Unprotesting

Standing in front of my Composition class is becoming a project. I start out by never laying eyes on Jeffery Rigger. Then a little voice in my head tells me that the class is growing suspicious because I can’t make eye contact with him. Then I wind up staring at him to make them not suspicious. He squirms, I shake my head to snap out of stare mode, and then I forget what I was saying. Someone reminds me. I pick up repeating right before where I left off, and I start not looking at Jeffery again. A vicious cycle of neuroticism.

Right now, I don’t have that problem. Instead, I’m worrying about where Jeffery is. The smoothie-tea-burn-my-tongue-rip-our-clothes-off-in-the-car episode was Monday. I haven’t heard from him since. Not that we need to talk every day; still, I’m worried that my dating other people may have bugged him more than he was willing to let on, and now he’ll never come to class again. Then I started figuring that perhaps telling him I’m seeing other people followed by my sexually attacking him could have sent a very mixed message.

Today everyone is trickling in late because of the campus traffic. The single-lane loop around campus is backed up because a protest has gone awry. A coffin, Lord knows where they got it from, is blocking part of the road, causing cars to maneuver around onto the grass. Tires are getting caught in muddy grass and cars are stalling out because the sprinkler system is still in full swing and the rain and snow have already saturated everything.

Instead of beginning my Wednesday lecture, I act annoyed. I have everyone write about the worst present they’ve ever received and the worst date they’ve ever been on. I find such joy in the misery of others. Sometimes students wax sentimental and write about how their worst date was really a lesson of love or some crap. They don’t understand that I want something to poke fun at and commiserate with. Out of a sense of fairness, I tell them about one of my very bad dates when I’m finished reading theirs aloud anonymously.

I punctuate every student’s entrance with a “You’re late.” When they explain, I say, “I know, the coffin. The traffic. Sit.” When Jeffery comes in, I say, “You’re late.”

He says, “There’s traffic.”

I don’t dare look at him as he hovers over the front table. I don’t want to give away my inner excitement at seeing him and feeling relief. I continue pretend-adding numbers in my grade book and say, “I know, the coffin. The traffic. Sit.” He remains hovering. I finally lift my head from the false calculations. “Yes?”

“Nothing.” He smiles and sits. Damn him. He won. He just wanted me to start off class by looking at him instead of avoiding him. Maybe it’s a good plan. Maybe now I won’t wind up staring at him and losing my train of thought mid-way through class.

He sidles up to a farther seat than usual, takes out his notebook, keeps on his coat, and asks Alicia what the assignment is, although the topics are on the white board (I remembered to bring a working dry erase marker today). Alicia slumps in her chair all by her lonesome. Jim sits down front, talking to Alicia’s roommate Allison. Those three should all just have a ménage and be done with it.

“Should we keep waiting?” I stand and close my grade book. Some heads pop up from writing and others fall into a Pavlovian sleep at the mention of beginning class.

Jim half-raises his hand. “Start.”

Alicia slaps closed her notebook. “We should wait!”

Jim stares back up at Alicia. “What’s with you?”

“What’s with you, dick?” She screeches. Then she grabs her book and coat, tramples on Jeffery Rigger, flies down the mini-steps, and slams out the door.

Jim jumps up to follow her. Allison jumps up to follow him. I move out of the pathway of the lovelorn freshmen. “Cupid pissed in their Krispies this morning,” Malik Lov shouts from the last row of the lecture hall. Everyone laughs including me. He’s always good for a laugh, and I’m constantly urging him to transfer out to bigger and better things.

As I begin to repeat my question, giving them the option to either keep writing or listen to me discuss causation versus correlation, Malik interrupts. “Yo, check this out!” He presses his body against the windows behind his seat. Instead of listening to me, the entire class shuffle-runs up the mini-steps to see out the back. I stand at the bottom of the desk slope, curious and defeated.

They chime in with “no way!” and “holy crap!” Finally, Jeffery turns around and yells, “Professor, you gotta see this!” I’m startled that he turned to say it. I can’t possibly go up there now! Our cover is blown!

Paranoia fades when I notice Malik and all the others beckoning me. Seeing as how no one is going to pay any attention to lecture, I climb to the back of the room, carefully choosing the aisle farthest from Jeffery Rigger.

When I get to the top, I stand on my tip toes and see two students in handcuffs near the time capsule amid cop cars and fire trucks. To the left rests a large pile of dirt, the coffin that had been blocking the road, lots of other students jumping and cheering, and an endless line of cars around the campus loop. I jokingly ask the class. “What’s it all about this time, Alfie?”

No answer. They’re apparently waiting for Alfie to answer. So I rephrase the question: “What’s the protest about today, guys? What’s the deal?”

They continue to stare out the window, fogging it up with breath and oily noses. “Something about how time is sacred and shouldn’t be buried. The exploitation that time capsules encompass.” Larry shrugs. “It’s just an excuse to protest.”

Jeffery chimes in. “Yeah. They always find a reason to make a statement.”

Alicia’s voice rings up from the front of the lecture hall. “Yeah. Most of the time it’s for a good cause. Like the hanger thing. Cause my jacket is way too expensive to be dirty.” She hugs her puffy white jacket that transforms her into human-sized marshmallow. “Today is wack.” Allison and Jim have come back as well. They go to their seats, most likely too wrapped up in their own petty argument to care about the arrest taking place. Jim takes out his cell phone and starts rapidly pressing buttons, no doubt sending a text message to someone.

I climb down from my perch and shuffle-step back down to the front of the room while posing the question, “Well, why are college campuses known for student protests?”

