Spring is Mother Nature’s gift for surviving a horrible winter. Late May hasn’t had much rain. After the snow melted, there was only sun and warmth. I’m wearing a new little black dress and silver strappy sandals as I sip champagne in the second floor annex gallery of the Guggenheim in New York City. Tonight marks the opening of Jessica’s month-long exhibit. Her paintings and sculptures unfold the history of her creativity from flowers to old women to Jesus Christ as Superman, cape and all.
She stands amid critics from The New York Times and Time Magazine and Art Today. She grins coyly at one journalist, gently pushes another in the shoulder, and then blinks, reciting her answers slowly. Tall and lean in her gold halter top, brown suede skirt, and pink feathered mules, Jessica is in heaven.
The only piece missing from her outfit is her wedding ring. She and John Baker didn’t work out the first time around back in college. The second time didn’t stick either. Luckily, in hastily getting married in Vegas, they had forgotten a few key elements in the rules of marriage. Like having an official certified Elvis perform the ceremony and not a drunk guy who emits an Elvis aura. Like signing an official marriage certificate. Jessica doesn’t seem to mind being the center of attention all by herself. John Baker is gone as quickly as he arrived, and Jessica hasn’t skipped a beat. Already she’s collected five cards of men who say they’re interested, in her art of course. None of them had wedding bands on.
I’ve gotten a card myself. The museum scene is always a den of singles on the prowl. These men are well-dressed, well-spoken, and kind. They also don’t attend NYLISC, don’t work for NYLISC, and have most likely never heard of NYLISC, always a plus. One guy with a regal air asked me how I knew the artist. I told him about teaching and he told me about how he admires those of us who teach. Another in a crisp royal blue shirt who looked like Matt Farr from the Math Department said he liked my strappy sandals and I joked that I’d be lost without them. We got into a conversation about my height. One other asked if I was a writer; I said “English Professor” and he bet that I have a lot of stories to tell. All very nice men to chat with and flirt with. The one who reminds me of Matt gave me his card. I gave him mine. It may be too late for me and Matt Farr, seeing as how we passed the point of dating and have come into professional friendship; so I can maybe now delve into a hot fling with his clone. For the most part, though, I’m hanging back, out of the spotlight tonight.
Sparkled and spangled, Leah remains on the arm of her date, Bobby. He’s in a blue sport coat to match her blue sparkling, spaghetti strap gown. He graduated two weeks ago and already landed a much-vied-for position as a junior editor for Minder and Minder Publishing. Bobby isn’t here as her boyfriend. He’s here as her date. Talk about taking it slow. They threw their relationship into reverse. With Bobby starting a new job, he can’t put the effort into a serious relationship that he would like to. However, they can’t stay away from each other. So dating it is. Plus, there’s a new dynamic with not having to hide anymore. I wonder what that’s like. So they’re taking things slowly once more. They stand on the outside of Jessica’s circle, sipping champagne and admiring the smaller framed paintings. Leah’s gams have never looked better.
Elena, in a gray, black, and white silk dress, flows in from the elevator with Jack in a tux. Black and white and gorgeous. They are perfection. She sees me off to the side of the action and B-lines with Jack in tow. “How are you, sweetheart? How’s this shindig going?”
Jack grabs two glasses of champagne from a server and gives one to Elena. “Hey, kiddo. You having fun?”
I nod. “I’m taking in all the action. You’ve done a terrific job.”
Elena nods excitedly. “Once the museum people felt assured that I wasn’t going to forever change their lighting concept, they let me have my way. It’s great.”
Jack hugs her. “You know it is. Especially as a debut. Good thing we got those business cards made up. Neiman Marcus can kiss your ass and mine when this night is through.”
Elena, fed up with Margaret Henner at Neiman Marcus, has ventured out on her own, becoming a party planner. Since the accessory party at my place, she received so many compliments that she started to get “ideas.” Her ideas developed into this red, black, and white, canopied, low-lit, high-lighted affair. Jessica commissioned her to throw the best art opening in NYC, and Elena has pulled it off quite nicely.
And who else would do the catering besides Sophia? In a black gown with red stilettos, Sophia is walking around in circles, making sure all the trays are filled with mini-bagelos, escargot on melba squares, and Tuscany buffin bread. Standing to the side of the catering table, signing the occasional autograph and reviving the occasional swooning woman, is David Nellson in Calvin Klein.
Elena ushers me towards the crowd. “Let’s mingle.”
I sip my champagne and remain planted where I stand. “Already did.” I open my purse to reveal the card of the Matt Farr clone. “Now I’m here for the artwork.”
She eyes me, eyes Jack, and then says, “Honey, you can’t not pick up, huh.”
“It’s a gift,” I roll my eyes. “Now if only my pick ups weren’t complete disasters.”
“Sure. Well, you’ll keep working on that tomorrow night. Jester’s Court. Karaoke. Right?”
“From the glamorous life of art galleries to the even more glamorous karaoke bar. Of course I’ll be there,” I snicker. “I plan on not downing a gallon of alcohol this time.” She agrees it’s a good idea and leaves with Jack as I continue to take it all in. The art. The lights. The critics and candy and champagne. I circle the perimeter of the room. So many black dresses, gray hair, silver glasses, and patent-leather shoes.
In the din of the party, I hear the theme to The Muppet Show. I look around to see where it’s coming from. Why would Elena pipe in Muppet music? No one is reaching for a phone. Wait a second. I hold up my bag. It’s my cell that’s going off. What the? I’ve had it programmed to some Bahama tin-drum music. I’m pretty sure Bobby Kline found a way to change the ring tone, and most likely, Leah was involved.
I dig out the phone quickly as to not dredge up too much attention, but it’s too late. One missed call. The phone then beeps at a decibel I didn’t think possible to be heard by human ears. Bobby and Leah are so in for it.
I bump into Sophia. She eyes me. “Taste the food? How is it?”
“Perfect, as usual.”
“What’s with your phone? Who you calling?” She nudges me. “One of the guys I saw you chatting with?”
“No, actually, it was just ringing.”
“So you’re the Great Muppet Caper.”
I shake my head. “Bobby’s doing, I’m pretty sure. Let me listen to the message.”
I press the phone into my ear and plug the other one as I lean against a wall, trying to be discrete. Sophia’s playing with David’s belt and he’s tasting some chocolate dip.
Hey, there, Cinderella, remember me? Probably not. Then again, how many times have you been in a taxi that paid you, huh? Anyway, if you do remember me and if you’re still available and you’re still interested, I’m back in New York. Will be for a while. By the way, my name’s Eddie, I don’t think I ever told you that. If I did, then it’s a reminder. Right? So, call me when you can. It’d be great to hear from you.
I press 9 to save the message.
“You know, Elena’s going to plan the wedding.” Sophia flashes her ring at me, as if I had forgotten she’s engaged. I don’t answer. I’m too stunned. She asks, “Who called? It wasn’t Big Gay Thomas, was it?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Are you okay?”
“More than.”
“Well who the frig was it?”
I drop my phone into my bag and notice that I can’t seem to stop the smile that comes on strong. “Frig isn’t a word, you know.”
“I’m going to kick you if you don’t tell me.”
“It was Cash Cab guy!” I feel it in my tinglies when I say Cash Cab guy.
“Shut. Up.” Sophia grabs my phone.
“Totally was. I can’t believe it.”
David comes up behind Sophia, takes my phone from her, and hands it back to me. “Who’s Cash Cab Guy?”
Sophia reminds him of the game show and he laughs about it. I tell them again, “I can’t believe he called me.”
Sophia says, “I can. You’re hot stuff. A business card and a voicemail. Both with good potential.”
David says, “That sounds about right.”
I’m shaking. I grab a buffin, bite into it, and swallow. “I can’t believe it,” I repeat.
“Call him back now,” Sophia orders. “Invite him out here.”
I think it over. No, tonight is for friends and for Jessica. “No, I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Sophia nods. “Okay, so back to me. Is the buffin good?”
“Hee. Yes. It’s fine. Everything is perfect, like I said.”
“And as I said, you know Elena’s going to plan the wedding.” Again, with the ring.
“That sounds perfect, too.”
David asks, “Did you tell her the other news?”
I grab her arm and whirl her towards me. “Tell me you’re pregnant and I’ll pass out.”
She wiggles free. “No! I’m moving. We found a place with the hugest kitchen you have ever seen!”
I can’t help frowning. “That’s great!” My stomach drops. How could she have not told me first?
“Don’t worry,” she touches my arm, seeing the hesitation in my eyes, “I’m still close to you. About half an hour. You can’t get rid of me.” And then she whispers, “They heard it from David. I was waiting to tell you first.” My stomach relaxes.
“Oh,” I put my hand to my chest and bounce, “now that’s greater than great!”
“Of course, it won’t matter over the summer. Just when we need a moving crew, you up and leave.”
“Why do you need a moving crew? David’s rich. Hire people.”
David snorts, very un-supermodel like, “Rich is relative. Why have others do what you yourself can do?”
Sophia leans towards me, pretending to whisper, “You can take the boy out of the small town, you can’t take the small town work ethic out of the boy.”
“You mean ‘man,’ sweetie.” David puffs up his chest and lays one on Sophia’s lips.
“Yes. Man. How could I forget?” They lock lips for another minute and then Sophia gets distracted by a shortage of mint truffles.
David puts an arm over my shoulders and half-hugs me. “She’s going to miss you this summer. We all are.”
I hug him back. “Jessica won’t. I’ll be with her.”
He clucks his tongue. “Always one to nitpick at the details, aren’t you, Marie? Just accept that everyone loves you!”
I jump. “Okay. I accept it! I’ll miss you guys, too. I’ll be back in plenty of time to help plan the wedding.”
“That is if Elena lets you help. She’s got this party thing down to a science. Wouldn’t mess with her.”
I lean away from him, hand on my hip. “Are you telling me the rough and rugged David Nellson fears the innocent Elena?”
He cracks up. “I fear the whole bunch of you gorgeous, intelligent women!”
I hug his arm. “Good answer!”
A tap on my shoulder. “Hey! Where have you been hiding?” It’s Jessica, not so much taller than I am tonight because of my very high heels.
“I’ve been around.” I throw my arms around her. “Everything looks great! You’ve really made it! You’ve been annexed!”
She pushes me. “I know!” She throws her arms up. “I can finally kiss that NYLISC shit hole goodbye!”
Leah joins up with us. “Just like I did!” Leah found a new job as English Department Chair at a state school on Long Island. I always knew she would go back to English-—it’s in our blood. After the utter insanity that ensued at the end of last semester, most of the full time faculty in every department left. Some had nowhere to go, left as a statement. NYLISC had a very difficult semester, seeing as how no one wanted to work there after a semester with a record number of student protests and administrative insanity.
Jessica and Leah do their happy dance. Bobby, used to this dance, joins in, linking arms and do-see-do-ing along with them. David, not being one to shy away from a good jig, twirls himself around them in circles. I wish I brought my camera. Then again, Elena has cameras set up discreetly throughout the reception room to put together a fancy home movie of the opening. As if the news coverage weren’t enough. Paparazzi are outside waiting for a glimpse of David.
Sophia runs at us from across the room, narrowly escaping a collision with a server, and jumps in with her robot dance without skipping a beat.
I wave around. “Okay. Okay. Enough with the happy dance! No more NYLISC talk. Let’s focus on the near future instead.” I put my arms up and they refuse to stop dancing until I join in. Not wanting to disappoint, I tear off my strappy sandals and do my best early-90s running man, throwing in the cabbage patch for good measure. Old women with pearls and old men with crooked bow ties observe with confusion. Some of the younger crowd bounce and sway, not exactly joining in but totally getting it. The guy who looks like Matt Farr catches my eye and lifts his glass at me with a wink. The art critics seem to enjoy this impromptu modern dance. Finally, we calm down and go back to mingling as if the dance never happened.
Matt Farr’s clone circles around again, catching and maintaining eye contact. He smiles wide and says, “How lucky am I? Here I was thinking that I exchanged numbers with a beautiful woman. Now I come to find that you’re not only beautiful, but talented, too.”
