for the kitchen. I watched her reappear, balancing a tray of mugs and pitchers of beer. She put the tray down at a table with upperclassmen and filled the mugs. A guy with a white turtleneck rambled on about how the football team could never beat Nebraska and, when Nebraska beat them again, he’d streak the Lincoln sidelines.

Dadio peeled off the label on the wine bottle. “Dating helps you decide what it is you want in a girl,” he said. “I dated quite a bit in Boston, before I met your mother.”

“She date much?”

“She liked some MIT grad who wanted her to type his thesis for free. Then along came this Fletcher who had to sell his blood to pay for the date. Can you guess what he did during their dinner date?”

“What?”

“That jerk nibbled breadsticks while your mother ate her lobster. He said he was too weak to eat, but I know it was because he didn’t have the money for two meals.”

“He’s a millionaire.”

“Who’s a millionaire?”