Allison, who has picked up her things and moved back up to where Alicia is sitting, leaving Jim alone in the front, takes a stab at it. “Because young people want to be heard. College is the first time people actually start listening to you.”

I see Alicia sneakily reaching down for her cell phone as her bag vibrates. Probably receiving the message that Jim just sent. I ignore it.

“That’s interesting, Allison. Why?” I sit on the edge of the front table.

Jim pipes up. “Because now we’re young adults.”

Alicia, still reeling from whatever happened between them, and highly annoyed that she can’t reach her cell phone, spits, “Some of you are still little boys.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Hey! Quit it! It was enough that the three of you acted like three year olds by storming out of here. You’re lucky today is a weird day. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting where you are.”

Jim, who doesn’t know when to quit, adds, “Yeah, Alicia! Quit it.”

While his head is still towards the back, I walk right in front of him. “You too, hot shot,” I whisper at him. He jumps, has nowhere to go. I back away, and now risk a quick snicker.

“Oh, yes, she did!” yells Malik. Jacinda, Malik, and Frannie all applaud.

“Back to the protest!” I yell over them, not able to wipe the smirky smile off my face. “Can someone tell me why?”

Jacinda stops cheering to answer. “Because some things are wrong with the world.”

Tim: “Because people want change.”

Frannie: “Because people are bored.”

I stop them. “Then what results do protests bring?”

Lucille shouts out, “They don’t do a damn thing except cause chaos. Look at that mess out there!” She sticks a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the scene outside. “What are they proving by protesting locking up time? That doesn’t even make any sense.”

Thank God one of them gets it. They’re not all nuts.

Malik: “Sometimes people get what they want. They stopped serving meat in the caf for a while.”

Frannie: “Yeah, but then with the new protest, they started again.”

As they talk, I get out my dry erase marker and write it all down on the white board. When they’re finished, I let them in on my trick. “So you’ve all just brainstormed for your cause-effect essay.”

“Oh, man!” Jim throws his pen down. “You mean we have to write about it now?”

“Um, yeah? This is a composition class.” I nod. Then I catch a glance of Jeffery shaking his head at Jim, as if Jeffery knows secrets that Jim never will. I paranoidly look away. The cycle has begun. Thankfully class is over.

“So we’ll continue this next time,” I say loudly over the sound of packing up. Usually, I yell at them for packing up while I’m speaking, but I’m at the point today where I’m happy to have gotten anything done.

They file out with Jim calling after Allison and Alicia to wait up for him. I hear a faint, “You’re such a dick!” fade down the hallway. Jeffery Rigger lags behind as I erase the white board. The ink doesn’t want to come off. “Hey, Professor, thanks for conferencing.”

“Thanks for saving my tongue.” I stop mid-erase. “With the burning tea.” I continue to erase. I suddenly feel self-conscious, as if every part of my body that can jiggle is all a-jiggle as I scrub against the board.

He says, “I wanted to let you know, that, uh, well, I lied about something.” He scratches the back of his head. Rolls the silver ball through his front teeth. I hear the tiny clinking of metal against bone. It’s only the two of us, the clinking, and the wisping sounds of eraser against board.

He stops rolling the tongue ring. My arm drops to my side and the eraser falls. We both lean down to pick it up. I win. I get it first and place it on the ledge of the board. The erasing can wait. “This isn’t going to be some sort of confession of plagiarism, is it? That would be a lot of paperwork for me.” I figure an English professor joke wouldn’t hurt much.

He smirks. I smirk back. “Nah. It’s about when I told you about seeing other people. I, uh,”

Omigod. He’s going to say that he’s married. Wait. He’s only 20. That’s old enough to be married. Hell, some people get married at 14. Yeah, they’re called Quakers. Is he a Quaker?

“I didn’t have a date last week. I just said that because you said that you were seeing someone. It was guy thing. I actually haven’t had a date since the beginning of the semester.”

My teachery attitude kicks in. “Aw, come on. A handsome guy like you can’t get a date?”

He steps back and folds his arms. “I didn’t say that. I said I haven’t had a date. Because,” he unfolds his arms and leans against the lectern, “all I’ve thought about is you.”

I immediately return to erasing the board, jiggling all the way, although I know that it’s as clean as it’s going to get. “Okay. Well, that’s nice.” What do I say to that? Now I feel bad for dating someone else. I’m allowed to, though. I’m a grown woman, for heaven’s sake! I can date more than one person!

Jeffery stands there, shifting weight from one foot to the other. Clinking breaks silence, only this time it’s his thumb ring against the lectern. I stop erasing. I shift weight, too. He reaches out his arms. “Shall we dance?”

The corners of my mouth go up slightly. “How about you walk me to my office? You can carry this.” I load him down with my bag. I take the folder of bad date and bad present stories myself.

He throws the bag over his shoulder, Santa-like. “Sure. And, um, I was kinda upset that you’re seeing someone else.” Now my heart falls, not the way it fell when he had told me he was seeing someone. Now it falls the way it should when someone is too damn sweet. “I don’t mean that you shouldn’t. I mean that I don’t want to know about it and I shouldn’t have asked.” I put my coat on, unsure of how to answer him. “So there!” he says.

“So there.” I repeat. We go to my office, never speaking of my other date. Only discussing how a protest against caging up time is one for the record books.

When he gives me the folders and starts to leave, I call after him, “Thanks for Monday, too!” I shout and wonder if anyone knows that “Thanks for Monday” really means “Thanks for the orgasm” and perhaps I’ll get fired because of it.

Seeing as how no one pokes a head out of any office, I exhale. Jeffery Rigger comes back, all teeth and glitter. “Any time.” He gives me two thumbs up.