I lean in. “The 90s were a good decade for me.”
His head throws back, mouth wide with laughter. Little lines around his eyes crinkle. He winks. “Call me. Or I’ll call you first.”
I nod. “Either way, we’ll talk.”
He walks away into the crowd. I turn to find Jessica ducking behind David to avoid a random woman seeking out “the artist.” “I don’t want to talk to any more strangers!”
Sophia drags her from behind David. “You need to talk to people. It’s your opening. Leave ignoring people for France when you don’t understand the language.”
My heart flutters at the mention of France. Ah, Paris. In a month’s time, Jessica’s expo will pack up and move into the Georges Pompidou Centre. Her exhibit will replace that of Sophie Calle. Following Sophie Calle means you’ve made it to international acclaim. Jessica Blessing has been blessed.
I jumped at the chance of staying in Paris for three months. Jessica didn’t want to be alone. I charmed myself with delusions of romance of the safe variety. I’ll become an expatriate and live the bohemian lifestyle. I’ve had enough of living the neurotic life. Academia needs a rest. I took this Spring semester off and began working at a bookstore full time. I’ve never loved retail so much. I organized book signings and got books on discount. I taught some writing seminars there, too.
NYLISC offered me the time as a sabbatical. They said I could come back when the dust settled. They needed dedicated instructors to revamp their English Department after the unfortunate demise of Charmagne Clepper, who has dropped off the planet. No arrests were made, no law suits filed. No review boards either, thankfully, considering what I did was completely unethical. Cockknocker simply disappeared and I got a letter in the mail “reassigning duties” to me, if I wanted. I told them I would get back to them once I got back from Paris. They tried to sweeten the pot, said they had a chair position open that they’d like me to fill. A chair position without having a PhD? Unheard of in all of academia. So I caved and said I’d be back in three months as Chair. In three months, I’ll change my mind.
So here I stand, amid good friends, creative friends, intelligent friends, amid strangers and sparkles and warmth. I have the phone number of an eligible man who seems intelligent and nice, and a guy waiting for a call back who is definitely intelligent and nice. Still, I’m putting that on hold for a while. In my nightstand, I have a ticket to Paris. On my nightstand, I have a framed picture of me and the girls. Ahead of me, I have engagement parties, weddings, house warmings. And possibilities, opportunities, choices. But I won’t think about that right now. Right now, I want to stand here under the pink glow, back in my silver strappy sandals, feeling ten feet tall, unstoppable, all by myself, knowing what is mine, and all that could be.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Final Protest Of The Fall Season
My office is littered with boxes, stacks of books, dust bunnies, pens, dry erase markers, shoes that I thought I had lost, and final exams. Jerry keeps shaking his head from side to side, grunting to himself about how it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong and how the Cockknocker shouldn’t get away with this. He moves books from pile to pile, creating the aura of helping me pack up my things. He’s so caught up in his denial that I’ve been “released from duty” (a quote from the official review board letter) that he’s completely unaware of what he’s trying to accomplish.
After Jerry adds a last heavy tome to a stack of paperbacks, causing the books to cascade across the room, Norma has had enough. “Jerry!” She flings a book at his feet. “Stop holding conversations with yourself and pay attention to what you’re doing!”
He hovers over the books on the floor through a wrinkled brow. “I did that?”
“Yes, you did that. Now help me pick it up.”
“Sorry,” Jerry crouches down to join Norma, “I can’t believe that we’re packing you up.”
From behind my last Shakespeare final exam essay, I click my tongue. “Don’t ruminate about it! Just do it!”
Jerry salutes me. “Yes’am. Use some big teachery words, why don’t ya.”
“Sorry. I’m trying to get through this last essay. Did you know that Othello was called a moor because he liked boats?”
Norma sits on the floor. “Really? I thought it was because he was part of the Moorish people who lived on the moors.”
I nod. “So did I. Apparently I missed the part where he becomes a boat and attaches himself to a dock.”
Jerry laughs. “I love relearning literature. Are all the essays that bad?”
I throw the paper on a stack. “No, thank God. This is the only one. Everyone else passed.”
He pauses with a book in hand. “Lowering your standards in your twilight days?” Jerry crosses his arms.
“Nah. They learned lots of stuff. I’m so happy.” I reach over, put an F on the bottom of the paper, and put the exams into their proper folder. “I’m going out with a bang!” I pick up the heavy folder and slam it back down on the desk. “I’ll put these books into boxes instead of helping the two of you make piles.”
The review committee deemed my relationship with Jeffery Rigger unethical. Even though we never had sex. Even though he earned an average grade in my class. Even though they couldn’t prove that I had even a mere acquaintanceship with him, I couldn’t disprove it, and therefore, was found guilty of fraternization in the Nth degree or something of that sort. I received the “released from duty” letter the next day. In my Comp I class, we call that a euphemism for “fired.”
I didn’t fight it. I don’t plan on fighting it. Legal battles could only lead to uncovering the truth, the very raw truth, that I was, indeed, in a relationship that was more than a friendship with a freshman, and even though we weren’t using each other, I was the more vulnerable of the two of us because I was so damn lonely because I hadn’t ever gotten over my manipulative ex-boyfriend, and I was trying to get over him by finding impossible replacements such as younger men and weird campus safety patrol officers. The already married part was an extra, added bonus for my measure of failure. What I did was wrong. I may love teaching; however, I let my emotions get the best of the rest of me. Even if it can’t be proven, I know what happened. I broke Jeffery’s heart, and no job or lack thereof can undo that.
Of course, I’m not being canned for breaking his heart-—I’m being asked to leave because I may have an overly friendly rapport with my students that could be construed as fraternization, even if it’s not, and NYLISC doesn’t need that kind of publicity. In any way, losing something is necessary penance.
As Jerry, Norma, and I push several large boxes outside the door, Leah comes flying out of the elevator. “You need to come outside,” she yells, sliding in her wet boots two feet past the doorway.
I grab her arm to stop her from toppling over. “It’s ten degrees out and snowy. No one needs to come outside.”
She stomps her feet on the floor. “No. You need to.” She tugs me towards the elevator, squeaking on the tile floor. Her nose is bright pink and her eyes are tearing.
Norma steps between us. “Leah, what’s going on?”
“You all have to come outside to see.” She’s flushed still. “You’re going to love it.”
We walk in a cloud of white vapor, our breath visible in the frigid air. I shiver in my wool coat. This has been one of the worst winters ever. Piles of snow everywhere, almost as tall as I am. Ice and salt that’s supposed to melt the ice covers all the pathways on campus. Sand strewn around as well. The concrete is slushy, and through this we trudge, following Leah. A din becomes louder as we approach the quad. Leah refuses to tell us what’s going on. All she says is that we’ll meet up with the rest of the English Department soon enough, as well as her department, and Jessica’s department, and everyone else we know, and a lot of people we don’t know. As if that explains things.
They have come in droves with big white placards and dark purple and green markers. A large portion of the student body, most of the staff, and much of the faculty has congregated on the front lawn of Sights and Sound Union with bullhorns, whistles, and bitterness. I recognize some of my students from this semester, and from semesters past. Friends of my students. Students I have never seen before. Hanging between the two pillars that mark the burial sight of the time capsule is a banner that reads: “Love Has No Boundaries!”
Students are chanting and sing-songing. They wave signs that say: Keep Our Good Teachers; Equal Treatment For Equal Love; Ethics My Ass
Even staff and faculty are carrying these signs and keeping up with the chanting. There’s so much noise that I can’t understand what they’re saying. My head spins, slowly at first, and then at warp speed. Under hats and coats and behind white vapors of breath, I recognize my Comp I class, my Women and Lit class, my Shakespeare class (even the student who confuses people with boats is here). Coming up to me are my partners in Convocation crime: Matt Farr, Roger Gregan, and Larry More surround me.
Matt tugs his scarf down so his mouth is visible. “It’s about time you showed up.”
“What is all this?!”
“We heard a little rumor that the review board wants to get rid of you.”
Larry steps up behind Matt. “And another rumor that Corporal was caught not once, not twice, but four times in several trysts with several students over the course of two semesters in the not so distance past.”
Matt continues, “And since she can exploit her concubines—all of whom received grade changes from F’s to A’s mind you. . .”
Larry finishes, “Then perhaps you haven’t had a fair shake at this teaching thing either.”
This? Is too much to comprehend. “What are you talking about? Cocknocker having affairs with students? Who the hell would want to do that?” With all the commotion emerging around me, the only thing that shocks me is the thought of Cocknocker getting down and dirty with no clothes on with the likes of the student population.
Roger fills in the fuzzy parts. “They were night students. Returning to college. All over forty. Which doesn’t mean that the offer is any more attractive, but it does explain it a little bit more.”
“But how do you know…” I start, but Roger interrupts again.
“When they were pulling security footage for that wacked out guard”—a knot forms in my stomach and my face flushes at the thought of, well, ick—“they saw some very interesting reels of rendezvous featuring our devout, by-the-book, sociopath of a academician, and apparently this is not the first time they found such footage.”
Now, it hits me. “So why the fuck am I being canned for the exact same thing? And by her no less!” I don’t know why I’m fuming. Being let go from this hell hole is probably the greatest thing that has happened to me in a very long time.
Jerry puts a hand on my shoulder. “I think that’s what this whole protest is about.”
As if on cue, some student climbs up on a piece of the time capsule and shouts into a bullhorn. “Who among us is in charge of love?”
“No one!” the crowd shouts.
“What kind of hypocritical society do we live in where a teacher gets fired for doing what’s human while the rat who fires her is doing the exact same thing?”
A chorus of boos erupts.
“Are we going to let these hypocrites set boundaries on love?”
The crowd starts chanting No, No, No, No and clapping at the same time, a staccato, a rhythm of protest. Impressive. I love them.
Out of nowhere, Jessica is behind me, pushing me through the crowd. “You should say something.”
I move out of her path and stop pushing forward. “Where did you come from?”
“You think I’d miss a pep rally about making it with a professor? Have you forgotten I’m the queen of professor love?”
“Guess not.”
I glance around. Chattering teeth with red cheeks. Gloves clapping. Bobby standing next to Leah, giving me a thumbs up. I weave my way forward. I try not to, but I search for Jeffery. Nowhere. I shake my head to forget him and focus on everyone else. So many cheering me on as I step onto the time capsule and take the bullhorn.
“Wow, I can’t believe this.” I feel like Crazy Joe Clark from Lean on Me. “Most of you should probably be studying for finals while the rest of you should be administering your finals, so.” I don’t attempt the rest of the sentence (you should all go back to class) because their boos drown me out.
Another chant erupts: “Love rules! Love rules! Love rules!” I don’t know if they’re saying that love should be in charge of controlling us or if love should have a set of rules. I’m thinking it’s the former. I’m also thinking I’m the only one here thinking about the irony of the latter.
My head spins. A strict, straight, purposeful strut comes down the path to my right. Even in a coat and through slush and ice, the Corporal continues her angry stride. Within a minute, she’s beside me, yanking at my hand.
“Marie Roma, this is unacceptable!” she screams at me with wild eyes behind fogged glasses. As she tilts her head up to me, her hat falls off and gets lost in the sea of boots and snow.
“Are you kidding me?” This is just as much about you and your secret however disgusting antics caught on video!” I scream back.
“You’re not supposed to be on campus. I’ll get security!” She tugs harder on my arm. I heave away harder.
“Go ahead! Maybe they’ll pull more footage of you with some goats or something!”
The crowd isn’t chanting anymore. They’re watching this stand-off.
Unfazed by the fact that I have accused her of beastiality, she repeats, “I’ll! Get! Securityyyyyyyyy!” waving her arms around her head like a madwoman. Really? Four students submitted to her romantic passes? I’d rather take an F, and I’m not one who ever failed anything.
I stand my ground, returning to a calmer voice to piss her off more. “The semester hasn’t ended yet. I’m allowed to be here.”
She grabs onto my arm and pulls herself up. She tries to grab the bullhorn. No one will let her have it. Seeing that all she has is lung power, Cockknocker inhales a gust of cold air and screams, “You can’t change it! Go home! Go home!” She pounds her feet.
The students, not appreciating this interruption, chant, “No! No! No!” and boo her. She screams at me, “Make them go home.”
“They don’t want to.”
“Make them want to, you insubordinate child-molester!”
She did not just say that, did she? She’s really cracking up. Jessica, Leah, and my department have made it up to the time capsule in time to hear this completely idiotic accusation. At once, they jump to my defense before I can get a word out. “What did you call her?” “You’re a maniacal cunt!” “Bitch!” Larry from my Comp I class is behind them, calling her a whore.
I grab the bullhorn and scream into it, “Stop!” Some people stop pushing. I see security moving in to break up the pockets of rowdiness. I see police lights.
In this mayhem, Cockknocker appears next to me. “You’ll never win this!” she screams.
I step back and steady myself against the pillar. “You’re crazy. And you wear ugly shoes.” I don’t scream it. I say it.
Then she does what I’ve been praying for her to do since I was hired. She cocks her arm back and lands a weak blow on my right shoulder. That’s good enough offense for me, seeing that I could fall and injure myself. So, in self-defense, I curl my fingers, inhale, and rip one square into her nose, my arm curving across my body, and my torso falling over at the waist with some excellent follow through. Cockknocker falls backwards, being caught by Jerry who has been standing below, waiting for me to literally push her over the edge.
He calls to me, “Saw the whole thing. She threw first. Nice control.”
Had she been on solid ground, the weak punch would not have caused any type of reaction. This is the saddest excuse for a fight in the history of fighting. In fact, if all violence were like this, we could all advocate for it.
With cruisers moving in and the NYLISC community dispersing, I heave a sigh of complete relief and feel my shoulders and neck finally relax in a way they haven’t for five years. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar walk heading in the opposite direction. In my head, I hear his voice say, “Nice job, professor.”
After Jerry adds a last heavy tome to a stack of paperbacks, causing the books to cascade across the room, Norma has had enough. “Jerry!” She flings a book at his feet. “Stop holding conversations with yourself and pay attention to what you’re doing!”
He hovers over the books on the floor through a wrinkled brow. “I did that?”
“Yes, you did that. Now help me pick it up.”
“Sorry,” Jerry crouches down to join Norma, “I can’t believe that we’re packing you up.”
From behind my last Shakespeare final exam essay, I click my tongue. “Don’t ruminate about it! Just do it!”
Jerry salutes me. “Yes’am. Use some big teachery words, why don’t ya.”
“Sorry. I’m trying to get through this last essay. Did you know that Othello was called a moor because he liked boats?”
Norma sits on the floor. “Really? I thought it was because he was part of the Moorish people who lived on the moors.”
I nod. “So did I. Apparently I missed the part where he becomes a boat and attaches himself to a dock.”
Jerry laughs. “I love relearning literature. Are all the essays that bad?”
I throw the paper on a stack. “No, thank God. This is the only one. Everyone else passed.”
He pauses with a book in hand. “Lowering your standards in your twilight days?” Jerry crosses his arms.
“Nah. They learned lots of stuff. I’m so happy.” I reach over, put an F on the bottom of the paper, and put the exams into their proper folder. “I’m going out with a bang!” I pick up the heavy folder and slam it back down on the desk. “I’ll put these books into boxes instead of helping the two of you make piles.”
The review committee deemed my relationship with Jeffery Rigger unethical. Even though we never had sex. Even though he earned an average grade in my class. Even though they couldn’t prove that I had even a mere acquaintanceship with him, I couldn’t disprove it, and therefore, was found guilty of fraternization in the Nth degree or something of that sort. I received the “released from duty” letter the next day. In my Comp I class, we call that a euphemism for “fired.”
I didn’t fight it. I don’t plan on fighting it. Legal battles could only lead to uncovering the truth, the very raw truth, that I was, indeed, in a relationship that was more than a friendship with a freshman, and even though we weren’t using each other, I was the more vulnerable of the two of us because I was so damn lonely because I hadn’t ever gotten over my manipulative ex-boyfriend, and I was trying to get over him by finding impossible replacements such as younger men and weird campus safety patrol officers. The already married part was an extra, added bonus for my measure of failure. What I did was wrong. I may love teaching; however, I let my emotions get the best of the rest of me. Even if it can’t be proven, I know what happened. I broke Jeffery’s heart, and no job or lack thereof can undo that.
Of course, I’m not being canned for breaking his heart-—I’m being asked to leave because I may have an overly friendly rapport with my students that could be construed as fraternization, even if it’s not, and NYLISC doesn’t need that kind of publicity. In any way, losing something is necessary penance.
As Jerry, Norma, and I push several large boxes outside the door, Leah comes flying out of the elevator. “You need to come outside,” she yells, sliding in her wet boots two feet past the doorway.
I grab her arm to stop her from toppling over. “It’s ten degrees out and snowy. No one needs to come outside.”
She stomps her feet on the floor. “No. You need to.” She tugs me towards the elevator, squeaking on the tile floor. Her nose is bright pink and her eyes are tearing.
Norma steps between us. “Leah, what’s going on?”
“You all have to come outside to see.” She’s flushed still. “You’re going to love it.”
We walk in a cloud of white vapor, our breath visible in the frigid air. I shiver in my wool coat. This has been one of the worst winters ever. Piles of snow everywhere, almost as tall as I am. Ice and salt that’s supposed to melt the ice covers all the pathways on campus. Sand strewn around as well. The concrete is slushy, and through this we trudge, following Leah. A din becomes louder as we approach the quad. Leah refuses to tell us what’s going on. All she says is that we’ll meet up with the rest of the English Department soon enough, as well as her department, and Jessica’s department, and everyone else we know, and a lot of people we don’t know. As if that explains things.
They have come in droves with big white placards and dark purple and green markers. A large portion of the student body, most of the staff, and much of the faculty has congregated on the front lawn of Sights and Sound Union with bullhorns, whistles, and bitterness. I recognize some of my students from this semester, and from semesters past. Friends of my students. Students I have never seen before. Hanging between the two pillars that mark the burial sight of the time capsule is a banner that reads: “Love Has No Boundaries!”
Students are chanting and sing-songing. They wave signs that say: Keep Our Good Teachers; Equal Treatment For Equal Love; Ethics My Ass
Even staff and faculty are carrying these signs and keeping up with the chanting. There’s so much noise that I can’t understand what they’re saying. My head spins, slowly at first, and then at warp speed. Under hats and coats and behind white vapors of breath, I recognize my Comp I class, my Women and Lit class, my Shakespeare class (even the student who confuses people with boats is here). Coming up to me are my partners in Convocation crime: Matt Farr, Roger Gregan, and Larry More surround me.
Matt tugs his scarf down so his mouth is visible. “It’s about time you showed up.”
“What is all this?!”
“We heard a little rumor that the review board wants to get rid of you.”
Larry steps up behind Matt. “And another rumor that Corporal was caught not once, not twice, but four times in several trysts with several students over the course of two semesters in the not so distance past.”
Matt continues, “And since she can exploit her concubines—all of whom received grade changes from F’s to A’s mind you. . .”
Larry finishes, “Then perhaps you haven’t had a fair shake at this teaching thing either.”
This? Is too much to comprehend. “What are you talking about? Cocknocker having affairs with students? Who the hell would want to do that?” With all the commotion emerging around me, the only thing that shocks me is the thought of Cocknocker getting down and dirty with no clothes on with the likes of the student population.
Roger fills in the fuzzy parts. “They were night students. Returning to college. All over forty. Which doesn’t mean that the offer is any more attractive, but it does explain it a little bit more.”
“But how do you know…” I start, but Roger interrupts again.
“When they were pulling security footage for that wacked out guard”—a knot forms in my stomach and my face flushes at the thought of, well, ick—“they saw some very interesting reels of rendezvous featuring our devout, by-the-book, sociopath of a academician, and apparently this is not the first time they found such footage.”
Now, it hits me. “So why the fuck am I being canned for the exact same thing? And by her no less!” I don’t know why I’m fuming. Being let go from this hell hole is probably the greatest thing that has happened to me in a very long time.
Jerry puts a hand on my shoulder. “I think that’s what this whole protest is about.”
As if on cue, some student climbs up on a piece of the time capsule and shouts into a bullhorn. “Who among us is in charge of love?”
“No one!” the crowd shouts.
“What kind of hypocritical society do we live in where a teacher gets fired for doing what’s human while the rat who fires her is doing the exact same thing?”
A chorus of boos erupts.
“Are we going to let these hypocrites set boundaries on love?”
The crowd starts chanting No, No, No, No and clapping at the same time, a staccato, a rhythm of protest. Impressive. I love them.
Out of nowhere, Jessica is behind me, pushing me through the crowd. “You should say something.”
I move out of her path and stop pushing forward. “Where did you come from?”
“You think I’d miss a pep rally about making it with a professor? Have you forgotten I’m the queen of professor love?”
“Guess not.”
I glance around. Chattering teeth with red cheeks. Gloves clapping. Bobby standing next to Leah, giving me a thumbs up. I weave my way forward. I try not to, but I search for Jeffery. Nowhere. I shake my head to forget him and focus on everyone else. So many cheering me on as I step onto the time capsule and take the bullhorn.
“Wow, I can’t believe this.” I feel like Crazy Joe Clark from Lean on Me. “Most of you should probably be studying for finals while the rest of you should be administering your finals, so.” I don’t attempt the rest of the sentence (you should all go back to class) because their boos drown me out.
Another chant erupts: “Love rules! Love rules! Love rules!” I don’t know if they’re saying that love should be in charge of controlling us or if love should have a set of rules. I’m thinking it’s the former. I’m also thinking I’m the only one here thinking about the irony of the latter.
My head spins. A strict, straight, purposeful strut comes down the path to my right. Even in a coat and through slush and ice, the Corporal continues her angry stride. Within a minute, she’s beside me, yanking at my hand.
“Marie Roma, this is unacceptable!” she screams at me with wild eyes behind fogged glasses. As she tilts her head up to me, her hat falls off and gets lost in the sea of boots and snow.
“Are you kidding me?” This is just as much about you and your secret however disgusting antics caught on video!” I scream back.
“You’re not supposed to be on campus. I’ll get security!” She tugs harder on my arm. I heave away harder.
“Go ahead! Maybe they’ll pull more footage of you with some goats or something!”
The crowd isn’t chanting anymore. They’re watching this stand-off.
Unfazed by the fact that I have accused her of beastiality, she repeats, “I’ll! Get! Securityyyyyyyyy!” waving her arms around her head like a madwoman. Really? Four students submitted to her romantic passes? I’d rather take an F, and I’m not one who ever failed anything.
I stand my ground, returning to a calmer voice to piss her off more. “The semester hasn’t ended yet. I’m allowed to be here.”
She grabs onto my arm and pulls herself up. She tries to grab the bullhorn. No one will let her have it. Seeing that all she has is lung power, Cockknocker inhales a gust of cold air and screams, “You can’t change it! Go home! Go home!” She pounds her feet.
The students, not appreciating this interruption, chant, “No! No! No!” and boo her. She screams at me, “Make them go home.”
“They don’t want to.”
“Make them want to, you insubordinate child-molester!”
She did not just say that, did she? She’s really cracking up. Jessica, Leah, and my department have made it up to the time capsule in time to hear this completely idiotic accusation. At once, they jump to my defense before I can get a word out. “What did you call her?” “You’re a maniacal cunt!” “Bitch!” Larry from my Comp I class is behind them, calling her a whore.
I grab the bullhorn and scream into it, “Stop!” Some people stop pushing. I see security moving in to break up the pockets of rowdiness. I see police lights.
In this mayhem, Cockknocker appears next to me. “You’ll never win this!” she screams.
I step back and steady myself against the pillar. “You’re crazy. And you wear ugly shoes.” I don’t scream it. I say it.