Then, because my guilt has subsided, I say, “I owe you one.”

This is the first time I’ve ever seen Jeffery Rigger taken aback. “Wow. Okay. Cool.” That’s all he can say.

“What?” I’m confused. What’s wrong with him?

“What what?” He answers in confusion.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh, uh, no. It’s just that, you know, girls don’t usually say that. Not the ones I know.”

I nod. I’ve known girls like that. I had a roommate once exactly like that. I say, “That’s unfortunate.” We’re still in the hallway and should not be talking like this out here. So I ask, “Want to come into my office?” His entire being goes into complete bafflement. I realize that it sounds as if I want him to come in to give him what I owe him, and that’s so not what I was asking because I, Queen of The Neurotics, would not want to risk that in my office.

Immediately, I make weird arm movements and blurt out, “No, oh, no! Not that. I mean, oh, wow.”

His body exudes relief as he comes closer to me. “Whoa,” he whispers, “you almost gave me a story for the boys back home.”

My arms stop flailing. I whisper back, “I kind of thought I already did.”

He puts his hand to his chin and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Hmm. Good point.” He rolls his eyes back down towards me. “This one? Would have been even better. Especially, for me.”

I take a step back into my office and step down from the Neurotic Throne. Paranoia takes a vacation as do all my inhibitions, fears, any common sense. “Well, I’ve never been one to let a good story go to waste.” I pull him inside after me. We shut the door.

I close all the blinds, leave only my soft desk lamp on, and wheel a chair against the door. “Have a seat, Jeffery.”

“Whatever you say, Professor.”

He sits. I kneel.

We’re even.

The Next Night

I am home at midnight. I have just brushed my teeth. I have climbed into bed. The very manly Steeve dropped me off an hour ago. He brought me a book of poems by David Ignatow. He had inscribed the front page: Dear Marie—I don’t get any of this stuff, but I know you probably will. Hope you dig it. That was sweet. So very very sweet. We ate. We talked. I stared at his ass when he walked in front of me. I watched his plush lips move with every word. I got caught up in mind-fucking him that I sometimes forgot to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth.

However.

I was home in time to watch Seinfeld. I got a quick peck on the lips. None of that cutesie stuff compares to the Jeffery Rigger induced orgasm of yesterday.

How Did He Do That?

“I have no fucking clue what he did, but I KNOW he’s gotta be older than what he says. I mean, I know guys in their forties who couldn’t even come close to doing what he did to me!” This is the first thing I’m doing since I’ve gotten home. Conference calling Sofia and Elena. Telling them about the fingers and the tinglies. They can’t get a word in edgewise. “I mean, I keep going out with Steeve and he doesn’t even try to kiss me. And he’s old. Well, not old, but older than Jeffery Rigger. Jeffery Rigger is so in tune with me now. God, Steeve can’t compare. No one I’ve ever dated can compare to Jeffery Rigger.”

Finally, Sofia finds a moment to cut in as I gasp for air. “So when you have sex with him, you call him Jeffery or do you scream out ‘Oh, Jeffery Rigger!’?”

Elena cackles at her end of the line. “I was gonna say the same thing! Marie, you keep calling him by his first and last name.”

Sofia keeps going. “Plus, now you’ve lifted him up to God-like status just because he gave you an orgasm. I know it’s been a while, still, orgasms don’t make gods. I mean, you can give yourself an orgasm if you wanted to.”

Elena doesn’t let me recommence the babbling. She points out, “You shouldn’t be comparing. Jeffery is a young guy with a high sex drive. Steeve is a man with a plan, hopefully. You’ve always complained that guys only want to get in your pants. Now you’re complaining that Steeve isn’t. You can’t have it both ways.”

I let their comments sink in. I see their points. I know that they won’t understand that it feels different though. So instead of explaining that, I go back to Sofia’s first comment to defend myself. “We didn’t sleep together, Soph. I told you, he didn’t even try to find a hole. He stayed outside the whole time. That’s why I’m so shocked by it all.”

Sophia answers, “Okay, fine. No sex. Yet.”

Elena adds, “That still doesn’t make up for comparing the two. Quite honestly, there shouldn’t be any comparison. Jeffery Rigger is a fling that’s dirty in a good way. Steeve is, you know, regular adult dating material.”

Sophia chimes in, “And you’re an adult, you know. It’s not like we can cruise Frannie Lou anymore to pick up guys in shiny cars.”

“I know. It’s just that, I don’t know. I guess I know nothing, as usual. I don’t even know how it went so far so fast.”

Elena offers some comfort. “Do any of us really know what the hell we’re doing?”

“You do!” I exclaim. “You’re married to Jack, the wonderhusband.”

Sophia agrees with me. “Yeah. So don’t talk about dating woes to us. You’re done.”

Elena answers, “Yes, I’m done with dating. That means my set of problems are completely different and permanent.” She sighs. Twice. Then says, “I truly wouldn’t exchange them for the dating hell that you guys are still putting up with.” She cackles her signature cackle. We both laugh, too. That’s what we do best.

I’m first to recover. “Thanks. Orgasm followed by laughter is quite a rush.”

Sophia yells, “Shut up! I haven’t met with The O Factor in a very long time.” Now she sighs.

I ask, “Big Kenny not putting the moves on you like he used to.”

She answers, “Actually he is. That’s the problem. Most of his moves are a zip code away from where orgasms reside.”

Elena scolds, “Tell him so!”

Sophia sounds beat at this point. “I have told him. I give him directions Every. Single. Time. He can’t remember.”