Then she does what I’ve been praying for her to do since I was hired. She cocks her arm back and lands a weak blow on my right shoulder. That’s good enough offense for me, seeing that I could fall and injure myself. So, in self-defense, I curl my fingers, inhale, and rip one square into her nose, my arm curving across my body, and my torso falling over at the waist with some excellent follow through. Cockknocker falls backwards, being caught by Jerry who has been standing below, waiting for me to literally push her over the edge.
He calls to me, “Saw the whole thing. She threw first. Nice control.”
Had she been on solid ground, the weak punch would not have caused any type of reaction. This is the saddest excuse for a fight in the history of fighting. In fact, if all violence were like this, we could all advocate for it.
With cruisers moving in and the NYLISC community dispersing, I heave a sigh of complete relief and feel my shoulders and neck finally relax in a way they haven’t for five years. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar walk heading in the opposite direction. In my head, I hear his voice say, “Nice job, professor.”
Thursday, August 19, 2010
What The Hell Am I Doing, Part II
3:21. None of this is mine. It never will be mine. I had been home—that’s where all of mine is. I remember that much. Sophia and David and Jack and Elena fought over who was closer to my apartment to take me home. I don’t remember who won. I know I got there. I got into the liquor cabinet. I sang to myself because I had no karaoke machine anymore. Although, I believe I tried to take it home from Jester’s Court. We left before they threw me out. They peeled my fingers from the monitor as I followed the bouncing ball by nodding my head and squatting along.
He must have called when I was at my most incoherent. He was probably worried about me. He used the key that he never gave back. He brought me here. He comforted me, I suppose. I don’t remember that part. I remember him rubbing my back as I hurled into his tiny garbage pail. I remember he kissed my forehead. Oh, Holy Lord, please tell me we didn’t kiss any part of each other after that. Funny how I always get religious in these situations.
The girls are going to kill me if I slept with him. Hell, they’re going to kill me for being here in the first place. It’s not my fault, though. He took me. Kidnapped me. Plus, I’m always helpless when it comes to him.
The clock says 3:30. Sixteen minutes and he’s still sleeping. I have to know the details. It can’t wait until morning. “Thomas?” I whisper into the back of his head. I smell my stale, cotton-mouth breath as it bounces off his scalp and cringe. That’s nasty. I roll myself to the night table, open the drawer, and find, as I suspected, the tin of mints he kept there for me. I pop one into my mouth and savor the mint as it takes hold.
Minty-refreshed, I try once more. “Thomas?” I say, still low enough to constitute a whisper, mighty close to being regular conversation volume. He snores in response. I poke him with my fingers and say in conversation tone, “Thomas.” He grunts. This isn’t working. I know what will work, though.
I fling my arm across the alarm clock. I hit the sleep button square and the Notorius BIG blares out of the radio. Thomas jumps to life. “What? Huh? Oh, honey, you hit the radio!” I had a habit of accidentally hitting the radio on the sleep button, which makes the radio play for about an hour once hit and lets you drift off to sleep without worrying about turning it off, when we had been going out. He never saw that I always did it on purpose to wake him up because I couldn’t sleep and was lonely. Now, it’s not merely that I can’t sleep. I need answers. And maybe, I’m still a little lonely.
He leans over me and yanks the plug out of the wall. We never could shut the radio after sleep was hit. We would wait out the hour talking, kissing. Thomas passes me my glasses and flicks on the lamp on his night stand.
“I’m wide awake now. You might as well be too.” He crosses his arms. He’s bulked up. More muscle than ever. His eyes gleam in the low light.
I sit up. I put on my glasses. They feel weird. I take them off. These are my old glasses. “Where did these come from?”
He nudges me to put them back on. He’s always liked me in my glasses even though I hate it. “They’re the spare pair you left here. You had your contacts in. I made you take them out before you started puking. Otherwise, your eyes would have been dry and they would have stuck and, you know the rest.” He bites his lower lip, satisfied.
He’s right. “So, Sir Thomas. Let me have it. What kind of fool am I?”
He leans back for a second. “Fool? You’re not a fool. Just upset. You had some stories in you.”
Oh, no. What did I say? “What kind of stories?”
He blinks away a yawn. “We woke up just in time. 3:30 is always time for Explaining the Funny Drunk Stories.”
I hit him in the shoulder. “Quit it. Just tell me.”
“Okay.” He scratches his chest. He’s doing that simply to call attention to his chest. I will not submit to his lead. He stops scratching. “True or false: you were dating a guy who had a wife.”
My hand goes over my eyes. “Unfortunately, true. I didn’t know it at the time.”
He pats me on the back. “Way to go, Marie. Nice choice in men.”
I snap, “I’ve never been good at choosing men.”
He inhales deeply. “Thanks.”
I tilt my head to one side. “Welcome.”
He cracks his neck. “True or false: you were dating a guy who turned out to be gay and works at a jazz club.”
I point at him. “False. That was a waiter we had there.”
He jumps on my answer. “Who’s we?”
I simply say, “Me and a date.”
He scratches his chin. “Which brings me to, True or false: you dated a student.”
Hand over eyes. “True.”
He sits up straight and gasps dramatically. “You of all people, Sweet Marie. Sweet, innocent, always walk the straight line Marie. Caught up in a love affair with a teenager.”
I remove my hand from over my eyes. “He treated me better than I’ve ever been treated.”
“Thanks, again.”
“You’re welcome, again.”
“True or false: you broke his heart.”
“True and false. He broke mine, too.”
Thomas shakes his head and makes a tsking sound. “You make them fall in love and then you push them out harder.”
I make the same tsking sound at Thomas. “Shut up. It’s all your fault, anyway.”
His eyes get wide. “My fault? How?”
I sit up tall, feeling the adrenaline kicking in. This is the moment I’ve wanted forever. “Because you fucked me up royally. That whole insanity in an instant crap that you pulled.” I make direct eye contact. “What the hell happened to you anyway?”
He shrugs. “Honestly, I have no idea. Part of it was fear that you were too good for me and to me and you would eventually get bored and leave me, so I wanted to do it first. Part of it was fear that it was all wrong and I wouldn’t know if it was going to be right until I tried other things.”
I slump a little. “Cop out.”
He stares straight ahead. “Whatever.”
“As long as we’re reminiscing,” I slink down on my side, and rest my head on my crooked arm, “what were you looking for in the bookstore that night? As I recall, you never bought anything.”
He scratches his chest. “You bought the complete works of Ginsberg.”
He obviously wants points for remembering. No dice this time. I say, “That’s not what I asked.”
He stops scratching. “Okay. Fine. I had gone in because I saw you. That was the first time in like my entire adult life that I had been in a bookstore. The last time as far as right now, too.”
“So you are illiterate.” I sit back up, satisfied that I’m finally catching on to the ruse.
He’s offended. “I’m not illiterate. I just don’t read for fun. I don’t like this game.”
“Fine. We’ll go back to your game. True or false: we had sex tonight.”
“Jesus!” He hits me with his pillow. “False, false, false! Although you were very enticing with your slurred words, stringy hair, and liquor breath, I held my libido at bay.”
I hide behind my hand. “I’m so embarrassed. It must have been really bad.”
He leans over and puts his lips to my neck. “Beyond really bad.”
I slink away. “What are you doing?”
He leans in further. “Kissing your neck.”
I scooch away some more. “Why?”
He gleams. “Because now you’re sober and minty.” He puckers up.
I sit up on my knees. “Um, hello? No.”
He jerks back. “Why not?”
I bounce on the bed, not being able to control my arm movements. “Because we’re not together and never will be. We’re not even friends anymore.”
He says, “You’ve had a hard night and I can make it better.” He leans in towards my neck.
This time, I hit him with the pillow. “Cut it out, perv.”
“So that’s it. Use me and give me nothing back.”
I hit him again with the pillow. “It’s not as if I asked for this.”
He grabs the pillow away from me. “No, but when I called you, you picked up. You never do that.”
I sit down on my butt, my feet towards his head. “Now there’s a sign that I don’t want to talk to you.”
He leans back. “You have a point there.”
Suddenly, I notice that my tinglies are nowhere to be found. Even in my post-drunken state, when my hormones are not yet at normal level, I feel nothing. He kissed my neck, that special spot that only boyfriends know about, and I felt nothing. Now, the real test. “So, you got a girlfriend?”
He crosses his arms. “I got two.”
I scan the room for photographs, thongs, any remnants of them. “Where are they tonight?”
“One is working. I ditched the other one when I got in touch with you.”
I still feel nothing. Except for maybe compassion. Some sort of urge to roll my eyes. Boredom perhaps. My tinglies are in hiding and my stomach is fine, even despite the liquor. I’m fine.
The clock says 4:25. I yawn. “I’m tired.”
He takes a deep breath. “If I take you home, you won’t ever be here again, will you?”
“Probably not.”
He shakes his head. He scratches the back of his head. “Then sleep here. I’ll take you home in the morning.” His eyes sink. “Please.”
“Okay.” I tuck myself beneath the sheets and spin away from him. I place the glasses on the nightstand.
“Hey, Marie. You really mean it when you say we’re not friends?” His voice is small and hopeful.
I smirk into my pillow. “Oh, Thomas. We seem to be the kind of friends that speak only when we bump into each other in alcohol induced situations.”
He moves around and adjusts himself in the bed. “I’ll take that much.” He lies back onto his pillow. Then he pops his head up and leans over me a last time. “Don’t ever call yourself a fool. It’s me who was and always will be.”
I start to conk out, a grin dancing on my lips. He finally admits to what I have known all along. I fade in and out of sleep, waiting for daybreak. Now I know what the hell I’m doing for the first time in a long time. It took not having anything of my own to figure it out.
He must have called when I was at my most incoherent. He was probably worried about me. He used the key that he never gave back. He brought me here. He comforted me, I suppose. I don’t remember that part. I remember him rubbing my back as I hurled into his tiny garbage pail. I remember he kissed my forehead. Oh, Holy Lord, please tell me we didn’t kiss any part of each other after that. Funny how I always get religious in these situations.
The girls are going to kill me if I slept with him. Hell, they’re going to kill me for being here in the first place. It’s not my fault, though. He took me. Kidnapped me. Plus, I’m always helpless when it comes to him.
The clock says 3:30. Sixteen minutes and he’s still sleeping. I have to know the details. It can’t wait until morning. “Thomas?” I whisper into the back of his head. I smell my stale, cotton-mouth breath as it bounces off his scalp and cringe. That’s nasty. I roll myself to the night table, open the drawer, and find, as I suspected, the tin of mints he kept there for me. I pop one into my mouth and savor the mint as it takes hold.
Minty-refreshed, I try once more. “Thomas?” I say, still low enough to constitute a whisper, mighty close to being regular conversation volume. He snores in response. I poke him with my fingers and say in conversation tone, “Thomas.” He grunts. This isn’t working. I know what will work, though.
I fling my arm across the alarm clock. I hit the sleep button square and the Notorius BIG blares out of the radio. Thomas jumps to life. “What? Huh? Oh, honey, you hit the radio!” I had a habit of accidentally hitting the radio on the sleep button, which makes the radio play for about an hour once hit and lets you drift off to sleep without worrying about turning it off, when we had been going out. He never saw that I always did it on purpose to wake him up because I couldn’t sleep and was lonely. Now, it’s not merely that I can’t sleep. I need answers. And maybe, I’m still a little lonely.
He leans over me and yanks the plug out of the wall. We never could shut the radio after sleep was hit. We would wait out the hour talking, kissing. Thomas passes me my glasses and flicks on the lamp on his night stand.
“I’m wide awake now. You might as well be too.” He crosses his arms. He’s bulked up. More muscle than ever. His eyes gleam in the low light.
I sit up. I put on my glasses. They feel weird. I take them off. These are my old glasses. “Where did these come from?”
He nudges me to put them back on. He’s always liked me in my glasses even though I hate it. “They’re the spare pair you left here. You had your contacts in. I made you take them out before you started puking. Otherwise, your eyes would have been dry and they would have stuck and, you know the rest.” He bites his lower lip, satisfied.