I chime in, “Tattoo a map on your belly.” I snicker. She laughs. Elena howls. I add, “And your lower back.” More howling.

Elena sobers up and says quite seriously, “I’ll have a chat with him if you want.”

“No, no. It’s okay. We keep pluggin away. He’ll get it right eventually.” Sophia doesn’t sound hopeful.

I interject, “If he doesn’t, David Nellson is right around the corner anyway. I’m sure he’s got the moves.”

Elena continues, “Especially with the size of his package, it would be a pity if he knew nothing.”

Laughs all around. Then Elena needs to get going because she’s working the early shift tomorrow. She hangs up and Sophia lingers on the line.

She says, “You know, Marie. You just need to be careful. If you really start liking Jeffery Rigger, things could get sticky.”

I attempt to answer with another lame, “I know,” but she stops me.

“No, Mar. I’m serious. You know I would never judge you. If you want to have a fling with a guy four years younger who happens to be your student, then by all means. You have every right to every orgasm. Don’t get too caught up in the web. You know?”

I mull it over for a minute and offer a very genuine, “I know.”

“However, it would be a great way to leave NYLISC with a figurative-on-many-levels bang.”

“What?”

“You’re a smart chick. I know how you work. On some subconscious level, I think part of you is doing this to get caught and get fired so you don’t have to take a leap of faith into the unemployment pool.”

“Where is all this coming from?”

“The heart.”

My breath catches in my throat and I make a croaking sound before answering, “I hate that you always know everything.”

“So I’m right and this is self-sabotage?”

“It’s a fling. Can we leave it at that, please?” Now she’s got me thinking that it is self-sabotage. I never thought of it that way. I’ve been thinking that it’s fun, pure fun that I’ve never allowed myself to have before. A quick passionate affair to get me over an ex who needs to go away. I never thought that it would get me out of my job—-a job that I’ve wished would go away as well.

Sophia’s voice breaks in. “Plus, don’t you have a date with Steeve? Maybe he’ll surprise you tomorrow and give you everything Jeffery Rigger gave you. Maybe more.”

“That’s true.” I picture Steeve in my mind for a second—all height, all muscle, all dimples. “He’s so nice.”

I can hear Sophia smile on the other end. She says, “See? You’re liking him already.”

I say, “He’s hot, too.”

Sophia says, “That’s important, too.”

“Yeah. He’s the total package. An older version of a total package.”

Sophia replies, “Older. Sometimes that’s good. You’ve gotta keep an open mind.”

I agree. I envision the upcoming date with Steeve for a split-second, and then ask, “Hey, does getting two orgasms from two different men in two days make me a slut?”

Without a breath, Sophia says, “You betcha, you big whore.”

“Okay, just checking.” And we laugh.

Urgent Correspondence

When I get back to my office, I hang my coat on the back of my door. I grin because I, unlike the protestors, have a home for my coat. There’s a crinkle beneath my boot. I pick up the paper, knowing already that it must be from the Corporal. All my other notes are usually placed in my mailbox next door in the department HQ. I use it as a fan (the temperature in my office is stifling, especially in the winter when I’ve just come from outdoors), and I shake my mouse around to get rid of my screensaver. My email icon is blinking. Cockknocker’s backup. Ugh. Now I really have to read it.

TO: All English Faculty
FROM: Professor Charmegne Clepper, English Department Chair and ESL Expert
RE: Next Semester

The Dean informed me that our scheduling meeting for next semester was premature. We will have to set up another meeting and make changes to the class assignments. This meeting will be Friday at 4:30 PM. Bring a pencil.

This memo is the epitome of reasons to hate Cockknocker.

1. She continuously expands her title. She is no longer just Dept. Chair but English Department Chair, as if we, her own department, would not know which department she was talking about if she didn’t specify. I mean, her title doesn’t even fit on just one line anymore. Come on!

2. She is not an ESL expert. She just teaches all the ESL classes because we don’t want to and she obviously considers herself a martyr and we need to eventually sacrifice our first-borns in the name of English as a Second Language.

3. She is a liar. At that stupid emergency meeting, she told us that the registrar asked us to plan out our schedule early. Now, we did it prematurely. Liar, liar, ugly pants on fire.

4. She just assumes that we’re all free this Friday at 4:30 PM. I have a date with Steeve at 5. That means I’m not going to make it. That means I need to push back my date and go to the stupid meeting that will last four hours or I need to miss the meeting to go on the date and wind up teaching all Reading Is Fundamental and ESL classes next semester. Who knows? If I miss the meeting, Cockknocker will probably make up a new rule that says the classes we get scheduled for at the meeting are the classes we’ll always teach forever, even if we leave NYLISC and continue on to other universities. So I need to go to the meeting and reschedule with Officer Steeve. Strapping, manly Officer Steeve with the dimples.

5. She feels the need to tell us to bring a pencil. We aren’t children, dammit!

I click reply on the email and type in that I’ll be there. With my pencil. I hate her.

I check my home email before grading. I have three emails. I read only the first one. It’s from Jeffery.
HEY PROFESSOR. LOOK, I KNOW THAT WE CAN’T REALLY TALK ON CAMPUS OR GO OUT ALL THAT MUCH TOGETHER BECAUSE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF BEING CAUGHT. BUT I WANTED TO REMIND YOU THAT I DID HAVE FUN WHEN WE WENT OUT AND THAT WE SHOULD GO OUT AGAIN REAL SOON. EVEN IF IT’S JUST FOR COFFEE. OR JUST TO CHAT. WE CAN EVEN BRING MY COMPOSITION ESSAYS AND CALL IT A STUDENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE. AS LONG AS I GET TO KISS THE TEACHER. JUST KIDDING. HUGS, JEFFERY =) The autosig is now from Mitch Hedberg: “WHEN SOMEONE HANDS YOU A FLYER, IT’S LIKE THEY’RE SAYING, HERE YOU THROW THIS AWAY” Same sense of humor as me.

I click reply:

HI JEFFERY. YES, I HAD FUN TOO. WE’LL GRAB COFFEE SOON.

I click send. Was that too curt? Too short? Too impersonal? I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Hell, I do want coffee with the boy. Man. Student. Whatever he is. God, Sophia was right. I have to ride this one out. It feels too exciting to stop.

Before letting the ride take me away, however, I hunker down and grade the rest of my Composition argument essays. It’s all about gun control and terrariums. I’m assuming that means terrorism, as homemade rain forests really have nothing to do with semi-automatic weapons. I sigh. I shake my head. I go at it with a green marking pen. I sometimes get incredibly aggravated when I read so many papers with so many mistakes. Right now, I’m not letting it get to me. I have too much on my plate already to take these mistakes personally.

My work email bings again:

HEY PROFESSOR. ARE YOU ONLINE? ARE YOU ON CAMPUS? DO I SOUND STALKERISH? JUST WANTED TO KNOW IF YOU’RE FREE RIGHT NOW. I COULD MEET YOU FOR AN ACADEMIC CONFERENCE.

At least he’s got brains enough to say “academic conference” on my non-private work email.

* * * * * * * *

“When I got that email, I thought you were just being polite.” Jeffery sips a smoothie from Yogurt and Such, his Comp I essays on his ever-tapping knee. “That’s why I jumped back on your email so quickly.” Yogurt and Such is down the block from campus and is frequented by students, professors, and staff all the same. The essays are our shield. They say, “hey, we’re having a conference” to ward off thoughts of, “hey, they’re having an elicit affair.” Well, that’s what they say in my mind anyway.

I scrunch up in my chair to allow a train of people to pass by. Yogurt and Such is a cramped, yellow-tiled mess of a restaurant, more of a fire hazard than anything else. It has about twelve white wiry metal tables with three metal chairs each. That’s about six tables too many. All the chairs scuff against each other so there’s really no room to hang your coat behind you. Everyone basically wears their coats, and hats too as the tables are too small to hold anything except your arms and maybe a yogurt cup. That all means that everyone basically sweats. Kind of like my office.

“Tell me, Mr. World traveler, why NYLISC?” I’ve been wondering why someone who likes to be academic is in a place that’s not exactly academia.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked you first.” So childish, but it works.

“Late to register. The only place that would accept me.”

“You planning on transferring?” I hope he does so that he can be in a more academic environment. I hope he does so we can go public with our lust.

“Nah, I don’t know. I’m liking it here.” He stares through me. I ignore the attempt to rattle me. “Now you answer.”

“First teaching job. Want to gain some experience. Hard as hell to get another higher ed job without a PhD.”

“So get your PhD.”

“You gonna pay for it and take the language test for me?”

“So don’t get your PhD,” he says through a laugh.

We sip in silence. I still feel bad about the brevity from before so I explain, “I was grading papers when I checked my email. Didn’t mean to be so brief.”

He winks. “No offense taken.”

“No winking.” I jut my chin at him. “Give me one of the papers.”

He offers the top essay, for which he earned a B. “That’s one of my best ones.”

“So I see.” I hold it on my lap as my other hand holds the cup of steaming liquid on top of the table. I’m scared someone will bump into the table hard enough to make it slosh over and burn the crap out of me.

Jeffery peers over at my lap. “So how’s life, Professor?”

“Shh,” I reprimand. “I’m evaluating your work.”

He rolls his eyes, sips his drink. “Thought you could multitask,” he jives at me.

I sip my chai tea. “Okay, I’ll multitask. My life is good. How’s your semester?” I glance down at the essay, balance it on my leg, and turn to the second page. It’s all words running together. They mean nothing to me right now. All I know is that it’s B material and I could care less about it. I look up.

My timing couldn’t be more perfect. Or worse. He licks the dripping smoothie off his straw. I don’t hear his answer because I’m stuck on his tongue. He has a tongue piercing that I’ve never noticed before. I cut him off from whatever he’s saying. “Is that new?”

“What?” He searches his chest, his hand.

“No. That. The tongue ring.”

He rolls the silver ball through his front teeth. “Oh, this. Nah. It’s old. Put it back in for a while. Heard older women secretly dig them.” He smirks.

I shrug a third time. “They’re okay.” Meanwhile, my tinglies won’t stop tingling. I shake off a chill and flip the paper on my leg closed. Hand it back to him with a shaky hand. “Nice job here. No more comments for you.”

He jokes, “You’re like the essay Nazi—no comments for you, come back one year!” A Seinfeld classic. We laugh. He hands over a second paper for which he earned a C-. One of his earlier ones in which he compared and contrasted birth control methods. “How about this one?”

I take it, glance through it much too rapidly to read even one word, and hand it back. “It’s fine.” I glance around because I feel all eyes on me. I get antsy. Maybe it’s the caffeine. Does chai tea even have caffeine? I keep stealing glances, but no one is looking at us. At least, I don’t catch anyone looking at us. Still, I bet they are.

I feel his shoe against my boot. I inch mine closer to me. His leg follows. I cross my foot behind my other one, reaching them both far under my chair. I sip my tea.

He brings his leg back towards him and sips on his drink. “So are we finished with the papers?” He holds up the pile of essays.