He’s right. “So, Sir Thomas. Let me have it. What kind of fool am I?”
He leans back for a second. “Fool? You’re not a fool. Just upset. You had some stories in you.”
Oh, no. What did I say? “What kind of stories?”
He blinks away a yawn. “We woke up just in time. 3:30 is always time for Explaining the Funny Drunk Stories.”
I hit him in the shoulder. “Quit it. Just tell me.”
“Okay.” He scratches his chest. He’s doing that simply to call attention to his chest. I will not submit to his lead. He stops scratching. “True or false: you were dating a guy who had a wife.”
My hand goes over my eyes. “Unfortunately, true. I didn’t know it at the time.”
He pats me on the back. “Way to go, Marie. Nice choice in men.”
I snap, “I’ve never been good at choosing men.”
He inhales deeply. “Thanks.”
I tilt my head to one side. “Welcome.”
He cracks his neck. “True or false: you were dating a guy who turned out to be gay and works at a jazz club.”
I point at him. “False. That was a waiter we had there.”
He jumps on my answer. “Who’s we?”
I simply say, “Me and a date.”
He scratches his chin. “Which brings me to, True or false: you dated a student.”
Hand over eyes. “True.”
He sits up straight and gasps dramatically. “You of all people, Sweet Marie. Sweet, innocent, always walk the straight line Marie. Caught up in a love affair with a teenager.”
I remove my hand from over my eyes. “He treated me better than I’ve ever been treated.”
“Thanks, again.”
“You’re welcome, again.”
“True or false: you broke his heart.”
“True and false. He broke mine, too.”
Thomas shakes his head and makes a tsking sound. “You make them fall in love and then you push them out harder.”
I make the same tsking sound at Thomas. “Shut up. It’s all your fault, anyway.”
His eyes get wide. “My fault? How?”
I sit up tall, feeling the adrenaline kicking in. This is the moment I’ve wanted forever. “Because you fucked me up royally. That whole insanity in an instant crap that you pulled.” I make direct eye contact. “What the hell happened to you anyway?”
He shrugs. “Honestly, I have no idea. Part of it was fear that you were too good for me and to me and you would eventually get bored and leave me, so I wanted to do it first. Part of it was fear that it was all wrong and I wouldn’t know if it was going to be right until I tried other things.”
I slump a little. “Cop out.”
He stares straight ahead. “Whatever.”
“As long as we’re reminiscing,” I slink down on my side, and rest my head on my crooked arm, “what were you looking for in the bookstore that night? As I recall, you never bought anything.”
He scratches his chest. “You bought the complete works of Ginsberg.”
He obviously wants points for remembering. No dice this time. I say, “That’s not what I asked.”
He stops scratching. “Okay. Fine. I had gone in because I saw you. That was the first time in like my entire adult life that I had been in a bookstore. The last time as far as right now, too.”
“So you are illiterate.” I sit back up, satisfied that I’m finally catching on to the ruse.
He’s offended. “I’m not illiterate. I just don’t read for fun. I don’t like this game.”
“Fine. We’ll go back to your game. True or false: we had sex tonight.”
“Jesus!” He hits me with his pillow. “False, false, false! Although you were very enticing with your slurred words, stringy hair, and liquor breath, I held my libido at bay.”
I hide behind my hand. “I’m so embarrassed. It must have been really bad.”
He leans over and puts his lips to my neck. “Beyond really bad.”
I slink away. “What are you doing?”
He leans in further. “Kissing your neck.”
I scooch away some more. “Why?”
He gleams. “Because now you’re sober and minty.” He puckers up.
I sit up on my knees. “Um, hello? No.”
He jerks back. “Why not?”
I bounce on the bed, not being able to control my arm movements. “Because we’re not together and never will be. We’re not even friends anymore.”
He says, “You’ve had a hard night and I can make it better.” He leans in towards my neck.
This time, I hit him with the pillow. “Cut it out, perv.”
“So that’s it. Use me and give me nothing back.”
I hit him again with the pillow. “It’s not as if I asked for this.”
He grabs the pillow away from me. “No, but when I called you, you picked up. You never do that.”
I sit down on my butt, my feet towards his head. “Now there’s a sign that I don’t want to talk to you.”
He leans back. “You have a point there.”
Suddenly, I notice that my tinglies are nowhere to be found. Even in my post-drunken state, when my hormones are not yet at normal level, I feel nothing. He kissed my neck, that special spot that only boyfriends know about, and I felt nothing. Now, the real test. “So, you got a girlfriend?”
He crosses his arms. “I got two.”
I scan the room for photographs, thongs, any remnants of them. “Where are they tonight?”
“One is working. I ditched the other one when I got in touch with you.”
I still feel nothing. Except for maybe compassion. Some sort of urge to roll my eyes. Boredom perhaps. My tinglies are in hiding and my stomach is fine, even despite the liquor. I’m fine.
The clock says 4:25. I yawn. “I’m tired.”
He takes a deep breath. “If I take you home, you won’t ever be here again, will you?”
“Probably not.”
He shakes his head. He scratches the back of his head. “Then sleep here. I’ll take you home in the morning.” His eyes sink. “Please.”
“Okay.” I tuck myself beneath the sheets and spin away from him. I place the glasses on the nightstand.
“Hey, Marie. You really mean it when you say we’re not friends?” His voice is small and hopeful.
I smirk into my pillow. “Oh, Thomas. We seem to be the kind of friends that speak only when we bump into each other in alcohol induced situations.”
He moves around and adjusts himself in the bed. “I’ll take that much.” He lies back onto his pillow. Then he pops his head up and leans over me a last time. “Don’t ever call yourself a fool. It’s me who was and always will be.”
I start to conk out, a grin dancing on my lips. He finally admits to what I have known all along. I fade in and out of sleep, waiting for daybreak. Now I know what the hell I’m doing for the first time in a long time. It took not having anything of my own to figure it out.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Everyone Falls In Love
I’ve never been a crier. In these past few months, I’ve made up for a lifetime of tears. It’s not stopping now. My review is in two days. Neither Jeffery nor Weirdo Steeve has called me. To cheer me up, Sophia has invited me out to Jester’s Court, a karaoke bar about a half hour from home. I’ve rounded up Leah and Elena, and I left a message for the missing Jessica. The goal of the evening: to not cry.
After boogie-ing to Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” for the third time, Elena and Sophia jump off the tiny stage. Leah and I cheer for them as does the rest of the crowd, quite relieved that they won’t hear the song for at least another ten minutes.
Elena bows graciously. “Now that’s what I call a good time!” She hugs Sophia and then squeals, “Oh, he made it!” She points at the door. A smiling Jack heads straight for us. “Hi, honey. Did you see us?”
“Couldn’t miss you guys.” He picks her up in a twirling bear hug. “I have to say, I now have even more respect than I did before hearing you sing.”
Sophia pokes him. “You’ll have even more than that by the end of the night. They’re planning on singing it again.”
Sophia bumps Elena’s hip with her own and says, “Just until we get kicked off stage. That’s the plan.”
Copa Cabana suddenly blasts out of my purse. Sophia laughs and dances around. “Thanks for changing my ring,” I say as I get my phone out. The number is blocked. I don’t answer blocked calls. I put the phone down. No message comes up as we all make a toast to each other.
Copa Cabana plays again. Sophia laughs again. Blocked number again. I don’t answer. Jack and Elena go sign up to sing and Sophia chugs a rum and coke. No message.
Copa Cabana a third time. Sophia gives me an exasperated look. “You’re the one who changed the ring tone so deal with it.”
“I will,” she says as she grabs my phone and answers it. “Who’s this?” she asks. After a few seconds, she continues, “You called this number. I’m not telling you who I am until you tell me who you are.”
Fair enough. I raise my eyebrows and make hand motions to try to get her to give me some clue as to who it might be, who it sounds like, or if it’s a male or female. She puts up her hand and turns away.
She continues, “No, this isn’t my phone. It’s my friend’s phone and she doesn’t answer blocked calls so if you want to be secretive, stop calling. I’ve had enough Manilow.”
I laugh, guessing that whoever is on the other end has no clue what she’s talking about. Sophia nods into the phone and then says, “Okay hang on,” and swings the phone over towards me.
“Who is it?”
“Karen Orcherd.”
“Who’s Karen Orcherd?”
Her eyebrows go way up and she shrugs. “I got you a name. You do the rest.”
I take the phone and say, “Hello, hang on,” and head outside. Jack and Elena are at full volume with some serious ACDC.
Outside, I ask again, “So who is this?”
“It’s Karen Orcherd. I believe you know my husband Trent. Who are you?”
Trent? Who the heck is Trent? “How do you know that I know your husband if you don’t know who I am?”
“Your number is in his cell. Who are you?”
“I don’t think it matters who I am. I don’t know anyone named Trent.” I peek inside and see Jack and Elena bowing, Sophia clapping wilding over her head.
“Then Burke. You know Burke.”
No. “Exactly how many husbands do you have?”
An exaggerated sigh comes through, followed by, “I have one very unfaithful husband who gives fake names to many women. I have no idea how many. I’m finding all this out now from one of his past wives who hunted me down to warn me that he was trying to get back together with her, so can you please tell me who you are and if you know him.”
Why do all the looneys find me? “I don’t know anyone named Trent or Burke.”
“How about Steeve?”
Heart in throat. Knot in stomach. Can’t speak.
Karen continues, “He spells it wrong, but he thinks it’s soap-opera-ish. Another of his exes told me so. Oh, yes, there are more. About eight.”
Can’t breathe really. I grab onto the brick wall outside of Jester’s.
“Are you there? Hello?”
I catch a breath and say, “Yes, I’m here. Yes, I know that name, but I haven’t seen him in quite some time.” All I can think is that I slept with him in this woman’s bed. Eww.
Elena and Sophia appear, searching for me. The look on my face drives them into panic mode. “What’s going on?” they hiss at me.
I cover my phone and quickly say, “Steeve is married and I had sex with him in his wife’s bed.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, that would be my reaction.”
Karen says, “Would you happen to know where the bastard is right now? I know you said you haven’t seen him but I can’t track him down. I even checked his rental house.”
“Rental house?”
“Yes, rental house. He has a house that I thought he rented out. Apparently, that’s his whorehouse.” She stops for a second and then adds, “No offense.”
“None taken. I didn’t know he was married.” I’m slightly relieved. I had sex with him not in her bed. Then I blurt out, “You’re really married to him? Isn’t he a little off?”
She snorts into the phone, “Honey, you have no idea. Big mistake. I plan to take him for all he’s worth, which isn’t much.”
“I wish I could help. I’m so sorry.” I am for her situation. For my situation. For this whole deal.
Elena and Sophia now make odd hand movements, trying to get me to fill them in as I talk to the poor woman. I wave them away.
Karen says, “If you hear from him, will you let me know? I’ll give you my number.”
I put the number into my phone as she says it and then say, “You’re surprisingly calm through all this.”
She replies, “You’re not the first woman I’ve called. The previous ones probably would not agree with you.” So she’s exhausted from yelling and tracking Steeve/Burke/Trent.
I say, “I don’t think he’ll be calling. The last I saw of him was at Thanksgiving. He showed up at my parents’ house and told me that we had to run like the wind.”
She gives a bitter laugh. “Sounds like he’s finally cracking up.”
“Yeah, I think he’s lost it.”
“Thanks, hon. Sorry to catch you off guard like this.”
“It’s not a problem. I should thank you. You’ve filled in some blanks for me. I only wish I could help you more.”
We say our goodbyes and then I say to Elena and Sophia, “Steeve’s married.”
Elena asks the same thing I did: “How the heck did he get someone to marry him?”
I remind them of the pictures I found without the heads. “He’s done it plenty of times. Maybe he has multiple personalities.”