I nod, unable to speak. I sip my tea more rapidly to appear too busy drinking to speak, hiding the heaping load of paranoia that has gotten in my way.

In my silent paranoia, my feet have slipped back to their original position. As he shoves his papers into his knapsack, he moves his boot next to my foot once more.

I pretend to ignore him, focusing on my drink some more. You know how when you’re about to pass out, all you hear is a rushing sound, like the ocean? Well, that’s what I hear right now. Through the imaginary eyes in the back of my head, I see a slow-motion silent movie of the elderly college council shaking their heads at me. I’m suddenly very hot and very sweaty. I take a gulp of my tea, forgetting that it’s hot, and proceed to swallow-scream-choke for a full two minutes. The entire fire hazard crowd gawks. Jeffery starts fanning me with two flimsy napkins that don’t create even a small breeze, and then shoves the tongued-straw into my mouth.

“Suck on this, Professor!” He stands in front of me to block me from inquisitive eyes. I continue to choke, not from the tea, from suppressing a gasp at his utterance of “suck on this.”

I can feel the redness in my cheeks as well as the choking subside. His smoothie eases the pain. “Ahhh.” I manage to say. “Better.” When I glance around, all eyes really are on me. So I say, “Nothing to see here!” using magic fingers I learned when I was a cheerleader. Some people laugh. Others simply turn away.

“Sorry.” He sits back down and drags his legs in tight to his chair. “Won’t be trying that again.”

I play dumb. “Trying what?”

“What?” Now he’s not sure if I choked because of the attempt at footsie or because I’m an idiot. I’m not sure which one I’d rather have him believe.

“What what?” Ah, my little tactic of confusion. Roma makes it easy for no man!

He eases in his chair. “Aw, Professor, cut it out.” He taps my knee with his plastic cup, stands up, and says loudly, “Thanks for the conference. Let me walk you to your car. It’s getting dark.”

I stand. I follow him out. I slap the napkins I have into his chest as he zips up against the cold. “A bit over the top, no?”

He tosses the napkins into the garbage right outside the front door. “I kinda thought it was valiant and chivalrous.”

“You could have recycled those.”

“Okay, Al Gore.”

I unlock my car. “Well, Good Knight, good night.”

He holds the driver’s door open. “Drive me to my car? It’s still on campus.” He sways his hips back and forth.
I feign annoyance. “How the hell did you get here?”

“Walked.” He leans on the inside of my door. He raises his eyebrows. The little bugger planned this.

Not one to be won over, I lift my hands from the steering wheel. “Well, walk back.” I move the driver’s seat up closer to the wheel and reach my hand to the door handle.

He pushes his knee against my hand. “Come on, Professor. It’s dark. Cold. You wouldn’t want something bad to happen to me.”

You need to be cuddled. I look back at the now foggy windows of Yogurt and Such. The bodies and the breathing steam up those windows good. No one is paying any attention to us. “Get in,” I jerk my head at the door.

He releases my hand from his knee. As I yank my door shut, he lets out a small, “whoo-hoo.” He skip-runs around the car and slides in next to me. He buckles up, joking, “Safety first!”

As we pull up to Jeffery’s car, he puts his hand on my knee. His car is in the far reaches of the farthest lot near academics. No one is around. Still, I stiffen with his hand on my leg, as I should have stiffened the first time he put his hand on my hand in the bar in the city. I had been drunk then. Now, I’m sober with a burned, numb tongue.

“Thanks for making the time to see me. I know you’re busy and all.” He angles his body towards mine. The seat belt still reaches around his torso, impeding him from coming any closer.

“Oh, Jeffery, it’s a pleasure.” I sound so teachery. I put my hand on his. Then let go. He puts it back.

“I really mean it. I had fun, even if we did talk about barely anything that I would have liked to.”

“That whole being in public thing puts a damper on this, er, situation.” I caress the back of his hand. Make little circles with my fingernails. I spell my name out across his skin, an old habit that I started when I had my first boyfriend. He removes his hand to break free of the seatbelt and then puts it right back to where it was. I scratch. He sighs. I was going to give this up? I was crazy.

Jeffery rubs his hand up my thigh. “Personal question?”

As long as his hand keeps moving where it’s moving, he can ask me anything. “Sure.” I continue caressing.

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

I stop caressing. A dead halt. Officer Steeve to the rescue pops into my head. “Yes.”

Jeffery’s hand does not stop. It keeps creeping up up up. “Okay. I just wanted to know where I stand.”

“Does it bother you?” Nice question, Marie.

“A little. This isn’t anything exclusive. Right? I mean, I had a date last week, too.”

My heart falls into my crotch and I back away from the ever-progressing hand. It’s that Catch-22 where I don’t want to exclusively be with anyone. I also don’t want any of the men I’m seeing to see anyone else. I know I can’t have it both ways. I still can’t help my heart from falling a little.

Jeffery continues with the hand, chasing me as I squirm away. He’s gotten into the habit of chasing me. “I guess I don’t have to ask if it bothers you.”

“Actually,” I put my hand on his to stop his progress temporarily, “I don’t mind. As long as I don’t know about it.” That’s pretty much the truth. “Just let me know if you decide to get serious with someone else. Other than that, it’s all fair game.” With no rules, apparently, as I’m breaking them left and right just to be with him.

He frees his hand from mine and sticks it out for a handshake. “Deal.”

I take it in mine. “Deal.”

He kisses the back of my hand. Then quickly pecks the tip of my nose. “Good night, Professor.” He squeezes my knee and tries to leave me, once again, speechless. He’s not going to get the best of me this time.

I grab his sleeve. The windows begin to fog up as he moves his body back inside. No words. I climb above the guilt factor that has been holding me back from being aggressive. Instead, I give over, finally, to impulse and practically devour him. It’s all lips and fingers. Now I know what Sarah McLachlan meant by “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy.” Is this really happening? It’s not a good thing but it’s oh so good.

Through my coat and scarf and layers of sweaters and jeans, somehow Jeffery finds my tinglies. His hands, thankfully, are warm. I can feel that he’s not trying to get his fingers or his now incredibly hard penis into anything of mine. I’m kind of let down yet kind of endeared more to him.

Speechless, yes. Leaving me, no. Jeffery stays for another forty-eight minutes in the front seat of the car.

Sidenote...

Fifth Student Protest of the Fall

The cry for more meat incited a subtle uprising in student protests that has grown into an all-out battle to be heard. From meat to milkshakes to textbook versions, the student body is disgruntled and loud. They are averaging a protest once every week and a half. The current assembly in front of Sights and Sound Union is right on schedule.

They don’t have placards, which gives the impression that this protest was impromptu, beginning when they determined that they hadn’t gathered in quite a while. Yet, here they are, braving the early frost. Noses red, eyes tearing, bodies huddled for warmth instead of as a sign of unity. Many of them are half-yelling, half-hacking up a lung. A persistent, nasty bug has permeated the campus. Yet the threat of pneumonia is no match for the threat of inequality.

Sometimes protests are defined by props. The hooded crowd waves hangers. Placards take time. Grabbing hangers from closets is quick and convenient. Aha! They want coat racks in the classrooms. The chant starts small. It slowly crescendos into a frenzied, riotous battle cry—-“Hangers for coats in class! Hey, hey! Hangers for coats in class! Hey, hey!”

Most of the classrooms at NYLISC are equipped with rods or a single hook protruding from a wall that’s more of a torture device than something to hang a coat on. The rods have no hangers. Students usually either wear their coats or toss them over the backs of chairs. That wouldn’t be a problem if the chairs were high; these chairs are low to the floor. Dusty, muddy, wet jackets are the result, especially in the wintertime when the caked ice from shoes melts in the heat of the classroom, spreading puddles of dirty water across the floor. All the coats and scarves and gloves become sponges and students are left walking around campus in damp dirty outerwear.

Lead by Officer Steeve, the campus cops set up a perimeter around the crowd of about two hundred. A rather small protest compared to the last protest about lowering the price of textbooks (almost the entire college attended). However, public safety is still on call in case they must save the day from angry hanger wavers. Lucky for them, snow starts falling as the early winter creeps in and knocks out whatever Autumn is left. The crowd quickly disperses leaving bent wire hangers in the muddy, frosted grass. What would Mommy Dearest say?

Jessica Blessing Confesses

Jessica sprawls out across the purple couch in the Coffee Lounge in the basement of Kate and Mary Inconcepcion Commemorative Hall. The yellow stuffing is pouring out of at least ten holes in the matted velour. I’m surprised she agreed to come down here. I have a thing against germy students while Jessica has a thing against germs in general. The basement of KAMICH is rarely a place you’ll find the cleaning crew working up a sweat. Some mysterious mold and brown stains have developed across the grayish ceiling and the beige cinder block walls. The snack machine and soda machine glow dim through a layer of dusty scum, or scummy dust, whichever was there first.

Yet Jessica has let down her germ guard and is basking on the broken-down, no doubt infested with something, couch. She’s twirling her hair around a finger, staring at the water-stained ceiling.
She’s still glowing from her art show a few weeks back and from her sizzling relationship with the non-Frenchman, Pierre-Louis. Art critics flocked to her show, so many that we were crunched up against her pieces, and some people were hanging out the doors. Pierre-Louis was hanging all over Jessica the whole night as well.

Now Jessica is reverting back to relationship therapist, analyzing my crush on Jeffery Rigger. I sink into the green wing back, no stuffing pouring out, a distinct smell of skunk emanates from somewhere behind the chair. My feet swing and scuff against the brown tile. No students are around—it’s 8 A. M. If students are awake, they’re in class. Honestly, they’re probably asleep there, too. After having me detail my obsession with Jeffery Rigger’s jeans that fall just so, she comments, “I had an affair with my professor once.”

I pound on the cushions. “I’m not having an affair! It’s a crush!” She’s going to analyze that as defensive. She’s going to find out that I went out with him and he called it a date. She’s going to know that he pecked me twice. That he said “Goodbye, Professor” at the end of the night and that it was a turn-on more than a reality check.

Jessica doesn’t notice my paranoia. She continues to pour out her own closeted past. “He wasn’t much older than me. I was a junior in his sculpting class. I used to sculpt people in different sexual positions. I would give the women huge breasts,” she holds her hands a foot above her own ample chest, “and the men long, detailed penises.” She crooks up her head and looks over at me. “Is it peni?”

“Penises,” I affirm.

We both snap our heads towards the stairwell before more penis talk. We hear the clacking. I see the hem of a purple power suit. Cockknocker is on her way down. I whisper to Jessica, “She always finds me!” Jessica nods.
Amazingly, Cockknocker is not in search of me. She’s surprised to see me. That’s fun. She never knows how to act when she’s not berating someone.

I say, “Hi, Professor Clepper.”

She says, “Hi, Professor Roma. Professor Blesser.”

Jessica says, “Blessing,” and then whispers, “douchebag.”

Cockknocker says, “Yes. Good.”

I say, “Good. Coffee is good here, too.”

She says, “Yes.” After an awkward pause, she goes to the counter to order her coffee.