Sophia suggests that he has borderline personality disorder. I suggest that he’s plain nuts. The sounds of a bunch of women in their fifties singing “It’s Raining Men,” makes its way out of the doors. Some smokers stand around, sucking on their cigarettes. I’m still trying to figure out how this is real. Sophia asks, “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? I don’t feel like bursting out in tears because I can never have Steeve again. It was already over. Good thing, too. “I told you guys he was weird!” Then, I laugh. What the hell else can I do?
I look at Sophia, remembering our first chat about my new man that was Steeve, after my first date with him. “I’ll have you know that his real name is Trent. He uses different names to try to get different women. He friggin’ chose the name Steeve. I could have had Burke. I could have had Trenton. But noooo, I get him when he’s Steeve with the three e’s. I told you guys I wasn’t being shallow! Anyone who spells his own name wrong . . .”
Sophia grabs me in a hug. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. 20/20 hindsight.”
I hug back. “You just want me to forget you’re the one who told me to ignore the whole name thing.”
She hugs me harder. I hug her back. Elena hugs the both of us. I throw the paper back into the car and we head back inside. It’s a good thing to not be dating someone who’s married to someone else, I decide. A very good thing.
On the way back in, Sophia’s hand brushes mine and I feel something that I’ve never felt before. I grab her hand. “What’s going on here?”
I latch onto her wrist. I hold up her hand to Elena. “Hello, what’s this?”
She yanks her hand back into her jeans pocket. “My hand.”
“Yes, and what’s on your hand?” I follow her back to our table.
“I can’t tell you yet. Not until David gets here.”
Jack stands to greet us and asks me, “Are you okay?” Without allowing any time to answer he asks Elena, “She okay?” Elena says, “She’s fine, Jack.”
I echo, “I’m fine, Jack. Thanks for breaking the news. More importantly, can you find out what Sophia’s ring is all about?”
He glances at Sophia’s hand, now shoved way down in her pocket and asks, “What gives?”
Instead of giving us an answer, she gives us a round of Kamikazi shots, which is just as satisfying for the meantime. Five minutes later after much “what’s your secret”/”I’m not telling”, in walks David, out comes Sophia’s hand, and she jumps around us in a spiral.
“Can we tell them?” She’s giddy.
David jumps too, mocking her giddiness. “Tell them. Tell them.”
“We’re engaged!!” she shouts as if we really hadn’t figured that out yet.
David sweeps her up into a big hug, they make out for about thirty seconds, and then he puts her down. “Now can I say hi to everyone?”
She nods and slaps his ass. He gives cheek kisses all around and then orders a round of Soco Amaretto shots. We toast to engagement and then hear a familiar female voice.
“What’s the celebration about and where’s my shot?”
Leah’s glowing with none other than Bobby by her side. “You call yourself a non-drinker.” I shake my head at her mockingly and then to Bobby, “So should I congratulate you for finding such a good catch or should I verbally berate you for not telling me?”
He cracks a sheepish grin. “Aw, Professor Roma, you forgive me.”
I try to hate the All-American boy but say instead, “Yes, I forgive you.”
He holds his arms out. “Come on. Give me a hug. Come on.” He opens and closes his fingers, beckoning me over. I hug him and then punch his chest. When he releases me, I punch Leah’s arm, too.
I scold them, “No more secrets, dammit.”
They promise, we do introductions, and then, as we do whenever we karaoke, we drink.
After ordering two rounds of thick lager, Jack and David become best friends and decide to sing, what else, Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.” Me, the gals, and Bobby all cheer and clap and sing along with the chorus as the two alpha-males become divas of soul. When they come back to the table, Leah lets out a scream.
“Jessica!!”
I had left her the invite, never expecting her to come. She had been MIA for so long. Now, I see why. On her arm is a gorgeous, albeit somewhat older, man. On her left ring finger is a gorgeous ruby and sapphire ring.
She waves like a queen. “Hello there!”
I grab her. “Where the hell have you been?” I let her go and hug the man next to her. “Who are you?”
He hugs me back. “I’m John Baker. Jessica’s husband.”
Leah and I scream in unison. “You got married?”
Jessica yawns, as if this were a boring, ordinary happening. “Yeah. Long story short. I bumped into John one night at a lecture on dream interpretation. We got to talking about old times. We flew to Vegas. We got married.”
I ask, “What about the non-Frenchman?”
Leah nods. “Yeah, he’s been trying to find you for days.”
Jessica waves away the notion. “Ugh. He was dating three other women. He’ll get over it.”
I hug her and hang on her arm. “So you really can find a husband in your dreams?” I ask.
John Baker adjusts his tie and shakes his head. “Not really. More likely to find one at college.”
Then it clicks. “Jessica Blessing! This is the guy you told me about? Your sculpting teacher?” My voice is at such a high pitch, I’m amazed humans can still hear me and dogs aren’t howling.
She falls into a huge laugh. “Yup. Those big penis and breast statues paid off.”
Bobby squirms his way into our little circle. “Congratulations, Professor Blessing.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek and shakes John Baker’s hand. Then he leans in to Leah’s ear. “There’s hope for us, now isn’t there?”
Jessica raises her eyebrows. “You mean you two?”
They nod. She claps. Then she looks at me. “And where’s your man?”
I count off on my fingers, “You mean the one whose wife just called me and told me that he was married or the one who isn’t my man because I never admitted to him being my man in the first place?” I take a breath and then sing out, “But I’m not bitter!” She snarks a laugh at me. Then she and her new guy join in the drinking.
We stay until the wee hours. I do more shots, forgetting my men, my job, and myself.
After boogie-ing to Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” for the third time, Elena and Sophia jump off the tiny stage. Leah and I cheer for them as does the rest of the crowd, quite relieved that they won’t hear the song for at least another ten minutes.
Elena bows graciously. “Now that’s what I call a good time!” She hugs Sophia and then squeals, “Oh, he made it!” She points at the door. A smiling Jack heads straight for us. “Hi, honey. Did you see us?”
“Couldn’t miss you guys.” He picks her up in a twirling bear hug. “I have to say, I now have even more respect than I did before hearing you sing.”
Sophia pokes him. “You’ll have even more than that by the end of the night. They’re planning on singing it again.”
Sophia bumps Elena’s hip with her own and says, “Just until we get kicked off stage. That’s the plan.”
Copa Cabana suddenly blasts out of my purse. Sophia laughs and dances around. “Thanks for changing my ring,” I say as I get my phone out. The number is blocked. I don’t answer blocked calls. I put the phone down. No message comes up as we all make a toast to each other.
Copa Cabana plays again. Sophia laughs again. Blocked number again. I don’t answer. Jack and Elena go sign up to sing and Sophia chugs a rum and coke. No message.
Copa Cabana a third time. Sophia gives me an exasperated look. “You’re the one who changed the ring tone so deal with it.”
“I will,” she says as she grabs my phone and answers it. “Who’s this?” she asks. After a few seconds, she continues, “You called this number. I’m not telling you who I am until you tell me who you are.”
Fair enough. I raise my eyebrows and make hand motions to try to get her to give me some clue as to who it might be, who it sounds like, or if it’s a male or female. She puts up her hand and turns away.
She continues, “No, this isn’t my phone. It’s my friend’s phone and she doesn’t answer blocked calls so if you want to be secretive, stop calling. I’ve had enough Manilow.”
I laugh, guessing that whoever is on the other end has no clue what she’s talking about. Sophia nods into the phone and then says, “Okay hang on,” and swings the phone over towards me.
“Who is it?”
“Karen Orcherd.”
“Who’s Karen Orcherd?”
Her eyebrows go way up and she shrugs. “I got you a name. You do the rest.”
I take the phone and say, “Hello, hang on,” and head outside. Jack and Elena are at full volume with some serious ACDC.
Outside, I ask again, “So who is this?”
“It’s Karen Orcherd. I believe you know my husband Trent. Who are you?”
Trent? Who the heck is Trent? “How do you know that I know your husband if you don’t know who I am?”
“Your number is in his cell. Who are you?”
“I don’t think it matters who I am. I don’t know anyone named Trent.” I peek inside and see Jack and Elena bowing, Sophia clapping wilding over her head.
“Then Burke. You know Burke.”
No. “Exactly how many husbands do you have?”
An exaggerated sigh comes through, followed by, “I have one very unfaithful husband who gives fake names to many women. I have no idea how many. I’m finding all this out now from one of his past wives who hunted me down to warn me that he was trying to get back together with her, so can you please tell me who you are and if you know him.”
Why do all the looneys find me? “I don’t know anyone named Trent or Burke.”
“How about Steeve?”
Heart in throat. Knot in stomach. Can’t speak.
Karen continues, “He spells it wrong, but he thinks it’s soap-opera-ish. Another of his exes told me so. Oh, yes, there are more. About eight.”
Can’t breathe really. I grab onto the brick wall outside of Jester’s.
“Are you there? Hello?”
I catch a breath and say, “Yes, I’m here. Yes, I know that name, but I haven’t seen him in quite some time.” All I can think is that I slept with him in this woman’s bed. Eww.
Elena and Sophia appear, searching for me. The look on my face drives them into panic mode. “What’s going on?” they hiss at me.
I cover my phone and quickly say, “Steeve is married and I had sex with him in his wife’s bed.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, that would be my reaction.”
Karen says, “Would you happen to know where the bastard is right now? I know you said you haven’t seen him but I can’t track him down. I even checked his rental house.”
“Rental house?”
“Yes, rental house. He has a house that I thought he rented out. Apparently, that’s his whorehouse.” She stops for a second and then adds, “No offense.”
“None taken. I didn’t know he was married.” I’m slightly relieved. I had sex with him not in her bed. Then I blurt out, “You’re really married to him? Isn’t he a little off?”
She snorts into the phone, “Honey, you have no idea. Big mistake. I plan to take him for all he’s worth, which isn’t much.”
“I wish I could help. I’m so sorry.” I am for her situation. For my situation. For this whole deal.
Elena and Sophia now make odd hand movements, trying to get me to fill them in as I talk to the poor woman. I wave them away.
Karen says, “If you hear from him, will you let me know? I’ll give you my number.”
I put the number into my phone as she says it and then say, “You’re surprisingly calm through all this.”
She replies, “You’re not the first woman I’ve called. The previous ones probably would not agree with you.” So she’s exhausted from yelling and tracking Steeve/Burke/Trent.
I say, “I don’t think he’ll be calling. The last I saw of him was at Thanksgiving. He showed up at my parents’ house and told me that we had to run like the wind.”
She gives a bitter laugh. “Sounds like he’s finally cracking up.”
“Yeah, I think he’s lost it.”
“Thanks, hon. Sorry to catch you off guard like this.”
“It’s not a problem. I should thank you. You’ve filled in some blanks for me. I only wish I could help you more.”
We say our goodbyes and then I say to Elena and Sophia, “Steeve’s married.”
Elena asks the same thing I did: “How the heck did he get someone to marry him?”
I remind them of the pictures I found without the heads. “He’s done it plenty of times. Maybe he has multiple personalities.”
Sophia suggests that he has borderline personality disorder. I suggest that he’s plain nuts. The sounds of a bunch of women in their fifties singing “It’s Raining Men,” makes its way out of the doors. Some smokers stand around, sucking on their cigarettes. I’m still trying to figure out how this is real. Sophia asks, “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? I don’t feel like bursting out in tears because I can never have Steeve again. It was already over. Good thing, too. “I told you guys he was weird!” Then, I laugh. What the hell else can I do?
I look at Sophia, remembering our first chat about my new man that was Steeve, after my first date with him. “I’ll have you know that his real name is Trent. He uses different names to try to get different women. He friggin’ chose the name Steeve. I could have had Burke. I could have had Trenton. But noooo, I get him when he’s Steeve with the three e’s. I told you guys I wasn’t being shallow! Anyone who spells his own name wrong . . .”
Sophia grabs me in a hug. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. 20/20 hindsight.”
I hug back. “You just want me to forget you’re the one who told me to ignore the whole name thing.”
She hugs me harder. I hug her back. Elena hugs the both of us. I throw the paper back into the car and we head back inside. It’s a good thing to not be dating someone who’s married to someone else, I decide. A very good thing.