Jessica and I kind of just stare at the floor, waiting for the Cockknocker’s departure. We don’t invite her to sit. She wouldn’t expect us to.

Cockknocker holding her hot cup out at us, says, “Good coffee. See you at the next meeting, Professor Roma?”

I say, “yes.”

She says, “Oh, and remember, no more movies, no erotica.” She says it not in a harsh way. She says it in a sad pathetic way.

I say, “Right. Thanks.”

Her click-clacking has barely faded away up the stairs when Jessica bursts out, “She’s such a douche!”

I laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

Jessica half sits up and continues, “Watching her interact with people is like watching theater of the absurd.”

I nod. “I know.”

Then Cockknocker is a distant memory just as quickly as she appeared.

Jessica asks, “Where was I?”

I answer, “You were in love with your professor’s penis and you have big boobs.”

She falls against the couch and says, “Oh right. It lasted for that semester and the next. Then I went home for the summer and found a new lover in my next-door neighbor who I knew forever. He was two years younger than me and his mom hated every minute of it. My professor moved to the mountains with his dog after I stopped returning his phone calls. Probably a coincidence.”

I fall back into my I’m-in-love-with-a-boy-but-no-one-can-know mode and blurt out, “Jeffery has a dog named Cheetah.” Why am I bringing that up? She’s definitely going to catch on.

Jessica plows on. She has a one-track mind. “His dog’s name was Lucille. After B. B. King’s guitar.”

She knows. She totally knows. “The sex was wonderful. The purest of pure fuckfests. You know what I mean.” How would I know? She must be trying to get me to admit something. “Of course that doesn’t compare to the sweet love I make with mon amor, Pierre-Louis. Younger men are wonderful, don’t you agree?” Yup. That’s it. She knows. She’s going to call me a dirty, little . . .

“So, what’s up with this Steve guy? You into him?”

I jump at hearing the name. I offer a distracted “Yes.” She changed the topic. Is this a trap?

“Don’t sound so excited, Marie.” She cocks a brow. “Hmm, maybe that’s the relationship I should analyze. Much juicier than your Teen Beat dead-end crush.”

So maybe she doesn’t know. What if she’s testing me? What am I supposed to say to that? “Steeve has three e’s.” Yes, that’s the convincing route. “I’m still going to go out with him.”

Jessica sits up. “Wow, Roma. Really letting your wild side take over.”

Then I consider Steeve. It’s been a very long time since I’ve smiled like this.
Jessica notices that, too. “Marie! Maybe you are going to get a little wild.”
“Jessica,” I sigh, “the man is so friggin built. He’s like a mack truck. Not like the tires. Like the truck part. Big. Bulky. Manly. Built.”

Jessica sits up and crosses her legs, leaning in towards me. She jibes, “So you like him for his personality obviously.”

I shake my head. I nod. “He’s a great guy, too! I swear! We laughed a lot. He made me forget about Jeffery for a while.” Oh. Shit. She’s so going to know now that I went out with Jeffery Rigger.

Instead, one-track-mind doesn’t catch on. She says, “Well I should hope that an encounter with an actual man on an actual date distracts you from an imagined relationship with a boy.”

“You have a point.” I agree, relieved. “God, what a man he is. He’s just so manly.”

Jessica says, “You know, for an English teacher, you sure have a limited vocabulary.”

“Hush up, Jessica. I’m not limited. There are few words to describe Steeve. Manly pretty much sums him up. Body and mind.”

She points at me as if she’s pointing at what I just said. “Manly is mostly body.”

I flick away her finger and retort, “Not necessarily. You can be manly in mind. He’s a knight. He saved me from the rain. He took me out to dinner. Played a Bogart flick. Rescued, fed, and entertained. That’s a great package.”
She leers at the clock. “On that note, you have a great catch. Now, I guess, we should do what we do best around here. Walk upstairs to my office with me. I need to prep for my 10 o’clock.”

We walk in silence, but my head keeps going. She knows. She has to know. She knows I’m a mess. She just doesn’t know why.

As we head up the steps, she takes out a bottle of hand sanitizer. “Want some?” I stick out my hand and she pours out a dab. “I have Lysol in my office if you want to douse yourself. That basement is a germ pit.” I stop to laugh as she hops up the stairs ahead of me.

~Academic Interlude~

Mark Shefsky
EDUC 208
Education and Society
Prof. Gattlin

Assignment: How does debate in society affect debate in the classroom?

I agree to the statement that people in society that are more an more in the public interactions have become like arguing with spouse of other kinds. I believe that we can prevent conflict’s with the people that we love and to talk it out rather than fight. One of the best thing in our society is that we can express these problems more openly in different ways. Argument prevades in every aspects of their lives in the 2000’s.

The argument in the classroom should be looked at by all sides and in every aspects. Most people might not agree with a statement that about that the argument that people may not agree with others situations but, that is why theres a thing call opinion.

Students know that they can debate about things. They join the debate team instead of the chess club, where they would throw peaces like nites and castles at each other instead of using words to fight. Also, they join cheerleading. That’s loud, like arguing, but it’s not angry like arguing. So these things are good not bad.

Society is violent and that is show in the classroom when students throw desks and pencils. Teachers throw erasers at people when they sleep. That’s funny, but not too.

In conclusion, society and classrooms must work hand and hand to come to an agreement.

Mark—
How have you answered the question? Your first paragraph is non-sensical. Your points are unclear. Your comment about the chess club is irrelevant. Basically, I don’t understand what you are talking about anywhere. Please be clearer next time.
L. Gattlin
Grade: D- You at least hit upon the topic somewhere.