On the way back in, Sophia’s hand brushes mine and I feel something that I’ve never felt before. I grab her hand. “What’s going on here?”
I latch onto her wrist. I hold up her hand to Elena. “Hello, what’s this?”
She yanks her hand back into her jeans pocket. “My hand.”
“Yes, and what’s on your hand?” I follow her back to our table.
“I can’t tell you yet. Not until David gets here.”
Jack stands to greet us and asks me, “Are you okay?” Without allowing any time to answer he asks Elena, “She okay?” Elena says, “She’s fine, Jack.”
I echo, “I’m fine, Jack. Thanks for breaking the news. More importantly, can you find out what Sophia’s ring is all about?”
He glances at Sophia’s hand, now shoved way down in her pocket and asks, “What gives?”
Instead of giving us an answer, she gives us a round of Kamikazi shots, which is just as satisfying for the meantime. Five minutes later after much “what’s your secret”/”I’m not telling”, in walks David, out comes Sophia’s hand, and she jumps around us in a spiral.
“Can we tell them?” She’s giddy.
David jumps too, mocking her giddiness. “Tell them. Tell them.”
“We’re engaged!!” she shouts as if we really hadn’t figured that out yet.
David sweeps her up into a big hug, they make out for about thirty seconds, and then he puts her down. “Now can I say hi to everyone?”
She nods and slaps his ass. He gives cheek kisses all around and then orders a round of Soco Amaretto shots. We toast to engagement and then hear a familiar female voice.
“What’s the celebration about and where’s my shot?”
Leah’s glowing with none other than Bobby by her side. “You call yourself a non-drinker.” I shake my head at her mockingly and then to Bobby, “So should I congratulate you for finding such a good catch or should I verbally berate you for not telling me?”
He cracks a sheepish grin. “Aw, Professor Roma, you forgive me.”
I try to hate the All-American boy but say instead, “Yes, I forgive you.”
He holds his arms out. “Come on. Give me a hug. Come on.” He opens and closes his fingers, beckoning me over. I hug him and then punch his chest. When he releases me, I punch Leah’s arm, too.
I scold them, “No more secrets, dammit.”
They promise, we do introductions, and then, as we do whenever we karaoke, we drink.
After ordering two rounds of thick lager, Jack and David become best friends and decide to sing, what else, Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.” Me, the gals, and Bobby all cheer and clap and sing along with the chorus as the two alpha-males become divas of soul. When they come back to the table, Leah lets out a scream.
“Jessica!!”
I had left her the invite, never expecting her to come. She had been MIA for so long. Now, I see why. On her arm is a gorgeous, albeit somewhat older, man. On her left ring finger is a gorgeous ruby and sapphire ring.
She waves like a queen. “Hello there!”
I grab her. “Where the hell have you been?” I let her go and hug the man next to her. “Who are you?”
He hugs me back. “I’m John Baker. Jessica’s husband.”
Leah and I scream in unison. “You got married?”
Jessica yawns, as if this were a boring, ordinary happening. “Yeah. Long story short. I bumped into John one night at a lecture on dream interpretation. We got to talking about old times. We flew to Vegas. We got married.”
I ask, “What about the non-Frenchman?”
Leah nods. “Yeah, he’s been trying to find you for days.”
Jessica waves away the notion. “Ugh. He was dating three other women. He’ll get over it.”
I hug her and hang on her arm. “So you really can find a husband in your dreams?” I ask.
John Baker adjusts his tie and shakes his head. “Not really. More likely to find one at college.”
Then it clicks. “Jessica Blessing! This is the guy you told me about? Your sculpting teacher?” My voice is at such a high pitch, I’m amazed humans can still hear me and dogs aren’t howling.
She falls into a huge laugh. “Yup. Those big penis and breast statues paid off.”
Bobby squirms his way into our little circle. “Congratulations, Professor Blessing.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek and shakes John Baker’s hand. Then he leans in to Leah’s ear. “There’s hope for us, now isn’t there?”
Jessica raises her eyebrows. “You mean you two?”
They nod. She claps. Then she looks at me. “And where’s your man?”
I count off on my fingers, “You mean the one whose wife just called me and told me that he was married or the one who isn’t my man because I never admitted to him being my man in the first place?” I take a breath and then sing out, “But I’m not bitter!” She snarks a laugh at me. Then she and her new guy join in the drinking.
We stay until the wee hours. I do more shots, forgetting my men, my job, and myself.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
One Big Huge
I skid out of Leah’s driveway and head to off-campus housing fifteen minutes away. Leah was too drunk to drive home. She arrived home happy because Bobby would be graduating in three weeks and she decided they could be together after all.
This fifteen minutes creates some epiphanies for me, too. If I get fired, Jeffery and I can be together. Firing means nothing when it comes to love. Do I love him, though? I’m falling for him. He makes me feel like a queen when he blinks at me, when he touches any part of me with any part of him. I have to face it—-we have been dating. He’s pretty much my boyfriend. Only, he’s a romantic, courtly lover type, who will wait until the end of time for me. That’s what I’ve always wanted really. Screw the bookstore in the winter fantasy. My reality is enough for me.
I pull up to the front of the house with a huge grin. It really can work out. Now that I’m facing my inevitable unemployment, it all seems so clear. Age is just a number. There are other jobs out there. Oh, Jeffery Rigger, take me! I’m yours! I want to be your girlfriend!
He slides in next to me and my grin fades. His eyes are glazed over. He’s wearing a thin undershirt and carpenter pants. He keeps running his hand through his hair. When he starts to speak, his voice is monotone. I put my hand on his thigh to try to make him be more personable. He lifts it up, puts it back on the steering wheel using only his thumb and index finger. I say nothing. My stomach churns in the way it does when I know an evil inevitable is about to materialize.
“You broke me, Marie, you know that?”
I don’t want to break people! “I’m sorry. I’m only seeing now what you’ve seen all along.”
Jeffery braces himself with his forearms between the seat and the dashboard. “Now you know it?! Only now?! A lot of good that does me!” He squints his eyes in a rage. “My heart is just destroyed. Do you know how much I wanted this?”
He’s all past tense. I’m still about now. “You can have it now. It’s all out. I’m probably getting canned and I don’t give a rat’s ass.”
“Neither do I.” He slams back towards the windshield. The streetlights reflect off his eyes.
“I never said we would never be together . . .” I try.
He points at me and says, “Yes, you did.” He cracks his neck and then cracks his fingers. He fishes around the glove box for gum and when he finds it, starts snapping it.
He’s right. I remember it. I did say that. And so it is. “Is this what you have to tell me? That I destroyed you?”
He goes monotone. “You have no right to be catching an attitude!”
I raise my voice and answer, “I’m not catching an attitude. I’m asking.”
He lowers his voice which comes out as sneering, angry, and guttural. “Yup. I guess that is it.” Then he adds, “Pro-fess-or.”
I slap my thighs. “Okay.” I let some tears escape. I’m sad because it’s over. I’m sad because I treated him like crap. I’m sad because it was all about me and I never thought about it until it was too late.
I dry my tears and shiver. I turn the car on and let the heat pour out of the vents. He’s gone by the time I warm up.
This fifteen minutes creates some epiphanies for me, too. If I get fired, Jeffery and I can be together. Firing means nothing when it comes to love. Do I love him, though? I’m falling for him. He makes me feel like a queen when he blinks at me, when he touches any part of me with any part of him. I have to face it—-we have been dating. He’s pretty much my boyfriend. Only, he’s a romantic, courtly lover type, who will wait until the end of time for me. That’s what I’ve always wanted really. Screw the bookstore in the winter fantasy. My reality is enough for me.
I pull up to the front of the house with a huge grin. It really can work out. Now that I’m facing my inevitable unemployment, it all seems so clear. Age is just a number. There are other jobs out there. Oh, Jeffery Rigger, take me! I’m yours! I want to be your girlfriend!
He slides in next to me and my grin fades. His eyes are glazed over. He’s wearing a thin undershirt and carpenter pants. He keeps running his hand through his hair. When he starts to speak, his voice is monotone. I put my hand on his thigh to try to make him be more personable. He lifts it up, puts it back on the steering wheel using only his thumb and index finger. I say nothing. My stomach churns in the way it does when I know an evil inevitable is about to materialize.
“You broke me, Marie, you know that?”
I don’t want to break people! “I’m sorry. I’m only seeing now what you’ve seen all along.”
Jeffery braces himself with his forearms between the seat and the dashboard. “Now you know it?! Only now?! A lot of good that does me!” He squints his eyes in a rage. “My heart is just destroyed. Do you know how much I wanted this?”
He’s all past tense. I’m still about now. “You can have it now. It’s all out. I’m probably getting canned and I don’t give a rat’s ass.”
“Neither do I.” He slams back towards the windshield. The streetlights reflect off his eyes.
“I never said we would never be together . . .” I try.
He points at me and says, “Yes, you did.” He cracks his neck and then cracks his fingers. He fishes around the glove box for gum and when he finds it, starts snapping it.
He’s right. I remember it. I did say that. And so it is. “Is this what you have to tell me? That I destroyed you?”
He goes monotone. “You have no right to be catching an attitude!”
I raise my voice and answer, “I’m not catching an attitude. I’m asking.”
He lowers his voice which comes out as sneering, angry, and guttural. “Yup. I guess that is it.” Then he adds, “Pro-fess-or.”
I slap my thighs. “Okay.” I let some tears escape. I’m sad because it’s over. I’m sad because I treated him like crap. I’m sad because it was all about me and I never thought about it until it was too late.
I dry my tears and shiver. I turn the car on and let the heat pour out of the vents. He’s gone by the time I warm up.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
I Have To Tell You Something
I stare at the clock in the corner of one of ten TV screens over the bar. 6:45:09. Leah called at 5, leaving the message, “I have to tell you something. See you at 6:30.” I stir my amaretto sour around, spinning the ice cubes in a pointless whirl. Some Carmen Electra movie silently rolls on the televisions. It’s Ladies’ Night and we can drink for free.
Leah flies through the door still in work attire. “Sorry! I was on the phone with Robert. I swear I was in the parking lot at 6:29.” She hops up onto the stool next to me and signals the bartender to bring us two more amaretto sours.
“Okay. So what’s up?”
“I’m in love.” Tears flow. A few of the older guys at the other end of the bar squint towards us, then quickly get distracted by the boobs on screen. Leah’s sobbing uncontrollably. I cram a few sticky napkins into her hand.
“Is this a bad thing?”
“I-I-I-I-ttt’s hor-hor-hor-horrible. Marie, I’m a terrible person. I haven’t told you the entire truth about Robert and there’s a big reason. It just got too much way out of hand.” A good thing she left the English department. Did that even make sense? She takes a deep breath and then blurts out, “Robert isn’t Robert!” I have flashbacks to the made-for-tv movie “I Know My First Name Is Stephen.” Is Robert really Stephen, who had been abducted as a child? Or as in “Head Over Heels,” the teeny-bopper movie that I am obsessed with although I am not a bopper of any kind, is Robert an FBI agent? An undercover operative investigating some top-secret issues in academia and using Leah as an in? It’s finally coming out now. The mystery will be revealed!
“Who is he then?”
“Bobby!”
Bobby. Bobby is not the name I expected. Bobby does not sound like the dashing Clark Kent/Superman hero I had in mind. “Bobby? Bobby who?” This is less than exciting.
“Bobby Kline!”
“Oh. My. God.” Okay, more than exciting. “My Bobby Kline? Senior Bobby Kline who has been my student-friend for almost four years and took five English classes with me and was my TA last semester? Who has practically lived in my office more than he has his dorm room? Who is now in your Society and Education class? Who has hidden my phone for the millionth time?”
“Yeeeeaaahhh.” Leah wails again and I drink. First mine, then hers. Then I order a round of Soco with lime and start slurring as she starts jabbering.
“I wanted to tell you sooner. Every chance I got I wimped out. Then when you told me all about Jeffery, well, I was stunned. It was my perfect opportunity and I couldn’t do it! Too much time had passed! I felt so wicked. I was always on your side though. I never judged you. Why did you think I warned you about seeing Jeffery? I knew what you were going through all along. Remember on Halloween? When I disappeared? Yeah, he snuck into the ball! Then we were off together for a while. Can you believe it? Now, I’m in love!”
I want to remind her that I’m not “seeing” Jeffery. I’m more hanging out with him, rather than actually dating him. Although he does call what we do dating. Plus, he hasn’t spoken to me since Thanksgiving and that was last week. Perhaps now is not the time for semantics. “Wow. You’re in love with him,” I repeat.
“Uh-huh!” she sobs.
“He’s in love with you?”
“I don’t know!”
She continues to alternate wailing and sobbing as we list the pros and cons of being in love with an almost graduate in a class she’s teaching. She drinks. A lot. She finishes off bottles of cheap coconut liquor and I switch to Cokes and cranberry until my cell phone rings. It’s Jeffery.
“I have to tell you something.”
Leah flies through the door still in work attire. “Sorry! I was on the phone with Robert. I swear I was in the parking lot at 6:29.” She hops up onto the stool next to me and signals the bartender to bring us two more amaretto sours.
“Okay. So what’s up?”
“I’m in love.” Tears flow. A few of the older guys at the other end of the bar squint towards us, then quickly get distracted by the boobs on screen. Leah’s sobbing uncontrollably. I cram a few sticky napkins into her hand.
“Is this a bad thing?”
“I-I-I-I-ttt’s hor-hor-hor-horrible. Marie, I’m a terrible person. I haven’t told you the entire truth about Robert and there’s a big reason. It just got too much way out of hand.” A good thing she left the English department. Did that even make sense? She takes a deep breath and then blurts out, “Robert isn’t Robert!” I have flashbacks to the made-for-tv movie “I Know My First Name Is Stephen.” Is Robert really Stephen, who had been abducted as a child? Or as in “Head Over Heels,” the teeny-bopper movie that I am obsessed with although I am not a bopper of any kind, is Robert an FBI agent? An undercover operative investigating some top-secret issues in academia and using Leah as an in? It’s finally coming out now. The mystery will be revealed!
“Who is he then?”
“Bobby!”
Bobby. Bobby is not the name I expected. Bobby does not sound like the dashing Clark Kent/Superman hero I had in mind. “Bobby? Bobby who?” This is less than exciting.
“Bobby Kline!”
“Oh. My. God.” Okay, more than exciting. “My Bobby Kline? Senior Bobby Kline who has been my student-friend for almost four years and took five English classes with me and was my TA last semester? Who has practically lived in my office more than he has his dorm room? Who is now in your Society and Education class? Who has hidden my phone for the millionth time?”
“Yeeeeaaahhh.” Leah wails again and I drink. First mine, then hers. Then I order a round of Soco with lime and start slurring as she starts jabbering.
“I wanted to tell you sooner. Every chance I got I wimped out. Then when you told me all about Jeffery, well, I was stunned. It was my perfect opportunity and I couldn’t do it! Too much time had passed! I felt so wicked. I was always on your side though. I never judged you. Why did you think I warned you about seeing Jeffery? I knew what you were going through all along. Remember on Halloween? When I disappeared? Yeah, he snuck into the ball! Then we were off together for a while. Can you believe it? Now, I’m in love!”
I want to remind her that I’m not “seeing” Jeffery. I’m more hanging out with him, rather than actually dating him. Although he does call what we do dating. Plus, he hasn’t spoken to me since Thanksgiving and that was last week. Perhaps now is not the time for semantics. “Wow. You’re in love with him,” I repeat.
“Uh-huh!” she sobs.
“He’s in love with you?”
“I don’t know!”
She continues to alternate wailing and sobbing as we list the pros and cons of being in love with an almost graduate in a class she’s teaching. She drinks. A lot. She finishes off bottles of cheap coconut liquor and I switch to Cokes and cranberry until my cell phone rings. It’s Jeffery.
“I have to tell you something.”
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Beans Spilleth Over
My stomach was knotted heading into Composition I this morning. I was not looking forward to seeing Jeffery Rigger. I thought that he might not show up. He did. Good for him. Don’t let me get him down. Teaching was painful. I got through my lecture on great essayists and critics without emotion. Finally, I let them go fifteen minutes early. They all yelled their thanks profusely, some asking if I had mellowed out over the vacation, while others asking if I was still mentally on vacation. Usually, I’d smirk and crack a joke back to cut them down to size. Today, I simply nodded.
The only thing I’m thankful for today is that Officer Steeve was nowhere to be found. He’s usually at one of the security booths I pass on my way to class. He wasn’t in any of the patrol-mobiles either. He’s probably already off running with the horses.
Now, in my office, I wait for the inevitable. I wait for my demise. Cockknocker got back from her conference today and is sure to call me on the photo. Not that it matters now anyway. Jeffery isn’t even speaking to me. I can’t take my mind off of the whole situation. Usually, I’d calm myself down by chatting with Jessica who’s still MIA. Even Pierre-Louis is concerned. He popped up in Leah’s office to see if we had seen Jessica. Leah and I had assumed that she had run away with him. We were all wrong and we’re still waiting to see what’s going on in her crazy world. Whatever it is has to be better than what I’m about to go through.
As if on cue, the scuffed white shoes and peacock blue suit come storming into my office. Arms flailing. Hair wild. Glasses askew. “Professor Marie Roma! I need a word with you. Office! Private! Bring a pencil!” I suppress the urge to sing, “When the world gets in my face, I say, Have A Nice Day!” or “It’s My Life, it’s now or never,” anything from the can’t-get-me-down Bon Jovi discography. Cockknocker thrusts a piece of paper at me during her mini-tirade. As I silently rise from my seat, feeling the surreal nature of the presence, I glance at the paper, already knowing what it says. It’s a memo stating Professor Clepper requests a meeting with me in her office and that I should bring a pencil. My email alert bings once, and I know full well that I just received an electronic copy of the memo. At least my insubordination and breach of ethics has done some good—it’s sent her off the deep end in a very amusing fashion.
Her office is clean, cherry wood, ecru, dustless. Her chairs are cushioned yet uncomfortable for my small frame. I get lost in the chair, sink low to the floor, and pray that this will be short and sweet. She rolls behind her desk and tries to begin, too flustered to know where to begin.
“This has been a long time coming. You ruined my conference!” She glares from behind her glasses. The lenses fog up.
“How so?” Innocence is best. I nibble on the eraser of my number two pencil.
“What is the meaning of this?” She thrusts her arm across the desk with photo of me in hand.
“A picture is worth a thousand words. Where should I begin?” If I’m getting fired, I’m taking what’s left of her sanity with me.
“Don’t get smart, Professor! This is serious business. Your job is on the line.”
“Because you have a picture of me?”
“No! Because you have been having sexual relations with a student. That is unethical. That is unheard of. That is . . .”
“That is completely untrue, is what that is!” I yell with conviction because it honestly is untrue. A few kisses coupled with a few orgasms does not amount to a sexual relationship per se. It’s also true that what I was doing was unethical according to my contract. She’s nitpicking, so I am, too.
“That’s not for you to decide.”
“I can’t decide what’s true about my own vagina?”
“Control yourself, Professor Roma. Control.” She flares her arms out as if she’s one of those people with those big earmuffs, landing a plane. This apparently is her miming metaphor for control.
I copy her arm movements and answer, “If you would just tell me what this is all about instead of accusing me of doing things I’m not doing in my own personal, private life, I would be happy to control myself.” I put my arms down, and then nibble on the middle of my pencil.
She brandishes the wallet at me. “I have strong evidence that indicates you have been in a personal relationship with a freshman of New York Long Island Sound College. Your personal life becomes the college’s business when you break the college code of ethics.”
I don’t have a smart answer for that. I don’t have any answer for that. So I say, “Okay. What evidence?”
“Good, hard evidence.” She puts the wallet down, assuming that I have no idea why she was holding it up for me to see because I didn’t react to it.
“So are you firing me?” I mentally pack boxes. I’m antsy to get out of the office that Satan’s asshole built.
“No.”
“No?” I’m stunned. This is simpler than I thought.
“No. You get to go in front of the review board a week from today.”
Hmm, not simple at all.
The only thing I’m thankful for today is that Officer Steeve was nowhere to be found. He’s usually at one of the security booths I pass on my way to class. He wasn’t in any of the patrol-mobiles either. He’s probably already off running with the horses.
Now, in my office, I wait for the inevitable. I wait for my demise. Cockknocker got back from her conference today and is sure to call me on the photo. Not that it matters now anyway. Jeffery isn’t even speaking to me. I can’t take my mind off of the whole situation. Usually, I’d calm myself down by chatting with Jessica who’s still MIA. Even Pierre-Louis is concerned. He popped up in Leah’s office to see if we had seen Jessica. Leah and I had assumed that she had run away with him. We were all wrong and we’re still waiting to see what’s going on in her crazy world. Whatever it is has to be better than what I’m about to go through.
As if on cue, the scuffed white shoes and peacock blue suit come storming into my office. Arms flailing. Hair wild. Glasses askew. “Professor Marie Roma! I need a word with you. Office! Private! Bring a pencil!” I suppress the urge to sing, “When the world gets in my face, I say, Have A Nice Day!” or “It’s My Life, it’s now or never,” anything from the can’t-get-me-down Bon Jovi discography. Cockknocker thrusts a piece of paper at me during her mini-tirade. As I silently rise from my seat, feeling the surreal nature of the presence, I glance at the paper, already knowing what it says. It’s a memo stating Professor Clepper requests a meeting with me in her office and that I should bring a pencil. My email alert bings once, and I know full well that I just received an electronic copy of the memo. At least my insubordination and breach of ethics has done some good—it’s sent her off the deep end in a very amusing fashion.
Her office is clean, cherry wood, ecru, dustless. Her chairs are cushioned yet uncomfortable for my small frame. I get lost in the chair, sink low to the floor, and pray that this will be short and sweet. She rolls behind her desk and tries to begin, too flustered to know where to begin.
“This has been a long time coming. You ruined my conference!” She glares from behind her glasses. The lenses fog up.
“How so?” Innocence is best. I nibble on the eraser of my number two pencil.
“What is the meaning of this?” She thrusts her arm across the desk with photo of me in hand.
“A picture is worth a thousand words. Where should I begin?” If I’m getting fired, I’m taking what’s left of her sanity with me.
“Don’t get smart, Professor! This is serious business. Your job is on the line.”
“Because you have a picture of me?”
“No! Because you have been having sexual relations with a student. That is unethical. That is unheard of. That is . . .”
“That is completely untrue, is what that is!” I yell with conviction because it honestly is untrue. A few kisses coupled with a few orgasms does not amount to a sexual relationship per se. It’s also true that what I was doing was unethical according to my contract. She’s nitpicking, so I am, too.
“That’s not for you to decide.”
“I can’t decide what’s true about my own vagina?”
“Control yourself, Professor Roma. Control.” She flares her arms out as if she’s one of those people with those big earmuffs, landing a plane. This apparently is her miming metaphor for control.
I copy her arm movements and answer, “If you would just tell me what this is all about instead of accusing me of doing things I’m not doing in my own personal, private life, I would be happy to control myself.” I put my arms down, and then nibble on the middle of my pencil.
She brandishes the wallet at me. “I have strong evidence that indicates you have been in a personal relationship with a freshman of New York Long Island Sound College. Your personal life becomes the college’s business when you break the college code of ethics.”
I don’t have a smart answer for that. I don’t have any answer for that. So I say, “Okay. What evidence?”
“Good, hard evidence.” She puts the wallet down, assuming that I have no idea why she was holding it up for me to see because I didn’t react to it.
“So are you firing me?” I mentally pack boxes. I’m antsy to get out of the office that Satan’s asshole built.
“No.”
“No?” I’m stunned. This is simpler than I thought.
“No. You get to go in front of the review board a week from today.”
Hmm, not simple at all.
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